From his window, Marc watched Vandoosler going off with Leguennec. He had managed to avoid meeting his uncle that morning. Mathias had gone to Juliette’s, he must be talking to her, choosing his words. He went up to see Lucien. Completely absorbed in transcribing the pages from war diary number one (September 1914 to February 1915), Lucien motioned to Marc not to interrupt him. He had decided to take another day off work, judging that to have flu for only forty-eight hours was not convincing. As he watched Lucien working, totally oblivious to the world outside, Marc told himself that perhaps in the end that would be the best thing for him to do too. The war was over. So he had better harness himself up to his medieval plough, even though nobody was asking him to. He’d work for nobody and for nothing, as he got back to his lords and peasants. Marc went back downstairs and opened his files without enthusiasm. Gosselin would be caught sooner or later. There would be a trial, and that would be it. Alexandra had nothing more to fear, and would go on giving him a little wave from the street. Yes, it was better to plunge into the eleventh century than to wait for that.
Leguennec waited until they were in his office with the door shut before exploding.
‘So,’ he bellowed. ‘I hope you’re pleased with yourself!’
‘That’ll do,’ said Vandoosler. ‘You’ve got your man, haven’t you?’
‘I
‘Let’s just say that I gave him three hours’ thinking time. That’s the least one could give him.’
Leguennec slammed both hands onto the desk. ‘Why for crying out loud did you do that?’ he shouted. ‘What’s this guy to you? Nothing. Why did you do it?’
‘To see what would happen,’ said Vandoosler nonchalantly. ‘One shouldn’t obstruct the course of events. That’s always been your weakness.’
‘You know what your little game might cost you?’
‘Yes, I know. But you won’t do anything to me.’
‘That’s what you think?’
‘Yes, that’s what I think. Because you’d be making a very big mistake, let me tell you.’
‘You’re well placed yourself, to talk about mistakes, don’t you think?’
‘What about you! If it hadn’t been for Marc, you would never have linked Sophia’s death and the murder of Christophe Dompierre. And if it hadn’t been for Lucien, you would never have connected all this to the murder of the two theatre critics, and you would never have identified Georges Gosselin as the bit player in the opera!’
‘And if it hadn’t been for you, he’d be in this office, right now!’
‘Just so. Shall we play cards while we wait?’ said Vandoosler.
A young assistant inspector opened the door in a hurry.
‘You could knock!’ yelled Leguennec.
‘No time, sir,’ said the young man. ‘We’ve got someone here who wants to see you urgently. It’s the Simeonidis-Dompierre case.’
‘The case is wrapped up. Get him out of here.’
‘At least ask who it is?’ suggested Vandoosler.
‘Who is it?’
‘A guest who was staying at the Hotel du Danube at the same time as Christophe Dompierre. The one who drove off in the morning without noticing there was a body in the car park.’
‘Get him in,’ hissed Vandoosler through clenched teeth.
Leguennec gestured, and the young man called into the corridor.
‘The cards will have to wait,’ said Leguennec.
The man came in and sat down without being invited to. He was in a state of high excitement.
‘What’s all this about?’ asked Leguennec. ‘Hurry up. I’ve got a man on the run. Your name, occupation?’
‘Eric Masson, section head at SODECO Grenoble.’
‘As if I care, really,’ said Leguennec. ‘What’s your business?’
‘I was staying at the Hotel du Danube,’ said Masson. ‘It’s not very grand, but I’m used to it and it’s near SODECO Paris.’
‘As if I care,’ Leguennec repeated.
Vandoosler gestured to him to take it easy. Leguennec sat down, offered a cigarette to Masson and lit one himself.
‘OK, I’m listening,’ he said, less irritably.
‘I was there the night Monsieur Dompierre was killed. The awful thing was, I drove my car out in the morning without suspecting a thing, and the body was just beside it, they told me afterwards.’
‘Go on.’
‘It was a Wednesday morning. I went straight to SODECO and parked in the underground car park.’
‘So bloody what?’ said Leguennec.
‘I’ll tell you so bloody what!’ said Masson, suddenly angry. ‘If I’m telling you these details, it’s because they’re extremely important!’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Leguennec. ‘I’m having a hard day. Go on.’
‘Next day, Thursday, I did exactly the same. I was on a three-day training course. Put the car in the car park, came back to the hotel at night, after dining with the other people on the course. My car’s black, I have to tell you. It’s a Renault 19, with a very low chassis.’
Vandoosler made a sign once more to Leguennec to stop him saying ‘so bloody what?’ again.
‘The course finished last night. This morning all I had to do was settle up and leave for Grenoble, no hurry. I left the hotel, and stopped at the first garage to fill the tank. It was the kind of garage where the pumps are out in the open.’
‘Calm down for God’s sake,’ Vandoosler whispered to Leguennec.
‘So
‘What?’ said Leguennec, suddenly taking notice.
‘Writing. In the dust on the front wing, low down, someone had written something with their finger. At first I thought it must be kids. But they usually do it on the windscreen and write PLEASE CLEAN ME or something. So I knelt down and read it. My car’s black, as I said, so the dust and mud show up on it and the writing was very clear, like on a blackboard. Then I suddenly understood. It must have been him, Dompierre, writing on my car as he lay dying. He didn’t die straightaway, is that right?’
Leaning forward, Leguennec was genuinely holding his breath. ‘No,’ he said. ‘He would have taken several minutes to die.’
‘Well, lying there, he had time and just enough strength to stretch out his arm and write. He wrote the killer’s name on my car. Lucky it hasn’t rained since.’
Two minutes later, Leguennec was telephoning the police photographer and rushing out into the street where Masson had parked his dusty black Renault.
‘A few more minutes,’ Masson was shouting as he ran along behind him, ‘and I would have taken it through the carwash. Funny old world, eh?’
‘You must be crazy, leaving a piece of evidence out in the street. Anyone could have come past and rubbed it out.’
‘Well, Monsieur, they wouldn’t let me park it in your courtyard. Those were their orders they said.’
The three men were now kneeling down beside the front wing of the car. The photographer asked them to get back so that he could get on with his job.’
‘I want a copy,’ Vandoosler said to Leguennec. ‘Get me a copy as soon as you can.’
‘What for?’
‘You’re not running this case unaided, as you very well know.’
‘Don’t I know it. OK, you’ll get your picture. Come back in an hour.’
At about two o’clock, Vandoosler was getting out of a taxi in front of the disgrace. Taxis cost money, but right now minutes counted. He hurried into the refectory and seized the broom handle, still not capped. He banged loudly seven times on the ceiling. Seven bangs meant ‘All evangelists down-stairs’. The usual code was one for St
