by Fred Vargas
‘I’ll tell you what it is, Madame Royer. I’m not proud. But I just had my own little hunch, as you put it, that’s all.’
‘Well, now, I’ve got my own little hunch too. Because the recluse spider isn’t a killer. And because there have been three deaths. And because we’ve never seen anyone killed by a recluse before, in France. And for another reason, too. But so what? We all have our little hunches, especially when we’re lying awake at night, don’t we? But I’m not crazy like you. When it’s not possible, it’s not possible, and that’s it, as far as I’m concerned.’
‘So,’ said Adamsberg leaning back and crossing his legs, ‘what’s this “other reason”?’
‘Oh, this is just silly,’ she said with a shrug. ‘They do a good hot chocolate here, I have to say.’
‘Come on, what other reason, Madame Royer?’ Adamsberg insisted.
‘Look, you might just as well call me Irène, it’s quicker.’
‘Thank you. All right, Irène, what risk is there? You’ll never see me again. You can tell me your little hunch. I like hunches, especially little ones and especially when they come to you at night.’
‘Well, I don’t. They bother me.’
‘OK then, pass it on to me, I don’t often get bothered. Otherwise it’ll go on bothering you.’
And inevitably, Adamsberg thought of his old neighbour Lucio, who would say: ‘You’ve always got to finish scratching it.’
‘It’s nothing, really, it’s just that when the second death was in the papers, I thought there was something fishy about it.’
‘Something moray-eelish.’
‘I beg your pardon!’
‘Sorry, I was thinking of something else.’
‘Look, do you want to hear about my hunch or not?’
‘Yes, of course I do.’
‘Well, those first two old men that died, they knew each other. Had done, since they were kids.’
‘Ah, did they now?’
‘Before I retired to Cadeirac, I lived in Nîmes.’
‘And they did too?’
‘If you keep interrupting me, I’ll lose the thread and the something fishy will get lost.’
‘Sorry.’
‘We lived not far from each other, just a couple of streets away. Now me, at 7 p.m., I like a little glass of port. Sorry if that shocks you, but that’s all I ever drink. A little glass sees off the worms, as my mother used to say, but I think that’s probably a load of cobblers. Oops, pardon me, sorry.’
‘It’s all right, no harm done,’ said Adamsberg for the nth time that afternoon.
‘What it does, for sure, it helps the arthritis,’ she said, pulling a face. ‘It’s the damp. I’m better in the south. So, my little glass of port. And those men used to go to the same café as me, La Vieille Cave. Because a glass of port at seven is all very well, but it’s a bit sad to drink it all by yourself at home, isn’t it? You follow me? As that prof kept saying. I think I’ll use that myself. What do you drink?’
‘I have a beer after supper with my old neighbour, under a tree.’
Adamsberg could see the little hunch, the fishy thing, disappearing under a rock, like a moray eel sliding back into its hole. He realised he had better not interrupt the flow, then she’d get to the point. Otherwise her little hunch would go on irritating her, itching forever, and she didn’t seem entirely unwilling to unburden herself by passing it on to him.
‘Well, in my case, not under a tree, at La Vieille Cave café. And those two old men were always there, all the time. And I’ll tell you, they had more than a little glass of port. Pastis after pastis, and talking non-stop. That’s the way it is when you’ve been through hell, you can’t stop talking about it, it’s like you’ve got to bury it once and for all. You follow me? Sometimes people joke about it, as if it was paradise. The good old days and all that. But their time in hell was this orphanage. They called it La Miséricorde. Not far from Nîmes. That had made them mates for life, and what they liked doing was talking about all the naughty things they had done when they were little. And what I heard, when I was sitting there, doing my crossword – one day I won an electric blanket for the crossword, but it was a piece of sh—oops, sorry, excuse me, language.’
‘No harm done.’
‘What I mean is, it could set fire to your bed, couldn’t it? So they were telling each other all about the bad things the naughty boys at the orphanage got up to. They pissed (their word, not mine) in the director’s cloakroom, they did their number twos in his briefcase, they climbed out at night, they tied another kid up in his bedsheets, they pinched another one’s trousers, they pulled down some kid’s shorts playing football, they beat someone else up, locked up another, you see the kind of thing. Bad blood, a bad lot, and they liked doing evil things. And they weren’t alone, there was a whole gang of them. At the same time, I guess they can’t have been happy at all in that place, poor kids. You can bet on that. But these two still used to have a laugh about it over their pastis. Sometimes, though, it wasn’t just a laugh, they kept their voices down so you couldn’t hear, and they were smirking. Must have been even worse things.’
‘So what you’ve been thinking as you lie in bed, unable to sleep, is that someone is taking some sort of revenge on them?’
‘Yes.’
‘And making it look as if it was a bite from a recluse?’
‘Yes. But seventy years on, what sense would that make?’
‘You said it yourself. If you’ve been through hell, you can’t stop talking about it. Which means you can’t stop thinking about it. Even sixty years on.’
‘But they did die from spider poison, didn’t they? And we keep coming back to the same thing: you can’t force a recluse to bite someone.’
