This Night’s Foul Work

LIX

VEYRENC WAS CONVALESCENT NOW. SITTING ON HIS BED, WEARING SHORTS, and leaning back on two pillows, with one leg bent and the other stretched out, he watched as Adamsberg, arms folded, paced up and down at the foot of the bed.

‘Does it hurt to stand on it?’ Adamsberg asked.

‘It stings a bit, I can feel it, but it’s not too bad.’

‘Are you OK to walk, drive a car?’

‘Yes, I think so.’

‘Good.’

‘Now speak to me, my lord: I see from your pale face

That a worry torments you in some secret place.’

‘Correct, Veyrenc. This killer who murdered Elisabeth, Pascaline, Diala, La Paille, the gendarme Grimal, this person who opened graves and nearly killed Retancourt, who cut up three stags and a cat and stole the relics, it’s not a woman at all. It’s a man.’

‘Is that just a hunch? Or have you got some new elements?’

‘What do you mean by “elements”?’

‘Well, evidence.’

‘No. But I know this man knew enough about the angel of death to send us off on a wild-goose chase after her, stopping us looking elsewhere, while he was calmly going about his business.’

Veyrenc screwed up his eyes and reached for his cigarettes.

‘The investigation was dragging on,’ said Adamsberg, ‘and these women had been killed, and I was getting nowhere. A pretty good form of revenge for the killer. Can I have one?’ he added, pointing to the cigarette packet.

Veyrenc passed him the packet and lit both cigarettes. Adamsberg watched his hands. No trembling or sign of emotion.

‘And this man,’ said Adamsberg, ‘is someone in our squad.’

Veyrenc ran his fingers through his variegated hair and exhaled rapidly, a stunned expression on his face.

‘But I don’t have a single tangible element of proof. My hands are tied. What would you do, Veyrenc?’

The lieutenant flicked some ash into his hand, and Adamsberg passed him an ashtray.

‘When we searched far afield, sending forth all our men

Into distant domains in search of this our prey,

He was here, in our midst, and our quest went astray.’

‘Yes. Some victory, eh? One intelligent killer manipulating twenty-seven idiots.’

‘You surely can’t be thinking of Noël? I don’t really know him, but I can’t see it. He’s aggressive but not a killer.’

Adamsberg shook his head.

‘Well, who then?’

‘I was thinking about what Retancourt said when she was semiconscious.’

‘Ah,’ said Veyrenc, with a smile. ‘When she quoted Corneille, those lines from Horace.’

‘How did you know?’

‘Because I’ve been asking for news of her. Lavoisier told me about it.’

‘You’re very considerate, for a newcomer.’

‘Retancourt’s my partner at work.’

‘I think she tried hard to point the finger at the killer, but she hadn’t the strength to do it.’

‘ Did you doubt it, my lord?

Since you waited so long, to give her words their weight

Neglecting their meaning, until it was too late?’

‘So have you discovered it, Veyrenc? What she meant?’

‘No, I haven’t’ said Veyrenc, looking away to tap off his ash. ‘So what are you going to do, commissaire?’

‘Something very obvious. I’m going to lie in wait for the killer. Things are moving faster. He knows that Retancourt is bound to talk soon. He doesn’t have much time, since she’s recovering quite well – about a week, maybe. He absolutely has to finish the potion, before he’s intercepted. So we’ll expose Francine, without any obvious protection.’

‘Pretty classic,’ said Veyrenc.

‘A race against time isn’t original, lieutenant. Two guys run neck and neck around a track and the fastest one wins. That’s all. And yet thousands of people have been racing each other for thousands of years. Well, it’s just the same with this. The killer’s running, so I’ll run too. Not a matter of doing anything tricksy, just trying to get there before he does.’

‘But the killer’s sure to suspect that you’re going to try and trap him.’

‘Of course. But he’ll keep running, because he doesn’t have any choice either. He’s not trying to be original at this point, just trying to succeed. And the more elementary the trap, the less the murderer will suspect anything.’

‘Why?’

‘Because, like you, he’ll think I’m plotting something more intelligent.’

‘Ye-es,’ Veyrenc admitted. ‘So if you choose the elementary method, you put Francine back in her house? Discreetly protected this time?’

‘No, no. No one in their right mind would think we could get Francine to set foot in that farmhouse again.’

‘So where’ll you put her? In a hotel in Evreux? And let the information leak out?’

‘Not quite. I’ve chosen a place that I think is reasonably safe and secret but which the murderer might be able to guess, if he has his wits about him. Which he generally has.’

Veyrenc thought for a few moments.

‘So it’s got to be a place you know quite well,’ he said, thinking aloud. ‘A place that won’t frighten Francine too much, but that you can protect without your policemen being obvious.’

‘For instance?’

‘For instance, the inn in Haroncourt.’

‘See, it was quite easy. In Haroncourt, where the whole thing started, but under the protection of Robert and Oswald. They’ll be a lot less obvious than a bunch of cops. Cops are always easy to spot.’

Veyrenc looked doubtful.

‘Even a cop who’s come down out of the mountains and hasn’t bothered to do up all his shirt buttons or to get rid of the mist in his eyes?’

‘Yes, even me, Veyrenc. And do you know why? Why do you think an ordinary customer sitting in a café drinking his beer doesn’t look like a policeman sitting at a table and drinking his beer? Because the policeman’s on duty and the other isn’t. Because a man on his own thinks, daydreams, and wonders about things. But the cop is watching the whole time. The ordinary guy’s eyes are looking in at himself, but the cop’s eyes are always flicking round his surroundings. He might as well put up a sign. So we won’t put an officer in the bar at the hotel.’

‘I see. Not bad,’ said Veyrenc, stubbing out his cigarette.

‘Well, anyway, I hope so,’ said Adamsberg, getting up.

‘What did you really come here for, commissaire?’

‘To ask you whether any more details had come back to you, now you’ve remembered where it really happened, the attack: in the High Meadow.’

‘Just one.’

‘And that is?’

‘That fifth boy, the one under the tree, standing looking at the others getting to work on me.’

‘Yes.’

‘He had his hands behind his back.’

‘So?’

‘So I’m wondering what he was holding in his hands, or hiding. A weapon, perhaps?’

‘You’re getting warm. Keep on thinking, lieutenant.’

Veyrenc watched as the commissaire picked up his jacket, of which one sleeve was inexplicably soaking wet, and went out, slamming the door. He closed his eyes and smiled.

You lie to me, my lord, but your tricks help me know

To what strange final end you wish my steps to go.