by Fred Vargas
‘Don’t worry,’ said Vandoosler, looking at Sophia. ‘Madame Siméonidis will make up her own mind. If there is a problem, that is. As for these three,’ he said, pointing to the young men, ‘they’re not entirely half-witted. They may be able to help too.’
‘Who said they were half-witted?’ said Sophia.
‘Well, it’s sometimes best to make things clear,’ said Vandoosler. ‘My nephew Marc now … I know a thing or two about him. I looked after him in Paris when he was twelve, that is, almost grown up. He was already vague, pig-headed, on a high, off-balance, but too clever to sit still. I never was able to do much with him, except to impress on him a few sound principles about the disturbances one must constantly bring to bear on the world. And he picked that up. As for the others, I’ve only known them a week, and they look OK so far. They’re a strange combination, each one with his great work he’s writing. Funny lot. Anyway, I have never heard of a case like yours before. It’s high time to do something about the tree.’
‘But what could I do?’ Sophia asked. ‘The police would have laughed at me.’
‘Very true,’ said Vandoosler.
‘And I didn’t want to alarm my husband.’
‘Quite right.’
‘So I was waiting until … I knew these young people better.’
‘But how can we help, without arousing your husband’s suspicions?’ asked Marc.
‘What I was thinking,’ said Sophia, ‘was that you might pretend to be workmen. Checking on buried electricity cables or something. Anything that would explain digging a trench, one that runs under the tree, of course. I’d pay you extra for some overalls, and to hire a van and tools.’
‘I’m on,’ said Marc.
‘Sounds do-able,’ said Mathias.
‘Well, if it’s about digging trenches,’ said Lucien, ‘I’m all for it. I’ll send a sick note to the school. It’ll take a couple of days.’
‘Can you face watching your husband’s reaction when they turn up proposing to dig their trench?’ asked Vandoosler.
‘I’ll do my best,’ said Sophia.
‘Won’t he recognise them?’
‘No, I’m sure he won’t. He’s taken absolutely no interest in them’.
‘Perfect,’ said Marc. ‘It’s Thursday today. We need a bit of time to organise the details. We’ll be knocking at your door on Monday morning, first thing.’
‘Thank you,’ said Sophia. ‘It’s funny. Now we’ve arranged all this, I’m sure there’s nothing under the tree.’
She opened her handbag. ‘Here’s the money,’ she said. ‘It’s all there.’
‘What, already?’ said Marc.
Vandoosler senior smiled. Sophia Siméonidis was an unusual woman. She was timid and hesitant in manner, but she had brought the money with her. Was she so sure of persuading them? He found that interesting.
VIII
ONCE SOPHIA HAD LEFT, NO-ONE KNEW QUITE WHAT TO DO, AS THEY all paced around the big room. Vandoosler senior preferred to take his meals upstairs. Before leaving the room, he looked at them. The three younger men were standing, oddly enough, each one in front of one of the tall windows, gazing into the dark garden. Standing like that, each framed in an archway, they looked like three statues with their backs to him. St Luke on the left, St Matthew in the middle, St Mark on the right. Each of them turned to stone in his niche. Strange figures and they made strange saints. Marc had crossed his hands behind his back and was standing stiffly, legs apart. Vandoosler had done a lot of stupid things in his life; but he loved his godson. Not that there had ever been a christening.
‘Dinner time,’ said Lucien. ‘I’ve made some pâté.’
‘What kind?’ asked Mathias.
They had not moved, but were speaking to each other while still staring into the garden.
‘Jugged hare. A good dry pâté. I think it will taste fine.’
‘Hare? That’s expensive,’ said Mathias.
‘Marc shoplifted it this morning and delivered it to me.’
‘Terrific,’ said Mathias ironically. ‘Takes after the old man. Why did you pinch it, Marc?’
‘Because Lucien wanted one and it cost too much.’
‘Oh, of course, naturally,’ said Mathias. ‘Tell me something. How come your name is Vandoosler like his, if he is your mother’s brother.’
‘Because my mother wasn’t married, dickhead.’
‘Let’s eat,’ said Lucien. ‘Why are you badgering him?’
