by Fred Vargas
‘Even so, commissaire, I can’t permit it.’
Adamsberg gave Vétilleux a silent look, and made a sign indicating ‘Understood?’
Vétilleux nodded.
‘Promise?’ Adamsberg mouthed.
Another wink, from those red-rimmed but watchful eyes. This cop had given him a hip flask, he was on his side.
Adamsberg got up and on his way out squeezed Vétilleux’s shoulder lightly with his good hand, meaning ‘I’m going now, but I’m counting on you.’
On the way back to the office, the guard asked Adamsberg if, with respect, sir, he would mind telling him the story about the bear. Adamsberg was saved by Trabelmann’s appearance.
‘So what do you think?’ asked Trabelmann.
‘He had quite a bit to say.’
‘Ah, did he now? Not with me. He just sits there in a heap, sort of collapsed.’
‘Yes. It’s a warning sign. Don’t take this the wrong way, commandant, but with an alcoholic as far gone as he is, depriving him of drink too suddenly is dangerous. He might just die on you.’
‘I do know that, commissaire. He gets a glass of wine with every meal.’
‘If I were you, I’d triple the dose. Believe me, commandant, it would be best.’
‘Right you are,’ said Trabelmann without taking offence. ‘And in all this chat from him,’ he went on, sitting down at the desk, ‘did anything interesting turn up?’
‘Not stupid. He catches on fast, and he’s even fairly sensitive.’
‘Could be. But once a guy starts drinking like that, he’s had it. There are men who beat their wives, but they can be meek and mild until nightfall.’
‘But Vétilleux doesn’t have any form, does he? Never been in any fights? Did the Strasbourg police confirm that?’
‘Affirmative. No, he’d never given them any trouble. Until now. Are you going to tell me you’re on his side?’
‘I listened to him.’
Adamsberg rapidly recounted the interview with Vétilleux, naturally leaving out the hip flask bit.
‘One possibility that can’t be ruled out,’ he concluded, ‘is that Vétilleux was bundled into the back of a car. He says he felt warm and comfortable, but at the same time he felt sick.’
‘So commissaire, you’ve dreamed up a car, a trip out to the countryside, and a driver, just because “he felt warm”. And that’s it?’
‘Yes. That’s it.’
‘You make me laugh, Adamsberg. You make me think of the guys who pull rabbits out of hats.’
‘The rabbits really do come out of the hats though, don’t they?’
‘You’re thinking about this other wino, I suppose?’
‘A la-di-da wino who drank from his own bottle and carried a plastic cup around with him. A wino who’d seen better days. And was “oldish”.’
‘But a wino all the same.’
‘Possibly, but not definitely.’
‘Tell me something, commissaire. In all your career, has anyone ever been able to make you change your mind?’
Adamsberg took a moment to try and think honestly about the question. ‘No,’ he admitted finally, with a touch of regret in his voice.
‘That’s what I was afraid of. So let me tell you you’ve got an ego the size of a kitchen table.’
Adamsberg squeezed his eyes shut without replying.
‘I’m not trying to pick a quarrel, commissaire. But in this case, you’ve come here with a load of your own dreamt-up ideas that nobody else has ever believed. Then you try and rearrange the facts till they suit you. I don’t say there aren’t some interesting things in your version. But you don’t look at the other side, you don’t even listen to it. And I’ve got a suspect who was found drunk, a few feet away from the victim, with the weapon at his side and his fingerprints all over it. Do you hear what I’m saying?’
‘I perfectly understand your point of view.’
‘But you couldn’t give a damn about it, could you? And you’ll carry on with your own theory. Other people can just take a running jump, can’t they, with their work and their ideas and impressions. Just tell me one thing. There are killers still walking the streets all over France. Cases we’ve never solved, you or me, sacks of them in the archives. And you don’t bother yourself with them. So why this one?’
‘When you read dossier no. 6, for the year 1973, you’ll see that the teenager who was brought to trial was my brother. It ruined his life and I lost him.’
‘That’s your “childhood memory,” is it? You might have said so earlier.’
‘You wouldn’t have listened to the rest of the story. You’d have said I was too closely involved, that it was too personal.’
‘Affirmative. Nothing like having one of your relations in the shit, to send a policeman off the straight and narrow.’
He pulled out dossier no. 6 and put it on top of the pile with a sigh.
