The bicycle was weaving in and out of the traffic. At the lights, he veered right and came off at the pedestrian crossing, bringing his wheels deftly onto the pavement. He was moving fast and the commissaire feared he would reach his father’s door before they had time to intercept him. There was still no sign of Lewitz—the boy was going to escape from under their noses yet again. Capestan was about to open her door to race after him when the brigadier burst into view on the corner of rue du Pasteur-Wagner.
A bright-green street sweeper roared past the lights, all horns blaring, and joined the flow of traffic. In the glass operator’s cab, Lewitz was virtually standing up behind the wheel. He spotted the bicycle and sped after it with a tremendous rev of the engine. Cars swerved in every direction, drivers honking furiously, and a jam started to form in the wake of the mad runaway cleaning vehicle. Capestan saw Torrez jump up in his seat.
“Is that one of those pooper-scooper things?” Torrez said.
“No, it’s not a Motocrotte, I think it’s an Aquazura . . .”
“How on earth did he get one of those?”
“Rosière found it online. Apparently local authorities sell off their equipment when it goes out of date.”
Capestan’s nerves were on edge. A vehicle that was not too powerful and that would melt into the background: on paper, it seemed the perfect fit for a stakeout, especially given the driver’s past history. When it was going at full tilt, however, it lost marks on discretion, nor did it carry quite the same sense of danger.
Lewitz slalomed between the cars until he saw a pedestrian crossing that was wide enough to let him mount the pavement. He flung it around at 90 degrees, causing the sweeper’s tires to screech on the asphalt. After an almighty yaw from clipping the curb, he managed to steady his trajectory and continue full steam ahead. Bewildered pedestrians flattened themselves against the walls to avoid the brushes that were skimming the ground: thanks to this particular police effort, the pavements were gleaming. Lewitz, his face lit up by a combination of giddy happiness and stern concentration, was making good ground. He stepped on it again before having to make an abrupt swerve to steer clear of a bus shelter. The cleaning mechanism at the back of the vehicle came flying off with the momentum. Like a snake being held by its tail, it started flailing around in the air at the end of its hose, blindly whacking into posts and windows. A man dropped flat against the floor to avoid being decapitated. On the roof of the cab, beside the usual orange flashing light, the blue two-tone of the police judiciaire kept any would-be heroes at bay. The bike was now just a few yards away.
“Hey, that’s my siren!” Torrez said indignantly.
“Yes, but sometimes it’s nice to share . . . ,” Capestan said, trying to appease her partner without letting her eyes off Lewitz.
A hundred or so yards up the pavement, the glass exterior of a café jutted halfway across the pavement. Lewitz would never have room to get through. For a moment, Capestan was afraid he might try to smash straight through it, but he turned at the last second and hurled the vehicle into the bus lane, his left wheels biting into the tarmac while the right ones stayed on the pavement.
The sweeper careened like a speedboat doing a stunt, the brushes turning in midair and water splashing all around. In his helicopter-style cockpit, Lewitz tilted sideways, too, as if he were a superbike rider dragging his knee. He dodged a parking meter before righting himself with a clean turn that brought the vehicle back onto the pavement. Lewitz had not let the bike out of his sight for a second. He was bearing down on him, guzzling the last few yards between them.
The boy, alerted by the racket behind, skidded neatly to a halt. Lewitz slowed down as he made his approach, and the cleaning device slumped to the ground, dragging behind the vehicle like a defunct kitchen utensil. The brigadier stopped alongside the bike and leapt from the cabin. Contact with terra firma brought him rapidly back to his senses. He advanced toward the boy and took him by the biceps with a gentleness that surprised Capestan.
Mission accomplished. No injuries. No damage. The commissaire could breathe at last.
43
Gabriel was wondering what he had done to end up in the back seat of the 306. The lead weights he had felt knocking together in his stomach for weeks had disappeared. Now that he was under arrest, he did not feel uneasy anymore; he just felt scared.
It was because he had run away. He felt so ashamed. After hiding at Manon’s for three days, he had decided to go home to fess up and ask his father for advice. And now he was being questioned. His father could have helped him, told him how to behave, and explained what his rights were. Alone in the back seat, Gabriel felt lost.
He looked through the window at the people going about their normal lives. They walked briskly, looked at shop fronts, or stopped in the middle of the pavement to read a text. As for Gabriel, he was in the back of a police car. He tried to calm down, but his father returned. Doubts were forming, timidly at first, then more insistent, like crows pecking at roof tiles. He felt the weights return to his stomach, solidifying into a dense mass.
His father.
Gabriel Valincourt did indeed have
