by Fred Vargas
Was it possible, he wondered, that those old bastards, Claveyrolle, Barral and Landrieu, had been trying to regain their virility by injecting themselves with recluse venom? Supposing one spider is as good as another?
XXI
Adamsberg allowed the meeting to settle down, with the usual clatter of coffee cups and spoons, before speaking. He had not chosen to keep silent to increase the tension, which was quite high enough already. It was simply because he wanted to write a sentence in his notebook: ‘If it’s possible to weaken the virulence of a given spider venom, in order to extract from it a drug to treat impotence, is it possible the other way round, to amplify it, like a wine that can be distilled to 70 degrees proof?’
He shook his head and dropped the pen, glancing quickly at the two commandants, Danglard and Mordent, who were sitting together at the other end of the table. Mordent was looking determined, very concentrated, as he often appeared. Danglard had changed his demeanour. Pale and stiff, he was affecting the phlegmatic air of someone above all tedious contingencies. But of course, Danglard had never been able to place himself above all contingencies, even for a few minutes, and certainly not in a phlegmatic way. He was assuming this pose to resist the attacks of the commissaire, and to defend his attempt to approach the divisionnaire. Adamsberg had always been able to interpret the complexities of his long-standing deputy, but this time something was escaping him. Some new element.
‘I am going to persist,’ Adamsberg began, in a voice as calm as usual, ‘in keeping you informed of the affair under consideration, as I am also going to persist in calling it an investigation, and as I am persisting in calling these three deaths in the south of France, three murders. There are only four of us working on it, which isn’t many. I’ll remind you of the names of the first three victims: Albert Barral, Fernand Claveyrolle and Claude Landrieu.’
‘When you say “the first three victims”,’ Mordent asked, ‘does that mean you’re expecting others?’
‘Yes, exactly, commandant.’
Retancourt lifted one massive arm, and then let it fall on the table.
‘Five working on it,’ she said. ‘I’ve already committed myself, and I’m not going back on that.’
This was an incomprehensible declaration from the implacable positivist they knew Retancourt to be. It plunged into disbelief all those who had opted for the invalidity – and indeed the absurdity – of the investigation into deaths by recluse spider bite. Adamsberg gave a slight smile to the majestic Violette. Danglard – although remaining above contingencies – could not help pulling a face. The unexpected support from Retancourt was a major advantage for the chief.
‘La Miséricorde orphanage, or children’s home, in the Gard département, near Nîmes. That’s where we’d got to. Here’s a file put together by the former director, covering the years 1944 to 1947. Go ahead, Veyrenc.’
‘I beg your pardon,’ said Lamarre, ‘but what dates did you say?’
‘1944 to 1947. Or seventy-two generations of recluse spiders before we get to ours.’
‘We’re measuring time in recluse generations now, are we?’ asked Danglard.
‘Why not?’
Veyrenc projected on to the big screen a slide of the cover of Dr Cauvert’s folder: ‘The Recluse Gang. Claveyrolle, Barral, Lambertin, Missoli, Haubert & Co.’ The title in large, carefully written letters generated a small shock wave in the room, punctuated by murmurs, a few groans, and the scraping of chairs. Veyrenc left the text on the screen, to allow time for the improbable truth to get through to the officers.
‘But what does it mean, “Recluse Gang”?’ asked Estalère. ‘A gang of spiders attacking the orphanage?’
Once more, Estalère’s question suited everyone, because they were no wiser than he was. Veyrenc turned towards the junior officer. His face that morning resembled more than ever an antique bust carved in bright marble, with his straight nose, prominent lips and curly locks on his forehead.
