Wash This Blood Clean from My Hand

IV

HE HAD TO RING THE BELL THREE TIMES BEFORE DANGLARD, befuddled with sleep, opened the door. The capitaine gave a start at the sight of Adamsberg, whose features seemed to have become more drawn, the nose more arched, the dark shadows under his high cheekbones more pronounced. So the commissaire had not been able to relax as quickly as usual after a tense moment. Danglard knew he had overstepped the line, earlier in the day. Ever since, he had been mulling over the possibility of a confrontation, a reprimand perhaps. Or a punishment? Or worse. Unable to stop the deep waves of pessimism, he had been thinking about his growing fears all through supper, trying not to let anything show in front of the children, about this concern or indeed about the aeroplane engine. The best distraction was to tell them another story about Lieutenant Retancourt, which would certainly amuse them, especially since this massive woman – who seemed to have been painted by Michelangelo, a painter whose mighty genius had not been at its best in rendering the supple uncertainties of the female body – had the name of a delicate wild flower: Violette. That day, Violette had been talking quietly with Hélène Froissy, who was suffering from an unhappy love affair. Violette had emphasised one of her remarks by bringing the palm of her hand down sharply on the photocopier, and it had immediately started working again, after having been stuck for five days.

One of the older children had asked what would have happened if Retancourt had banged Hélène Froissy’s head instead of the photocopier. Could she have sent her unhappy colleague’s mind off in a more positive direction? Could Violette change people and things by knocking on them? All the children had then tried their luck with the family television set, which was also out of order, to test their strength. Danglard allowed them only one go each, but alas, no image appeared, and the youngest one had hurt his finger. Once they were all in bed, his pessimism had once more overtaken him with dark forebodings.

Faced with his superior officer, Danglard scratched his chest in a gesture of illusory self-defence.

‘Quick, Danglard,’ whispered Adamsberg. ‘I need you. There’s a taxi waiting.’

His head cleared by this sudden return to calm, the capitaine hurriedly pulled on a jacket and trousers. Adamsberg evidently wasn’t bearing a grudge, his anger being already forgotten, swallowed up in the clouds of his habitual indulgence or indifference. If the commissaire had come to fetch him late at night, it must mean the squad had another murder to deal with.

‘Where are we going?’

‘Saint-Paul.’

The two men went downstairs, Danglard trying to tie his tie as well as putting on a thick scarf.

‘Is there a victim?’

‘Just get a move on, mon vieux, it’s urgent.’

The taxi dropped them off by the poster. Adamsberg paid the fare, while Danglard was looking in surprise down the empty street. No flashing lights, no technical team, just a deserted pavement and sleeping buildings. Adamsberg caught his arm and pulled him hurriedly towards the advertisement. Without letting go, he pointed to the picture.

‘Danglard, tell me, what’s that?’

‘I beg your pardon?’ said Danglard, in puzzlement.

‘The painting, for God’s sake. I’m asking you what it is. What’s it about?’

‘But where’s the murder?’ asked Danglard turning round. ‘Where’s the victim?’

‘Here,’ said Adamsberg pointing at his own chest. ‘Just give me an answer. What is it?’

Danglard shook his head, half shocked, half confused. Then the surreal absurdity of the situation seemed so funny to him that a pure feeling of hilarity swept away his black mood. He felt full of gratitude to Adamsberg, who not only seemed to be overlooking the earlier insults, but was also quite involuntarily offering him a moment of exceptional extravagance this evening. Only Adamsberg was capable of squeezing ordinary life to extract these escapades, these shafts of weird beauty. So what did it matter that he had been woken up in the middle of the night and dragged off in the freezing cold to stand looking at a picture of Neptune?

‘Who’s that man?’ Adamsberg was repeating, without letting go of his arm.

‘Neptune rising from the waves,’ Danglard said with a smile.

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes. Neptune, or Poseidon if you prefer.’

‘Is he the god of the sea, or of the underworld, or what?’

‘They’re brothers,’ Danglard explained, delighted to be able to give a midnight lesson in mythology. ‘Three brothers, Hades, Zeus and Poseidon. Poseidon reigns over the seas, with all their storms and calms, but also over what lies under the sea, the vasty deeps.’

Adamsberg had let his arm go by now and was listening hard, his hands clasped behind his back.

‘In the picture,’ Danglard went on, moving his finger across the poster, ‘we see him surrounded by his court and his demons. Here are Neptune’s benign actions, and here is his power to punish mortals, represented by his trident and the evil serpent who drags men under the sea. This is an academic painting, sentimental and unremarkable. I can’t identify the painter. Some artist long forgotten, who did pictures for the walls of bourgeois householders and probably…’

‘So that’s Neptune,’ Adamsberg interrupted in a thoughtful voice. ‘OK, Danglard, thanks a million. Go home, go back to bed. My apologies for waking you up.’

Before Danglard could even ask what it was all about, Adamsberg had stopped another taxi and pushed his deputy inside. Through the car window, he watched his commissaire walking away slowly, a thin, dark, stooping figure, steering a slightly irregular course through the night. He smiled, automatically put his hand to his head and found the remains of the pompom on his woolly hat. Suddenly anxious, he touched it three times for luck.