“They’re original, your premises. What is it exactly that you do here? Admin, sorting through the archives, revisiting old reports?”
The divisionnaire was playing the role of the grandee deigning to rub shoulders with his lowly subjects. Capestan decided to get in there early with a frostiness of her own:
“Sorting through the archives. Your archives, as it happens . . .”
Valincourt ignored her. He was happy to nonchalantly inspect the lay of the land, but refused to rise to a jab that he deemed to be beneath him. Capestan had counted on him reacting like this: their relay tactic was really a war of attrition. To crack someone as distinguished as Valincourt, they were going to attempt the classic “carpet trick”: grill the suspect in one room, then transfer him somewhere with a slightly different, slicker tone and décor, where another officer would elicit a confession. A slowly-slowly psychological method that had stood the test of time at number 36. Today they faced a tough adversary who was well versed in those tactics. They would need to embellish their approach. But the squad did have one sneaky weapon up their sleeve, one that was perfect for unsettling their suspect: Malchance, the unlucky charm. They had Torrez.
“Lieutenant Torrez will look after you while I wrap up the paperwork with your son.”
Valincourt blinked slightly, but not enough to lose face. The man was more than impressive. Without moving a muscle, hemmed in by the members of the squad, he still dominated the room. The officers seemed like a set of small, ramshackle buildings in the shadow of Notre-Dame. To nip this sense of supremacy in the bud, Capestan gave Torrez the nod to come in.
An exaggerated shudder went around the room and the squad parted in silence, forming a sort of guard of horror as Malchance prowled forward. He was wearing a dark brown corduroy jacket over his sling. His beard was starting to show again, darkening his cheeks, and his black eye completed the macabre sinister look. The lieutenant, more serious than ever, walked up to Valincourt and stopped a little too close to him, deliberately intruding into his senior officer’s personal space.
“If you’d care to follow me, Monsieur le Divisionnaire.”
Still ramrod straight, Valincourt hesitated for a moment. He was visibly conflicted. If he followed the lieutenant, he was capitulating to the demands of this pitiful squad. But if he refused, it would look as though he were flinching in the face of superstition and fear. Either outcome would damage his credibility. He was trapped. In the long term, cowardice must have struck him as the more harmful option since, with a nod at Capestan, he made up his mind to accompany Torrez to his office.
Torrez opened the door and invited the divisionnaire to go in ahead of him.
“Please, take a seat,” he said, not gesturing toward any chair in particular.
Valincourt, hands behind his back and gripping the visor of his cap, studied the room, doing his best not to touch anything. He believes the stories about me, Torrez thought to himself. This proximity was frightening him.
There were two chairs facing the desk. Valincourt chose the less accessible one and sat down as calmly as possible.
“That one’s mine, in fact,” Torrez said, feigning embarrassment. “No, no, stay there, please. It’ll be fine.”
The divisionnaire could not prevent his backside from lifting up an inch or so.
“Commissaire Capestan won’t be much longer, I don’t think,” Torrez said, moving to the other side of his desk.
Then he simply waited, drawing out the moment to exacerbate any mounting paranoia. Torrez had that effect on people. Others officers shied away in his presence like arachnophobes from a basket of tarantulas. The more audacious simply avoided running into him. Occasionally some hothead or other might play the toreador and approach him, body tensed and ready, but just one look would send them packing. Crazy people dice with death, but they do not fool around with someone cursed with bad luck. Bad luck carries the threat of terrible things: disease, ruin, an accident for you or a loved one. It lurks just below the surface, festering and unexpected.
Valincourt stayed where he was, perfectly motionless. He had already come into contact with various elements—nothing he could do about that—but he was reluctant to add to the haul. Torrez worried that his powers of intimidation were waning. Around Capestan, Malchance had become less resolute: the façade was cracking and he was breathing more easily. He now had a colleague he could have coffee with or talk to about the weekend, something he had spent twenty years of his career dreaming about. Capestan was prouder than a band of Corsicans, but she always had a smile and a kind word at the ready for her team. Capestan was no toreador, not with him at least. And she had trusted him with the first leg of the relay.
Valincourt cleared his throat. He was eager to regain the upper hand.
“Alright. Where’s my son?”
“In an office down the corridor, with Commissaire Capestan and Lieutenant Évrard. They’re looking after him; you have nothing to worry about.”
“That’s not what I asked,” the divisionnaire said, sweeping aside any suggestion that he was being overprotective. “What’s he doing here? What are you accusing him of?”
“I have no idea, I’m not working on that case,” Torrez said, pulling a file out of one of his drawers.
He placed it on his desk and crossed his hands on top of it. Valincourt wriggled slightly with a mixture of impatience and discomfort. These irritants were nibbling at his defenses.
“No, I’m working on a different case . . . ,” Torrez continued.
“I don’t give a damn about your little cases! It’s not as though I’m planning on moving in. I’ve had enough. If you think I have the time to entertain your . . . Take me to Gabriel, let’s be done with this.”
Valincourt considered himself far too important to be kept
