by Fred Vargas
Adamsberg wasn’t looking at the picture, nor at Danglard or Valleray. He was thinking of that word mechanism, which had suddenly swum up out of the seabed and had bumped up against Dr Turbot and the young man made of clay and the remembrance of Martin’s fingers applying the mixture to his brother’s skin.
‘I can’t do it,’ he said. ‘I don’t have the gift.’
‘Yes, you do,’ the count insisted, banging his stick on the polished parquet floor, and realising that Adamsberg’s expression, which he had already thought absent-minded, seemed to have drifted off into the distance.
‘No, I can’t,’ Adamsberg repeated in an absent voice. ‘I’ve got an investigation to conduct.’
‘I’ll talk to your superiors. You can’t let Léo go now.’
‘No, I can’t.’
‘Then what can we do?’
‘I can’t, but there is someone who can. Léo’s alive, she’s conscious, but the whole mechanism has seized up. I do know someone who can fix this kind of breakdown, the kind that has no name.’
‘Some sort of quack?’ said Valleray, raising his hoary eyebrows.
‘A scientist. But he practises his science with inhuman talent. He can get people’s circuits moving again, reoxygenate the brain, he can fix kittens who won’t feed, and he can unblock lungs that have solidified. He’s a genius. I think he’s our only hope, monsieur le comte.’
‘Valleray.’
‘Our only hope, Valleray. He might be able to pull her out of this. But I can’t make any promises.’
‘How does he operate? With drugs?’
‘With his hands.’
‘Sort of magnetism?’
‘No, he presses on the levers, he gets the organs to slip back into place, he works the handles, unblocks filters, he gets the mechanism working again.’
‘Well, get him here,’ said the count.
Adamsberg was pacing round the room, making the old parquet creak and shaking his head.
‘That’s the problem,’ he said. ‘I can’t.’
‘He’s abroad?’
‘No, he’s in prison.’
‘Good Lord!’
‘We’d have to get special permission for him to be let out.’
‘And who would grant that?’
‘The judge in charge of prisoners serving sentences. In the case of our doctor, it’s a judge called Varnier, a stubborn old goat who wouldn’t even hear of it. Getting a prisoner out of Fleury jail just so that he can treat an elderly lady in Ordebec isn’t the kind of emergency the judge would recognise.’
‘Raymond de Varnier?’
‘Yes,’ said Adamsberg, still pacing the library and without glancing at the School of Clouet painting.
‘No problem, he’s a friend of mine.’
Adamsberg turned towards Valleray, who was now smiling with raised eyebrows.
‘Raymond de Varnier can’t refuse me anything. We’ll get your expert out.’
‘You’ll have to have a cast-iron, genuine and verifiable reason.’
‘Since when have judges needed that kind of thing? Not since St Louis. Just give me the name of this doctor, and the place he’s being kept. I’ll call Varnier first thing in the morning and we’ll have your man here by tomorrow night.’
Adamsberg looked at Danglard, who nodded approvingly. Adamsberg was kicking himself for not having thought of this earlier. As soon as he had heard Dr Turbot speak irreverently about Léo as a mechanism that had broken down, he ought to have thought of the doctor, currently in prison, who had used the same expression. Perhaps he had thought of him, but without realising it. Not even when Lina had repeated the word ‘mechanism’. But it had stirred him enough to make him write it on his paper napkin. The count held out a notebook and he wrote down the details.
‘There’s another obstacle,’ Adamsberg said as he handed it back. ‘If I get into any trouble, they won’t let our protégé out again. But for the doctor to bring her back to consciousness, he’ll no doubt need several sessions. And I could be pulled off the job four days from now.’
‘I know about that.’
‘Do you know everything?’
‘I know a lot about you. I’m afraid for Léo and I’m afraid for the Vendermots. You arrived, I made enquiries. I know that you’re going to be in big trouble if you don’t catch Antoine Clermont-Brasseur’s killer, who got away from your headquarters, and worse still from your very office when you were supposed to be in charge of him.’
‘Exactly.’
‘You’re under suspicion yourself, commissaire, did you know that?’
‘No.’
