This Night’s Foul Work

XLVII

IN THE HELICOPTER HOVERING OVER THE ROOFS OF THE OFFICE, ADAMSBERG was holding his breath. The little red light from the cat’s transmitter was quite visible on the screen, but it wasn’t moving an inch.

‘Shit,’ muttered Froissy through clenched teeth.

Adamsberg spoke into his radio.

‘Maurel? Have you let him go?’

‘Yes, commissaire. He’s sitting on the pavement. He went about four metres to the right of the door, then he sat down. He’s watching the traffic.’

Adamsberg let the mike fall on to his knees and bit his lip furiously.

‘Look, he’s moved,’ announced the pilot, Bastien, a man overweight to the point of obesity but who was flying the helicopter with the casual grace of a pianist.

Adamsberg leaned towards the screen, his gaze riveted to the little red light which was indeed starting to move off slowly.

‘He’s going towards the Avenue d’Italie. Keep following him, Bastien. Maurel, tell the cars to start.’

At ten past ten, the helicopter was flying due south over the southern part of Paris, like a great insect tied to the movements of a soft furry cat, quite unfitted to the outdoor life.

‘He’s turning south-west, he’s going to cross the ring road,’ said Bastien. ‘The traffic’s at an absolute standstill, there’s a big tailback.’

‘Please don’t let Snowball get run over,’ prayed Adamsberg rapidly, addressing his prayer to he knew not who, now that he had lost sight of his third virgin. ‘Let him be a cunning animal.’

‘He’s across,’ announced Bastien. ‘He’s going into the suburbs. He’s found his cruising rhythm now, he’s almost running.’

Adamsberg glanced in wonder at Mordent and Froissy, who were craning over his shoulder to see the red point moving on the screen.

‘He’s almost running,’ he repeated, as if to convince himself of this unlikely development.

‘Nope, now he’s stopped,’ said Bastien.

‘Cats can’t run for long,’ said Froissy. ‘He might do it a bit now and then, but no more.’

‘He’s off again, steady rhythm again.’

‘How fast?’

‘Two, three kilometres an hour. He’s heading for Fontenay-aux-Roses at a steady trot.’

‘Cars, make for the D77, Fontenay-aux-Roses, still south-west.’

‘What’s the time?’ asked Danglard as he took the car on to the D77.

‘Eleven-fifteen,’ said Kernorkian. ‘Perhaps he’s just looking for his mother.’

‘Who?’

‘The cat.’

‘Grown-up cats don’t recognise their mothers, they don’t give a damn.’

‘Well, what I mean is that the Snowball could be taking us absolutely anywhere. Perhaps he’s taking us to Lapland.’

‘Not if he’s going south.’

‘All right, keep your hair on,’ said Kernorkian. ‘All I meant was -’

‘Yes, I know what you meant,’ Danglard cut him off. ‘You just meant we don’t know where the fucking cat’s going, we don’t know if he’s going after Retancourt, we don’t know if Retancourt’s alive or dead. Hell’s bells, Kernorkian, we don’t have any choice.’

‘Head for Sceaux,’ came Adamsberg’s voice over the radio. ‘Take the D67 via the D75.’

‘He’s slowing down,’ said Bastien. ‘He’s stopping. Perhaps he’s taking a rest.’

‘If Retancourt’s in Narbonne,’ muttered Mordent, ‘we’ve got a long way to go yet.’

‘Hell, Mordent,’ said Adamsberg. ‘She might not even be in Narbonne, at that.’

‘Sorry, said Mordent. ‘It’s just nerves.’

‘I know, commandant. Froissy, have you got anything to eat there?’

The lieutenant felt in her backpack.

‘What do you want? Sweet or savoury?’

‘What kind of savoury?’

‘Paté?’ guessed Mordent.

‘That’d be nice.’

‘He’s still taking a nap,’ reported Bastien.

In the cockpit of the helicopter, as it circled in the sky above the place where the cat was sleeping, Froissy prepared sandwiches of duck liver and green pepper paté. All four munched in silence, taking as long as possible, as if to suspend time. If you have something to do, anything can happen.

‘He’s off again, he’s trotting along,’ said Bastien.

Estalère, having stopped his bike, was listening to the instructions over the radio as he gripped the handlebars. He felt he was in some ghastly horror film. But the determined onward journey of the little animal encouraged him more than any other thought. The Snowball was heading for some unknown destination, without hesitating or weakening, crossing industrial zones, bramble patches, fields, railway tracks. Estalère admired the cat. It had been six hours now since it had begun its odyssey and they’d gone about eighteen kilometres. The police cars were moving slowly, halting for long stretches at the side of the road before making for the next point identified by the helicopter, and getting as close as possible to the route of the cat.

‘Off you go again,’ Adamsberg was saying to the cars. ‘Go towards Palaiseau, on the D988. He’s heading for the Ecole Polytechnique, south side.’

‘He’s going to get an education,’ said Danglard, starting the engine.

‘Nothing but cotton wool in that little head.’

‘We’ll see about that, Kernorkian.’

‘The speed we’re going now, we could stop off for a drink.’

