big, the mouth was crooked, mobile, and no doubt sensual, the eyes were vague and elusive, the jawbone was too prominent, so it looked as if it would be easy to caricature this mixed-up face, thrown together with disregard for classical harmony. It was as if God had run out of raw materials when he had made Jean-Baptiste Adamsberg: he had had to look in the back of the drawer and put together features that should never have been combined if he’d had more choice. But after that, it looked as if God had been aware of the problem and had taken special care, a great deal of care, in fact, and in the end had created an inexplicable masterpiece out of this face. And Danglard, who could not remember ever having seen a face like it, considered that trying to make a rapid sketch of it would be a travesty, that swift pencil strokes would not bring out its originality: on the contrary, a sketch would destroy all its grace.
So at that moment, Danglard was wondering what sort of things God kept in the back of the drawer.
‘Are you listening, or have you gone to sleep?’ Adamsberg asked. ‘Because I’ve noticed that I sometimes send people to sleep, really, they do go to sleep. Perhaps I don’t speak loudly enough, or fast enough, I don’t know. Remember where we’d got to? The dog had gone over the edge. I took my tin water bottle off my belt and banged the little kid hard on the head.
‘And then I set off to find the stupid dog. It took me three hours to reach it. And by then it was dead, anyway. The point of this story, Danglard, is the evidence of cruelty in that little kid. I’d known for a long time before this happened that there was something wrong with him, and that was what it was: cruelty. But I can assure you his face was quite normal, he didn’t have wicked features at all. On the contrary, he was a nice-looking boy, but he oozed cruelty. Just don’t ask me any more, I can’t tell you any more. But eight years later, he pushed a grandfather clock over on top of an old woman and killed her. And most premeditated murders require the murderer not only to feel exasperation or humiliation, or to have some neurosis, or whatever, but also cruelty, pleasure in inflicting suffering, pleasure in the victim’s agony and pleas for mercy, pleasure in tearing the victim apart. It’s true, it doesn’t always appear obvious in a person, but you feel at least that there’s something wrong, that something else is gathering underneath, a kind of growth. And sometimes that turns out to be cruelty – do you see what I’m saying? A kind of growth.’
‘That’s against my principles,’ said Danglard, a bit stiffly. ‘I don’t claim my principles are the only ones, but I don’t believe there are people marked out for this or that, like cows with tags on their ears, or that you can pick out murderers by intuition. I know, I’m saying something boring and unexciting, but what we do is we proceed by following clues, and we arrest when we’ve got proof. Gut feelings about “growths” scare me stiff. That way you start off following hunches, and end up with arbitrary sentences and miscarriages of justice.’
‘You’re speechifying, Danglard. I didn’t say you could see it in someone’s face, I said it was something monstrous that was gathering inside someone. It’s a kind of secretion, Danglard, and sometimes I sense it oozing out. I’ve seen it on the lips of a young girl, just as clearly as I might see a cockroach run across this table. I can’t help sensing when something’s not right. It might be enjoyment of crime, but it could be other things, less serious things. Some people secrete their boredom or their unhappy love lives, Danglard, and it can be sensed, whether it’s the one or the other. But when it’s something else, you know, the crime thing, well, I think I know that too.’
Danglard looked up and his posture was less shambling than usual.
‘Yes, but you still believe you can see something by looking at people, that you can see cockroaches on their lips, and you think these impressions are revelations because they’re yours, you think other people are oozing pus, and it’s not true. The truth is boring and banal: it’s that all human beings can have hate inside them, like they all have hair on their heads, and anyone can make a false step and kill someone. I’m certain of that. All men are capable of rape and murder, and all women are capable of slashing someone’s legs with a razor, like that one in the rue Gay-Lussac the other week. It just depends what sort of life you’ve had, it depends how much you want to plunge into the swamp and take other people with you. You don’t have to be oozing pus from birth to want to suppress the whole world because you’re sick of it.’
