by Fred Vargas
He stopped walking when he realised that as he had zigzagged through the chaos of his thoughts, he had reached the point of wondering whether if you stuffed a dragon into the doors of Strasbourg Cathedral, the whole thing would explode, puff, puff, bang. He leaned against a lamp post, looked around to make sure no posters of Neptune were lying in wait for him, and passed his hand across his eyes. He was worn out and the injured arm was making him feverish. He swallowed two painkillers without water and looking around, saw that he had arrived at Clignancourt.
His way ahead was clear. Turning right, he set off for the tumbledown house of Clémentine Courbet, tucked away in a little sidestreet near the fleamarket. He had not seen the old woman for a year, since the case of the painted door signs. And he had not known if he would ever see her again.
He knocked at the wooden door, suddenly feeling happy, hoping the grandmotherly figure would be at home, bustling about in her kitchen or her attic. And that she would recognise him again.
The door opened to reveal a large woman in a flower-print dress covered with a faded blue overall.
‘Oh, commissaire, I’m sorry, I can’t shake hands,’ Clémentine said holding out her forearm. ‘I’m in the middle of cooking.’
Adamsberg shook the old woman’s arm, and she wiped her floury hands on her apron before returning to the stove. He followed her in, feeling reassured. Nothing seemed to surprise Clémentine.
‘Now come on in, put your bag down, and make yourself comfortable.’
Adamsberg sat on a kitchen chair and watched her at work. A sheet of pastry was rolled flat on the wooden table and Clémentine was cutting out rounds with a glass.
‘Cookies for tomorrow, m’dear,’ she explained, ‘because I’m fresh out of them. Help yourself from the tin, there’s a few left. And then can you pour us out two little glasses of port, that won’t do you any harm.’
‘You think I need it, Clémentine?’
‘You’re in trouble. Did you know, I’ve got the boy married now?’
‘To Lizbeth?’ asked Adamsberg, pouring out the port and helping himself to a biscuit.
‘Yes, just a while back. What about you?’
‘Ah well, I’m afraid it’s the opposite for me.’
‘Oh, now surely she wasn’t giving you the run around, a nice man like you?’
‘On the contrary.’
‘Your fault then, was it?’
‘Yes, my fault.’
‘Well, it’s very wrong of you,’ announced the old woman, absorbing a third of her port. ‘A lovely girl like that.’
‘How do you know she’s lovely, Clémentine?’
‘I spent some time in your police station, m’dear. And in there, my word, they do gossip, they talk, you find things out.’
Clémentine put the biscuits in the oven of her old gas cooker, shut the creaking door, and watched them anxiously through the smoke-stained glass window.
‘You know what it is, don’t you, with men who run after girls, they cause trouble when they think they’re in danger of being hooked, don’t they? And then they blame their poor sweetheart.’
‘What do you mean, Clémentine?’
‘Well, now, if they’ve really fallen for someone, it makes it more difficult to run around. So the poor sweetheart, they take it out on her.’
‘And how do they do that?’
‘What do you think, m’dear? They let her know good and proper that they’re cheating on her, right and left. And it’s not going to stop. So then the wee girl, she starts crying, and oh no, he doesn’t like that a bit. Of course not, nobody likes making people cry. So then, he walks out.’
‘And what happens next?’ asked Adamsberg, hanging on her words as if the old woman were recounting him some fantastic epic.
‘Well, then he’s in trouble, isn’t he? Now he’s lost his true love. Because running around’s one thing, and loving someone’s another. Not the same at all.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because running around doesn’t make a man happy. But being in love stops him running. So the man, he goes first one way then the other, and never really happy either. And the poor girl pays for it, but then after that, so does he.’
Clémentine opened the oven door, glanced in and shut it again.
‘You’re quite right, Clémentine.’
‘Takes no magician to tell you that,’ remarked Clémentine, wiping the table. ‘I’m going to start the pork now.’
