The Ghost Riders of Ordebec (Commissaire Adamsberg) (33 page)

‘She could have wiped the handle because she thought someone else in the family killed him, Martin or Antonin.’

‘But they were only six and four years old!’

‘Or you.’

‘No! We were all far too scared of him to try and do something like that. We weren’t big enough.’

‘But you did set your dog on him.’

‘Then it would have been the dog’s fault, not mine. See the difference?’

‘Yes.’

‘So then the bastard, he killed my dog. We all thought, any of us lift a finger against him, he’d be capable of killing us too, like the dog. My mother and all. Perhaps he would have too, if the count hadn’t taken me away to his place.’

‘Émeri says you weren’t scared of anything. He says you caused chaos in school when you were a kid.’

‘Yeah, I created mayhem all right,’ said Hippo, giving one of his big grins. ‘What does he say, Émeri? That I was a little shit going round terrorising everyone?’

‘Yes, that’s more or less what he said.’

‘That’s
exactly
what he said. But Émeri was no angel either. And he didn’t have any excuse. He was properly looked after, his family was well off. Before Régis’s gang of villains got going, there was this other boy, Hervé, who persecuted me. And let me tell you, Émeri wasn’t backward when they were all dancing round me and hitting me. No, commissaire, I don’t regret anything, I had to defend myself. All I had to do was wave my hands in the air at them, and they’d run away squealing. It was fun for me. But it was their fault, they started it. They said I had devil’s hands, and I was a cripple from hell. I wouldn’t have thought of that kind of thing if it wasn’t for them. So I made use of it. No, if there’s one thing in my life I’m sorry about, it’s that I’m the son of the biggest fucking bastard in the region.’

By now Lina had got dressed, in a tight-fitting T-shirt, giving Adamsberg a fresh thrill. Patting her arm, Hippolyte left her to walk back with the commissaire.

‘It’s all right, little sis, he won’t eat you. But you have to watch out for him. He likes to know where people have hidden their dirty linen, it’s not a nice job.’

‘He saved Léo,’ said Lina, frowning at her brother.

‘But he’s wondering whether I killed Herbier and Glayeux. He’s poking about in my dirty linen. Aren’t you, commissaire?’

‘It’s normal if he’s asking questions,’ Lina retorted. ‘I hope you were polite at least.’

‘Very,’ said Adamsberg with a smile.

‘But since Lina has no dirty linen to hide, I can safely leave her with you,’ said Hippo, walking away. ‘But mind,
tnod hcout a riah fo reh daeh
.’

‘What?’

‘Don’t touch a hair of her head,’ said Lina. ‘I’m sorry, commissaire, it’s the way he is. He feels responsible for all of us. But we’re
nice
people, you know.’

‘We’re nice people.’ The simple-minded motto of the Vendermots. So naive and simple-minded that Adamsberg was half inclined to believe it. Their idea of themselves, their watchword to the world: ‘We’re nice people.’ And what were they hiding behind that? Émeri would have said. A man as intelligent as Hippolyte, and that was an understatement, a guy who could talk backwards as if he were playing marbles, couldn’t just be ‘nice’.

‘Lina, I’m going to ask you the same thing as Hippolyte. When you found your father had been killed, why did you wipe the handle of the axe?’

‘Just a reflex, I suppose, for something to do.’

‘Lina, you’re not eleven years old any more. You can’t think an answer like that is good enough. Did you wipe it to remove the fingerprints of one of your brothers?’

‘No.’

‘You didn’t think Hippo could have hit him on the head? Or Martin?’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘We were all too scared to go into his bedroom. We didn’t even dare go up there. It was forbidden.’

Adamsberg stopped in the middle of the lane, faced Lina and drew his finger down her pink cheek, in all innocence, like Zerk stroking the pigeon.

‘Well then, who
were
you protecting, Lina?’

‘The killer,’ she said suddenly, looking up. ‘And I didn’t know who it was. I wasn’t shocked when I found him lying there, covered in blood. I just thought that someone, at last, had put a
stop
to him, and he would never come back, and it was a big relief. I wiped the prints off the axe so whoever did it would never be punished. Whoever it was.’

‘Thank you, Lina. Tell me, Hippo, when he was in school, was he a holy terror?’

‘He was protecting us. Because my brothers, the little ones, in the infants’ playground, they were being bullied too. When Hippo was brave enough to face them out with his poor deformed hands, we had a bit of peace at last. We are nice people, but Hippo had to protect us.’