‘I did tell you, Danglard,’ said Adamsberg, frowning, as he stopped his drawing, ‘that when I’d told you the story of the big dog you’d think I was a mean bastard.’
‘Dangerous, let’s say,’ muttered Danglard. ‘You shouldn’t think you’ve got some superior powers.’
‘There’s nothing superior about being able to see cockroaches. What I’m telling you about is something that I can’t help. In fact, it gives me enormous trouble in my life. If only I could be wrong about someone once in a while, about whether he was an upright citizen or not, or sad, or intelligent, or untruthful, or troubled, or indifferent, or dangerous, or timid – all that, do you see, if I could just be wrong one time, for a change? Can you imagine what a drag it is? I sometimes pray that people will surprise me when I start to predict how it will all end. All my life I’ve always had beginnings, and I’ve been full of hope. And then, very soon, I start to see what’s going to happen, like in some suspense film where you guess who’s going to fall in love with whom, or who’s going to have an accident. You go on watching all the same, only it’s too late – it’s just depressing.’
‘OK, let’s admit you have some special intuition,’ said Danglard. ‘You’re a policeman with flair, that’s as far as I’ll go. But even then it’s not right to use it, it’s too risky, it’s wicked. No, even after twenty years you can never know everything about another person.’
Adamberg rested his chin on his palm, smoke from his cigarette making his eyes water.
‘Well, if it’s a gift take it away from me, Danglard. Get rid of it. I’d like nothing better.’
‘People aren’t insects,’ Danglard went on.
‘No, they’re not. I like people, and I don’t give a damn about insects, don’t care what they want or what they think. Still, insects want things too, no reason they shouldn’t.’
‘True,’ said Danglard.
‘Danglard, have you ever been party to a miscarriage of justice yourself?’
‘Have you read my file?’ said Danglard, with a sideways glance at Adamsberg who was still smoking and doodling.
‘If I say no, you’ll accuse me of claiming supernatural powers. But no, I haven’t read it. What happened?’
‘It was this teenage girl. There’d been a break-in at the jeweller’s shop where she worked. I was absolutely convinced it was an inside job, done with her collusion. Everything seemed to point to it. Her prevarications, her mannerisms, all that set off my policeman’s intuition, OK? She got three years, and she committed suicide in her cell two months later, in a particularly ghastly way. But in fact she hadn’t been involved in the robbery, as we discovered not long afterwards. So now do you see why I won’t have anything to do with your blasted hunches and cockroaches on women’s lips? Finito. After that, I decided guesswork and intuition were no match for doubt and ordinary police routine.’
Danglard stood up.
‘Wait,’ said Adamsberg. ‘The stepson, Vernoux – don’t forget to bring him in.’
Adamsberg fell silent. He was embarrassed. His decision was awkward coming after this kind of discussion. He went on in a lower voice.
‘Pull him in for questioning for twenty-four hours.’
‘You’re not serious,
Adamsberg bit his lower lip.
‘His girlfriend’s protecting him. I’m convinced they weren’t actually together in the restaurant on the evening of the murder, even if their two versions tally. Question them again, separately. How long between the starter and the main course? Did a guitarist come and play? Where was the wine, on the left or the right of the table? What kind of wine was it? What did the glasses look like, or the tablecloth? And so on – every little detail you can think of. They’ll end up saying different things, you’ll see. And then check out the boy’s shoes. You can ask the cleaning woman who comes in and looks after him – his mother pays her. There’ll be a pair missing, the ones he wore on the night of the murder, because round the warehouse the ground’s very muddy, what with the building site alongside it, and the mud there is clay – it sticks like glue. He’s not stupid, our young man, he’s probably chucked the shoes away. Have someone check the drains near where he lives. He could have walked back the last stretch in his socks, between the drain and his front door.’
‘If I understand what you’re saying,’ Danglard said, ‘the poor lad, as I call him, is oozing something.’
‘I’m afraid so,’ said Adamsberg quietly.
‘And what is he supposed to be oozing?’
‘Cruelty.’
‘And to you that’s obvious?’