‘But Clémentine, why does he still keep running after other girls?’
The old woman stopped, resting her large fists on the table.
‘Because it’s easier, that’s why. You love someone, you’ve got to give something, haven’t you now, but if all you want’s a good time, you don’t have to. Would you like beans with your pork chop, I’ve topped and tailed them myself?’
‘You’re asking me to supper?’
‘It’s supper time, isn’t it? Man’s got to eat, you’re all skin and bone.’
‘But I can’t take the pork chop you were going to eat yourself.’
‘Ah, but I’ve got two.’
‘You knew I was coming?’
‘I’m not a fortune teller, m’dear. But I’ve got a friend staying just now. Only she won’t be in till late. And I was a bit bothered, tell you the truth, about the chops. I would have eaten the other one tomorrow, but I don’t care to eat pork twice running. Don’t know why, I just don’t. I’ll put a bit more wood on the stove, can you watch my oven?’
The sitting room, which was small and crowded with armchairs covered in faded fabric, was heated only by a fireplace. For the rest of the house there were two woodburning stoves. The temperature in the sitting room, when he went in was not more than 15 degrees. Adamsberg laid the table while Clémentine banked up the fire.
‘We won’t eat in the kitchen,’ Clémentine forestalled him, bringing in the plates. ‘For once when I’ve got fancy company, we’re going to be nice and comfy in the sitting room. Drink your port, it’ll buck you up.’
Adamsberg obeyed unquestioningly and indeed soon found himself perfectly comfortable at the table in the sitting room, his back to a blazing fire. Clémentine filled his plate and poured, without asking, a full glass of wine for him. She tucked a flowery napkin under her chin and gave one to Adamsberg who did the same.
‘I’m going to cut up your meat, m’dear,’ she said. ‘With that arm, you can’t do it. Is that what you’re thinking about?’
‘No, Clémentine. I’m not thinking much at all at the moment.’
‘Ah, not thinking, that can get you into trouble. You must try and put your thinking cap on, my little Adamsberg. You don’t mind if I call you that, my dear?’
‘No, no, of course not.’
‘Now then, that’s enough of my fussing. What’s been happening to you? Apart from your sweetheart.’
‘I’ve just been going for everybody at the moment.’
‘That’s how you hurt your arm?’
‘Yes.’
‘Not that I’m against a good fight now and then, it calms things down sometimes. But if it’s not your usual way, you must put your thinking cap on. Maybe you’re unhappy on account of the girlfriend, or maybe it’s something else, or maybe it’s everything at once. Not going to leave that pork, are you? You just clear that plate, please. You don’t eat and then you’re surprised you’re all skin and bone. I’m going to fetch the rice pudding.’
She put a dessert bowl in front of Adamsberg.
‘If I had hold of you a week or two, I’d soon fatten you up. Is it something else that’s bothering you?’
‘A dead man come to life, Clémentine.’
‘Ha. If that’s all it is, it’s easier than love affairs. So what’s he done?’
‘He killed eight people in the past, and now he’s started again. With a trident.’
‘And when did he die?’
‘Sixteen years ago.’
‘And where did he start again?’
; ‘Near Strasbourg, last Saturday night. A young girl.’
‘She hadn’t done him any harm, the young girl?’
‘She didn’t know him at all. He’s a monster, Clémentine, a handsome but very frightening monster.’
‘You’ll be right about that. Killing nine people you don’t know? No, that’s no way to carry on.’
‘But nobody will believe me. Nobody at all.’
‘Sometimes people don’t want to listen, and you can’t make ’em. And if you try, you’ll end up with your nerves all frazzled.’
‘Yes, Clémentine, you’re right.’
‘So we won’t bother with all those other people, who won’t believe it,’ said Clémentine, lighting her roll-up cigarette. ‘And you’re going to tell me all about it. Let’s pull our chairs up closer to the fire. We weren’t expecting it to be so cold, were we? It’s from the North Pole, they do say.’
