by Fred Vargas
All except Danglard, that is. His five children had been left in the care of his generous neighbour on the sixth floor, along with the cat, and on that front everything was under control, except the prospect of leaving them orphans. Adamsberg tried to think of some way of rescuing his deputy from his increasing panic, but the growing coolness between them left him little room for manoeuvre in trying to comfort him. Or perhaps, Adamsberg thought, he ought to try a different tack: provoke him and force him to react. What better way than to tell him about the visit to the phantom of the Schloss? That would certainly make Danglard angry, and anger is much more stimulating and distracting than fear. He had been thinking about this for a moment or two, smiling to himself, when their flight for Montreal-Dorval was called, bringing them all to their feet.
They were seated in a compact group in the middle of the plane, and Adamsberg saw to it that Danglard was seated to his right, as far as possible from a window. The safety instructions which were mimed by a smiling flight attendant, explaining what to do if there was a loss of pressure, or a landing on water, and how to evacuate the aircraft via the escape chutes, did not help at all. Danglard fumbled under his seat for his lifejacket.
‘Don’t bother,’ said Adamsberg. ‘If there really was any trouble, you’d be sucked out through the window without even being conscious, and disappear like the toad. Puff, puff, bang.’
This kind remark failed to bring a smile to the capitaine’s face.
When the plane stopped to rev up to full power, Adamsberg really thought he was going to lose his deputy, just like the damned toad. Danglard survived take-off by clinging to the armrests. Adamsberg waited till the plane had finished its ascent before trying to distract him.
‘Look,’ he explained, ‘you have your own TV screen. They put on some good films. There’s a cultural channel too. See here,’ he added, consulting the programme. ‘There’s a documentary about the precursors of the Italian Renaissance. That’s for you, isn’t it? The Italian Renaissance?’
‘Already know all that stuff,’ muttered Danglard, his expression fixed, his fingers still gripping the armrests.
‘Even the precursors?’
‘Know all that too.’
‘If you switch on your radio, there’s a debate about Hegel’s aesthetics, it says here. What about that?’
‘Know all about that too,’ Danglard repeated gloomily. So if neither the precursors nor Hegel could captivate Danglard, the situation was indeed desperate, Adamsberg thought. He glanced at his neighbour on the other side, Hélène Froissy, who had turned towards the window and was already fast asleep, or else lost in sad thoughts.
‘Danglard, do you know what I did on Saturday?’ Adamsberg asked.
‘Don’t give a damn, Adamsberg.’
‘I went to visit the last known residence of our deceased judge, near Strasbourg, a residence that he left like a thief in the night, six days after the Schiltigheim murder.’
In the capitaine’s distraught features, Adamsberg thought he could detect a slight flicker of interest.
‘I’ll tell you about it.’
Adamsberg dragged out his account, omitting none of the details, the Bluebeard’s attic, the stable, the summer house, the bathroom, and taking care to refer to the owner only as ‘the judge’, ‘the dead man’, or ‘the spectre’. Although the tale did not quite manage to provoke anger, it did stimulate a sort of irritable interest on the capitaine’s face.
‘Interesting, eh?’ said Adamsberg. ‘A man who’s invisible to everyone, an impalpable presence?’
‘Just some recluse,’ Danglard objected in a distant voice.
‘Yes, but a recluse who systematically wipes out all his traces? Who leaves behind, and then only by accident, a few stray hairs, snow-white incidentally.’
‘You can’t do anything with those hairs,’ muttered Danglard.
‘Yes, I can, Danglard, I can compare them.’
‘With what?’
‘With those in the judge’s grave, in Richelieu. I’d just have to apply for an exhumation. Hair survives a long time, so with a bit of luck …’
‘What’s that noise?’ interrupted Danglard in a changed voice. ‘That whistling sound?’
‘It’s just the cabin pressure, it’s normal.’
Danglard subsided in his seat with a long sigh.
‘But I couldn’t remember what you told me about the meaning of “Fulgence”,’ Adamsberg said, untruthfully.