‘I’m not badgering him, I’m just asking him a question. And what did Vandoosler do to get thrown out?’
‘He helped a murderer escape.’
‘Oh, of course,’ said Mathias again. ‘And what sort of name is that anyway, Vandoosler?’
‘Belgian. It should be written Van Doos-l-a-e-r-e. Too complicated. My grandfather came to France in 1915.’
‘Aha,’ said Lucien. ‘Did he fight in the war? Did he leave any letters, or documents?’
‘No idea.’
‘You ought to do some digging,’ Lucien remarked, without leaving his post by the window.
‘Well, for the time being,’ said Marc, ‘we have to dig a hole. I don’t know what we’re getting ourselves into.’
‘Big trouble,’ said Mathias cheerfully. ‘Just for a change.’
‘Let’s eat,’ said Lucien. ‘We can make believe we haven’t a care in the world for now.’
IX
VANDOOSLER WAS ON HIS WAY HOME FROM THE MARKET. HE WAS gradually taking over the shopping duties. He didn’t mind. On the contrary, he liked strolling through the streets, looking at other people, listening in to conversations, joining in, sitting on benches and chatting about the price of fish. Old police habits, reflexes of a one-time seducer, and of a lifetime’s wandering. He smiled. This new district was to his taste. So was the new lodging. He had left his old quarters without a backward glance, content to be able to make a new start. The idea of beginning afresh had always attracted him more than the notion of carrying on indefinitely.
Vandoosler stopped as rue Chasle came into sight, and reflected pleasurably on this new phase of his existence. How had he got there? By a succession of accidents. When he thought about it, his life seemed like a coherent whole, yet it had been made up of sudden impulses, inspired by the moment and melting away in the long run. Grand ideas, serious plans, yes, he had had those once. None of them had ever come to anything. Not one. He had always seen the firmest resolve melt at the first request, the most sincere commitments fade on the slightest of pretexts, the most passionate pronouncements fail before reality. That was the way it was. He was used to it now, and couldn’t really feel regret. You just needed a little self-knowledge. His moves had often been surefooted and even brilliant in the short run, but he knew he would never make a middle-distance runner. This rue Chasle, with its curiously provincial air, was just right. Another new beginning. But for how long this time? A passer-by stared at him. He was probably wondering what Vandoosler was doing, pausing on the pavement with his shopping bag. Vandoosler had no doubt that the passer-by would have been able to tell him exactly why he himself lived there, and even to predict his own future. Whereas he, Vandoosler, would have found it hard even to sum up his life so far. He viewed it as a great web of incidents, events, investigations, successful or not, opportunities seized, love affairs, a remarkable series of events, none of them lasting very long and leading in too many directions to make a single summary possible, and thank goodness for that. There had been some damage, to be sure. Inevitably. You have to put off the old to find the new.
Before going into the house, the ex-commissaire sat down on the low wall on the other side of the street. A ray of April sunshine is always worth stopping for. He avoided looking towards Sophia Siméonidis’ house, where three municipal workers had been digging a trench since the day before. He looked over to the other neighbour. What was it that St Luke called it? The Eastern Front. What an obsessive he was. Why did he care so much about the Great War? Well, e
ach to his own poison. Vandoosler had made some progress on the Eastern Front. He had gathered some scraps of information here and there. The neighbour on that side was called Juliette Gosselin, and she lived with her brother Georges, a strong, silent type. Well, that was the story. For Armand Vandoosler, nothing was ever taken at face value. Yesterday at any rate the neighbour in the east had been out gardening in the spring sunshine. He had exchanged a few words with her, just to see. He smiled. He was sixty-eight years old and needed to be circumspect. He had no wish to be rebuffed. But it cost nothing to fantasise. He had made a close study of this Juliette, who seemed pretty and energetic, about forty years old, and he had concluded that she would not be at all interested in an ex-flic. Even one who was considered good-looking, though he had never been able to see that himself. Too thin, too angular, not enough purity of line for his own taste. He would never have fallen for someone who looked the way he did. But other people had, rather often. That had been quite useful when he was in the police, not to mention in private life. But Armand Vandoosler did not like his thoughts to take him in this fateful direction. That was twice in a quarter of an hour. Probably because he was changing direction yet again, changing his home and the company he kept. Or maybe it was because at the fish shop he had seen those little twins.
