The Three Evangelists

‘She must have gone to earth in her house in Dourdan. She saw Dompierre coming to visit her father’s house. She must have followed him. But then he wrote her name.’

Suddenly Marc cried out. He felt frightened and feverish. He was trembling. ‘No! No!’ he cried. ‘Not Sophia! Not Sophia! She was beautiful. It’s horrible, it’s too horrible.’

‘The historian cannot close his ears to anything,’ said Lucien.

But Marc had left, telling Lucien to get stuffed with his history, and had run out into the street with his hands over his ears.

‘He’s over-sensitive,’ said Vandoosler.

Lucien went back up to his room. To forget. To work.

Vandoosler remained alone with the photograph. His head was aching. Leguennec must be checking homeless people in various sectors of Paris. He was looking for a woman who had disappeared on June 2. When Vandoosler had left the station earlier that afternoon, there was already a trail that looked promising: an old woman called Louise, who lived under the Pont d’Austerlitz, who refused to move out of her little archway, furnished with cardboard boxes, and who was well known for her outbursts at the Gare de Lyon. Apparently she had gone missing a few days ago. It seemed likely that the beautiful Sophia had tempted her away, and that she had been incinerated in the car.

Yes, he had a headache alright.

XXXIV

MARC RAN A LONG WAY, UNTIL HE COULD RUN NO MORE, AND HIS LUNGS were aching. Panting for breath, with his sweat-soaked shirt sticking to his back, he sat down on the first milestone he found. Dogs had pissed all over it. He didn’t care. His head was ringing as he sat there with his hands squeezing his temples, and trying to think. Sickened and distracted, he was trying to calm down sufficiently to get his thoughts in order. He must avoid stamping his foot as he used to over the plastic balls. Or letting tectonic plates wander round his head. He would never manage to clear his brain, sitting on a stone that stank of piss. He needed to walk, slowly, just to walk along. But first he needed to get his breath back. He looked around to see where he was. On the avenue d’Italie. Had he really run that far? He got up carefully, mopped his brow and went towards the nearest Metro station: Maison-Blanche, the white house. That reminded him of something. Ah yes, the white whale. Moby Dick. The five- franc coin nailed up in the refectory. That was typical of the god-father, playing games, when everything was ending in horror. He must go back up the avenue d’Italie. Walking with careful steps. Get used to the idea. Why didn’t he want Sophia to have done all this? Because he had met her one morning, in front of the gate? And yet Christophe Dompierre’s dying accusation was there, blindingly clear. ‘Simeonidis S’, even if the S was the wrong way round. Marc suddenly froze. He started walking again. Stopped. Went into a cafe for a cup of coffee. Took up his walk again.

It was nine that evening by the time he got home, with an empty stomach and a heavy head. He went into the refectory to get himself a piece of bread. Leguennec was there, talking to his godfather. Each of them had a deck of playing cards in his hands.

‘There’s this old clochard, Raymond, hangs around the Pont d’Austerlitz,’ Leguennec was saying. ‘He’s a pal of Louise’s. He says a la-di-da lady came to find her about a week ago, on a Wednesday. He’s absolutely sure it was a Wednesday. This woman was well dressed, and when she talked, she kept putting her hand to her throat. Spades.’

‘She made some kind of proposition to Louise?’ asked Vandoosler, putting three cards down, one of them face up.

‘Yes. Raymond doesn’t know what it was, but Louise was secretive about having a date with someone, and she was “bloody pleased with herself”. What a business! She was about to get bumped off in a car in Maisons- Alfort. Poor old Louise. Your call.’

‘No clubs. I’m discarding. What does the police doctor have to say?’

‘He thinks it fits, because of the teeth. He would have thought the teeth would have survived better. But the ancient Louise had hardly any left. So that explains it. Maybe that was why Sophia picked her. I’m taking your hearts, and I’m harpooning the jack of diamonds.’

Marc pocketed the bread and put a couple of apples in his other pocket. He wondered what strange game the two policeman were playing. But he didn’t care. He hadn’t finished walking yet. Nor had he got used to the idea yet. Going out again, he went down the other side of rue Chasle, passing the Western Front. It would soon be dark.

He walked around for another two full hours. He left one apple core on the parapet of the Saint-Michel fountain, and the other on the plinth of the Belfort Lion on the place Denfert-Rochereau. It was hard getting close to the lion and climbing up onto the plinth. There’s a little rhyme that says that the Belfort Lion comes down at night and pads around Paris. At least you can be sure that that really is a fairy story. When Marc jumped down again, he felt a lot better. He came back to rue Chasle, with his head aching a bit still, but calmer. He had digested the idea. He knew where Sophia was now. He had taken some time to work it out.

He came into the darkened refectory, feeling composed. Half-past eleven. Everyone must be asleep. He put on the light and and picked up the kettle. The horrible photo was no longer on the table. Instead there was a bit of paper with a message from Mathias: ‘Juliette thinks she knows where she is. I’m going to Dourdan with her. I’m afraid she might be going to help her run away. I’ll call Alexandra if I need to. Caveman greetings. Mathias.’

Marc put the kettle down with a bang. Oh God, the idiot!’ he muttered. ‘The bloody idiot.’ He ran up to the third floor, four steps at a time. ‘Lucien, get dressed!’ he shouted, shaking his friend by the shoulder.

Lucien opened his eyes, ready to retort something.

‘No, don’t ask, don’t start talking. I need you! Hurry!’

Marc rushed up to the fourth floor and shook Vandoosler awake.

‘She’s going to get away!’ Marc said, panting. ‘Quick! Juliette and Mathias have gone! That idiot Mathias doesn’t realise the danger. I’m going with Lucien. Go and get Leguennec out of bed, and make him bring his men to Dourdan, number 12 allee des Grands-Ifs!’

Marc rushed out again. His legs ached from all the walking he had done. Lucien was coming downstairs, drowsy from sleep, pushing his feet into his shoes, a tie in his hand.

‘Come and find me in front of Relivaux’s house,’ said Marc, pushing past him.

Hurtling down the steps, he ran across the garden and shouted up at Relivaux’s house. Relivaux appeared at the window, looking wary. He was only lately returned, and the news about the name Dompierre had written on the car had apparently left him in a state of collapse.

‘Throw me the keys to your car!’ yelled Marc. ‘It’s a matter of life and death!’

Relivaux did not stop to think. A few seconds later, Marc caught the keys as they sailed over the gate. Say what you like about Relivaux, he was good at throwing.

‘Thanks,’ Marc yelled.

He turned on the ignition, moved off, opening the passenger door to pick up Lucien. Lucien tied his tie carefully, put a small flat bottle on his thigh, adjusted the angle of his seat backwards and settled comfortably.

‘What’s in the bottle?’ asked Marc.

‘Cooking rum. Just in case.’

‘Where d’you get that?’

‘It’s mine. Got it to make cakes.’

Marc shrugged. That was Lucien for you.

Marc drove fast, gritting his teeth. In Paris at midnight you could generally get through very quickly. But it was Friday night and the traffic was heavy. Marc was sweating with anxiety, overtaking, jumping traffic lights. Only when he got out of Paris and onto the empty main road did he feel able to talk.

‘What the hell does Mathias think he’s playing at?’ he exclaimed. ‘He believes he can manage a woman who’s already liquidated tons of people. He doesn’t realise. He’s worse than a bison!’