by Fred Vargas
Only one man, the gardener, Émile, described him in any other terms. No, he said, Vaudel wasn’t a curmudgeon. His only suspicions were of himself and that was why he didn’t want to see people. How did the gardener know that? Because Vaudel said so himself, with a funny little smile sometimes. How had they met? In court, when Émile was up for the ninth time for GBH, about fifteen years ago. Vaudel had taken an interest in his violent career, and gradually they had become acquainted. Until in the end he had hired him to look after the garden, fetch logs for the fire, and later on to do shopping and odd jobs. Émile suited him because he didn’t try to chat. When the neighbours had found out about the gardener’s past, they had not been best pleased.
‘Can’t blame ’em. Put yourself in their place. “Basher”, that’s what they call me. So course, the people round here, they keep out of me way.’
‘They don’t want to meet you at all?’ asked Adamsberg.
The gardener was sitting on the top step of the stairs up to the house, where the June sun had warmed the stone. He was a small, wiry man, his overalls hanging loosely off him, and did not look particularly threatening. His lived-in face was worn and rather ugly, expressing neither strong will nor confidence. He kept up a series of defensive gestures, wiping his nose, which was crooked from previous violent encounters, and shading his eyes. One ear was bigger than the other, and he rubbed that too, rather like a nervous dog, and this movement alone indicated either that he was upset, or perhaps that he was bewildered. Adamsberg sat down beside him.
‘You from the cops?’ asked the man, looking intrigued at Adamsberg’s clothes.
‘Yes, and my colleague says you don’t agree with the neighbours about Monsieur Vaudel. I don’t know your name.’
‘I told them about twenty times: Émile Feuillant.’
‘Émile,’ Adamsberg repeated, trying to fix it in his mind.
‘Aren’t you going to write it down? The others, that’s what they done. Stands to reason, I suppose, or you keep telling ’em the same thing over. Course, they keep saying the same thing. Always gets me going, that. Why do cops always have to say everything twice. You tell ’em, Friday night I was down the Parrot, and the cop goes: “So where were you Friday?” Just gets you all worked up.’
‘Yes, that’s the point, it gets you worked up, so in the end the man stops talking about the Parrot, and tells the cops what they want to hear.’
‘Yeah, stands to reason. I get it.’
Stands to reason, doesn’t stand to reason, Émile seemed to divide the world up on either side of this demarcation line. By the way he was looking at him, Adamsberg had the feeling that Émile was not putting him on the side of things that stood to reason.
‘Are they all afraid of you round here?’
‘Yeah, suppose so, except for Madame Bourlant next door. See, I’ve been in a hundred and thirty-eight street fights, not counting when I was a kid. So there you are.’
‘Is that why you’re saying the opposite of the neighbours? Because they don’t like you.’
This question seemed to surprise Émile.
‘See if I care if they like me or not. Just I know more than they do about old Vaudel. Can’t blame ’em, stands to reason they’re afraid of me. I’m a man with “a violent past of the most reprehensible kind”. That’s what he used to say,’ he added, with a laugh that revealed a couple of missing teeth. ‘Mind, he was a bit out of order, cos I never killed nobody. But “violent past”, yeah, he wasn’t far wrong.’
Émile brought out a packet of tobacco and efficiently rolled himself a cigarette.
‘This violent past, how much time have you done for it?’
‘Eleven years and six months, seven different sentences. That wears you out. Well, now I’m over fifty, it’s not so bad. Just the odd fight now and then. No more. And I’ve paid the price, haven’t I? No wife, no kids. Like kids all right, but I wouldn’t want any myself. When you’re like me, quick with my fists, wouldn’t be such a good idea. Stands to reason. That was something else we had in common, Monsieur Vaudel and me. He didn’t want no kids either. Well, not that he said it like that. What he said in his plummy voice was: “No descendants, Émile.” Still, he did have a kid an’ all, without meaning to.’
‘Do you know why?’
Émile dragged on his cigarette and looked at Adamsberg in surprise.
‘Didn’t mind out, did he?’
‘But why didn’t he want “descendants”?’