‘He told them he was the devil’s disciple and he could curse them.’

‘Yes and it worked!’ she said with a laugh, showing no regret. ‘They would run away when we came. And then we were in heaven. We were like kings. Only Léo warned us. Revenge is a dish best eaten cold, she used to say, but I didn’t understand that at the time. And now,’ she said, looking more serious, ‘we’re paying for it. With people remembering Hippo the devil, and Hellequin’s Horde, I understand why my mother is anxious for us. In 1777, you know, they killed this man, François-Benjamin, he was a pig farmer, with pitchforks.’

‘Yes, I was told that. Because he saw the Riders.’

‘And he could name three victims, but couldn’t recognise the fourth, just like me. The crowd attacked him after the second victim died, and they were two hours at it, spilling his guts And François-Benjamin passed the gift on to his nephew Guillaume, who passed it to his cousin Élodine, then it went on to Sigismond the tanner, then to Hébrard, then to Arnaud the cloth merchant, then to Louis-Pierre who played the harpsichord, and then to Aveline, and then to Gilbert. And apparently Gilbert passed it on to me, when I was baptised. Did your deputy know something, is that why someone tried to kill him?’

‘No idea.’
He went off all alone, with a heart full of bile
, Adamsberg said to himself, surprised to find this little line of Veyrenc’s verse resurfacing.

‘Don’t worry looking in that direction,’ she said, suddenly sounding determined. ‘It wasn’t
him
they wanted to kill, it was you.’

‘No.’

‘Yes. Because you may not know anything today, but you’ll end up knowing everything tomorrow. You’re much more dangerous than Émeri. Your time’s running out.’

‘Mine?’

‘Yours, commissaire. You’d better get going and run. Nothing stops the Lord and his troops. Don’t stand in his way. You can believe me or not, I’m trying to help you.’

This pronouncement was so harsh and weird that Émeri would probably have arrested her on the spot for less. Adamsberg didn’t move.

‘I’ve got to protect Mortembot,’ he said.

‘Mortembot killed his own mother. He’s not worth bothering about.’

‘That’s not my problem, Lina, you know that.’

‘You don’t understand. He’ll die whatever you do. You’d better get away before that.’

‘When?’

‘Now.’

‘I mean, when will he die?’

‘Hellequin will decide. Just go away. You and your men.’

XXXVII

Adamsberg walked slowly into the courtyard of the hospital, which was becoming as familiar to him as the bar opposite his Paris office. Danglard had refused to wear the regulation blue hospital gown, made of disposable tissue, and was sitting on his bed wearing his suit, crumpled and dirty as it was. The nurse had strongly disapproved, saying it was unhygienic. But since this was a case of attempted suicide and since he had been under a train and survived – something which commanded respect – she hadn’t dared insist.

‘I need some proper clothes,’ was the first thing Danglard said. At the same time, his eyes were directed at the cream-coloured walls, not wanting to meet Adamsberg’s expression where he would see reflected his own shame, disgrace and depression. Dr Turbot had filled him in briefly on the sequence of events, without making any comment, and Danglard now didn’t know how to live with himself. He had been unprofessional, he’d been grotesque and, worse than everything, stupid. Him, Danglard, the mighty brain. Basic jealousy, his burning desire to best Veyrenc, hadn’t left a corner in his mind for dignity and intelligence. Well, maybe, in some remote recess a tiny voice had indeed tried to tell him something, but he hadn’t listened, hadn’t wanted to know. Like the worst of idiots, the kind that leads to destruction. And it was the very man he had wanted to humiliate who had protected him, and had almost been killed himself under the wheels of the train. It was Louis Veyrenc de Bilhc who had had the reflexes, the courage and the strength, to lie him down between the
rails. Whereas he, himself, he reflected, would certainly not have had those three qualities. He wouldn’t have thought of moving the body; in any case, he wouldn’t have had the physical strength; and perhaps, worst of all, he would have tried to save his own skin first, by scrambling back on to the platform.

The commandant’s face was grey with distress. He looked like a cornered rat, not one cheerfully sitting inside a loaf of bread in the kitchen of Tuilot, Julien.

‘Does it hurt?’ asked Adamsberg.

‘Only if I turn my head.’

‘Apparently you weren’t conscious of the train going over you,’ said Adamsberg, without letting any note of consolation enter his voice.