‘No,’ he explained. ‘A gang of kids who attacked weaker children, using recluse spiders. There were nine boys in the gang, including the two who have now died, Barral and Claveyrolle, and they had eleven victims back then. These four boys,’ Veyrenc went on rapidly, showing photographs, ‘Gilbert Preuilly, René Quissol, Richard Jarras and André Rivelin, were all bitten, but without serious consequences. We shouldn’t neglect them all the same. When it came to the next two, Henri Trémont and Jacques Sentier, the spiders didn’t release a full dose of venom. Still, even in this black-and-white photo, you can see a dark circular patch, which would have been purple, marking the inflammation from the bite. These two got better without treatment. Louis Arjalas, known as “Little Louis”, wasn’t so lucky. He was bitten on the leg, and with both venom glands. He was four years old,’ he added, pointing to the damaged leg with his finger.
There were further groans and movements of revulsion. Veyrenc didn’t allow them to take breath.
‘This was 1944, there wasn’t any penicillin.’
‘In 1944,’ Justin objected, ‘penicillin already existed.’
‘But it was very new, lieutenant. And the first stocks were sent to Normandy for the Allied landings.’
‘Oh, all right,’ said Justin, in a smaller voice.
‘He had to have his leg amputated. This one is Jean Escande, known as “Little Jeannot”, who was bitten the same year. He lost his foot. He was five years old. Next boy, Ernest Vidot, seven, bitten in ’46, he got a big wound on his arm. This time, penicillin was available, and they saved his arm, but with a scar described as “hideous-looking”. Tenth victim, Marcel Corbière, eleven, whose cheek, as you can see, was eaten away down to the jawbone. People would look aside when they met him. What you need to know is that recluse venom is necrotic, which is to say it consumes flesh. Finally we have Maurice Berléant, twelve years old, bitten on the left testicle in 1947. The flesh was eaten away and the penis damaged, leaving him impotent.’
Adamsberg watched Veyrenc’s face, now resolutely stony, a man who could change his expression so radically with half a smile. But the lieutenant was making this tragic presentation without offering an instant’s respite to the assembled officers. The photographs of Marcel’s ravaged cheek and of Maurice’s private parts had taken them to an emotional plane where the theoretical question of whether or not the recluse spider was worth an investigation was just then a million miles from their preoccupations. It wasn’t a moment for abstract theorising.
Veyrenc now developed the hypothesis that one or more of the victims might have been turning the recluse attack back on their former tormentors, mentioning the threat Little Louis had made to Claveyrolle, ten years previously.
‘So long?’ said Estalère. ‘I mean, they waited seventy years?’
‘So long,’ said Adamsberg, who was drawing something in his notebook. ‘According to the notes taken by Cauvert’s father, the victims were shy, passive, timid little children, more like ladybirds than stink bugs. But the Recluse Gang were aggressive and mean. Stink bugs.’
‘Stink bugs? What do you mean?’
‘Like this,’ said Adamsberg, showing them his drawing, which was very lifelike, of the large fat black beetle, collecting little black pellets with its long legs. ‘The stink bug,’ he announced, ‘more commonly known as the cellar beetle or harbinger of death.’
‘What are the little black things?’ asked Estalère.
‘Rat droppings. Which is what they eat. And if you go near them they squirt a toxic liquid out of their backsides. So there you have it, the Recluse Gang were like these nasty stink bugs.’
‘Oh, OK,’ said Estalère, satisfied.
‘But not the group of victims, of course,’ said Adamsberg. ‘Still, when one’s time on earth is almost up, perhaps some things become possible that weren’t before.’
‘What about the third death?’ asked Kernorkian.
‘
Claude Landrieu.’
‘Was he in the gang too? You didn’t mention him.’
‘No, he wasn’t. Over to you, Voisenet.’
The lieutenant started his explanation, about Landrieu and his visit to Justine Pauvel, the woman who had been raped. Veyrenc showed the photo of the chocolate shop.
‘Here,’ said Adamsberg, pointing with his pencil, ‘is the shop’s owner, Claude Landrieu, this is in 1988, and two days after the rape of Justine Pauvel. The thing to note is the queue of customers. Here, and here, are two men, apparently waiting to be served. They are Claveyrolle and Lambertin, no less. These were the three men who raped Justine Pauvel. The Recluse Gang never disbanded. But they weren’t interested in recluse spiders any more. They were into sex attacks, rapes.’