‘Just didn’t. But what I’m thinking now is what’m I going to do? I’ve not got a job, or a roof over my head no more, I used to live in the shed.’
‘And Vaudel wasn’t afraid of you?’
‘Not him. He wasn’t afraid of anything, even dying. He used to say, only thing about dying, it takes too long.’
‘And you never felt like being violent towards him?’
‘Yeah, sometimes, at first. But I preferred to get him at noughts and crosses. I taught him how to play. I never thought to find someone didn’t know how to play noughts and crosses. I’d come in the evening, light the fire, pour out a couple of Guignolets. That’s something he showed me, drinking Guignolet. And we’d sit down and play noughts and crosses.’
‘And who won?’
‘Two times out of three it was him in the end. Because he was really crafty, and he invented this special version, very big, with long pieces of paper. Really hard, you see?’
‘Yes.’
‘So he wanted to go even bigger, but I didn’t.’
‘Did you do a lot of drinking together?’
‘No, just a couple of Guignolets, that was it. But what I’ll miss is the winkles we used to eat with it. He used to order them every Friday, we had a little pin each, mine had a blue top, his had an orange top, never mix them up. He said I’d be …’
Émile rubbed his nose trying to remember a word. Adamsberg recognised this kind of search.
‘Yeah, that I’d be nost-al-gic when he weren’t there no more. But he was right an’ all, crafty old thing. I am nostalgic.’
Adamsberg had the sense that Émile was proudly assuming the complex state of nostalgia and the unfamiliar word to honour it.
‘When you were violent in the past, was it when you were drunk?’
‘Nah, that’s just it. Sometimes I’d have a drink after, to get over it, like. And yeah, before you ask, I seen lots of shrinks, they made me see ’em, like it or not, ten or more. They didn’t know what I was doing it for. They poked about, asking about my parents, father, mother, nothing. I was happy enough as a kid. That’s why Monsieur Vaudel, he used to say, nothing to be done about it, Émile, it’s in your genes. Do you know what that is, genes?’
‘Sort of.’
‘No, properly?’
‘No.’
‘Well, I know, it’s bad seed as comes down to you. So, you see. It wasn’t any point him and me trying to live like other people. It was down to genes.’
‘You think Vaudel had genes too?’
‘Of course,’ said Émile with an air of annoyance, as if Adamsberg was making no effort to understand. ‘But like I said, I don’t know what I’m going to do now.’
He concentrated on cleaning his nails with the end of a matchstick.
‘No,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘He wouldn’t have anyone talk about it.’
‘Émile, what were you doing on Saturday night?’
‘Told you, I was at the Parrot.’
Émile gave a wide provocative grin as he threw away his match. He was no halfwit.
‘Come on.’
‘I took me mother out for supper in this cafe. Always the same place, it’s near Chartres. I told ’em, the cops, the name an’ all. They’ll tell you. I go there every Saturday. And let me tell you, me mum, I’ve never lifted a finger against her. Well, would be the end, wouldn’t it? And me mum, she thinks the world of me. Stands to reason, don’t it?’
‘But your mother doesn’t stay out till four in the morning, does she? And you
got home at five.’
‘Yeah, and that’s when I saw there wasn’t no lights on at the house. He always left his lights on all night.’
‘When did you leave your mother?’
‘Ten o’clock on the dot,’ said Émile. ‘Like every Saturday. I went to see me dog after.’
Émile pulled out a wallet and showed a well-thumbed photograph.
‘That’s him,’ he said. ‘Sit in my pocket, he could, like a kangaroo, when he was little. When I was in prison the third time, my sister she said she didn’t want to look after him no more, so she gave him away. But I knew where he was. With these cousins, Gérault their name is, it’s a farm out Châteaudun way. So after supper with me mum, I take me van and go and see him, with dog food and presents and stuff. He knows I’m coming. He waits for me in the dark, he jumps the gate, and he comes and sits all night in the van with me. Rain or shine. He knows I’ll be there. And he’s no bigger than that an’ all.’
Émile held his hands in a shape the size of a child’s football.
‘Are there any horses on this farm?’
