Have Mercy On Us All

by Fred Vargas

  “Six,” Joss resumed.

  I don’t do meat. Seven: Wanted: pizza van with wrap-around window, usable with ordinary driver’s licence, six-pizza-capacity oven. Eight: Hey, you kids with the drum set, next time I’ll call the flics. Nine …

  Decambrais wasn’t concentrating on the regular messages since all his attention was focused on catching the Pedant’s next missive. Lizbeth had jotted down some Mediterranean herbs for sale, and it was nearly time for the shipping forecast. Decambrais twiddled the pencil in his hand into note-taking position.

  … force 7 to 8 weakening gradually 5 to 6 then backing west 3 to 5 during the afternoon. Heavy; rain or showers, decreasing steadily.

  Joss got to item 16 and Decambrais knew what it was from the first word:

  And by and by did go down by water to dot dot dot and then down further and so landed at the lower end of the town; and it being dark there did privately entrer en la maison de la femme de dot dot dot and there I had sa compagnie, though with a great deal of difficulty; néanmoins je avais ma volonté d’elle. And being sated therewith, I walked home.

  A stunned silence followed, which Joss quickly brought to an end by launching into more comprehensible messages and then that day’s chapter of Everyman’s History of France. Decambrais scowled, because the text was too long and he couldn’t get it all down. He pricked up his ears to hear the fate of Rights of Man, French warship, seventy-four guns, on January 14, 1797, making for home port after an unsuccessful engagement off Ireland, with 1,350 men on board.

  … pursued by two English vessels, Indefatigable and Amazon. After a night exchanging fire, Rights of Man ran aground off the beach of Canté.

  Joss packed his papers back into his pea-jacket.

  “Hey, Joss!” someone yelled out. “How many were saved?”

  Joss jumped down from his soapbox.

  “You can’t always know the whole story,” he said somewhat pompously.

  Before stashing his gear at Damascus’s place, Joss’s glance met Decambrais’s. He was about to take a step towards the old man but decided to leave off until after the noon newscast. Downing a calva beforehand would strengthen his arm for what lay ahead.

  At 1245 Decambrais used lots of abbreviations to scribble down the following as he heard Joss bawl it out:

  Twelve: Conftables shall draw up the rules to be obferved and shall have them pofted on thoroughfares and at gathering places so that none shall know them not dot dot dot. That no swine dogs cats homing birds or conies be suffered to be kept within any part of the city, and that dogs be killed by the dogkillers expressly appointed. That every householder do cause the street to be daily prepared before his door, and that the fweepings and filth of houfes be daily carried away by the rakers. That the layftalls be removed as far as may be out of the city and that no nightman or other be suffered to empty a vault into any garden near about the city dot dot dot

  Joss was already berthed in the Viking for lunch when Decambrais made up his mind to speak to him. As he opened the door of the bar, Bertin drew a beer for him and put it on one of the mats decorated with the two yellow lions rampant of Normandy, specially made for the house. The call to lunch took the form of Bertin’s fist hitting a large brass plate hanging over the counter. Bertin banged his gong twice a day, for lunch and for dinner, and the effect of the thunder-roll was to make all the pigeons in the square flap their wings and take off at once, while the hungry, in a parallel but inverse movement, flocked into the Viking. Bertin’s gesture effectively reminded people that is was time to eat, but it was also an allusion to his own fearful ascendancy, which was supposed to be common knowledge. For Bertin’s mother’s maiden name was Toutin, which made the barman, by onomastic filiation, a direct descendant of Thor. There were those who considered the etymology rather dubious, and Decambrais was of their number; but nobody thought it sensible to cut Bertin’s family tree down to size and thereby lay to waste the dreams of a man who had been soldiering away at the sink for the past thirty years.

  All the same Bertin’s gong and his ancestry had made the Viking famous well beyond its immediate catchment area, and the place was never less than packed.

  Holding his glass of beer aloft, Decambrais cut a careful path towards the table where Joss was sitting.

  “Could I possibly have a word?” he asked, still standing.

