An Uncertain Place

‘And it was a used Kleenex…’

‘… so it was snotty.’

‘In other words, all the DNA you want.’

‘We meant to tell you last night when it came through, and we tried again this morning, but your mobile was off.’

‘The battery’s run down.’

Adamsberg looked around at their faces in turn and poured himself half a glass of wine, something he rarely did.

‘Look out,’ said Danglard discreetly, ‘it’s not very good.’

‘So let me try to understand,’ said Adamsberg. ‘This DNA on the Kleenex wasn’t from Vaudel senior, Vaudel junior, or Emile. Is that it?’

‘Affirmative,’ said Lamarre, who as a former gendarme had retained his military vocabulary. And since he was also from Normandy, he found it hard to look Adamsberg in the eye.

Adamsberg sipped the wine and shot a glance to Danglard to confirm that yes, the wine had nothing going for it. Still, it wasn’t as awful as the stuff he had drunk through a straw from a carton the night before. He wondered in passing whether it hadn’t been that plonk that had made him sleep so long, whereas he usually needed no more than five or six hours. He broke off a piece from a sandwich on the table – Mordent’s – and slipped it under his seat. ‘For the dog,’ he explained.

He leaned down to check that Cupid was happy with it, then looked back at the thirteen pairs of eyes fixed on him.

‘So we have the DNA of some person unknown,’ he said, ‘presumably the killer. And you sent this off to the databank without thinking it would amount to anything, but you hit the jackpot. You’ve got the killer’s name and photo, because he’s on file.’

‘Yes,’ Danglard confirmed in a low voice.

‘And you know where he lives.’

‘Yes,’ said Danglard again.

Adamsberg realised that this rapid conclusion was troubling his colleagues, generating a strong emotion of some kind, as if they had had to make a forced landing. But the air of general embarrassment, even guilt, disconcerted him. Somewhere the plane had gone off the runway.

‘So,’ he continued, ‘we know his address, maybe we know where he works, his family, friends. And you found that out less than twenty-four hours ago. So we check his whereabouts, we move in cautiously and we’ve got him.’

As he spoke he realised that he was completely mistaken. Either they were not going to catch the suspect, or they had already lost him.

‘You can’t have missed him, unless he knows he’s been identified.’

Danglard put his baggy briefcase on his knees, the one usually bulging with bottles of wine. He pulled out a sheaf of newspapers and passed one over to Adamsberg.

‘Yes, he does know,’ he said in a weary voice.

XVII

LAVOISIER, HEAD SURGEON AT THE HOSPITAL, WAS LOOKING down severely at his patient, as if he blamed him for his own condition. This sudden attack of fever wasn’t supposed to happen. It was caused by incipient peritonitis which would gravely compromise his chances of recovery. He was on powerful antibiotics, and the sheets were changed every two hours. The doctor patted Emile’s cheeks several times.

‘Wake up, old chap, we’re going to have to hook you up.’

Emile obeyed painfully and looked up at the little man in white, to him a slightly fuzzy silhouette.

‘I’m Professor Lavoisier, like Lavoisier,’ said the doctor. ‘Hang on in there,’ he said, patting the cheek again. ‘You’re supposed to be nil by mouth, but you must have swallowed something secretly. A piece of paper, something you didn’t want us to find?’

Emile moved his head left to right. Negative.

‘Come clean, mon vieux. I don’t care if you’ve got something illegal in here. It’s your stomach I’m worried about, not your criminal record. Understand? You could have killed all four of your grandparents and it wouldn’t change the problem I’ve got with your stomach. See what I mean? I’m quite neutral. So come on, did you swallow anything?’

‘Wine,’ Emile whispered.

‘How much?’

Emile indicated about five centimetres with finger and thumb.

‘Or two or three times that, no?’ Lavoisier guessed. ‘Ah, that’s helpful, now I can see a bit more clearly. Because I don’t care how much you drink as a rule, that’s your business. But right now, nothing at all. So where did you get this wine? Under the other patient’s bed?’

Negative. Vexed.

‘Don’t drink much. Good for me circulation though.’

‘Oh, you think that, do you? And where did you dig that up?’

‘They told me.’

‘Who? The guy over there with the ulcer?’

‘No, wouldn’t believe him, he’s too dumb.’

‘Yes, true, he is dumb,’ said Lavoisier, ‘so who?’

‘White coat.’

‘No, impossible.’

‘White coat, mask.’

‘No doctor on this floor wears a mask. Nor do the nurses or paramedics.’

‘White coat. Made me drink, good for me.’

Lavoisier clenched his fist as he remembered Adamsberg’s strict injunctions.

‘All right, mon vieux,’ he said, ‘I’m going to call your pal the cop now.’

‘That cop,’ said Emile, lifting his arm. ‘If I’ve had it, tell him something.’

‘You want me to give Adamsberg a message?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Take your time.’

‘Code word. On a postcard too. Same thing.’

‘Right,’ said Lavoisier, writing a few words on the temperature chart. ‘That it?’

‘Dog, watch out.’

‘Watch out for what?’

‘Allergic to peppers.’

‘That’s all?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Don’t worry, I’ll pass it all on.’

Once he was in the corridor, Lavoisier called the tall paramedic, Andre, and the small one, Guillaume.

‘From now on, take it in turns to watch his door, don’t leave him alone for a second. Some bastard has got him to swallow something in a glass of wine. Wearing a white coat and a mask, simple as that. Immediate stomach pump, tell the anaesthetist and Dr Venieux, it’s make or break.’

XVIII

DANGLARD ASKED ADAMSBERG TO STAY BEHIND WITH HIM in the cafe, and pulled together the newspapers