‘Gérault, he does mostly cattle, three-quarters dairy, quarter beef. But he’s got a few horses an’ all.’
‘Who knows about this?’
‘That I go see the dog?’
‘Yes, Émile, we’re not talking about the farm animals. Did Vaudel know?’
‘Yeah, he’d never let me have a dog here, but he understood. He let me have Saturday nights off: me mum and me dog.’
‘But Vaudel’s not around any more to back up your story.’
‘No.’
‘Nor the dog either.’
‘Yeah, he’s around. You come with me any Saturday night and you’ll see I’m not making it up. You’ll see, he’ll jump the gate, and come to the van. That proves it.’
‘No. That isn’t proof you went there this Saturday night.’
‘No, OK, you’re right, but you can’t expect a dog to know which Saturday it was. Even a dog like Cupid.’
Cupid, eh, said Adamsberg to himself.
He closed his eyes, resting against the stone lintel of the doorway, turning his face to the sun, like Émile. Behind the thick wall, the collection of evidence was coming to an end, the platforms were being folded up. The square metres of carpet had been numbered and their contents put in containers. Now they would have to start looking for some meaning in all this. It was possible that Pierre junior might have wanted to kill the old bastard. Or the daughter-in-law, who seemed a strong-willed type, risking everything on her husband’s behalf. Or Émile. Or the family of that painter who covered horses in liquid bronze, and had unfortunately done the same to a woman. Painting your patron in bronze was one more thing that had never been heard of, on Stock’s dark continent. On the other hand, killing an old man with plenty of money had been known about for a long time. But why reduce him to mincemeat and scatter his remains? Why? There was no answer to that. Until you have the reason, you won’t find the man.
Mordent came towards them with his awkward gait, his long neck thrust forward, his grey hair cropped close to his skull, his eye movements rapid, just like a crafty heron on the lookout for fish. He came over to Émile and looked at Adamsberg without indulgence.
‘He’s asleep,’ whispered Émile. ‘Stands to reason, anyone can see that.’
‘Was he just talking to you?’
‘So what, it’s his job, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, of course. But we’re still going to wake him up.’
‘Strewth,’ said Émile bitterly, ‘can’t a man kip for a few minutes without getting a bollocking?’
‘I’m hardly likely to give him a bollocking, since he’s my boss. That’s the commissaire.’
Adamsberg opened his eyes as Mordent tapped his shoulder. Émile stood up, and put some distance between them. He was rather shocked to learn that this man was the commissaire, as if the proper order of things had been disturbed and beggars could become kings without warning. It was one thing to chat about your bad genes and your dog Cupid with an ordinary cop, quite another if he was a commissaire. In other words someone who knew all the sneaky techniques of interrogation. And this one was supposed to be an ace, or so he had heard. And he had just been rabbiting on, and probably saying far too much.
‘Stay where you are,’ Mordent said, holding Émile back by the sleeve. ‘This is going to interest you. Commissaire, we’ve been on to the solicitor. Vaudel made a will three months ago.’
‘Leave a lot of money?’
‘I’ll say. He owned three houses out here in Garches, another in Vaucresson and a big building let out for rent in Paris. Plus about the equivalent in stocks and insurance.’
‘Nothing too surprising about that,’ said Adamsberg, getting up and brushing his trousers.
‘Apart from the legal requirement for the son’s share, he left it all to someone outside the family. Émile Feuillant.’
IX
ÉMILE SAT DOWN AGAIN ON THE STEP, LOOKING STUNNED. Adamsberg remained standing, leaning against the doorpost, head bowed and arms crossed on his stomach, the only visible sign that he was thinking, according to his colleagues. Mordent paced up and down, swinging his arms, his eyes darting here and there. Adamsberg was not in fact lost in thought, but was telling himself that Mordent looked more than ever like a heron that’s just pounced on a fish and is still happily holding it in its beak. A fish called Émile in this case. Who broke the silence, as he started, clumsily this time, to roll himself another cigarette.
‘Don’t stand to reason that, to cut out his own kid.’
He had too much paper at the end of the roll-up, and it flared up, singeing his grey hair.