‘It comes from fulgur, lightning or a thunderbolt,’ Danglard could not resist replying. ‘Or from the verb fulgeo: to shine, dazzle, light up. In a figurative sense to be brilliant, illustrious, to shine forth brightly.’
Adamsberg registered mentally the new meanings his deputy was reeling off with erudition.
‘And what about “Maxime”?’
‘Don’t tell me you don’t know that,’ grumbled Danglard. ‘It’s maximus, of course, the biggest or most important.’
‘I didn’t tell you the name our man used when he bought the Schloss. Would you like to know?’
‘No.’
In fact, Danglard was perfectly aware of the efforts Adamsberg was making to distract him from his panic, and although he found the Schloss story irritating, he was grateful for this kindness. Only another six hours twelve minutes to go. They were over the Atlantic by now and would be for some time.
‘Well, it was Maxime Leclerc. What do you say to that?’
‘That Leclerc is one of the commonest surnames in France.’
‘You’re just trying not to see it. Maxime Leclerc: the biggest, the most brilliant, the most dazzling. The judge couldn’t resign himself to some ordinary name.’
‘You can play games with names just as you can with numbers. You can make them mean anything you like. There’s no end to it.’
‘If you weren’t so wedded to your bloody rationality,’ Adamsberg insisted, trying to be provocative, ‘you’d have to admit that I’ve got some interesting things to say about this Schiltigheim business.’
The commissaire at this point stopped a benevolent attendant who was passing with a tray of glasses of champagne, unnoticed (remarkably) by the capitaine. Since Froissy had refused hers, he took two glasses and placed them in Danglard’s hands.
‘Drink these,’ he ordered. ‘Both of them, but one at a time, like you promised.’
Danglard made a slight nod of gratitude.
‘Because from my point of view, it may not be all right, but it may not be all wrong.’
‘Who says?’
‘Clémentine Courbet. Remember her? I went to see her.’
‘If you’re going to start quoting the sayings of Clémentine Courbet as your new bible, the whole squad is going to hell in a handcart.’
‘Don’t be so pessimistic, Danglard. But it’s true, one can play with names ad infinitum. Mine for instance. Adamsberg, Adam’s mountain, the First Man. That’s good, isn’t it? And on a mountain as well. I wonder. Perhaps it was because of that, that …’
‘The stuff about Strasbourg Cathedral,’ Danglard cut him off.
‘Got it in one. And what about your name, Danglard, what does it mean?’
‘It’s the name of the traitor in The Count of Monte Cristo. A real bastard.’
‘That’s interesting.’
‘Actually, there’s more to it,’ added Danglard, having downed the two glasses of champagne. ‘It was originally D’Anglard, and Anglard comes from the Germanic Angil-hard.’
‘And that means? You’ll have to translate it for me.’
‘Angil has two roots, meaning “sword” and “angel”. As for hard, it means, well, “hard”.’
‘So you’re a sort of inflexible angel with a sword. That’s a lot better than the poor old First Man waving from the top of a mountain. Even Strasbourg Cathedral would be impressed by an Avenging Angel. Anyway, its door’s blocked.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘By a dragon.’
Adamsberg glanced at his wa
tches. Another five hours forty-four and a half minutes to go. He thought he was doing quite well, but how much longer could he carry on? He had never had to talk for seven hours running before.
Suddenly all his good work was interrupted by a set of red signals going on at the front of the cabin. ‘What’s the matter?’ asked Danglard in alarm.
‘Seat-belt sign.’
‘Why are they putting on the seat-belt sign?’
‘Oh, just a bit of turbulence that’s all, it’s going to be a bit bumpy.’
Adamsberg prayed to the First Man on his mountain to see to it that the turbulence was minor. But the First Man obviously didn’t give a damn about him. Unfortunately the turbulence was particularly rough, making the plane plummet into air pockets several metres deep. Even the most blasé passengers stopped reading their books, the cabin crew were obliged to take their seats, and a young woman screamed. Danglard had closed his eyes and was hyperventilating. Hélène Froissy looked at him anxiously. On a sudden inspiration, Adamsberg turned to Retancourt who was sitting behind the capitaine.