‘Well, best to be on your guard. There are some gentlemen in the Ministry who are keen to launch an inquiry into your own actions. They’re not far off thinking you actually let the young man go.’
‘That wouldn’t make sense.’
‘Of course not,’ said Valleray with a smile. ‘But for now, this man is missing. And you’re nosing into the affairs of the Clermont-Brasseur family.’
‘There’s no access there, Valleray. I can’t go nosing about.’
‘But you did want to question the two sons, Christian and Christophe?’
‘I was refused permission. And that was that.’
‘But you don’t like that.’
The count put the rest of his sugar lump on a saucer, licked his fingers and wiped them on his blue jacket.
‘So what was it exactly that you wanted to find out? About the Clermonts.’
‘How the evening had proceeded before the fire. And what sort of mood the sons were in.’
‘Normal, quite jolly, if you can ever call Christophe jolly. Plenty of champagne, the best.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I was there.’
Valleray took another sugar lump and dipped it carefully in his glass.
‘In this world there exists a small atomic nucleus in which industrialists are always on the lookout for aristocrats and vice versa. The exchanges between them, which can be marital, increase the potential energy of the whole. I belong to both circles, industry and nobility.’
‘I know you sold your steelworks to Antoine Clermont.’
‘Our friend Émeri told you that, did he?’
‘Yes.’
‘Antoine was a thoroughgoing predator. He operated in the stratosphere, but you had to admire him in a way. You can’t say the same for his sons. But if you’ve got it into your head that one of them set fire to their father, you’re barking up the wrong tree.’
‘Antoine was intending to marry his housekeeper.’
‘Rose, yes,’ the count agreed, sucking on his sugar lump. ‘I think it was more that he wanted to provoke the family, and I’d warned him about it. It was just that it got on his nerves, seeing in his sons’ eyes that they were eagerly waiting for him to die. For some time he’d been feeling wounded, depressed, and given to erratic behaviour.’
‘Which of them wanted to get power of attorney?’
‘Christian mostly. But he would never have managed it. Antoine was of perfectly sound mind, as could easily be established.’
‘And then, providentially, along comes some youth, who sets fire to the Mercedes, just when Antoine was sitting in it alone.’
‘I can see that bothers you. Do you want to know why Antoine was alone?’
‘Yes, I would indeed. And why the chauffeur wasn’t driving them.’
‘The chauffeur had been invited into the kitchens during the reception and Christophe decided he was too drunk to drive. So he left with his father, and they walked to the car, which was parked in the rue Henri-Barbusse. Then just as he had taken the wheel, he realised he’d lost his mobile phone. So he asked his father to wait while he retraced their steps. He found the phone on the pavement in the rue du Val-de-Grâce. When he came back round the corner, he saw the car was on fire. Believe me, Adamsberg, Christophe was a couple of hundred metres away from the Mercedes and two witnesses saw him. He shouted and started to run, and the witnes
ses ran with him. It was Christophe who called the police.’
‘Did he tell you that?’
‘No, his wife did. We know each other very well – I introduced her to her husband. Christophe was devastated. Horrified. However bad your relationship, it’s no joke to see your father burnt to death.’
‘No, I understand,’ said Adamsberg. ‘What about Christian?’
‘Christian had left the party earlier, he’d had a lot to drink and wanted to go to bed.’
‘But apparently he only reached home very late.’
The count scratched his bald head for a moment.
‘It’s not giving away any secrets to say that Christian is seeing another woman, well, more than one, actually, and that he takes advantage of official functions to come home late. And I have to tell you again, both the brothers were in a good mood that evening. Christian was dancing, he gave an excellent imitation of the Baron de Salvin, and Christophe, who doesn’t easily relax, was frankly enjoying himself for a few moments.’
‘So everything was fine, a perfectly normal party.’
‘Perfectly. Look, on the mantelpiece over there, you’ll find an envelope with a dozen photos of the evening, which Christophe’s wife sent me. She doesn’t understand that at my age one has no interest in seeing photographs of oneself. Take a look, it’ll give you an idea of the atmosphere.’
Adamsberg examined the ten or so photos, and indeed neither Christian nor Christophe had the tense expression of someone who was about to burn his father to death.
