lying in fragments on the floor. Daylight was visible between the wall and the wooden surround of the window.
Francine went to take a closer look. Not only would she have to block the hateful crack up again but she would have to think. How and why had the cement fallen out? Could some creature from the outside have pushed its snout into the crack, or tried to break in by knocking the wall? If so, what could it be? A wild boar, perhaps?
Francine sat back on the bed, with tears in her eyes and her feet lifted well off the floor. If only she could go to a hotel until the flat was ready. But she had done her sums and it would be far too dear.
She wiped her eyes and put on her slippers. She’d lived for thirty-five years in this tumbledown old farm, so she’d manage for another two months. She didn’t have any choice. She would have to wait, counting the days. She cheered herself up with the thought that it would soon be time to go to the pharmacy. And this evening, after blocking up the hole, she’d go to bed with her coffee and rum and watch another film.
XLVII
IN THE HELICOPTER HOVERING OVER THE ROOFS OF THE OFFICE, ADAMSBERG was holding his breath. The little red light from the cat’s transmitter was quite visible on the screen, but it wasn’t moving an inch.
‘Shit,’ muttered Froissy through clenched teeth.
Adamsberg spoke into his radio.
‘Maurel? Have you let him go?’
‘Yes,
Adamsberg let the mike fall on to his knees and bit his lip furiously.
‘Look, he’s moved,’ announced the pilot, Bastien, a man overweight to the point of obesity but who was flying the helicopter with the casual grace of a pianist.
Adamsberg leaned towards the screen, his gaze riveted to the little red light which was indeed starting to move off slowly.
‘He’s going towards the Avenue d’Italie. Keep following him, Bastien. Maurel, tell the cars to start.’
At ten past ten, the helicopter was flying due south over the southern part of Paris, like a great insect tied to the movements of a soft furry cat, quite unfitted to the outdoor life.
‘He’s turning south-west, he’s going to cross the ring road,’ said Bastien. ‘The traffic’s at an absolute standstill, there’s a big tailback.’
‘Please don’t let Snowball get run over,’ prayed Adamsberg rapidly, addressing his prayer to he knew not who, now that he had lost sight of his third virgin. ‘Let him be a cunning animal.’
‘He’s across,’ announced Bastien. ‘He’s going into the suburbs. He’s found his cruising rhythm now, he’s almost running.’
Adamsberg glanced in wonder at Mordent and Froissy, who were craning over his shoulder to see the red point moving on the screen.
‘He’s almost running,’ he repeated, as if to convince himself of this unlikely development.
‘Nope, now he’s stopped,’ said Bastien.
‘Cats can’t run for long,’ said Froissy. ‘He might do it a bit now and then, but no more.’
‘He’s off again, steady rhythm again.’
‘How fast?’
‘Two, three kilometres an hour. He’s heading for Fontenay-aux-Roses at a steady trot.’
‘Cars, make for the D77, Fontenay-aux-Roses, still south-west.’
‘What’s the time?’ asked Danglard as he took the car on to the D77.
‘Eleven-fifteen,’ said Kernorkian. ‘Perhaps he’s just looking for his mother.’
‘Who?’
‘The cat.’
‘Grown-up cats don’t recognise their mothers, they don’t give a damn.’
‘Well, what I mean is that the Snowball could be taking us absolutely anywhere. Perhaps he’s taking us to Lapland.’
‘Not if he’s going south.’
‘All right, keep your hair on,’ said Kernorkian. ‘All I meant was -’
‘Yes, I know what you meant,’ Danglard cut him off. ‘You just meant we don’t know where the fucking cat’s going, we don’t know if he’s going after Retancourt, we don’t know if Retancourt’s alive or dead. Hell’s bells, Kernorkian, we don’t have any choice.’
‘Head for Sceaux,’ came Adamsberg’s voice over the radio. ‘Take the D67 via the D75.’
‘He’s slowing down,’ said Bastien. ‘He’s stopping. Perhaps he’s taking a rest.’
‘If Retancourt’s in Narbonne,’ muttered Mordent, ‘we’ve got a long way to go yet.’
‘Hell, Mordent,’ said Adamsberg. ‘She might not even be in Narbonne, at that.’
‘Sorry, said Mordent. ‘It’s just nerves.’
‘I know,
The
‘What do you want? Sweet or savoury?’
‘What kind of savoury?’
‘Pate?’ guessed Mordent.
‘That’d be nice.’
‘He’s still taking a nap,’ reported Bastien.
In the cockpit of the helicopter, as it circled in the sky above the place where the cat was sleeping, Froissy prepared sandwiches of duck liver and green pepper pate. All four munched in silence, taking as long as possible, as if to suspend time. If you have something to do, anything can happen.
‘He’s off again, he’s trotting along,’ said Bastien.
Estalere, having stopped his bike, was listening to the instructions over the radio as he gripped the handlebars. He felt he was in some ghastly horror film. But the determined onward journey of the little animal encouraged him more than any other thought. The Snowball was heading for some unknown destination, without hesitating or weakening, crossing industrial zones, bramble patches, fields, railway tracks. Estalere admired the cat. It had been six hours now since it had begun its odyssey and they’d gone about eighteen kilometres. The police cars were moving slowly, halting for long stretches at the side of the road before making for the next point identified by the helicopter, and getting as close as possible to the route of the cat.
‘Off you go again,’ Adamsberg was saying to the cars. ‘Go towards Palaiseau, on the D988. He’s heading for the Ecole Polytechnique, south side.’
‘He’s going to get an education,’ said Danglard, starting the engine.
‘Nothing but cotton wool in that little head.’
‘We’ll see about that, Kernorkian.’
‘The speed we’re going now, we could stop off for a drink.’
‘No,’ said Danglard, whose head was still aching from the amount of wine he had drunk in the basement the day before. ‘Either I drink to get drunk, or I don’t touch the stuff. I don’t like just having a glass. Today’s a non- drinking day.’
‘I get the impression that the Snowball likes a drink,’ said Kernorkian.
‘Yes, he’s a bit inclined that way,’ agreed Danglard. ‘Have to keep an eye on him.’
‘If he doesn’t drop dead on this trek.’
Danglard checked the dashboard. Four-forty p.m. The time was dragging, making everyone feel nervy and at the end of their tether.
‘We’re going to refuel at Orsay, then we’re back,’ announced Bastien over the radio.
The helicopter moved off quickly, leaving the little red dot behind. Adamsberg had the feeling briefly that he was abandoning the Snowball in his quest.
At half past five, after seven hours on the move, the cat was still going strong and determinedly heading