‘Whether he liked it or not, that was his kid,’ Émile went on, rubbing the lock of hair which smelt like burnt pork. ‘And he didn’t like me that much. Even if he knew I’d be nost-algic, and I am nost-algic. It should’ve gone to Pierre.’
‘You’re a one-man charity, are you?’ asked Mordent.
‘No, I’m just saying it should’ve gone to him, stands to reason. But I’ll take my share, gotta respect the old man’s wishes.’
‘Respect – that’s handy for you.’
‘Not just respect, the law.’
‘Ah. The law’s handy too.’
‘Yeah, sometimes. Will I get this house?’
‘This one or the others,’ Adamsberg intervened. ‘On the part of the estate that comes to you, you’ll have to pay big death duties. But you’ll probably end up with a couple of houses and quite a lot of money.’
‘I’ll get me mum to come and live with me, and I’ll buy back me dog.’
‘You’re getting organised very fast,’ said Mordent. ‘Anyone’d think you were expecting it.’
‘So? Stands to reason to get your mother a proper house, doesn’t it?’
‘I’m saying you don’t seem all that surprised. I’m saying that you’re already making plans. You could at least observe a decent interval to take it in. That’s the normal thing.’
‘Normal thing be buggered. I’ve taken it in already. Don’t see why I’d be hours taking it in.’
‘What I’m saying is you knew quite well that Vaudel was going to leave you his money. I’m saying you knew about the will.’
‘No, I never. But he did promise me I’d be rich one day.’
‘Same thing,’ said Mordent, curling his lip, as if moving in for an assault from the side. ‘He good as told you you’d inherit.’
‘No, he never. He read my hand. He knew how to do that, and he showed me an’ all. See,’ said Émile putting out his right hand palm up, and pointing to the base of his ring finger. ‘That’s the bit told him I was going to be rich. Didn’t mean to say it was his money, did it? I play the lottery, thought that’d be it.’
Émile suddenly fell silent, looking at his palm. Adamsberg, watching the cruel game of heron and fish, saw a trace of an ancient fear cross his face, one that had nothing to do with Mordent’s aggressive questions. The s
tabs from the commandant’s beak had neither troubled nor irritated him. No, it was this business of reading his palm.
‘Did he see anything else in your hand?’ asked Adamsberg.
‘No, not much, just that I’d come into some money. He said my hands looked ordinary, and that was a bit of luck, I wasn’t bothered. But when I wanted to see his hand, no, that wasn’t allowed, he closed ’em both up, and said there was nothing to see, no lines. As if he could have no lines! He looked so cross, wasn’t worth going on, and we didn’t play our game that night. But no lines, that ain’t normal. If I could see the body, I’d see if it was true.’
‘No one gets to see the body. Anyway, the hands are unrecognisable.’
Émile shrugged regretfully, and watched Lieutenant Retancourt come over to them, with her long ungainly strides.
‘She seems nice,’ he commented.
‘Don’t you believe it,’ said Adamsberg. ‘She’s the most dangerous wolf in the pack, and she’s been here since early yesterday morning, without a break.’
‘How does she do that?’
‘She can sleep standing up.’
‘That don’t stand to reason.’
‘No,’ Adamsberg agreed.
Retancourt stopped in front of them and nodded to the two men. ‘Yes, it’s OK,’ she said.
‘Right,’ said Mordent. ‘Shall we get on with it, commissaire? Or do we do a bit more chiromancy?’
‘I don’t know what that means, chiromancy,’ said Adamsberg shortly.
What on earth was up with Mordent? Good old bird, with ruffled feathers, normally so benign and competent? Irreproachable at work, an expert on stories and legends, talkative and conciliatory. Adamsberg knew that of his two commandants, he had chosen Danglard to go to London, and that Mordent had been miffed. But he was due to be on the next foreign trip, to Amsterdam, which was fair, and Mordent was surely not the sort of man to harbour resentment or to begrudge Danglard a trip to his beloved England.
‘It’s the science of reading hands. In other words, a waste of time. And we’re wasting time now. Émile Feuillant, you were wondering where you were going to sleep tonight, well, we’ve got the answer now.’