  Joss didn’t answer, but carried on masticating as he raised his narrow blue eyes. Who had spilled the beans? Bertin? Or Damascus? Was Decambrais going to tell him to forget about the vacant room, just so he could gloat over declaring that rough customers weren’t welcome in a place with proper flooring? If Decambrais had it in mind to insult him, then Joss would let the cat right out of the bag. He gestured vaguely to the bookworm to sit down.

  “Ad number 12,” said Decambrais.

  “I know,” said Joss, surprised. “It was a special one.”

  So the Breton had noticed. That was going to make things easier.

  “It’s got brothers and sisters,” said Decambrais.

  “Yep. For the last three weeks.”

  “I was wondering if you had kept them.”

  Joss cleaned the gravy off his plate with a piece of bread, which he popped in his mouth before folding his arms.

  “And if I had?”

  “I’d like to reread them. If you like,” Decambrais said to overcome the fisherman’s blank expression, “I’ll buy them off you. All the ones you’ve got and all the ones you’ll get from now on.”

  “So you’re telling me you didn’t write them yourself?”

  “Me?’

  “Yep, and put them in the urn. I was wondering. It could be your kind of thing, writing old-fashioned sentences no-one can make head or tail of. But if you’re offering to buy them off me, you can’t have written them. That’s a logical deduction, if you ask me.”

  “Name your price.”

  “I haven’t got all of them. Only the last five.”

  “The price?”

  Joss pointed at his empty plate. “An ad that’s been read out is like a lamb chop after lunch. As there’s nothing left on it to eat, it’s not worth a sou. So I’m not selling. The Le Guerns may be rough customers, but they never stole a penny.”

  Joss gave the bookworm a knowing look.

  “And so?” Decambrais asked.

  Joss wasn’t sure what move he should now make. Could he really land a room with his five bits of gibberish?

  “I’ve heard that one of your rooms is going to be vacant,” he mumbled.

  Decambrais’s face froze.

  “I’ve got applicants already,” he replied, almost in a whisper. “They have priority, you know.”

  “OK, fine,” Joss said. “You can keep your patter for yourself. Hervé Decambrais Esquire doesn’t want a rough customer clumping muddy boots over his fine carpets. Better to say it straight out, isn’t it? Only graduates get into your place, unless you’re called Lizbeth, isn’t that right? And I’m not likely to turn into one or the other any time soon.”

  Joss drained his glass of wine and put it down rather sharply. Then he shrugged his shoulders and all of a sudden calmed down. The Le Guerns had been through much worse in their time.

  “That’s fine,” he said as he poured himself another glass. “Keep your room. I can see your point of view. You’re not my kind of bloke, and I’m not yours, and that’s the end of it. Can’t do a thing about it. You can have your bloody messages if that’s what you’re excited about. Meet me at Damascus’s place this evening, just before the 1810 newscast.”

  Decambrais turned up on time at Rolaride. Damascus was busy adjusting a customer’s rollerblades. His sister, standing behind the till, beckoned to the bookworm.

  “Monsieur Decambrais,” she whispered, “please, could you tell him to put on a pullover. He’s going to catch his death, you know. His lungs aren’t that good. I know he listens to what you say, no two ways.”

  “I’ve already spoken to him about that, Marie-Belle.
It’s a slow business, trying to get something into his skull.”

  “I know,” said Marie-Belle, biting her lip. “But couldn’t you try just one more time?”

  “All right, at the next opportunity. Cross my heart. Is the sailorman around?”

  “He’s out the back,” said Marie-Belle, waving towards a door.

  Decambrais hunched his shoulders to get under all the bicycle wheels hanging from the ceiling and made his way through the stacks of surfboards to the workshop, itself brimful of roller skates of every size and description. One end of the workbench was occupied by Joss and his urn.

  “I’ve laid them out for you down the end of the table,” Joss said without looking up.

  Decambrais picked up the sheets and took a quick glance at them.

  “And here’s this evening’s addition,” Joss added. “Special preview, just for you. The nutter is picking up speed. I’m getting three a day now.”

  Decambrais unfolded the latest message and read the following:

  That special care be taken that no tainted fish, or unwholesome flesh or musty corn or other corrupt fruits of what fort foever be suffered to be sold about the city, or any part of the fame.

