An Uncertain Place

por, qos. What were you trying to tell him?’

‘SOS. But I didn’t get it right. He won’t understand. Leave me alone, I won’t tell, I won’t say anything, I don’t know anything.’

‘Ha, but I need you, my boy. The police got a long way on this. So I’m going to leave you here, nailed to your chair. You decided to mutilate yourself, and you’ll be found dead at the scene of your crime – a fitting end. I’ve got a lot of things to do, and I want a bit of peace.’

‘So do I,’ gasped Zerk.

‘You!’ said Paole, pocketing the mobile. ‘What have you got left to do? Make your precious jewellery? Sing in your precious choir? Eat your supper? Who would care, you poor boy? You’re no use to anyone. Your mother’s left the country, your father doesn’t want anything to do with you. But at least you’ll accomplish something by your death. You’ll be famous.’

‘Please. I won’t tell, I’ll go far away. Adamsberg will never find out.’

Paole shrugged.

‘Naturally, he won’t find out. His pea brain’s not much bigger than yours, he’s just a windbag, like father, like son. Anyway, it’s a bit late to start calling him now. I’m afraid he’s no longer with us.’

‘That’s not true,’ said Zerk, twisting in his chair.

Paole leaned on the handle of the knife stuck into his hand and made the blade move in the wound.

‘Calm down. He’s as dead as a doornail. He’s walled up in the vault where Plogojowitz’s victims are all buried, in Kiseljevo, in Serbia. So he’s going to come riding to the rescue, is he?’

Paole then started to speak in a low voice, as if for himself alone, and the last hope ebbed from Zerk’s young face.

‘But you’re forcing me to move more quickly. Sooner or later they’ll trace your call, and they’ll identify who you are and where you are. So they’ll know where we both are. We’ve got a little less time than we bargained for, so prepare yourself, young man, and say your goodbyes.’

Paole had moved away from the armchair, but he was still too close to Zerk. By the time Adamsberg had opened the door and taken aim, he would have had four seconds’ warning to shoot at Zerk. Four seconds to distract him. Adamsberg took out his notebook, letting fall all the bits of paper that were chaotically pushed inside. The one he wanted was recognisable, a crumpled and dirty sheet on which he had copied the text from Plogojowitz’s grave. He took out his mobile and composed a text as quickly as he could: ‘Dobre vece proklet’ (= Good evening Cursed one). On the next line: ‘Plogojowitz’. Not very good, but the best he could manage. It would hold the man up for a minute or two, enough time to get between him and Zerk.

The phone bleeped in Paole’s pocket. He looked at the screen, frowned, and the door burst open. Adamsberg faced him, having moved in front of the young man, to cover him. Paole tilted his head, as if the sudden entry of the commissaire was some kind of music-hall act.

‘Oh, that’s your idea of a joke, is it, commissaire?’ said Paole, pointing to the phone. ‘You don’t say Dobro vece at this time of night, you say Laku noc.’

Paole’s scornful insouciance destabilised Adamsberg. He showed no interest in him at all. As if he were no more of a problem than a tuft of grass in the road. Still covering Paole with the gun, Adamsberg reached behind him and yanked out the knife.

‘Get out, Zerk! Move!’

Zerk hurtled out of the room, banging the door behind him, and they heard him run down the corridor.

‘How touching,’ said Paole. ‘And now, Adamsberg, it’s just the two of us. We’re both standing here, we’re both armed. You’ll aim for the legs, I’ll aim for the heart, and if you shoot first, I’ll still shoot you, won’t I? You haven’t a chance. My fingers are ultra-sensitive and my sangfroid is total. In such a strictly technical situation, your door to the unconscious is no use to you at all. On the contrary, it’s an obstacle. You’re still making the same mistake as in Kiseljevo. Walking around on your own. Like in the old mill. Yes, I know,’ he said, raising his large hand. ‘Your men are on their way.’

The man consulted his watch and sat down. ‘We have a few minutes, I’ll easily catch up with the young man. A few minutes to find out how you traced me. I don’t mean tonight and the idiot Armel’s message. You do know your son’s a complete imbecile, don’t you? No, I mean when you came to my surgery, two days ago, for your tinnitus. You knew then, didn’t you, because your head was resisting me all the time. How did you know?’

‘In the vault.’

‘And?’

Adamsberg was finding it hard to speak. The memory of the vault could still immobilise him, the memory of the night with Vesna. He tried to think of the moment the door had opened and Veyrenc had come in, when he had drunk Froissy’s cognac.

‘The little kitten,’ he said. ‘The one you wanted to kick to death.’

‘Yes, didn’t have time for that. But it will be done, Adamsberg. I always keep my word.’

‘“I killed that kitten. Just one kick did it. Making me rescue her, that got up my nose.” That’s what you said.’

‘Correct.’

‘Zerk had brought the kitten out from under a woodpile. But how would he know it was a female? A week-old kitten. Impossible. Lucio knew and I knew. And you knew, doctor, because you’d treated her. Just you.’

‘Ah yes,’ said Paole. ‘I see my mistake. But when did you realise that? At once?’

‘No, when I saw the kitten again, back home.’

‘Always slow on the uptake, Adamsberg.’

Paole stood up and a shot rang out. Stupefied, Adamsberg stared as the doctor fell to the floor. He was hit in the stomach on the left side.

‘I was aiming for his legs,’ said the anxious voice of Madame Bourlant. ‘I’m not a very good shot.’ The little old woman trotted over to the man gasping on the floor, while Adamsberg picked up the gun and telephoned for the emergency services.

‘He’s not going to die, is he?’ she asked, leaning over him.

‘No, I think the bullet is lodged in the gut.’

‘It’s only a.32,’ said Madame Bourlant as if she were describing her skirt size.

Paole’s eyes appealed to the commissaire.

‘The ambulance is on its way, Paole.’

‘Don’t call me Paole,’ the doctor ordered in a strangled voice. ‘There are no more Paoles now that the wicked ones are all wiped out. The Paoles are saved. Understand, Adamsberg? They’re free. At last.’

‘Have you killed them all? The Plogojowitzes?’

‘I didn’t kill them. Eliminating creatures is not killing. They weren’t humans. I do good in the world, commissaire, I’m a doctor.’

‘Then you’re not human either, Josselin.’

‘I wasn’t quite. But now I am, yes.’

‘You’ve wiped them all out?’

‘The five big ones, yes. There are two shroud-eaters still alive, women. But they can’t reconstitute.’

‘I only know about three: Pierre Vaudel-Plog, Conrad Plogener and Frau Abster-Plogerstein. And Plogodrescu’s feet, but that’s a long time ago.’

‘Someone’s ringing at the door,’ said Madame Bourlant, timidly.

‘It’ll be the ambulance men – go and open it.’

‘What if it isn’t the ambulance?’

‘It will be. Go on, for heaven’s sake, woman.’

The little old woman went off, muttering again about the bad manners of the police.

‘Who is she?’ asked Josselin.

‘Next-door neighbour.’

‘How did she manage to shoot me?’

‘No idea.’

‘Losa sreca.’