An Uncertain Place

XVII

LAVOISIER, HEAD SURGEON AT THE HOSPITAL, WAS LOOKING down severely at his patient, as if he blamed him for his own condition. This sudden attack of fever wasn’t supposed to happen. It was caused by incipient peritonitis which would gravely compromise his chances of recovery. He was on powerful antibiotics, and the sheets were changed every two hours. The doctor patted Émile’s cheeks several times.

‘Wake up, old chap, we’re going to have to hook you up.’

Émile obeyed painfully and looked up at the little man in white, to him a slightly fuzzy silhouette.

‘I’m Professor Lavoisier, like Lavoisier,’ said the doctor. ‘Hang on in there,’ he said, patting the cheek again. ‘You’re supposed to be nil by mouth, but you must have swallowed something secretly. A piece of paper, something you didn’t want us to find?’

Émile moved his head left to right. Negative.

‘Come clean, mon vieux. I don’t care if you’ve got something illegal in here. It’s your stomach I’m worried about, not your criminal record. Understand? You could have killed all four of your grandparents and it wouldn’t change the problem I’ve got with your stomach. See what I mean? I’m quite neutral. So come on, did you swallow anything?’

‘Wine,’ Émile whispered.

‘How much?’

Émile indicated about five centimetres with finger and thumb.

‘Or two or three times that, no?’ Lavoisier guessed. ‘Ah, that’s helpful, now I can see a bit more clearly. Because I don’t care how much you drink as a rule, that’s your business. But right now, nothing at all. So where did you get this wine? Under the other patient’s bed?’

Negative. Vexed.

‘Don’t drink much. Good for me circulation though.’

‘Oh, you think that, do you? And where did you dig that up?’

‘They told me.’

‘Who? The guy over there with the ulcer?’

‘No, wouldn’t believe him, he’s too dumb.’

‘Yes, true, he is dumb,’ said Lavoisier, ‘so who?’

‘White coat.’

‘No, impossible.’

‘White coat, mask.’

‘No doctor on this floor wears a mask. Nor do the nurses or paramedics.’

‘White coat. Made me drink, good for me.’

Lavoisier clenched his fist as he remembered Adamsberg’s strict injunctions.

‘All right, mon vieux,’ he said, ‘I’m going to call your pal the cop now.’

‘That cop,’ said Émile, lifting his arm. ‘If I’ve had it, tell him something.’

‘You want me to give Adamsberg a message?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Take your time.’

‘Code word. On a postcard too. Same thing.’

‘Right,’ said Lavoisier, writing a few words on the temperature chart. ‘That it?’

‘Dog, watch out.’

‘Watch out for what?’

‘Allergic to peppers.’

‘That’s all?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Don’t worry, I’ll pass it all on.’

Once he was in the corridor, Lavoisier called the tall paramedic, André, and the small one, Guillaume.

‘From now on, take it in turns to watch his door, don’t leave him alone for a second. Some bastard has got him to swallow something in a glass of wine. Wearing a white coat and a mask, simple as that. Immediate stomach pump, tell the anaesthetist and Dr Vénieux, it’s make or break.’