This Night’s Foul Work

‘Ye-es,’ Veyrenc admitted. ‘So if you choose the elementary method, you put Francine back in her house? Discreetly protected this time?’

‘No, no. No one in their right mind would think we could get Francine to set foot in that farmhouse again.’

‘So where’ll you put her? In a hotel in Evreux? And let the information leak out?’

‘Not quite. I’ve chosen a place that I think is reasonably safe and secret but which the murderer might be able to guess, if he has his wits about him. Which he generally has.’

Veyrenc thought for a few moments.

‘So it’s got to be a place you know quite well,’ he said, thinking aloud. ‘A place that won’t frighten Francine too much, but that you can protect without your policemen being obvious.’

‘For instance?’

‘For instance, the inn in Haroncourt.’

‘See, it was quite easy. In Haroncourt, where the whole thing started, but under the protection of Robert and Oswald. They’ll be a lot less obvious than a bunch of cops. Cops are always easy to spot.’

Veyrenc looked doubtful.

‘Even a cop who’s come down out of the mountains and hasn’t bothered to do up all his shirt buttons or to get rid of the mist in his eyes?’

‘Yes, even me, Veyrenc. And do you know why? Why do you think an ordinary customer sitting in a cafe drinking his beer doesn’t look like a policeman sitting at a table and drinking his beer? Because the policeman’s on duty and the other isn’t. Because a man on his own thinks, daydreams, and wonders about things. But the cop is watching the whole time. The ordinary guy’s eyes are looking in at himself, but the cop’s eyes are always flicking round his surroundings. He might as well put up a sign. So we won’t put an officer in the bar at the hotel.’

‘I see. Not bad,’ said Veyrenc, stubbing out his cigarette.

‘Well, anyway, I hope so,’ said Adamsberg, getting up.

‘What did you really come here for, commissaire?’

‘To ask you whether any more details had come back to you, now you’ve remembered where it really happened, the attack: in the High Meadow.’

‘Just one.’

‘And that is?’

‘That fifth boy, the one under the tree, standing looking at the others getting to work on me.’

‘Yes.’

‘He had his hands behind his back.’

‘So?’

‘So I’m wondering what he was holding in his hands, or hiding. A weapon, perhaps?’

‘You’re getting warm. Keep on thinking, lieutenant.’

Veyrenc watched as the commissaire picked up his jacket, of which one sleeve was inexplicably soaking wet, and went out, slamming the door. He closed his eyes and smiled.

You lie to me, my lord, but your tricks help me know

To what strange final end you wish my steps to go.

LX

CROUCHING IN A DARK CORNER OF THE LINEN STORE, THE SHADE WAS waiting for the evening routines to be over. The night shift would soon be there, and the nurses were going round the rooms, emptying bedpans, putting out lights, and getting ready to return to their lodgings. Getting into Saint-Vincent-de-Paul Hospital had been even easier than expected. No distrust, no questions, not even from the lieutenant on duty on the first floor, who tended to drop off to sleep every now and then but who had saluted pleasantly and reported that all was well. The hypersomniac idiot, that was a piece of luck. He had gratefully accepted a cup of machine coffee, containing two sleeping pills, which meant he’d be out for the count till tomorrow morning. When people don’t suspect you, it’s all quite simple. Soon now, the incredible hulk would be unable to say anything: it was about time she was shut up for good. Retancourt’s unpredictable survival capacity had been an unexpected setback. And those damned lines from Corneille that she had stammered out. Luckily none of the imbeciles in the squad had understood, not even their resident intellectual, Danglard, never mind an airhead like Adamsberg. Retancourt, though, was dangerous, as smart as she was strong. Still, tonight there would be a double dose of Novaxon, and in her present condition she’d croak at the first intake of breath.

The Shade smiled, thinking of Adamsberg, who right now would be setting up his gimcrack little trap in the inn at Haroncourt. A pathetic little trap, which would close on him, making him look ridiculous and humiliated. In the distress that would be caused by the incredible hulk’s death, the Shade would have no trouble getting to the goddamn third virgin, who had escaped by a hair’s breadth last time. What a pathetic halfwit – and they were protecting her as if she were a precious vase. That had been the Shade’s only mistake. Who would have thought that anyone would guess there was a bone like a cross in the heart of a stag? Or that such an ignorant and vague mind as Adamsberg’s would find the link between the stags and the virgins, between Pascaline’s cat and the De reliquis. But by some monumental bad luck, that’s what he had done, and he’d identified the third virgin quicker than might have been expected. It was also bad luck that Danglard was well-read enough to want to see the book at the priest’s house and had recognised the 1663 edition. Typical that fate should throw some cops like this in the way.

But, after all, these obstacles weren’t serious: Francine’s death was only a matter of weeks away and there was still plenty of time. By the autumn the mixture would be ready and both time and the enemy would be powerless.

The ancillary staff were leaving the kitchens on the first floor, the nurses were going round saying their usual goodnights to each patient (close your eyes now, try to get a good night’s rest). The night lights in the corridor had been lit. Best to wait a good hour, so that the insomniacs had time to drop off. But by eleven o’clock the hulk would be asleep for good.

LXI

ADAMSBERG CONSIDERED THAT HE HAD LAID HIS TRAP WITH CHILDLIKE simplicity and he was quite pleased with it. It was a classic mousetrap, of course, but it ought to be secure, complete with the slight twist he was banking on. Sitting behind the door of the bedroom, he was waiting for the second consecutive night. Three metres to his left sat Adrien Danglard, an excellent exponent of the speedy assault, unlikely though that might seem. In action, his lethargic body snapped into movement like a rubber band. Danglard was wearing a particularly elegant suit this evening. His bulletproof vest affected its lines somewhat, but Adamsberg had insisted on his wearing it. To his right was Estalere, whose qualities included seeing uncommonly well in the dark, like the Snowball.

‘It won’t work,’ said Danglard, whose pessimism always got the better of him at night.

‘Yes, it will,’ said Adamsberg for the fourth time.

‘It’s ridiculous. The Haroncourt inn. He’s sure to smell a rat.’

‘No. Hush, Danglard. Estalere, take care – I can hear you breathing.’

‘Sorry,’ said Estalere. ‘It’s hay fever.’

‘Well, blow your nose once for all, then keep quiet.’

Adamsberg rose silently one last time and twitched the curtain another few centimetres along. He had to have the dark absolutely under control. The killer would be completely silent, as the cemetery keeper at Montrouge had described, and as Gratien and Francine had confirmed. There would be no heavy footsteps to give warning of approach. They would have to be able to see the killer before the killer saw them. The darkness in the corners where they were posted would have to be denser than the light round the door. He sat back down and gripped the light switch. His job was to switch it on the moment the killer got inside the door. Then Estalere would block the