‘Do we know anything about their victims?’ asked Mordent, who was torn between his initial opposition and the fact that he had prevented Danglard from taking his objections to a higher authority.
‘Only the one.’
‘So how do you know they had committed other rapes?’
‘Because from their adolescent years, the Miséricorde stink bugs were already harassing and trying to rape the girls in the orphanage. They drew penises on the dormitory walls, and no doubt flashed at the girls or ejaculated through the fence in the playground. They broke out at night and went into Nîmes by bike. To look for girls, it seems fairly certain. The Recluse Gang turned into the Rapists’ Gang.’
‘But you’ve only got the evidence of a single rape,’ Mordent insisted. ‘As for the men in that photo of the shop, they’re in their fifties, and the image is fuzzy.’
Adamsberg made a sign to Veyrenc, who projected photographs of Lambertin and Claveyrolle aged eighteen, face and profile.
‘Frankly, I don’t see it,’ said Noël.
‘It is them, no question,’ said Adamsberg calmly.
Silence fell once more. They were yet again coming up against the commissaire’s unfounded statements.
‘Froissy will demonstrate this to you,’ he said. ‘You can’t judge by the jawline, which has become jowly, or by the neck, which has thickened, or by the eyes, because they now have bags under them. But what always remains is the high line of the profile, running from the forehead to the base of the nose. And one absolutely unchanging element, it could almost be made of rubber, is the shape of the ear. When she’s enhanced the quality of the newspaper cutting, Froissy can compare the heads of the two men to their profiles at eighteen. It’s them.’
Mercadet nodded conspicuously. He had just come over to their side. Six.
‘I’m working on it,’ said Froissy, plunging into her laptop.
‘All right,’ Mordent conceded, ‘one could accept that the victims of the bites might want to use recluses to get revenge. But in practical and scientific terms, the thing’s impossible.’
‘Agreed,’ said Adamsberg.
‘That’s the hidden reef we keep hitting,’ said Voisenet.
‘And we can’t rule out vengeance by a woman who had been raped, either,’ added Veyrenc.
‘But that’s even less likely,’ said Mordent. ‘Why would a woman choose some impossible procedure, by recluse venom, when there are a thousand easier ways of killing a man?’
‘Over to you, Voisenet,’ said Adamsberg.
As at La Garbure, Voisenet took his time to develop his account of the legendary significance of poisonous creatures, the invincible strength they conferred in turn on anyone who had mastered them, the unconscious links between venomous liquid and the power of human sperm. It was certainly true, Adamsberg thought, that Voisenet changed in stature and vocabulary once he was launched into the animal kingdom. Against his will, Danglard was paying attention, realising he had always considered Voisenet’s piscatorial obsession as on the level of that of a Sunday fisherman. Mistakenly.
‘And finally,’ said Adamsberg, when Voisenet had finished, ‘we have the reports Froissy has obtained on the three dead men, which say they died of catastrophic or galloping loxoscelism, that is the sickness caused by the venom of the recluse. The doctors called it “never previously recorded”.’
‘Got them,’ Froissy now interrupted, ‘their ears, yes, and their profiles. If there are no two dandelions alike, there are no two ears alike either, are there?’
Adamsberg reached for the laptop and smiled.
‘Yes, that’s them. Thank you, Froissy.’
‘Don’t mention it, you knew already.’
‘Yes, but the others didn’t.’
The computer was passed around, each officer nodding before handing it to the next.
‘Agreed?’ said Adamsberg. ‘It’s Claveyrolle and Lambertin, coming to their meeting with Landrieu after the rape.’
‘OK,’ Mordent conceded.
‘I’ll carry on from where I left off. Catastrophic attacks of loxoscelism. What killed these men was no natural recluse bite. Their abnormal and violent reaction wasn’t because of their age either. Apart from their livers, which had suffered from too much pastis, their immune systems were judged good. They were murdered.’
‘Well, if there is a murderer,’ Mordent began, this time much more prudently, ‘how did he manage it? By collecting a few recluses?’
