This Night’s Foul Work

‘And you’ve seen her?’ asked Estalere, disconcerted by the smiles all round.

‘Just a legend,’ said Mordent, separating the syllables as was his habit. ‘Clarisse doesn’t exist.’

‘Just as well,’ said the brigadier. ‘But is your Spaniard crazy or what?’

‘Not at all. He was bitten by a spider on the arm he’s lost, and it still itches sixty-nine years later. He scratches a point in the air.’

The arrival of the waiter distracted Estalere from his perplexity. He jumped up to place a collective coffee order. Retancourt, taking no notice of the clatter of crockery, was still looking at the photos of the nurse, while Veyrenc was talking to her. The New Recruit had not shaved and he had that soft indulgent look of a man who has been up all night making love. That reminded Adamsberg that he had let Ariane get away while he had been sleeping like a log in her car. The reflections from the windows lit up the strange colours of the lieutenant‘s striped hair.

‘Why is it your job to protect Adamsberg?’ Veyrenc was asking Retancourt. ‘Just you, on your own?’

‘It’s become a habit.’

‘I see:

“So ’tis you, dear Madame, who the buckler must wield,

To act ’gainst the killer, as armour and shield.

I give you my valour, to the very last breath,

Beside you for vict’ry, or beside you for death.” ’

Retancourt smiled, distracted for a moment from her preoccupations.

‘Is that really what you want, Veyrenc?’ asked Adamsberg, trying not to sound too cold. ‘Or is that just poetic licence? Do you really want to help Retancourt protect me? Think before you answer, and estimate the danger. Making up verse won’t help.’

‘Retancourt’s perfectly capable of handling it,’ interrupted Noel.

‘Shut up,’ said Voisenet.

‘Yeah, just shut up,’ said Justin.

Adamsberg realised that on the staff Justin sometimes played exactly the same role as the punctuator at Haroncourt, while Noel was the most aggressive of the contradictors.

The waiter brought the coffees, which provided a brief interlude. Estalere passed them round with scrupulous attention, making sure that everyone had the right one. The others let him do it: they were used to it.

‘I accept,’ said Veyrenc, somewhat tight-lipped.

‘What about you, Retancourt?’ Adamsberg asked. ‘Do you accept him?’

Retancourt looked at Veyrenc in a clear-eyed and neutral way, appearing to weigh up his capacity to help her, visibly assessing him by some standard of her own making. She looked almost like a horse-dealer appraising her animal, and the examination was sufficiently unsettling to cause a silence round the table. But Veyrenc took no offence at the process. He was the New Recruit, it was his job. And he had himself provoked this irony of fate. He was to protect Adamsberg.

‘OK, I accept,’ Retancourt concluded.

‘Very well,’ said Adamsberg.

‘Him?’ said Noel, between gritted teeth. ‘But he’s new round here, for fuck’s sake.’

‘He’s got eleven years’ service,’ retorted Retancourt.

‘Well, I’m against’, said Noel, raising his voice. ‘This guy won’t protect you, commissaire, he hasn’t the slightest wish to.’

Well spotted, thought Adamsberg.

‘Too late, it’s been decided,’ he decreed.

Danglard was observing the scene anxiously, while filing his nails and weighing up Noel’s obvious jealousy. The lieutenant zipped up his leather jacket, as he did whenever he was about to overstep the line.

‘It’s up to you, commissaire,’ he said with a harsh laugh, as the green light flickered across his face. ‘But to fight a monster like that you need a tiger. And far as I know,’ he said, jerking his chin towards the New Recruit’s hair, ‘there’s more to a tiger than stripes.’

He’s hit the spot, Danglard had time to think, before Veyrenc turned deathly pale and got to his feet opposite Noel. Then he sat down again, as if all the strength had gone out of him. Adamsberg read on the New Recruit’s face such suffering that a knot of pure rage formed in his stomach, relegating the war of the two valleys into the far distance. Angry outbursts were so rare with Adamsberg that they were dangerous, as Danglard well knew. He stood up in turn, and moved round the table quickly, seeking to fend off a scene. Adamsberg had hauled Noel to his feet and, pressing his hand hard against his chest, was pushing him step by step towards the street. Veyrenc sat motionless, one hand involuntarily on his cursed hair, without even looking at them. He was simply aware that two women, Retancourt and Helene Froissy, were sitting silently beside him. As long as he could remember, apart from his chaotic love life, women hadn’t hurt him: they had never made insults or flippant remarks about his hair. Since the age of eight, he had always had girls as friends, never a single male companion. He had no idea how to talk to men and didn’t want to.

Adamsberg returned to the brasserie six minutes later, alone. The tension within him had not yet dissipated, leaving his face as if illumined with a pale glow, not unlike the strange luminescence of the windows.

‘Where’s he gone?’ asked Mordent cautiously.

‘Off with the seagulls, and still flying. And if I have my way, he’ll stay in the air for some time.’

‘But he’s already had his leave,’ Estalere remarked.

This conscientious interruption had a calming effect, as if someone had opened a little window painted yellow in a room full of smoke.

‘Well, he can take a bit more,’ said Adamsberg, more mildly. ‘Now, into your teams,’ he said, glancing at his watches. ‘You can pick up the photographs of the nurse from the office. Danglard will coordinate.’

‘Not you?’ asked Lamarre.

‘No, I’m going on ahead. With Veyrenc.’

The paradoxical situation was in part beyond the control of either Adamsberg or Veyrenc, who found no verses to declaim to restore his equilibrium. He now found himself assigned to protect the commissaire, while Adamsberg was now Veyrenc’s defender, responsibilities neither of them had wished for. Provocation can lead to undesirable consequences, Adamsberg reflected.

The two men spent a couple of hours combing the market, arranging things so that they did not have to speak directly to each other. Veyrenc did most of the questioning, while the commissaire appeared to be vaguely looking for some unspecified object to buy. As daylight faded, Adamsberg pointed to an abandoned wooden chest and called a pause. They sat at opposite ends of the chest, leaving maximum space between them. Veyrenc lit a cigarette, which removed the need to say anything.

‘Awkward business, working together,’ said Adamsberg, chin in hand.

‘Yes,’ agreed Veyrenc.

‘ The mysterious gods play their games with our fate,

Ignoring our desires until it is too late.’

‘You’re right, lieutenant, the gods are to blame. They get bored, so they drink and play games, and we find ourselves trampled underfoot. Both of us. Our own plans are thrown off course, and all for the gods’ amusement.’

‘You don’t have to do this legwork. Why didn’t you stay back at the office?’

‘Because I’m looking for a fireguard.’

‘Ah. You have an open fire?’

‘Yes. When Tom starts walking it’ll be dangerous. So I’m looking for a fireguard.’

‘There was one back in the middle aisle. With a bit of luck, the stall might still be open.’

‘You might have said earlier.’

Half an hour later, by which time it was dark, the two men were trudging back up the aisle, carrying an ancient and heavy fireguard; Veyrenc had spent a long time beating down the price, while Adamsberg had been testing its stability.

‘It’s fine,’ Veyrenc said as they put it down beside the car. ‘Good-looking, solid, and not too dear.’

‘Yes, it’s fine,’ Adamsberg agreed. ‘If you can push it on to the back seat I’ll pull it from the other side.’