‘What if you put it in someone’s bed? Or their shoe?’
‘That doesn’t work. Because the first old man was bitten out of doors, by his woodpile. And the other one, he was outside too, opening his front door. So the recluse must have been hiding under some stones.’
‘It doesn’t make sense.’
‘Like I said.’
‘What about the third man, did you know him?’
‘No, never seen or heard of him. Have you got the time?’
Adamsberg showed her his two wristwatches.
‘Oh, I’d forgotten,’ she said. ‘But I need to go, I’m staying with a friend here.’
‘I’ve got my car nearby, I can give you a lift.’
‘It’s on the Quai Saint-Bernard.’
‘All right, I’ll drop you off.’
* * *
*
Outside her friend’s flat, Adamsberg passed Irène her bag and her walking stick.
‘Now don’t go chewing away on this forever,’ she said, before leaving.
‘And don’t you put my name out on social media!’
‘I’m not going to ruin your career, I’m not a bad lot, like those boys.’
‘Would you perhaps let me have your phone number?’ asked Adamsberg, taking out his mobile.
Irène thought for a moment in her usual way, staring straight ahead, then dictated a string of numbers, after consulting a little notebook.
‘Just in case you hear anything,’ she said.
‘Or in case you do.’
Adamsberg was already back in the driving seat, when the little woman tapped on his window.
‘Here you are, you can keep this,’ she said, passing him the yellowed plastic box.
X
It was late by the time Adamsberg returned to headquarters, which now smelled only moderately like a fish market. The windows were still wide open, and the haphazard collection of objects designed to keep papers from blowing away still sat on the desks. There was an undertow of odour though, but now combined with some kind of rose or lilac perfume, sprayed round the room by Lieutenant Fr
oissy – who else? – driven by her uncontrollable desire to care for everyone’s welfare. The resulting mixture was somewhat nauseating and Adamsberg would have preferred an honest smell of fish.
‘It was Froissy,’ said Veyrenc, coming over to him.
‘Thought so.’
‘Can’t say anything, it’s well meant. She’s used up two cans of air-freshener, no one dared discourage her. But as ever, there’s no point trying to cover up a bad smell.’
‘Perhaps we should bring in another moray eel to cover up the rose and lilac. Or this, perhaps.’
Adamsberg brought the little plastic box out of his pocket.
‘This is a recluse spider, and it was a gift. Admire it. I must say nobody has ever made me a present of a dead spider before. It doesn’t smell of anything though. Unlike a cellar beetle.’
‘You mean the stinking cellar beetle?’
‘Correct. Harbinger of death.’
‘And who was the thoughtful person who gave you a dead spider?’
‘This little old lady I met at the Natural History Museum. She’d come all the way from Nîmes to offer it to the spider expert.’
‘The arachnologist.’
‘Indeed. And since she took a dislike to him, she gave it to me instead. It’s an offering, an honour, Louis. Like when Rögnvar carved a portrait of Retancourt on to a wooden oar.’
‘He did what?’
‘You heard. Finished the report, have you?’
‘Yes. It’s with Mordent now.’
‘I need to have a word with you about something this woman told me. In private. Come and find me in my office, but be discreet. How’s Danglard?’
‘I think his passion for paperwork and having to compile The Book is melting his bad temper.’
* * *
*
Adamsberg put the spider down on an already cluttered desk. He opened the box, picked up a magnifying glass stolen from Froissy and examined the creature’s back. What was that other word for it that arachnologists would use? He looked in the notebook. He had written it down somewhere. Ah yes, the cephalothorax. OK. Why not just call it the back? And however hard he looked at the creature’s back, nothing like the shape of a violin seemed to emerge. Hearing footsteps, he hastily closed the lid. Not that he was afraid of his fellow officers, but he didn’t want to upset Danglard again.
It was Voisenet, who immediately spotted the box and peered into it.
‘A recluse! How did you get hold of this?’ he asked in a tone of envy. ‘They’re rare.’
‘Someone gave it me.’
‘Who? What do you mean?’
‘In the Natural History Museum.’
‘You’re not giving up then, commissaire?
‘Yes, in fact I am. There has been no increase in spider numbers and no mutation. That’s a blind alley.’
‘But three deaths, all the same.’
‘I thought you’d given it up, lieutenant. You kept on saying it was just because they were old.’
‘I know. It’s just that the recluse has never killed anyone in France before. No mutation then, you’re sure about that?’
‘Yes.’
‘Right. Anyway, it’s none of our business.’
Adamsberg sensed his lieutenant wavering between logic and temptation.
‘I came to see you about the report.’
Voisenet tapped his bulging stomach, an unfortunate tic of his, betraying either embarrassment or satisfaction, so he did it quite often.
‘The interrogation of Carvin,’ he began. ‘I came to ask, um, how can I put this? Would it be possible to cut the places where he makes fun of me, with all those bloody aperceptions and quotations?’
‘What’s come over you, Voisenet? You want us to cut up the tape and stick it together again?’
‘Those bits aren’t necessary for the investigation.’
‘Yes they are, because they reveal Carvin’s personality. Since when have you had the idea of falsifying our case records?’
