Wash This Blood Clean from My Hand

force, but locked up somewhere. So why the fuck did you come all the way out here?’

‘To take the measurements, to get a chance to question Vetilleux, and to tell you about this possibility.’

‘Perhaps you thought he had an imitator? A disciple? A son?’

Adamsberg had the impression he was going back through his conversation with Danglard of two days before.

‘No, I don’t think he has a disciple, and he had no children. Fulgence is a lone wolf.’

‘Do you realise you’re standing there with a straight face and telling me you’re out of your tiny mind?’

‘I realise you think that, commandant. May I have permission to see Vetilleux once more before I leave?’

‘No, you may not!’ shouted Trabelmann.

‘Well, if you want to go ahead and hand an innocent man over to the courts, that’s your business.’

Adamsberg had to go round Trabelmann to pick up his files. He pushed them clumsily into his bag, which took him a little time, one-handed. The commandant did not make a move to help, any more than Danglard had. Adamsberg offered to shake hands, but Trabelmann kept his arms firmly folded.

‘Well, we may meet again one day, Trabelmann. When I bring you the judge’s head on a trident.’

‘Adamsberg, I was wrong.’

The commissaire looked up in surprise.

‘Your ego isn’t as big as a kitchen table, it’s the size of Strasbourg Cathedral.’

‘Which you don’t like?’

‘Affirmative.’

Adamsberg headed for the exit. In the office, the corridors and the hall, silence had fallen like a shower of rain, stifling all movement, voices or footsteps. Outside the doors, he saw the young duty officer, who took a few steps alongside him.

‘Commissaire, that story about the bears?’

‘Don’t come with me, officer, or you might lose your job.’

He winked quickly at the young man and went off on foot, without any car to take him to the station. But unlike Vetilleux, the commissaire was not put off by a few kilometres; the walk was barely long enough for him to rid his mind of the new enemy whom Judge Fulgence had added to Adamsberg’s collection.

XII

THE PARIS TRAIN WAS NOT DUE TO LEAVE FOR ANOTHER HOUR, SO Adamsberg decided, as if in defiance of Trabelmann, to pay a visit to the cathedral. He walked all the way round the outside, since according to the commandant, his ego was equal to the colossal dimensions of another era. Then he explored the nave and the side aisles, and took the trouble to read the notices. ‘A Gothic edifice in the purest and most radical style.’ What more could Trabelmann ask for? He looked up to the top of the spire, ‘a masterpiece, soaring to a height of 142 metres’. Adamsberg had only just reached the regulation height to qualify for the police force.

In the train, when he went to the bar, the rows of miniature bottles brought his thoughts back to Vetilleux. By now, Trabelmann was no doubt pressing him to confess, like a dumb beast going to the slaughter. Unless, that is, Vetilleux was heeding his instructions, and resisting the pressure. It was odd how much he blamed the unknown Josie for having left Vetilleux, thus letting him slide down the slope, considering that Adamsberg himself had abandoned Camille at a moment’s notice.

Back in the office, he was surprised by the smell of camphor, and stopped in the Council Chamber, where Noel, his shirt unbuttoned and his forehead resting on his arms, was having his neck massaged by Lieutenant Retancourt. She was kneading his flesh from the shoulders to the nape of the neck, with long circular movements which seemed to have reduced Noel to a state of childlike bliss. He jumped, when he realised the commissaire was in the room, and buttoned his shirt up hastily. Only Retancourt showed no embarrassment, and calmly put the top back on the tube of ointment, while briefly greeting Adamsberg.

‘I’ll be with you right away,’ she said. ‘Noel, no sudden neck movements for two or three days. And if you need to carry something heavy, use your left hand, not your right.’

Retancourt came over to Adamsberg, while Noel quickly left the room.

‘With this cold snap,’ she explained, ‘you tend to get a lot of muscle spasms and stiff necks.’

‘And you can cure them?’

‘I’m not bad. I’ve prepared the dossiers for the Quebec mission, the forms have been sent off and the visas are ready. The plane tickets should be here the day after tomorrow.’

‘Thank you, Retancourt. Is Danglard about?’

‘He’s waiting for you. He got a confession from the D’Hernoncourt daughter yesterday. The lawyer is going to plead temporary insanity, which seems to be pretty much the case.’

Danglard got up when Adamsberg walked in, and held out his hand, looking rather embarrassed.

‘Well, at least you’re prepared to shake my hand,’ said Adamsberg with a smile. ‘Trabelmann has stopped doing that. Pass me the D’Hernoncourt report to sign and congratulations on tying up the case.’

While the commissaire was signing the report, Danglard observed him closely, to see whether he was being ironic, since Adamsberg himself had refused to accept the baron’s confession, and had told them to follow an alternative lead. But no, there was no sign of a sneer on his face, and the congratulations seemed to be sincere.

‘So it didn’t go too well at Schiltigheim?’

‘Well, in one respect it went very well. A brand new carpenter’s awl and a line of wounds 16.7 centimetres long and 0.8 wide. I told you, Danglard, always the same crossbar. The suspect is a poor homeless tramp, harmless and alcoholic, the ideal fall guy. Before the murder, an old man came along and gave him the fatal push. A so-called companion of the streets, but one who took his wine from a cup and wouldn’t drink out of the same bottle as a down-and-out.’

‘And in other respects?’

‘Not good. Trabelmann’s taken against me. He thinks I just follow my own nose and take no notice of anyone else. He regards Judge Fulgence as a national treasure. And in fact I’m a national treasure too, but not quite the same way.’

‘What do you mean?’

Adamsberg smiled before replying.

‘Strasbourg Cathedral. He says my ego is as big as the cathedral.’

Danglard gave a low whistle.

‘One of the pinnacles of Gothic architecture,’ he remarked, ‘the spire reaches a height of 142 metres, built in 1439, the crowning achievement of Jean Hultz…’

With a gesture, Adamsberg interrupted the flow of erudition.

‘Still,’ concluded Danglard, ‘that’s quite something, isn’t it? A Gothic edifice for an ego, an e-Gothic ego trip. Trabelmann’s a bit of a joker, is he?’

‘Yes, he can be. But just then he wasn’t joking, and he kicked me out as if I was a complete time-waster. I have to say in his defence that he looked up the judge’s dates and found out he had been dead sixteen years. He didn’t like that. Some people get put off by that kind of thing.’

Adamsberg raised his hand again to ward off a comment from his deputy.

‘Did it do any good?’ he asked. ‘The massage Retancourt gave you?’

Danglard felt his irritation mounting once more.

‘Yes, I guessed,’ Adamsberg confirmed. ‘Your neck looks pink and you smell of camphor.’

‘I had a stiff neck. It’s not a crime, far as I know.’

‘On the contrary. It’s perfectly in order to get yourself treated and I admire Retancourt’s talents. But if you don’t mind, and since all that is signed off, I’m going for a walk. I’m tired.’

Danglard made no comment on the contradiction, which was typical of Adamsberg, nor did he try to have the