‘No. Pretty annoying to have that happen and not remember it, isn’t it?’ said Danglard, trying to introduce a little irony to his tone.

‘That’s not what’s annoying.’

‘And I wasn’t even as sloshed as usual.’

‘No, indeed not, Danglard. On the contrary, you took care not to drink too much at Émeri’s so as to have a clear head for your one-man expedition.’

Danglard looked up at the cream-painted ceiling and decided to keep looking. He had glimpsed Adamsberg’s expression and seen the gleam in his eyes. A gleam that carried far, and one that he wanted to avoid. It was a rare kind of gleam, one that only appeared when the commissaire was very angry, deeply interested, or had suddenly had an idea.

‘Veyrenc
did
feel the train go past,’ Adamsberg said meaningfully.

Furious with Danglard’s lamentable behaviour, yes, disappointed, distressed, he was all of those. He felt the need to force his deputy to look him in the eye and be aware of that.
He went off all alone, with a heart full of bile.

‘How is he now?’ asked Danglard, articulating scarcely audibly between his teeth.

‘He’s sleeping, he’s getting over it. But we’ll be lucky if he hasn’t got a few more red hairs afterwards. Or white ones.’

‘How did he know?’

‘Same way I did. You’re not much good as a plotter, commandant. Your excitement about some secret project, your pride and joy, could be read all over your face and in your body language right through dinner.’

‘Why did Veyrenc stay up all night?’

‘Because he put two and two together. He thought that if you were so worked up about something, some stunt you were going to keep for yourself, it was probably because you hoped to put one across him. Picking up some new information for instance. Whereas you, commandant, forgot that if an informer really wants to stay anonymous, he doesn’t usually want to meet you. He writes a note but doesn’t give a rendezvous. Even Estalère might have smelt a rat. You didn’t. But Veyrenc did. And finally and most importantly, he thought that, given the body count, it was best not to act alone. Unless, that is, a certain person was keen to win some kind of medal, so much so that he couldn’t see the bleeding obvious. Because you
did
receive a message didn’t you, Danglard? Giving you a rendezvous at the station?’

‘Yes.’

‘When? Where?’

‘I found this note in my pocket. Someone must have got in among the little crowd outside Glayeux’s house.’

‘And you kept it?’

‘No.’

‘Brilliant. Why not?’

Danglard bit the inside of his cheek several times before replying.

‘I didn’t want anyone to know I’d kept the message for myself. That I was acting with premeditation. What I meant to do, after collecting the information, was invent a plausible version.’

‘Such as?’

‘That I saw someone in the crowd. Asked around about him. And went to Cérenay to find out a bit more. Something banal.’

‘And more dignified, you mean.’

‘Yes,’ sighed Danglard, ‘more dignified.’

‘Didn’t work out, did it?’ said Adamsberg, getting up and pacing the small room, going round the commandant’s bed.

‘OK,’ said Danglard. ‘I fell in the shit. And I’m in it up to my neck.’

‘It happened to me before you, remember that?’

‘Yes.’

‘So you’re not the only one. The difficult bit isn’t falling in, it’s cleaning oneself up afterwards. What did the message say?’

‘It looked as if it was written by someone illiterate, several spelling mistakes. Either real or fake, could be either. But if it was faked, it was quite convincing: crossings-out and so on.’

‘And it said?’

‘That I should be at Cérenay station at 6.50 exactly. I presumed the writer lived there.’

‘I don’t think so. The advantage of Cérenay is that trains go through. At 6.56. The Ordebec branch line is disused now. What did Turbot say about the drug?’

Adamsberg’s eyes had returned more or less to normal. To their underwater, ‘seaweedy’ state as some people called it, inventing a word to describe the melting, vague, almost opaque aspect.

‘According to the first tests, it’s gone from my bloodstream. He thinks it was an anaesthetic vets use: it knocks someone out for about fifteen minutes, then disappears. Probably a weak dose of ketamine chlorohydrate, because I didn’t suffer from hallucinations. Commissaire, can I ask you to do something? I mean, can this whole sorry escapade be kept from the rest of the squad?’

‘I’ve got no objection. But there are three of us who know about it. It’s not me you should ask, but Veyrenc. After all, he might be tempted to take his revenge. Understandably.’

‘Yes.’

‘Shall I tell him to come and see you?’