‘Retancourt,’ he whispered, between the seats, ‘Danglard’s in a bad way. Can you do some kind of massage to send him off to sleep? Or can you think of any other way of knocking him out, or sedating him, or something?’
Retancourt nodded, which didn’t altogether surprise Adamsberg.
‘Yes, I can,’ she said, ‘as long as he doesn’t know it’s me.’
Adamsberg nodded.
‘Danglard,’ he said, taking his hand, ‘keep your eyes shut, one of the cabin staff is going to look after you.’
He signalled to Retancourt that she could start.
‘Undo his top three shirt buttons,’ she whispered, loosening her seat-belt.
Then, with her fingertips moving in a rapid pianistic dance, Retancourt set to work on Danglard’s neck, following the spinal column and moving to the temples. Observing the manoeuvre as the plane continued to lurch, Froissy and Adamsberg looked by turns at Retancourt’s hands and at Danglard’s face. The capitaine’s breathing seemed to slow down, then his features relaxed, and less than fifteen minutes later, he was asleep.
‘Did he take any sedatives?’ Retancourt asked, slowly removing her fingers from the capitaine’s neck.
‘A cartload,’ Adamsberg replied.
Retancourt looked at her watch.
‘He probably didn’t sleep a wink last night. He should sleep for at least four hours now, we can relax. By the time he wakes up we’ll be over Newfoundland. Being over land is more reassuring.’
Adamsberg and Froissy exchanged glances.
‘She is so amazing,’ whispered Froissy. ‘If she had boyfriend trouble, she’d just crush it like an insect underfoot.’
‘Love affairs are never insects, Froissy. They’re always walls, ten metres high. It’s no dishonour to find them hard to climb.’
‘Thanks for that,’ Froissy whispered.
‘You know, lieutenant, Retancourt doesn’t like me.’
Froissy did not dissent.
‘Has she ever said why?’ he asked.
‘No, she never says anything about you at all.’
A steeple of 142 metres can wobble, just because the incredible hulk Retancourt never finds it necessary to mention you, thought Adamsberg. He glanced at Danglard. Sleep was bringing the colour back to his cheeks and the turbulence was subsiding.
* * *
The plane was on its final approach when the capitaine woke up, looking surprised.
‘It was the flight attendant,’ Adamsberg explained. ‘She’s a specialist. Luckily, she’s going to be on the return flight too. We land in twenty minutes.’
Apart from two brief scares when the undercarriage came down and when the air brakes went on, Danglard, still under the effect of his soothing massage, managed to get through the ordeal of landing reasonably well. When they arrived, he was fresh and rested, whereas everyone else was looking rather dazed. Two and a half hours later, they had all been allocated rooms. Because of the time difference, the course was not scheduled to begin until two o’clock the following afternoon.
Adamsberg had been given a two-room apartment on the fifth floor, as clean and new as a show flat, with a balcony. A Gothic privilege. He leaned on it for a long moment to look down at the immense Ottawa River which flowed down below between its wild banks, and on the far side the lights of the skyscrapers of Ottawa city.
XVII
THREE CARS BELONGING TO THE RCMP PARKED IN FRONT OF THE building next day. They were easily recognised by their gleaming white doors marked with the head of a bison, looking half placid and half determined, surrounded by maple leaves and surmounted by the British Crown. Three men in uniform were waiting for the visitors. One of them, whom Adamsberg recognised by his epaulettes as the superintendent, leaned towards his neighbour.
‘Which one would you say was the commissaire?’ he asked his colleague.
‘The little guy, in the black jacket.’
Adamsberg could more or less hear what they were saying. Brézillon and Trabelmann would have been pleased: the little guy. At the same time, his attention was distracted by some small black squirrels hopping about in the street, as lively and unperturbed as sparrows.
‘No kidding,’ said the superintendent, ‘the one who’s dressed like a hobo?’
‘That’s the one. Don’t let it get to you.’
‘Not the big slouch with the good suit?’
‘No, it’s the dark one. And he’s a big shot over there. So no personal remarks.’
Superintendent Aurèle Laliberté nodded and moved towards Adamsberg, holding out his hand.