‘OK. I see,’ said Adamsberg, offering back the photos.
‘Keep them, if they’d help convince you. And hurry up and find this young man. What I can quite easily do is plead with the Clermont brothers to get an extension of the deadline.’
‘I think that’s essential,’ said Danglard suddenly: he had been walking from one picture to another, like a wasp torn between several drops of jam. ‘That young Mohamed has got clean away.’
‘He’ll need money sooner or later,’ said Adamsberg with a shrug. ‘He didn’t have anything in his pockets. His friends will only be able to help him for so long.’
‘Yes. Help always lasts only so long,’ murmured Danglard, ‘while cowardice lasts for ever. That’s the general principle we apply – you’ll always catch runaways in the end. On condition you don’t have the Ministry dangling a sword of Damocles over your head. It tends to hamper progress.’
‘I understand,’ said Valleray with a laugh. ‘So we’ll try and get the sword removed.’
As if, thought Danglard wryly, being himself the son of a miner from northern France, as if it were a mere matter of pushing a chair out of the way, the better to move about. He had no doubt the count would manage it.
XXV
Veyrenc was waiting for them with Zerk, in front of the door to Léo’s house. It was a warm evening, and the clouds had finally moved away to shed their rain somewhere else. The two men had taken chairs outside and were smoking in the darkness. Veyrenc looked calm enough but Adamsberg didn’t feel reassured. The lieutenant’s Roman face, round, solid and comfortable-looking, softly contoured without any sharp outlines, was a compact mass of resolution and obstinacy. Danglard shook hands briefly and vanished inside the house. It was past 1 a.m.
‘Let’s go for a stroll in the fields,’ suggested Veyrenc. ‘Leave your phones behind.’
‘Want to see some cows move?’ asked Adamsberg, taking a cigarette from him. ‘You know, here, unlike back home, the cows hardly budge at all.’
Veyrenc signed to Zerk to accompany them and waited until they were some distance from the house, before stopping at the gate to a field.
‘There’s been a new summons from the Ministry that I didn’t like the sound of.’
‘What didn’t you like?’
‘The tone. Very aggressive, because Mo hasn’t been traced. He’s got no money, his photo is up all over the place, so where could he have gone? That’s what they’re saying.’
‘Aggressive, well, they’ve been that all along. So what else about the tone?’
‘A certain sarcasm. The guy who called didn’t seem very subtle. In his voice you could hear that he was so proud of knowing something that he couldn’t hide it.’
‘For instance?’
‘For instance, something they’ve got on you. I don’t have much to go on, to explain the sarcasm, the secret gloating I was hearing, but I got the distinct impression that they’ve been dreaming up a scenario.’
Adamsberg held out his hand to ask for a light.
‘Something you’ve been dreaming up too?’
‘That’s not what matters. All I know is that your son came down here, in a second car. And they know that too, you can be sure.’
‘Zerk is doing a photo feature about leaf mould for a Swedish magazine.’
‘Yes. That’s unusual.’
‘That’s the way he is, impulsive, he seizes opportunities.’
‘No, Jean-Baptiste, that isn’t how Armel is. I didn’t see the pigeon in your house. Where is it?’
‘Flown away.’
‘Good. But why did Zerk come in a separate car? Wasn’t there room in your boot for three suitcases?’
‘So what are you trying to do, Louis?’
‘I’m trying to convince you that they have come up with some kind of scenario.’
‘And you think they have.’
‘For example, that Mo disappeared like magic. That too many pigeons have flown the coop. I think Danglard knows. He’s not that good at hiding things. Since Mo escaped, he’s been like a worried hen sitting on an ostrich egg.’
‘You’ve got too much imagination. You think I’m capable of doing something as daft as that?’
‘Absolutely. I didn’t say it was daft, by the way.’
‘Come on, Louis, get it off your chest.’
‘I don’t think it’ll be long before they’re descending on you here. I’ve no idea where you’ve put Mo, but I think he should probably leave tonight. As soon and as far away as possible.’
‘But how? If you or I or Danglard were to leave, it would be obvious, we’d be spotted in an hour.’