  “I don’t know what forts these are,” Joss said, still poring over his evening news messages.

  “Sorts, if I may be so bold.”

  “Look here, Decambrais, I don’t want to seem unfriendly, but would you mind your own business. The Le Guerns know how to read the alphabet, thank you. Nicolas Le Guern was town crier as far back as the Crimean War. So you’re not going to teach me the difference between forts and sorts, dammit.”

  “Look here, Le Guern, these are copied out from texts from long ago. Our nutter has copied them out and used special letters. At the time, people made the letter ‘s’ almost the same way as the ‘f,’ at least in some positions in the word. So what you read out at the lunchtime newscast today wasn’t about things being pofted or about houfes, and it wasn’t addressed to juftices either.”

  “What, you mean they were all ‘s’s?” Joss stood up straight at last, and his voice was getting louder.

  “That’s right, Le Guern, they’re ‘s’s. Post, house, justice. Old-style ‘s’s shaped like ‘f’s. Look at them closely and you’ll see for yourself that they’re not quite the same.”

  Joss grabbed the letter from Decambrais’s hand, and looked closely at the script.

  “All right,” he said grudgingly. “But supposing you’re right, so what?”

  “It’ll just make it easier for you to read. I wasn’t trying to get up your nose.”

  “Well, you did. Take your bloody screeds and get going. Because reading is my job, not yours. I don’t poke my nose in your funny affairs, do I now.”

  “What did you say?”

  “Look, I know a fair bit about you, what with all these poison pen messages lying around,” said Joss, pointing to the pile of “better nots”. “As my great-great-grandfather Le Guern reminded me only the other evening, people have loads of muck between the ears. You’re lucky that I filter out the worst of the shit.”

  Decambrais went quite white and cast about for a stool to sit on.

  “Good Lord,” said Joss, “there’s no need to panic.”

  “Le Guern, do you still have those … poison pen messages?”

  “Sure, I put them in with the rejects. Do they interest you?”

  Joss rummaged about in his pile of “return to senders” and picked out two messages for Decambrais.

  “After all, it’s always useful to know your enemies,” he said. “Forewarned is forearmed, that’s what I say.”

  Joss watched Decambrais as he unfolded the sheets with trembling hands. For the first time he felt a little bit sorry for the old fellow.

  “You mustn’t let it affect you, really,” he said. “They’re the real dregs, the people who write that sort of muck. You wouldn’t dream what filth I have to read. You should let sewage slip down the pipe and out to sea.”

  Decambrais read the two messages and smiled weakly as he laid them on his lap. He seemed to be breathing more normally, Joss reckoned. What was it that had made the toff so scared?

  “There’s nothing wrong with lace-making. My father used to make nets. Same thing, really, isn’t it, except the thread is thicker.”

  “That’s true,” said Decambrais. He gave the messages back to Joss, then added: “But it’s better for it not to get around. People can be very petty.”

  “Indeed,” said Joss as he went back to sorting the evening newscast.

  “I learned how to make lace from my mother. Why didn’t you read these messages out in the usual way?”

  “Because I don’t like bloody idiots.”

  “But you don’t like me either, Joss Le Guern.”

  “True. But I don’t like bloody idiots either.”

  Decambrais got up and started to leave. But just as he was going through the low doorway to the front shop, he turned round and said:

  “The room’s yours, Le Guern.”

  VI

  AS HE WAS going back through the archway into his new HQ around one o’clock, Adamsberg was intercepted by a junior he’d never seen before.

  “Lieutenant Maurel, sir,” the young man said. “There’s a young woman waiting for you in your office and she insists on speaking to you alone. Name of Maryse Petit. She’s been there for about twenty minutes. I took the liberty of shutting your door because Favre was wanting to give her a counselling session.”

  Adamsberg frowned. It was the woman who’d come in yesterday about the graffiti. Good Lord, he must have been too nice to her. If she was going to drop in every day for a chat from now on, things could get very tangled.

  “Have I put a foot wrong, sir?” Maurel asked.