‘Welcome, commissaire principal! Not too jet-lagged?’
‘I’m fine, thank you,’ replied Adamsberg carefully. ‘Delighted to make your acquaintance.’
They shook hands all round in an embarrassed silence.
‘Sorry about the weather,’ Laliberté said in his booming voice, with a big grin. ‘Frosts’re early this year. In you get, it’s a ten-minute drive up to HQ. We’re not going to kill you with work today,’ he added, inviting Adamsberg to sit beside him. ‘Just a little looksee.’
The RCMP base was situated in a wooded park which seemed to stretch as far into the distance as a French forest. Laliberté drove slowly, and Adamsberg almost had time to study all the trees.
‘You’ve got a pretty big place here,’ he said, impressed.
‘Yup. As we say here, we’ve not got a lot of history, but we sure have plenty of geography.’
‘Are those maples?’ he asked, pointing out of the car window.
‘Sure are.’
‘I thought they had red leaves.’
‘Not red enough for you, eh, commissaire? They’re not like the one on the flag, they come in all colours, red, yellow, orange. Or it’d be boring. So, you’re the boss of the group, right?’
‘Er, yes.’
‘Say, for a commissaire principal, you don’t put on a lot of style. They let you go round dressed like that in Paris?’
‘In Paris, the police isn’t the army.’
‘No need to take offence, Jean-Baptiste. I call ’em as I see ’em, better you know that right off.’ Laliberté had started to call Adamsberg by his first name already. ‘Here’s the RCMP, this is where we get out,’ he said, applying the brakes.
The Paris contingent stood in a group in front of the giant cubes of brand new brick and glass, surrounded by flaming red trees. A black squirrel was guarding the door, nibbling at something. Adamsberg lagged behind to have a word with Danglard.
‘Do they all use first names round here?’
‘Yes, it’s their normal way of speaking.’
‘Should we do the same?’
‘Do what you feel comfortable with. People adapt.’
‘He called you “a big slouch”. What did he mean?’
‘A sloppy-looking character.’
‘I see. As he says, he calls ’em as he sees ’em.’
‘So
it seems,’ Danglard agreed.
Laliberté showed the French team into a huge meeting room – the equivalent of the Council Chamber – and did some rapid introductions. The Québécois team consisted of Mitch Portelance, Rhéal Ladouceur, Berthe Louisseize, Philibert Lafrance, Alphonse Philippe-Auguste, Ginette Saint-Preux and Fernand Sanscartier. Then the superintendent spoke firmly to his officers. ‘You’re each gonna link up with one of the members of the Paris squad. We change partners every two or three days. Get stuck in, but no need to break any records. They’re not dummies, but they’re on a steep learning curve, this is new to them, so no rushing at it. And no snarky jokes if they don’t understand, or don’t speak the way we do. Just because they’re French doesn’t mean they’re not up to the job. I’m counting on you.’
It was in fact, much the same kind of pep-talk Adamsberg had given his team a few days earlier.
During the rather tedious tour of the premises, Adamsberg took care to locate the drinks machine, which supplied ‘soups’, but also cups of coffee about the size of a glass of beer. He scanned the faces of his temporary colleagues. He felt an immediate rapport with Sergeant Fernand Sanscartier, the only unpromoted officer, whose chubby pink face, with its wide-open innocent-looking brown eyes, seemed to mark him out as a number one good guy. He would have liked to be partnered with him, but for the first three days, hierarchy had to be observed, so he would be working with the energetic Aurèle Laliberté. The French visitors were allowed to leave at six, and shown out to their official cars, which were equipped with snow tyres. Only the commissaire had a car to himself.
‘So why do you wear two watches?’ asked Laliberté, as Adamsberg seated himself in the driving seat.
Adamsberg hesitated.
‘Because of the time difference,’ he explained suddenly. ‘I’ve got to follow some enquiries back home in France.’
‘Can’t you do it in your head like everyone else?’
‘It’s quicker this way,’ Adamsberg prevaricated.
‘Suit yourself. OK, welcome to Canada, man, and see you tomorrow, nine sharp.’