‘Your son,’ said Veyrenc, looking at Zerk.
‘You don’t think I’m going to get him mixed up in this, do you, Louis?’
‘He already is.’
‘No, there’s no evidence of that. But if they find him driving a car with Mo inside, he’ll go straight to jail. If you’re right, we’re just going to have to sacrifice Mo. We’ll send him off about a hundred kilometres from here, and he’ll allow himself to be caught.’
‘You said yourself – once the examining magistrate gets his claws into him, he’ll never get out. He’s being framed.’
‘So what’s the solution?’
‘Zerk must leave tonight. There are fewer roadblocks at night. And most of them aren’t serious. The guys are tired.’
‘I’m up for it,’ said Zerk. ‘No, don’t stop me,’ he insisted, pulling Adamsberg’s arm, ‘I’ll take him. But where, Louis?’
‘You know the Pyrenees as well as we do, you know the crossing points into Spain. Head for Granada.’
‘Then what?’
‘Hole up there and wait for instructions. I’ve got the names of a few hotels. I’ve also brought two number plates for the car, insurance, some money, two ID cards and a credit card. When you’ve got some distance from here, go off the road somewhere and get Mo to cut his hair so he looks more respectable.’
‘That’s proof enough he didn’t torch the Merc,’ said Zerk. ‘His hair’s quite long at the moment.’
‘So what?’ asked Adamsberg.
‘Well, he told me, when he’s torched a car, his hair always gets singed, so he shaves his head afterwards for it not to show. His mates call him Skinhead Mo.’
‘All right, Armel,’ said Veyrenc, ‘but we’ve got to get a move on. Where’ve you put him? Is it far?’
‘Three kilometres,’ said Adamsberg, who was feeling
dazed. ‘Two through the woods.’
‘We should get moving right away. While the boys pack up, you and I can change the plates and wipe off any prints.’
‘Just when he was taking to drawing,’ said Zerk.
‘And just when it looks as though the Clermont brothers are off the hook,’ added Adamsberg, treading out his cigarette.
‘What about the pigeon?’ asked Zerk suddenly in alarm.
‘What do you mean, what about him? You’re taking him to Granada.’
‘No, the actual pigeon, Hellebaud.’
‘Leave him here with us. It’ll make you look suspicious.’
‘He still needs antiseptic on his feet every couple of days. Promise me you’ll do it, promise me you’ll remember.’
* * *
It was almost four in the morning as Adamsberg and Veyrenc watched the rear lights of the car fade away. The pigeon was cooing gently in its cage at their feet. Adamsberg had filled a Thermos of coffee for his son.
‘I hope you haven’t sent him off for no good reason,’ he said quietly. ‘And I hope you haven’t sent him straight into a trap. They’re going to have to drive all night and all tomorrow. They’re going to be exhausted.’
‘You’re worrying about Armel?’
‘Yes.’
‘He’ll manage. The project’s audacious, of his courage a test / But your brave-hearted son with good luck will be blessed.’
‘Why did they get suspicious about Mo?’
‘You went at it too fast. Well played, yes, but too quick off the mark.’
‘Not enough time, no choice.’
‘I know. But you played it too much as a lone star as well. All alone without help, how could you see it through? / Call first on your comrades, they were all there for you. You should have called me.’
XXVI
Late that night and early next morning, the count went into action to impressive effect, indicating how strongly he cared for his dear Léone: the doctor arrived discreetly at Ordebec hospital at eleven thirty. Valleray had woken the elderly judge at 6 a.m., issued his orders, and the gates of Fleury prison had opened at nine to let out a convoy escorting the prisoner to Normandy.
The two unmarked cars drove into the staff car park, out of sight of passers-by. Surrounded by four men, the doctor got out, wearing handcuffs, but with a satisfied and even jovial air, which reassured Adamsberg. He had still heard nothing from Zerk, and not a word from Retancourt. For once, he thought his Retancourt torpedo must have been disarmed and was inoperable. And that might confirm the count’s theory. If Retancourt didn’t find anything, that meant there was nothing to find. Apart from the fact that Christian had come home late – the only thing he could now hang on to – there was no reason to suspect either of the Clermont brothers.