‘No, commandant. The recluse is a timid creature, quite hard to catch. And to be sure of killing just one man, you’d need twenty-two at full strength. But, half of them would only bite without venom, others only using one gland, so you would need as many as sixty to be sure. And for three men, about two hundred.’
‘And is that possible?’
‘No, it isn’t.’
‘What about extracting the venom?’
‘That’s possible with a viper, but not with a spider, unless you have access to some sophisticated apparatus in a laboratory. And even then, the amount of poison it spits is so tiny, it would dry on the test tube before you could collect it.’
Mordent stretched his neck and threw out his arms.
‘Well then?’ he said.
‘Well then, we’re up against a particularly vicious reef, what they call in Brittany an étoc.’
Adamsberg glanced at Voisenet. He liked that word.
‘Well then?’ repeated Danglard.
‘Well then, we are going to investigate, commandant,’ said Adamsberg, stressing the sensitive word. ‘We’ll try to find the survivors of the Recluse Gang. They’re the only ones who understand what’s happened to their three pals. And for the first time in their lives, they’re scared to death. It’s up to us to save their skins.’
‘And why would we do that?’ said Voisenet, pulling a face.
‘Because it’s our job, stink bugs or no stink bugs. And because they might lead us to unknown rape victims.’
‘What about the kids who were bitten?’ asked Kernorkian.
‘Froissy will make a list for us of the ones who are still with us. We’ll also have to check any unresolved cases of rape, let’s say between 1950 and 2000, if we assume the rapes might have stopped when the men hit about sixty-five. Mind, we don’t know that. Apparently Claveyrolle was still taking anti-impotence pills at eighty-four.’
‘Ha! Kept at it, the old rogue,’ said Noël.
The meeting was now reaching a critical moment, the time for decisions, and Adamsberg signed to Estalère to fetch another round of coffee. A breathing space before the home straight. Everyone understood the nature of the pause, and no one interrupted this short delay for reflection. For once they would have wished Estalère’s careful preparation of their coffees to take longer, since they all felt the time had come for a showdown between Adamsberg and Danglard. Adamsberg looked at his flock with a determined casualness, not lingering on anyone’s face to search for signs of positive or negative reaction.
He waited until the coffee ritual was well launched before speaking, as he gathered together all
the documents that had been presented, replacing the photos of the eleven victims carefully inside Dr Cauvert’s folder.
‘This folder can be copied for anyone who’s interested,’ he said, fastening the strap that held it together.
They had been expecting some declaration, an offensive, or the taking up of a position. But that wasn’t Adamsberg’s way, as the team well knew.
‘Hands up if you want it sent to your computer.’
And that was all. No summary of the meeting, no rhetorical speeches. After a moment’s hesitation, Noël was the first to raise his hand. As Adamsberg had often noted, Noël might lack many essential qualities, but courage was not one of them. Following him, more arms went up, all in the end except Danglard’s. They waited a few instants for some sign, a movement. But the commandant, as if made of plaster, did not budge.
‘Thank you,’ said Adamsberg. ‘You can all go to lunch.’
The room emptied and faces reflected the same paradoxical thoughts. Regret at having missed a showdown between Danglard and the chief, but also the ambiguous satisfaction of being confronted by an insoluble problem. The thoughts were accompanied, with sidelong glances and discreet nods, towards Adamsberg’s tenacity. They often thought him too dreamy and absent-minded, for good or ill, and attributed to that anomaly the improbable success of today. Without understanding that he was simply looking into the mists.
Danglard was leaving the room too, his stiff pose slightly dented.
‘All except you, commandant,’ said Adamsberg. As he spoke, he sent a quick text to Veyrenc: Listen outside.
XXII
‘Is that an order?’ asked Danglard, turning back.
‘If that’s what you want to call it, feel free.’
‘And if I’m starving hungry?’
‘Don’t make things more difficult. If you really were hungry, I’d let you go. I don’t want you running to Brézillon complaining I’m a torturer on top of everything else.’