This Night’s Foul Work

XXV

THE CAT TIPTOED ROUND THE OFFICES OF THE SERIOUS CRIME SQUAD, FROM one secure perch to another, from one knee to the next, from a brigadier’s desk to a lieutenant‘s chair, as if crossing a stream on stepping stones without wetting its feet. It had started life as a little ball of fluff following Camille in the street, and had continued under the protection of Adrien Danglard, who had been obliged to give it lodging at the office. All because this cat was incapable of looking after itself, being completely without that rather disdainful independence which most cats so grandly display. Although it was an uncastrated male, it was the embodiment of dependence on others and inclined to non-stop sleep. The Snowball, as Danglard had baptised it when he took it in, was quite unlike the sort of cat a squad of police officers might have adopted as a mascot. The team took it in turns to look after the big, soft, furry creature, scared of its own shadow, which needed to be accompanied when it went anywhere, whether to eat, drink or relieve itself. But it had its favourites. Retancourt was the leader by far in this respect. The Snowball spent most of its days close to her desk, snoozing on the warm lid of one of the photocopy machines. The machine in question could not be used without giving the cat a fatal shock. In the absence of the woman he loved, the Snowball trailed back to Danglard or, in unvarying order of preference, to Justin, Froissy and, oddly enough, Noël.

Danglard considered himself lucky when the creature deigned to walk the twenty metres to its feeding bowl. One time in three, it would give up and roll on to its back, obliging someone to take it to the food or to its litter tray in the drinks room. That Thursday, Danglard was holding the cat under his arm, like a floorcloth hanging down on both sides, when Brézillon telephoned, wanting Adamsberg.

‘Where the devil is he? His mobile’s not on. Or perhaps he’s refusing to answer it.’

‘I don’t know, Monsieur le divisionnaire. But I expect he’s dealing with some pressing matter.’

‘Oh, bound to be,’ said Brézillon with a harsh laugh.

Danglard put the cat down, so that the divisionnaire‘s anger should not frighten it. The consequences of the expedition to Montrouge had exasperated Brézillon. He had already told the commissaire to stop following up that particular lead, since tomb-robbers were never murderers, according to all the psychiatric records.

‘You’re not very good at lying, Commandant Danglard. Please inform him that I expect him to be back at his desk by five this afternoon. And what about the death in Reims? Still working on it?’

‘Sorted, Monsieur le divisionnaire.’

‘And this nurse who’s on the run? What the devil are you doing about her?’

‘We’ve put out her description. She’s been reported in twenty different places already this week. We’re following them up and checking.’

‘And Adamsberg’s in charge of that?’

‘Yes, of course, sir.’

‘From a country graveyard in Opportune-la-Haute?’

Danglard swallowed a couple of mouthfuls of white wine and shook his head at the cat. It was clear that the Snowball was on the verge of becoming an alcoholic and needed watching. His only independent forays were to find the personal caches used by Danglard. He had recently discovered the one underneath the boiler in the basement. This was proof positive that the Snowball was not the imbecile everyone took him for, that he was in fact a cat of exceptional flair. But, alas, Danglard could hardly inform anyone else of this prowess.

‘As you see, it’s pointless trying to put one across me,’ Brézillon went on.

‘Not trying to, sir,’ said Danglard, sincerely.

‘The Squad is on a hiding to nothing. Adamsberg’s leading it astray, and you’re all following him. If you don’t already know what he’s up to, which frankly would surprise me, I’ll tell you what your boss is doing right now. He’s exploring an inoffensive grave in some godforsaken village out in the sticks.’

Well, why not? Danglard thought to himself. The commandant was usually the first to criticise Adamsberg’s fantastic escapades, but he always put up the sturdiest of defences against any external attack.

‘And what’s that all about?’ Brézillon was going on. ‘I’ll tell you that, too. Because some village idiot saw a ghost in a field.’

Why not? thought Danglard again, swallowing another mouthful.

‘That’s what Adamsberg’s up to, that’s what he’s “checking” right now.’

‘Did the Evreux gendarmes report that to you?’

‘That, Danglard, is their job: to report when a commissaire goes offmission. And they get on to it, fast and efficiently. I want him back here at five this evening, checking out sightings of that nurse.’

‘I don’t think that will attract him,’ Danglard murmured softly.

‘And as for the two stiffs in La Chapelle, I’m taking you off them as of now. Drugs can have them. You can tell him that, commandant. I presume that when you call him, he deigns to answer his phone.’

Danglard emptied his glass and picked up the cat, but before doing anything else, he called the number of the gendarmerie at Evreux.

‘Get me the commandant - tell him it’s an urgent call from Paris.’

Clenching his fingers in the cat’s furry pelt, Danglard waited impatiently.

‘Commandant Devalon? Was it you told Brézillon that Adamsberg was in your sector?’

‘Listen, when Adamsberg’s on the loose round here, prevention’s better than cure. Who am I talking to?’

‘Commandant Danglard. Go to hell, Devalon.’

‘Don’t waste your breath, Danglard. You’d do better to get your boss back home, pronto.’

Danglard banged down the receiver, and the cat stretched out its paws in fright.