  “No, Lieutenant Maurel, not a bit. All my own fault.”

  Maurel was made up of: tall, slim, dark, acne, prognathous jaw and solicitude. Acne plus jutting plus solicitude equals Maurel.

  Adamsberg went into his office with a degree of circumspection, sat down at his desk and nodded curtly.

  “Oh, commissaire, I’m really sorry to take up more of your time,” Maryse began.

  “One moment, please.” Adamsberg pulled a sheet of paper out of a drawer and pored over it with a pencil in his hand.

  It was a well-worn trick used by flics and bosses since time immemorial to pull rank and make people on the wrong side of the desk aware of their own insignificance. Adamsberg resented having to use the ploy. You think you’re a million miles from the likes of Noël and his authoritarian zipper, then all of a sudden you’re behaving a lot worse than that. Maryse had stopped her chatter and lowered her head, and her reaction told Adamsberg she was used to being put in her place, by a boss or whoever. She was quite pretty and the way she was sitting gave a good view through the top of her blouse. You think you’re a million miles from the likes of Favre, and when occasion arises, there you are puddling about in the same pigsty. Adamsberg wrote on his staff list, with time-wasting precision: acne, prognathous, solicitude, Maurel.

  “Yes?” Adamsberg looked up as he spoke. “Still frightened, are we? Maryse, you do remember, don’t you, that this is the murder squad? If you are really disturbed, maybe you should see a doctor instead.”

  “Oh, well, perhaps.”

  “It’s all right,” Adamsberg said as he stood up. “Stop fussing over it. Graffiti never broke any bones.”

  He opened the office door wide and smiled at Maryse to indicate that it was time for her to leave.

  “Hang on a minute. I haven’t told you about the other blocks.”

  “What other blocks?”

  “Two apartment blocks at the other end of Paris, in the eighteenth arrondissement.”

  “And so?”

  “Black 4s. On every door. It actually happened over a week ago, so it was before the writing on my own block.”

  Adamsberg stood still for a minute, then closed the door quietly and motioned the young woman to si
t down again.

  “Teenage paint-sprayers, don’t you think, commissaire, they usually do their stuff in their own streets,” Maryse suggested timidly as she sat down. “I mean, don’t they usually mark their own patch, like just a street or two? They don’t go around putting their graffiti on one block and then on another one at the other end of town, do they? Am I right, do you think?’

  “Unless they live at both ends of town.”

  “Oh, I’d not thought of that. But don’t gangs usually come from the same patch?”

  Adamsberg held his counsel and got out his notepad.

  “How did you know about this?”

  “I’d taken my son to the therapist – he’s dyslexic, you know. While he has his session I always while away the time in the café downstairs. So I was leafing through the local free sheet, you know, the one that has local news and political bits in it. There was a whole story about graffiti, on one block in rue Poulet and another in rue Caulaincourt. Black 4s, on the front doors of all the flats.”

  Maryse paused.

  “I brought you the cutting,” she said, and slipped a piece of old newspaper on to the table. “So you can see I’m not telling you stories. I mean, I’m not trying to make myself interesting or anything.”

  As Adamsberg ran his eye down the article, Maryse got up to go. Adamsberg glanced at his now empty waste-paper basket.

  “One moment,” he said. “Let’s go over this again, from the top. Name, address, the shape of these 4s and so on.”

  “But I told you all that yesterday.”

  “I’d still like to go over it again. As a precaution, if you follow me.”

  “Oh, all right then,” said Maryse, and she sat down again obediently.

  When Maryse had left Adamsberg went for a walk, since he had just spent a whole hour at his desk, and that was as long as he could manage comfortably in a sitting position. Dining out, going to the cinema or to a concert, or spending a long evening on a soggy sofa were experiences that Adamsberg enjoyed at the start but which left him at the end in a state of physical distress. His irrepressible desire to go out and walk, or at least to stand up, would always in the end overwhelm his attention to the conversation, the movie or the music. But this personal handicap had its advantages. It allowed him to understand what other people meant when they spoke of agitation, impatience, even panic – for he never felt those emotions in any of life’s circumstances, except when he had to stay sitting down for too long.