He shifted to move his basket into the shade. Thereby closer to the Eastern Front. Why the devil did his thoughts have to take him back there again, to the old bruise? He had only to look out for the next-door neighbour and think about the fish he had bought for the three workmen on the other side. He felt the old bruise once more. But dammit, he wasn’t the only one. True, he had been at fault. Especially towards Lucie and the twins, whom he had abandoned one fine day. The twins were three at the time. And yet he was fond of Lucie. He had even said he would stay with her always. And then in the end, no. He had watched them walk away from him on the station platform. Vandoosler sighed. He slowly moved his head back, pushing his hair out of his eyes. The little ones would be twenty-four now. Where were they? Oh God, what a mess, and what a fool he had been. Were they far away or near now? And Lucie? No point thinking about that. Never mind. Love affairs: there are plenty to choose from. It’s not important. None are any better than the others, absolutely not. Vandoosler picked up the basket and walked over to the neighbouring garden, Juliette’s. Still nobody around. What if he tried a bit harder? If his information was correct, she ran a little restaurant called Le Tonneau, a couple of streets further down. Vandoosler knew perfectly well how to cook the fish, but where was the harm in going to ask for a good recipe?
X
THE THREE TRENCH DIGGERS WERE SO EXHAUSTED THAT THEY ATE THEIR fish without even noticing that it was sea bass.
‘Nothing at all!’ said Marc, helping himself to a drink. ‘Absolutely nothing. Unbelievable. We’re filling it in again now. We’ll have finished by this evening.’
‘What did you expect?’ asked Mathias. ‘A corpse? Did you really think that’s what we would find?’
‘Well, after all the build-up …’
‘Well, don’t build it up any more. We’ve already done too much imagining. There was nothing under the tree, full stop, end of story.’
‘Are you sure?’ asked Vandoosler, in a blank voice.
Marc raised his head. He recognised that tone. When the godfather sounded like that, it was because he had been thinking of the past.
‘Absolutely,’ said Mathias. ‘Whoever planted the tree didn’t dig very deep. A metre or so down, the layer of earth was undisturbed. It was a sort of platform, dating from the late eighteenth century, same as the house.’
Mathias brought from his pocket a fragment of clay pipe, blocked up with earth, and put it on the table. Late eighteenth century.
‘There you are,’ he said. ‘For the archaeologists among us. Sophia Siméonidis can sleep in peace. And her husband didn’t react at all when he was told workmen were going to dig up his garden. He can’t be a man with a guilty secret.’
‘Maybe not,’ said Vandoosler. ‘But at the end of the day, you haven’t found the explanation for the planting of the tree.’
‘Just so,’ agreed Marc. ‘No explanation at all.’
‘Oh who cares about the tree?’ said Lucien. ‘It must have been some practical joker. We’ve got our three thousand francs and everyone’s happy. We’ll fill it in and tonight by nine o’clock we’ll be in bed. I’m worn out.’
‘No,’ said Vandoosler. ‘Tonight, we’re going out.’
‘Commissaire,’ said Mathias, ‘Lucien is right, we’re dead on our feet. You go out if you like, for us it’s kip.’
‘You’ll have to make an effort, St Matthew.’
‘Stop calling me St Matthew.’
‘Fair enough,’ said Vandoosler, shrugging, ‘but what does it matter? Matthew, Mathias, Lucien, Luke, same difference. It amuses me. I’m surrounded by evangelists in my old age. Where’s number four? Nowhere. A car with three wheels, a chariot with three horses. I find that funny.’
‘What’s so funny?’ asked Marc irritably. ‘Is it heading for the ditch?’
‘No,’ said Vandoosler. ‘Because it never goes where you expect it to, or where it ought to go. It’s unpredictable. And that’s funny, isn’t it, St Matthew?’
‘Oh, please yourself,’ said Mathias, pressing his hands together. ‘But that won’t make me an angel.’