‘Listen, Adamsberg,’ he said. ‘Because of your reputation, I’ll look at your dossiers. So we’ll have had a full, frank and impartial exchange of information. You’ve had a look at my patch, I’ll look at yours. Fair enough? I’ll see you again tomorrow morning. There’s a perfectly good hotel, a couple of hundred metres up the road on the right.’
Adamsberg walked for a long time along country roads, before checking into the hotel. He couldn’t blame Trabelmann, who had been very cooperative, all things considered. But the commandant wouldn’t go along with him, any more than anyone else. Everywhere, he had had to face incredulous stares; everywhere, he had had to carry the weight of the judge on his shoulders, alone.
Because Trabelmann was right in one respect – about him, Adamsberg – he would not abandon his theory. The measurements of the wounds in this case were once more within the limits of the original trident. Vétilleux had been picked out, followed, and plied with a litre of wine by the man with the cap pulled over his eyes. Who had taken good care not to touch any of his companion’s saliva. Then Vétilleux had been taken by car and dropped off close to the scene of the crime, which had already been committed. The old man had only had to press the weapon into Vétilleux’s hand, and throw it down beside him. Then he had driven off, disappearing calmly from the face of the earth, leaving his latest scapegoat in the hands of the zealous Commandant Trabelmann.
XI
ARRIVING AT THE GENDARMERIE AT NINE O’CLOCK NEXT MORNING, Adamsberg saluted the duty officer, the same one who had wanted to know the story about the bear. The officer indicated with a gesture that the storm signals were hoisted. And indeed Trabelmann had lost all his conviviality of the previous day. He was standing waiting in his office, his arms folded and his back ramrod-stiff.
‘What the fuck are you playing at, Adamsberg?’ he said in a voice tense with fury. ‘Paris police think the gendarmes are a bunch of idiots, or what?’
Adamsberg stood facing the commandant without speaking. In this kind of situation, it was best to let people have their say. He guessed what had happened. But he had not imagined Trabelmann would have worked so quickly. He had underestimated him.
‘Judge Fulgence died sixteen years ago!’ Trabelmann shouted. ‘He’s dead, dead and buried, kaput! This isn’t a fairy story, Adamsberg, it’s science fiction. And don’t tell me you didn’t know. Your notes stop in 1987.’
‘Yes, of course I know. I went to his funeral.’
‘And you’ve made me waste a whole day on your crazy story? Just to tell me that this figment of your imagination killed the Wind girl at Schiltigheim? You didn’t think for one minute that a stupid gendarme like Trabelmann might have checked up on the judge’s current whereabouts?’
‘It’s true, I didn’t think you would have got that far yet, and I apologise. But if you took the trouble to check the record, at least it means that you were intrigued enough by the Fulgence story to follow it up.’
‘What the hell is your game, Adamsberg? Are you on a ghost hunt? I hope not, or you shouldn’t be in the police force, but locked up somewhere. So why th
e fuck did you come all the way out here?’
‘To take the measurements, to get a chance to question Vétilleux, and to tell you about this possibility.’
‘Perhaps you thought he had an imitator? A disciple? A son?’
Adamsberg had the impression he was going back through his conversation with Danglard of two days before.
‘No, I don’t think he has a disciple, and he had no children. Fulgence is a lone wolf.’
‘Do you realise you’re standing there with a straight face and telling me you’re out of your tiny mind?’
‘I realise you think that, commandant. May I have permission to see Vétilleux once more before I leave?’
‘No, you may not!’ shouted Trabelmann.
‘Well, if you want to go ahead and hand an innocent man over to the courts, that’s your business.’
Adamsberg had to go round Trabelmann to pick up his files. He pushed them clumsily into his bag, which took him a little time, one-handed. The commandant did not make a move to help, any more than Danglard had. Adamsberg offered to shake hands, but Trabelmann kept his arms firmly folded.
‘Well, we may meet again one day, Trabelmann. When I bring you the judge’s head on a trident.’
‘Adamsberg, I was wrong.’
The commissaire looked up in surprise.
‘Your ego isn’t as big as a kitchen table, it’s the size of Strasbourg Cathedral.’
‘Which you don’t like?’
‘Affirmative.’