Adamsberg took over an hour to explain all the facts carefully to Clémentine, without knowing quite why he was doing it. They were interrupted only by the arrival of Clémentine’s friend, a woman almost as old as she was, about eighty. Unlike Clémentine, she was thin, fragile and vulnerable-looking, her face a network of fine wrinkles.
‘Josette, this is the commissaire I told you about before. Don’t be afraid, he’s not the nasty one.’
Adamsberg noted Josette’s dyed ash-blonde hair, her tailored suit and pearl earrings, the remnants of a long-lost bourgeois existence. By contrast, on her large feet she wore a pair of tennis shoes. Josette made a timid greeting and scuttled away into the so-called office, which was littered with computers belonging to Clémentine’s grandson.
‘What’s she afraid of?’ asked Adamsberg.
‘And you a policeman,’ sighed Clémentine.
‘Sorry.’
‘We’re talking about your worries, my dear, not Josette’s. It was a good idea to say you were playing cards with your brother. The simple ideas are often the best. And tell me now, did you leave that screwdriver in the pool? Because sooner or later, someone would fish it up.’
Adamsberg carried on, regularly feeding the fire and blessing whichever fair wind had driven him to take refuge with Clémentine.
‘Stupid idiot, your gendarme,’ Clémentine concluded, throwing away her cigarette end into the fire. ‘Anybody knows Prince Charming does sometimes turn into a beast. He can’t be very bright, not to see that.’
Adamsberg relaxed back on the old sofa, holding his injured arm across his stomach. ‘Ten minutes shuteye, Clémentine, and then I’m on my way.’
‘I can see he’s worn you out, this dead man walking. And you’re not out of the wood yet. But follow your hunch, my little Adamsberg. It might not be all right, but it might not be all wrong either.’
By the time Clémentine turned round from stirring the fire, Adamsberg had fallen into a deep sleep. The old woman picked up a tartan rug from a chair and placed it over him.
She met Josette on her way to bed.
‘He’s sleeping on the sofa,’ she explained. ‘He’s got a tale to tell, that one. What bothers me, he’s all skin and bone, these days, did you see?’
‘I wouldn’t know Clemmie, I’ve never seen him before.’
‘Well, I’m telling you, he needs feeding up.’
The commissaire was drinking his morning coffee in the kitchen with Clémentine.
‘I’m so sorry, Clémentine, I didn’t realise.’
‘No trouble, my dear. If you slept, it was because you needed to. Now eat up another piece of bread. And if you’re going to see the boss, you better get smartened up. I’m going to give your jacket and trousers a bit of an iron, you can’t go in there with them all crumpled like that.’
Adamsberg passed his hand over his chin.
‘Take one of my boy’s razors from the bathroom,’ she said, carrying off his clothes.
XIV
AT TEN O’CLOCK, ADAMSBERG LEFT CLIGNANCOURT, WELL breakfasted, shaved, with his clothes ironed, and his mind temporarily smoothed out by Clémentine’s exceptional care. At eighty-six, the old woman was capable of giving herself without stinting. And what could he do? He would bring her a present from Quebec. They probably had some nice warm clothes there you can’t get in Paris. A cosy bearskin jacket or some elkskin slippers – something unusual, like Clémentine herself.
Before presenting himself to the divisionnaire, he tried to go over Lieutenant Noël’s anxious warnings, which Clémentine had backed up. ‘Telling lies to yourself, that’s one thing, but telling lies to the flics, well, sometimes you have to. No point giving yourself the third degree over a matter of honour. Honour, that’s your own business, nothing to do with the cops.’