‘No,’ said Danglard, whose head was still aching from the amount of wine he had drunk in the basement the day before. ‘Either I drink to get drunk, or I don’t touch the stuff. I don’t like just having a glass. Today’s a non-drinking day.’

‘I get the impression that the Snowball likes a drink,’ said Kernorkian.

‘Yes, he’s a bit inclined that way,’ agreed Danglard. ‘Have to keep an eye on him.’

‘If he doesn’t drop dead on this trek.’

Danglard checked the dashboard. Four-forty p.m. The time was dragging, making everyone feel nervy and at the end of their tether.

‘We’re going to refuel at Orsay, then we’re back,’ announced Bastien over the radio.

The helicopter moved off quickly, leaving the little red dot behind. Adamsberg had the feeling briefly that he was abandoning the Snowball in his quest.

At half past five, after seven hours on the move, the cat was still going strong and determinedly heading south-west, though stopping to rest every twenty minutes. The procession of vehicles followed it from stop to stop. By eight-fifteen, they were going through Forges-les-Bains on the D 97.

‘He can’t hold out much longer,’ said Kernorkian, who was encouraging Danglard’s pessimism. ‘He’s clocked up thirty-five kilometres on his little paws.’

‘Shut up! He’s still moving, so far.’

At eight-thirty-five, with darkness now fallen, Adamsberg came back on the radio.

‘He’s stopped. On a minor road, the C12 between Chardonnières and Bazoches, about two and a half kilometres from Forges. He’s in a field, north of the road. He’s off again. No, he’s turning round and round.’

‘He’s going to drop dead,’ said Kernorkian.

‘Give it a rest!’ cried Danglard, exasperated.

‘He’s hesitating,’ came Bastien’s voice.

‘Perhaps he’s going to stop for the night,’ suggested Mordent.

‘No,’ said Bastien. ‘He’s looking round for something. I’m going down.’

He brought the helicopter down about a hundred feet, hovering over the cat which was sitting still.

‘There’s a big hangar over there,’ said Adamsberg, pointing to a long roof of corrugated iron.

‘Used-car dump,’ said Froissy. ‘Seems to be abandoned.’

Adamsberg clenched his fingers on his knees. Froissy silently passed him a mint, which the commissaire accepted without query.

‘Well,’ said Bastien, ‘if you ask me, there are dogs in there, and the cat’s frightened. But I think that’s where he wants to go. I’ve had eight cats myself.’

‘Go towards the used-car dump,’ said Adamsberg to the cars. ‘You can reach it via the C8 where it meets the C6. We’re landing.’

‘Good,’ said Justin, driving off again. ‘We’re going to meet up.’ Grouped round the helicopter in an uncultivated field, Bastien, the nine police officers and the doctor were peering through the darkness at an old hangar surrounded by abandoned cars, with vegetation growing thickly around the rubbish. The dogs had seen the intruders and were approaching, barking furiously.

‘Three or four of them,’ commented Voisenet. ‘Big ones.’

‘That’s why the Snowball won’t move,’ said Froissy. ‘He doesn’t know how to get past them.’

‘We neutralise the dogs and keep watching the cat,’ decided Adamsberg. ‘Don’t go too near him, though – we don’t want him distracted.’

‘He looks in a strange state,’ said Froissy, who was sweeping the field with her night-vision binoculars and had them trained on the Snowball as he sat about forty metres away.

‘I’m scared of dogs,’ said Kernorkian.

‘Stay back, then, but don’t shoot. We’ll just try and knock them out.’

Three large dogs, apparently surviving in a semi-wild condition in the huge building, were by now charging at the police, well before they had reached the doors of the hangar. Kernorkian shrank back against the warm body of the helicopter, near the large reassuring bulk of Bastien, who was smoking a cigarette, while the other officers floored the dogs. Adamsberg looked at the hangar with its opaque broken windows and rusty half-open doors. Froissy started to move forward.

‘Don’t go far yet,’ said Adamsberg. ‘Wait for the cat to make a move.’

The Snowball, now encrusted with dirt up to his neck, and looking thinner as his bedraggled fur clung to him, was sniffing at one of the unconscious dogs. Then he sat down and started washing one paw carefully, as if he had all the time in the world.

‘What the fuck’s he up to?’ said Voisenet, shining his flashlight across.

‘Maybe he’s got a thorn in his paw,’ said the doctor, a quiet, patient man, who was entirely bald.

‘I’m walking wounded, too,’ said Justin, showing his hand, which had been grazed by the teeth of one of the dogs. ‘But I’m not taking time off.’

‘It’s just an animal, Justin,’ said Adamsberg.

The Snowball finished that paw, washed another, then set off towards the hangar, suddenly breaking into run for the second time that day.

Adamsberg punched one fist into the other hand.

‘She’s got to be in there,’ he said. ‘Four men round the back, the rest with me. Doctor, come with us.’

‘Dr Lavoisier,’ said the doctor. ‘Like Lavoisier the chemist, you know.’

Adamsberg looked at him blankly. He didn’t know, and certainly didn’t care, who Lavoisier the chemist was.