Adamsberg headed for the exit. In the office, the corridors and the hall, silence had fallen like a shower of rain, stifling all movement, voices or footsteps. Outside the doors, he saw the young duty officer, who took a few steps alongside him.
‘Commissaire, that story about the bears?’
‘Don’t come with me, officer, or you might lose your job.’
He winked quickly at the young man and went off on foot, without any car to take him to the station. But unlike Vétilleux, the commissaire was not put off by a few kilometres; the walk was barely long enough for him to rid his mind of the new enemy whom Judge Fulgence had added to Adamsberg’s collection.
XII
THE PARIS TRAIN WAS NOT DUE TO LEAVE FOR ANOTHER HOUR, SO Adamsberg decided, as if in defiance of Trabelmann, to pay a visit to the cathedral. He walked all the way round the outside, since according to the commandant, his ego was equal to the colossal dimensions of another era. Then he explored the nave and the side aisles, and took the trouble to read the notices. ‘A Gothic edifice in the purest and most radical style.’ What more could Trabelmann ask for? He looked up to the top of the spire, ‘a masterpiece, soaring to a height of 142 metres’. Adamsberg had only just reached the regulation height to qualify for the police force.
In the train, when he went to the bar, the rows of miniature bottles brought his thoughts back to Vétilleux. By now, Trabelmann was no doubt pressing him to confess, like a dumb beast going to the slaughter. Unless, that is, Vétilleux was heeding his instructions, and resisting the pressure. It was odd how much he blamed the unknown Josie for having left Vétilleux, thus letting him slide down the slope, considering that Adamsberg himself had abandoned Camille at a moment’s notice.
Back in the office, he was surprised by the smell of camphor, and stopped in the Council Chamber, where Noël, his shirt unbuttoned and his forehead resting on his arms, was having his neck massaged by Lieutenant Retancourt. She was kneading his flesh from the shoulders to the nape of the neck, with long circular movements which seemed to have reduced Noël to a state of childlike bliss. He jumped, when he realised the commissaire was in the room, and buttoned his shirt up hastily. Only Retancourt showed no embarrassment, and calmly put the top back on the tube of ointment, while briefly greeting Adamsberg.
‘I’ll be with you right away,’ she said. ‘Noël, no sudden neck movements for two or three days. And if you need to carry something heavy, use your left hand, not your right.’
Retancourt came over to Adamsberg, while Noël quickly left the room.
‘With this cold snap,’ she explained, ‘you tend to get a lot of muscle spasms and stiff necks.’
‘And you can cure them?’
‘I’m not bad. I’ve prepared the dossiers for the Quebec mission, the forms have been sent off and the visas are ready. The plane tickets should be here the day after tomorrow.’
‘Thank you, Retancourt. Is Danglard about?’
‘He’s waiting for you. He got a confession from the D’Hernoncourt daughter yesterday. The lawyer is going to plead temporary insanity, which seems to be pretty much the case.’
Danglard got up when Adamsberg walked in, and held out his hand, looking rather embarrassed.
‘Well, at least you’re prepared to shake my hand,’ said Adamsberg with a smile. ‘Trabelmann has stopped doing that. Pass me the D’Hernoncourt report to sign and congratulations on tying up the case.’
While the commissaire was signing the report, Danglard observed him closely, to see whether he was being ironic, since Adamsberg himself had refused to accept the baron’s confession, and had told them to follow an alternative lead. But no, there was no sign of a sneer on his face, and the congratulations seemed to be sincere.
‘So it didn’t go too well at Schiltigheim?’
‘Well, in one respect it went very well. A brand new carpenter’s awl and a line of wounds 16.7 centimetres long and 0.8 wide. I told you, Danglard, always the same crossbar. The suspect is a poor homeless tramp, harmless and alcoholic, the ideal fall guy. Before the murder, an old man came along and gave him the fatal push. A so-called companion of the streets, but one who took his wine from a cup and wouldn’t drink out of the same bottle as a down-and-out.’
‘And in other respects?’
‘Not good. Trabelmann’s taken against me. He thinks I just follow my own nose and take no notice of anyone else. He regards Judge Fulgence as a national treasure. And in fact I’m a national treasure too, but not quite the same way.’
‘What do you mean?’
Adamsberg smiled before replying.
‘Strasbourg Cathedral. He says my ego is as big as the cathedral.’
Danglard gave a low whistle.