Divisionnaire Brézillon appreciated, from the point of view of statistics, the results achieved by Commissaire Adamsberg, which were much better than those of his other police chiefs. But he had no great sympathy for the man, or for his manner. Nevertheless, he well remembered the terrible fallout from the recent affair of the painted door signs, which had reached such proportions that the Ministry of the Interior had been on the point of making him resign as the scapegoat. Being a man of the law, extremely attentive to the scales of justice, Brézillon knew what he owed Jean-Baptiste Adamsberg, who had solved that case. But this set-to with a subordinate was embarrassing, and especially surprising on the part of someone who was usually such a cool customer. He had listened to what Favre had to say, and the obtuse vulgarity of the junior officer had deeply displeased him. He had heard six eyewitnesses, who had all doggedly defended Adamsberg. But the detail of the broken bottle was particularly serious. Adamsberg was not without enemies in the police disciplinary commission, and Brézillon’s voice would swing the balance.
The commissaire gave him a sober version of the events. The broken glass had been intended to frighten Favre after his insubordination, simply a warning shot. ‘Warning shot’, was a term that had come to Adamsberg as he walked back to headquarters, and he thought it fitted his economical dealing with the truth. Brézillon listened to him with a grave face, and Adamsberg sensed that he was on the whole inclined to help him out of this mess. But it was clear that the matter was not closed.
‘I’m giving you a serious warning, commissaire,’ said Brézillon, taking his leave. ‘The committee won’t give a ruling for a month or so. In that time, I don’t want to see the slightest stepping out of line, no fuss or bother, no escapades. Keep a low profile, hear me?’
Adamsberg nodded agreement.
‘And congratulations on the D’Hernoncourt case,’ he added. ‘Your arm’s not going to stop you leading the team to Quebec?’
‘No, the police doctor’s given me all I need.’
‘When do you leave?’
‘Four days from now.’
‘No bad thing. Time for your name to be forgotten for a bit.’
With this ambiguous dismissal, Adamsberg left the Quai des Orfèvres: ‘Keep a low profile.’
Trabelmann would have laughed at that. The spire of Strasbourg Cathedral, 142 metres high. ‘At least you gave me something to laugh about, Adamsberg, there’s that about it.’
* * *
By two o’clock, the seven other members of the Quebec mission were assembled for their technical and disciplinary briefing. Adamsberg had distributed reproductions of the different ranks and badges of the RCMP, though he had not yet memorised them himself.
‘Generally speaking, try to avoid mistakes over rank,’ he began. ‘Learn these insignia off by heart. You’ll be dealing with corporals, sergeants, inspectors and superintendents. Don’t mix them up. The officer who will be meeting us is Superintendent Aurèle Laliberté, that’s all one word, not La-space-Liberté.’
There were a few chuckles.
‘That’s exactly what you have to avoid. No sniggers. Québécois surnames and first names are different from French ones. You may find officers called Lafrance or Louisseize. You may meet officers younger than you, with first names you don’t find these da
ys in France, like Ginette and Philibert. And no mocking of the accent. When French-Canadians speak quickly, you may have difficulty following. And they use different expressions. So no stupid remarks please, or you’ll discredit the whole mission.’
‘The Québécois,’ interrupted Danglard, in his gentle voice, ‘consider France as their mother country, but they don’t much like the French, or trust them. They find us arrogant, condescending and mocking, not entirely wrongly, because a lot of French people treat Quebec as if it was some kind of backward province full of country bumpkins and lumberjacks.’
‘I’m counting on you,’ Adamsberg added, ‘not to act like tourists, and especially not like Parisian tourists, talking in loud voices and criticising everything.’
‘Where are we staying?’ asked Noël.
‘In a building in Hull, which is about six kilometres from the RCMP base. You’ll each have a room with a view over the river and the Canada geese. We’ll have some staff cars between us. Over there, no one walks anywhere, they all drive.’
The briefing lasted another hour or so, then the group dispersed in a contented buzz of voices, with the exception of Danglard who dragged himself out of the room like a condemned man, pale with apprehension. If by some miracle the starlings didn’t get into the starboard engine on the way out, the Canada geese would find their way into the port engine on the way back. And a goose is bigger than a starling. Well, everything’s bigger in Canada.
