This Night’s Foul Work

LXI

ADAMSBERG CONSIDERED THAT HE HAD LAID HIS TRAP WITH CHILDLIKE simplicity and he was quite pleased with it. It was a classic mousetrap, of course, but it ought to be secure, complete with the slight twist he was banking on. Sitting behind the door of the bedroom, he was waiting for the second consecutive night. Three metres to his left sat Adrien Danglard, an excellent exponent of the speedy assault, unlikely though that might seem. In action, his lethargic body snapped into movement like a rubber band. Danglard was wearing a particularly elegant suit this evening. His bulletproof vest affected its lines somewhat, but Adamsberg had insisted on his wearing it. To his right was Estalère, whose qualities included seeing uncommonly well in the dark, like the Snowball.

‘It won’t work,’ said Danglard, whose pessimism always got the better of him at night.

‘Yes, it will,’ said Adamsberg for the fourth time.

‘It’s ridiculous. The Haroncourt inn. He’s sure to smell a rat.’

‘No. Hush, Danglard. Estalère, take care – I can hear you breathing.’

‘Sorry,’ said Estalere. ‘It’s hay fever.’

‘Well, blow your nose once for all, then keep quiet.’

Adamsberg rose silently one last time and twitched the curtain another few centimetres along. He had to have the dark absolutely under control. The killer would be completely silent, as the cemetery keeper at Montrouge had described, and as Gratien and Francine had confirmed. There would be no heavy footsteps to give warning of approach. They would have to be able to see the killer before the killer saw them. The darkness in the corners where they were posted would have to be denser than the light round the door. He sat back down and gripped the light switch. His job was to switch it on the moment the killer got inside the door. Then Estalère would block the exit while Danglard pulled his gun. Perfect. He looked at the bed where the woman he was protecting was peacefully asleep.

As Francine slept under her guard in the inn at Haroncourt, the Shade checked the time in Saint-Vincent-de-Paul, a hundred and thirty-six kilometres away. At ten fifty-five, the Shade silently opened the door of the linen store and slipped along the corridor, syringe in hand, checking the numbers of the rooms. Retancourt’s room, number 227, had its door open, being guarded by the sleeping Mercadet. As the Shade tiptoed round him, he did not stir. In the middle of the room the large body of the lieutenant was visible under the sheets, her arm hanging down vulnerably at the side of the bed.