‘One of the pinnacles of Gothic architecture,’ he remarked, ‘the spire reaches a height of 142 metres, built in 1439, the crowning achievement of Jean Hultz …’
With a gesture, Adamsberg interrupted the flow of erudition.
‘Still,’ concluded Danglard, ‘that’s quite something, isn’t it? A Gothic edifice for an ego, an e-Gothic ego trip. Trabelmann’s a bit of a joker, is he?’
‘Yes, he can be. But just then he wasn’t joking, and he kicked me out as if I was a complete time-waster. I have to say in his defence that he looked up the judge’s dates and found out he had been dead sixteen years. He didn’t like that. Some people get put off by that kind of thing.’
Adamsberg raised his hand again to ward off a comment from his deputy.
‘Did it do any good?’ he asked. ‘The massage Retancourt gave you?’
Danglard felt his irritation mounting once more.
‘Yes, I guessed,’ Adamsberg confirmed. ‘Your neck looks pink and you smell of camphor.’
‘I had a stiff neck. It’s not a crime, far as I know.’
‘On the contrary. It’s perfectly in order to get yourself treated and I admire Retancourt’s talents. But if you don’t mind, and since all that is signed off, I’m going for a walk. I’m tired.’
Danglard made no comment on the contradiction, which was typical of Adamsberg, nor did he try to have the last word. Since Adamsberg obviously wanted to have the last word, let him have it. This kind of verbal sparring wasn’t going to resolve their quarrel.
In the Chapter Room, Adamsberg beckoned Noël over.
‘Where are we with the Favre business?’
‘He’s been questioned by the divisionnaire, and suspended until the inquiry has concluded. You’re to be questioned tomorrow at eleven
o’clock in Brézillon’s office.’
‘I saw the note.’
‘There wouldn’t be any problem, if you hadn’t smashed the bottle. Given the way he is, he couldn’t know whether you were going to attack him with it or not.’
‘Neither did I, Noël.’
‘What?’
‘Neither did I,’ Adamsberg repeated calmly. ‘At the time, I’m not sure what might have happened. I don’t think I would have attacked him, but I’m not certain. Stupid bastard that he is, he just made me furious.’
‘For Christ’s sake, commissaire, don’t say anything like that to Brézillon, or you’ve had it. Favre would be able to plead legitimate self-defence and as for you, who knows where it could go? You’d have lost all credibility, all authority, do you realise?’
‘Yes, Noël,’ Adamsberg replied, surprised by the level of solicitude unexpectedly being shown by his lieutenant. ‘At the moment, I’m all on edge. I’m dealing with a ghost and it isn’t easy.’
Noël was used to incomprehensible remarks from his superior officer, so he made no comment.
‘But not a word to Brézillon,’ he added anxiously. ‘No introspection or attacks of conscience. Just say you broke the bottle to intimidate Favre. That you were going to drop it, naturally. That’s what we all thought, and that’s what we’ll say.’
The lieutenant looked directly at Adamsberg, waiting for his agreement.
‘Yes, very well, Noël.’
Shaking hands, Adamsberg had the curious feeling that their positions had momentarily been reversed.
XIII
ADAMSBERG WALKED THE COLD STREETS FOR A LONG TIME, HUGGING his coat round him, and still carrying his overnight bag. He crossed the Seine, then started walking uphill to the north, without any destination in mind, his thoughts jangling in his head. He would have liked to return to that moment of calm, three days earlier, when he had put his hand on the cold tank of the heating system. Ever since then, he seemed to have been at the centre of a series of explosions, like the toad with its cigarette. Several toads in fact, going off at short intervals. A cloud of entrails thrown in the air and raining down images of blood. The sudden appearance of the judge from the depths, the idea of the dead awakening, the three stab wounds in Schiltigheim, the hostility of his closest colleague, his brother’s features, the spire of Strasbourg Cathedral (142 metres), the prince transformed into a dragon, the bottle brandished in Favre’s face. And his outbursts of rage, against Danglard, against Favre, against Trabelmann, and insidiously, against Camille who had left him. No, that was wrong, he was the one who had left Camille. He was getting things the wrong way round, like the prince and the dragon. Getting angry with everyone. So, what you mean, Ferez would have said calmly, is that you’re angry with yourself. Oh, go fuck yourself, Ferez.
