This Night’s Foul Work

Danglard considered himself lucky when the creature deigned to walk the twenty metres to its feeding bowl. One time in three, it would give up and roll on to its back, obliging someone to take it to the food or to its litter tray in the drinks room. That Thursday, Danglard was holding the cat under his arm, like a floorcloth hanging down on both sides, when Brezillon telephoned, wanting Adamsberg.

‘Where the devil is he? His mobile’s not on. Or perhaps he’s refusing to answer it.’

‘I don’t know, Monsieur le divisionnaire. But I expect he’s dealing with some pressing matter.’

‘Oh, bound to be,’ said Brezillon with a harsh laugh.

Danglard put the cat down, so that the divisionnaire‘s anger should not frighten it. The consequences of the expedition to Montrouge had exasperated Brezillon. He had already told the commissaire to stop following up that particular lead, since tomb-robbers were never murderers, according to all the psychiatric records.

‘You’re not very good at lying, Commandant Danglard. Please inform him that I expect him to be back at his desk by five this afternoon. And what about the death in Reims? Still working on it?’

‘Sorted, Monsieur le divisionnaire.’

‘And this nurse who’s on the run? What the devil are you doing about her?’

‘We’ve put out her description. She’s been reported in twenty different places already this week. We’re following them up and checking.’

‘And Adamsberg’s in charge of that?’

‘Yes, of course, sir.’

‘From a country graveyard in Opportune-la-Haute?’

Danglard swallowed a couple of mouthfuls of white wine and shook his head at the cat. It was clear that the Snowball was on the verge of becoming an alcoholic and needed watching. His only independent forays were to find the personal caches used by Danglard. He had recently discovered the one underneath the boiler in the basement. This was proof positive that the Snowball was not the imbecile everyone took him for, that he was in fact a cat of exceptional flair. But, alas, Danglard could hardly inform anyone else of this prowess.

‘As you see, it’s pointless trying to put one across me,’ Brezillon went on.

‘Not trying to, sir,’ said Danglard, sincerely.

‘The Squad is on a hiding to nothing. Adamsberg’s leading it astray, and you’re all following him. If you don’t already know what he’s up to, which frankly would surprise me, I’ll tell you what your boss is doing right now. He’s exploring an inoffensive grave in some godforsaken village out in the sticks.’

Well, why not? Danglard thought to himself. The commandant was usually the first to criticise Adamsberg’s fantastic escapades, but he always put up the sturdiest of defences against any external attack.

‘And what’s that all about?’ Brezillon was going on. ‘I’ll tell you that, too. Because some village idiot saw a ghost in a field.’

Why not? thought Danglard again, swallowing another mouthful.

‘That’s what Adamsberg’s up to, that’s what he’s “checking” right now.’

‘Did the Evreux gendarmes report that to you?’

‘That, Danglard, is their job: to report when a commissaire goes offmission. And they get on to it, fast and efficiently. I want him back here at five this evening, checking out sightings of that nurse.’

‘I don’t think that will attract him,’ Danglard murmured softly.

‘And as for the two stiffs in La Chapelle, I’m taking you off them as of now. Drugs can have them. You can tell him that, commandant. I presume that when you call him, he deigns to answer his phone.’

Danglard emptied his glass and picked up the cat, but before doing anything else, he called the number of the gendarmerie at Evreux.

‘Get me the commandant - tell him it’s an urgent call from Paris.’

Clenching his fingers in the cat’s furry pelt, Danglard waited impatiently.

‘Commandant Devalon? Was it you told Brezillon that Adamsberg was in your sector?’

‘Listen, when Adamsberg’s on the loose round here, prevention’s better than cure. Who am I talking to?’

‘Commandant Danglard. Go to hell, Devalon.’

‘Don’t waste your breath, Danglard. You’d do better to get your boss back home, pronto.’

Danglard banged down the receiver, and the cat stretched out its paws in fright.

XXVI

‘FIVE O’CLOCK? OH, THE HELL WITH HIM, DANGLARD.’

‘He knows you’ll say that. Come back, commissaire - things will be hotting up otherwise. What are you doing, anyway?’

‘We’re looking for a hole under some blades of grass.’

‘Who’s “we”?’

‘Veyrenc and me.’

‘Well, get back here. Evreux’s been told you’re poking about in one of their cemeteries.’

‘But the dead men in La Chapelle are ours.’

‘Not any more. We’ve been taken off the case, commissaire.’

‘OK, Danglard,’ said Adamsberg after a silence. ‘I get the picture.’

Adamsberg snapped his phone shut.

‘We’re going to have to change tactics, Veyrenc. It’s going to be a bit tight for time.’

‘We’re giving up?’

‘No, I’m calling in the expert.’

Adamsberg and Veyrenc had been feeling the surface of the earth over the grave for half an hour without finding any sign of a crack indicating a hole underneath it. Vandoosler Senior answered the phone again, which suggested that he had the job of filtering the calls to the household.

‘Given up, finished, kaput?’ he said.

‘No, Vandoosler, since I’m calling you.’

‘Which one do you want this time?’

‘Same one again.’

‘Bad call, he’s out of town. He’s off on a dig in the Essonne.’

‘Well, give me his number.’

‘Look, when Mathias is on a dig, nothing will make him leave it.’

‘Oh for God’s sake, Vandoosler, just give me the number!’

Vandoosler Senior was not mistaken, and Adamsberg gathered that he was disturbing the prehistoric expert when he eventually got through. No, Mathias couldn’t come, he was uncovering a Magdalenian household with scorched hearthstones, flint chippings, reindeer antlers and other objects which he listed, in order to try and convey the situation to Adamsberg.

‘This household circle is complete, it’s from 12,000 BC. What are you offering me instead?’

‘Another circle. Some of the grass is shorter, making a sort of ring in the middle of some longer grass, on top of a grave. If we don’t find anything, our two corpses will be sent over to Drugs. Mathias, look, I’m telling you there’s something important here. Your circle’s already been opened up – it can wait. Mine can’t.’

Mathias was no more interested in Adamsberg’s investigations than the policeman was concerned with palaeolithic remains. But the two men agreed when it came to emergencies.

‘What took you to this grave?’ Mathias asked.

‘It’s the grave of a young woman from Normandy, like the one in Montrouge, and a ghost has been seen