‘Since the word “aperception”. Can’t get over it.’
‘And what about me? I’ve had to cope with an arachnologist and a cephalothorax. Just swallow your aperception, digest it and that’s an end to it.’
‘But the cephalothorax isn’t in any report.’
‘Who knows, Voisenet?’
Just then, Veyrenc telephoned and Voisenet left the room, still massaging his belly.
‘I heard Voisenet in your office,’ said Veyrenc, ‘so I walked past. Maybe somewhere else?’
‘Where?’
‘We could go back to La Garbure? Danglard rather spoilt our appetites yesterday.’
Estelle, Adamsberg thought at once. Her hand on Veyrenc’s shoulder last night. Veyrenc had been on his own for a while, since his extremely demanding set of requirements in a woman reduced his choice considerably. Adamsberg had the opposite problem, because of his low expectations. It’s Estelle, he thought again. He’s going back there to see her, and not for cabbage soup, even if it’s a Pyrenean speciality.
XI
Because it was them, Veyrenc and Adamsberg, but particularly Veyrenc, Estelle put the soup tureen containing the garbure over a little burner on their table, so that they could take their time without it getting cold. Veyrenc had somehow changed places, and unlike the previous evening, he was now facing the counter, instead of turning his back on it.
‘You did tell me the recluse spider has never caused any deaths in France,’ Veyrenc began.
‘That’s right. Whereas vipers account for between one and five deaths a year.’
‘That alters things.’
‘You’re not with me now?’
‘I didn’t say that. Tell me about this woman who gave you a dead spider.’
‘Men give fur coats to women, don’t they? What a thought. Having your arms round a woman wearing sixty dead squirrels on her back.’
‘Are you going to have this spider on your back?’
‘I’ve already got it on my shoulders, Louis.’
‘And I’ve got some leopard skin on my head,’ said Veyrenc, running his fingers through his thick thatch of hair.
Adamsberg felt his stomach clench, as it did every time Veyrenc referred to this. They had both been children back then, in the mountains. Little Louis Veyrenc had been attacked by some other boys who had given him fourteen penknife cuts on the head. Over the scars, his hair had grown again, but this time reddish, and strikingly so. It was very noticeable, which was one reason you didn’t send Veyrenc out to shadow anyone. This evening, under the restaurant’s low-hanging lamps, the bright locks gleamed against his dark hair. Yes, kind of leopard skin, but the other way round.
‘What did this woman say?’ Veyrenc asked.
Adamsberg pulled a face and leaned back, tilting the legs of his chair and laying his hands on the table.
‘It’s difficult, Louis. I have this impression, no, it’s more than an impression. I’ve got this déjà vu sensation.’
‘Who about, the woman?’
‘No, the recluse.’
This time the stiffness was back in his neck, and Adamsberg shook his head to try and make it go away.
‘Of course, I’ve never seen one. Or perhaps I have. Or something like it. A long time ago.’
‘Of course you’ve seen one, but only in the last three days, it’s all over the internet.’
‘And the day before, I saw a picture of one on Voisenet’s computer. And it made me feel strange, a kind of nausea.’
‘Spiders make a lot of people feel sick.’
‘Not me. Not normally.’
‘Remember, the room was full of that terrible stink of fish.’
‘Well, that somehow got mixed up with it. The smell and the spider. I know the smell must have had something to do with it, I’m sure of t
hat.’
‘Can you remember exactly what you saw on Voisenet’s computer?’
‘I can never remember words, but I can recall images, yes. I could give you a whole list of the things people have put on their desks to keep their papers from blowing away. I could even draw that tree up in the hills where you . . .’
‘Forget that one. My hair’s fine like it is.’
‘OK.’
‘So, on Voisenet’s computer. What did you see?’
‘Nothing special. An enlarged photo of the spider, light brown, head down, and across the top in blue letters “The European Recluse, aka the Violin Spider”. And that’s all.’
Adamsberg rubbed the back of his neck energetically.
‘You got a pain?’
‘Just a bit. It’s when I hear that word, sometimes.’
‘And when you see it. In the little box.’
‘No,’ said Adamsberg with a shrug. ‘Funnily enough, that doesn’t bother me at all. Legs, back, no problem. Or it’s a different shape.’
‘What kind of shape?’
‘No idea.’
‘You see a shape? Like in a dream, a nightmare, real, or when you’re asleep?’
‘I just don’t know. Maybe it’s a spectre,’ said Adamsberg with a smile.
‘A dead person perhaps?’
‘No. Or maybe, a dead person dancing. You know, like in old pictures that scare kids, the dance of death.’
Adamsberg twitched his head. The stiffness had vanished.
‘OK, forget my questions,’ said Veyrenc. ‘Tell me what this woman told you.’
Adamsberg let his chair fall back down, took a spoonful of soup and summarised the conversation in the Étoile d’Austerlitz.
‘The same orphanage, you say?’
‘It’s what she said.’
‘Bad blood, a bad lot?’
‘That was the way she put it.’
‘They might have carried on like that afterwards. But what were these evil deeds?’
‘I’d like to go and see the director of the orphanage.’