‘Forgive me,’ said Vandoosler, ‘but an evangelist and an angel are not the same thing at all. However, let’s forget it. Tonight there’s a drinks party at the neighbour’s. The Eastern Front. It seems she likes partying. I accepted on behalf of us all.’
‘Drinks party?’ said Lucien. ‘No thanks. Plastic cups, vinegary white wine, nibbles on paper plates. No way. Even when we’re down on our luck, or especially then, no way. Three-horse chariot or whatever. Either a grand reception or nothing at all. No compromise, no middle way. In the middle way I lose my bearings, totally.’
‘It’s not in her house,’ said Vandoosler. ‘She runs the restaurant down the road, Le Tonneau. She would like to offer you a drink. Nothing objectionable there. I think this lady, Juliette of the Eastern Front, is worth looking at, and the brother is in publishing. Who knows, that could come in useful. And what’s more, Sophia Siméonidis and her husband will be there. They always come. It would interest me to take a look.’
‘Sophia and our other neighbour are on friendly terms?’
‘Yes, very.’
‘Collusion between the Eastern and Western Fronts,’ announced Lucien. ‘We’re being caught in a pincer movement. We’re going to have to make a sortie. Oh well, plastic cups or not …’
‘We’ll make up our minds this evening,’ said Marc, rather rattled by his godfather’s changes of heart and peremptory commands. What was his game? A distraction? An investigation? The investigation was over-before it had begun.
‘We told you, there was nothing under the tree,’ he said. ‘Forget the night out.’
‘I don’t see the connection,’ said Vandoosler.
‘I’m sorry, but you see it very well. You want to go on looking for clues. And it doesn’t matter where, or who with, so long as you can go on sniffing around.’
‘What’s your problem?’
‘Don’t start inventing something that doesn’t exist, just because you threw away something that did exist. We’re off now, to fill in the hole.’
XI
IN THE END, VANDOOSLER SAW THE EVANGELISTS ARRIVE AT LE TONNEAU at nine o’clock that evening. The trench had been filled in, their clothes had been changed, and they presented themselves with smiles and freshly combed hair. ‘Volunteers reporting for duty,’ Lucien whispered in the commissaire’s ear. Juliette had prepared a meal for twenty-five people and had closed the restaurant to customers. And in fact it became a good night out, since Juliette, as she circulated among the tables, had told Vandoosler that his three nephews were attractive, and he had passed the message on, with embellishments. This had immediately
changed Lucien’s view of his surroundings. Marc had been touched by the compliment and Mathias had no doubt appreciated it in silence.
Vandoosler had told Juliette that only one of the three was really his nephew, the one in black, gold and silver, but Juliette was not one for technical or domestic intricacies. She was the kind of woman who started to laugh before the end of the joke. This made her laugh a good deal, which appealed to Mathias. A very pretty laugh. She reminded him of his elder sister. Juliette was helping the waiter to serve the dinner and rarely sat down herself, by choice more than necessity. By contrast, Sophia was demureness itself. From time to time she looked at the three diggers and smiled. Her husband was sitting beside her. Vandoosler’s gaze lingered on this man and Marc wondered what he hoped to discover there. Vandoosler often looked as if he was discovering something. Police tactics.
Mathias, for his part, was looking at Juliette. She was exchanging remarks quietly with Sophia, now and then. They looked as if they were enjoying themselves. For no particular reason, Lucien wanted to know if Juliette Gosselin had a man in her life, a boyfriend or some such. Since he was drinking rather a lot of a wine which had found favour in his sight, he thought of putting the question to her directly. And did so. It made Juliette laugh, as she explained that somehow or other she had ended up without anyone, but didn’t really know why. She was a woman on her own, OK. And that made her laugh. That’s the kind of attitude to have, said Marc to himself, envying her. He would have liked to know how she did it. Instead, he learned that the restaurant took its name from the wine-cask shape of the cellar, which had an arched stone ceiling, so that huge casks of wine could be stored there. The rooms were very fine: 1732, according to the date on the lintel. The cellar itself would be interesting to see. If the advance on the Eastern Front kept up progress, he might go and have a look.
