Have Mercy On Us All (19 page)

“Are there lots of people who know more than a thing or two?”

“You mean plague specialists? Well, you could safely assume that there are five real specialists in the country today. Excluding biologists, that is. I have two friends in the south of France, they’re more into the medical aspects, and a colleague in Bordeaux who deals mainly with transmitting insects, and then there’s a more or less demographic historian at Clermont-Ferrand.”

“What about you? What’s your position in the field?”

“Centre-forward for Job-seekers United, sir.”

Five, Adamsberg thought. That’s not a lot for a population of sixty million. And so far Vandoosler was the only person he’d come up with who knew the meaning of the backward 4. He was a historian, a man of letters and a plague expert, and he could undoubtedly read Latin. It would definitely be worth checking up on him.

“Tell me, Vandoosler, how long would you say the disease lasts? Give me a ballpark figure.”

“On average, three to five days’ incubation, but it was sometimes as little as one to two days. Symptoms last five to seven days. More or less.”

“Treatable?”

“Only if you get it early, as soon as symptoms appear.”

“I think I’m going to need you. Would you mind if I came round?”

“Where do you mean?” asked Vandoosler suspiciously.

“Your place.”

There was a pause.

“OK,” said Vandoosler.

The man wasn’t keen. But lots of people weren’t keen to have a
flic
call round. A reluctance that was virtually universal, in fact. So the pause didn’t necessarily mean that Vandoosler was CLT.

“In two hours’ time,” Adamsberg proposed.

He hung up and set off for the big department store at Place d’Italie. He reckoned Danglard must be European size 48 or 50, since he was six inches taller and maybe sixty pounds heavier than Adamsberg was. He needed something that would go round his waist. Adamsberg harvested a pair of socks, a pair of jeans, and a big black T-shirt in a trice (he’d heard it said that whites and stripes make you look fatter, so black presumably did the opposite). No point getting a jacket, it was a mild day and beer kept Danglard warm in any case.

The naked
commissaire
was waiting in the shower room with a towel round his waist. Adamsberg gave him his new clothes.

“I’ll have your rags taken straight off to the lab,” he said as he picked up the big bin bag where Danglard had put his clothes. “Don’t panic. You’ve got two days of incubation still to go, you’ve got time on your side. We’ll have the lab results well before then. I’ve said this is red alert, so they’ll do the tests straight away.”

“Thanks,” Danglard muttered as he unwrapped the T-shirt and the jeans. “Bloody hell, do you expect me to wear that?”

“Wait and see. It’ll suit you like a dream.”

“I’ll look like a banana!”

“Do I look like a banana?”

Danglard held his tongue and dipped down further into the shopping bag.

“You forgot underpants.”

“Sorry, I did forget. But it’s not the end of the world. Go easy on the beer until you get home tonight.”

“Very likely.”

“Did you phone the school? To check the kids?”

“Of course I did.”

“Now, show me those bites.”

Danglard raised an arm. There were three sizeable swellings under the armpit.

“No doubt about it,” Adamsberg admitted. “Those are flea bites.”

“Aren’t you scared of catching the same thing?” Danglard asked as Adamsberg pulled the bin bag around looking for the tie-string.

“No, I’m not. I don’t get scared very often. I’ll wait till I’m dead to get scared, that way it won’t mess up life too much. To tell the truth, the only time I was really scared was when I slid down that glacier all on my own, on my back. The slope was almost vertical. What scared me most, apart from the sheer drop, were all those bloody big-eyed does standing round and staring at me as if to say: ‘You poor fool, you’ll never make it.’ I pay a lot of attention to what does and deer tell me with their eyes, but that’s another story. I’ll tell it to you when you’re not as stressed out as you are today.”

“That’s a nice idea.”

“I’m off to see that historian-cum-cleaner fellow, Marc Vandoosler. He lives in Rue Chasle, just round the corner. Look him up and see if we’ve got anything on him. And forward any calls from the lab to my mobile number.”

XIX

WHEN ADAMSBERG GOT
to Rue Chasle he found a tall and narrow tumbledown town house which despite being in the heart of Paris had miraculously escaped demolition. It was set back from the street behind a wasteland of long grass, and the country touch warmed Adamsberg’s heart. When he knocked, the door opened to reveal an old man with a twinkling smile who looked as though he still found life fun, unlike Decambrais. He had a wooden stirring spoon in his hand and used it to show Adamsberg in.

“Take a seat in the refectory, if you please.”

It was a large room lit by three tall mullion windows, and furnished with a long wooden table. A man in a shirt and tie was treating it with beeswax, rubbing it in with a professional circular twirl of the cheesecloth.

“Lucien Devernois’s the name,” the young man said clearly and firmly as he put down the cheesecloth and thrust out his hand in greeting. “Marc will be ready in a minute.”

“Sorry for the disturbance,” the old man said. “It’s polishing hour by the duty roster. Can’t mess about with the roster, can you now?”

Adamsberg refrained from comment and sat down on one of the wooden benches. The old man took the place opposite ex officio and beamed as if in anticipation of something really enjoyable.

“So, Adamsberg,” he began gleefully. “We’ve forgotten old mates, have we? Not even a hallo and how’s the wife? No respect for niceties, as per usual?”

Adamsberg was struck dumb. He stared hard at the face and scoured the deepest recesses of his visual memory. It couldn’t have been any time recently, no, it must be from long ago. It was going to take at least ten minutes to trawl through his memory bank. The cheesecloth man, Devernois, was slowing down with his polishing and looking at one then the other of the two seated men.

“I can see you’re the same as ever,” the old man went on with a broad smile. “Hasn’t stopped your irresistible rise from
brigadier
to
commissaire principal
. Have to admit you’ve scored some famous victories, though. The Carreron case, the Somme affair, the Valandry tip, they were real feathers in your cap. Not to mention more recent bull’s-eyes, like the Nermord case, the wolf-man murders, and the Vinteuil affair. My heartiest congratulations,
commissaire principal
. I’ve been keeping my eagle eye on your exploits, as you can see.”

“Why?” Adamsberg asked defensively.

“Because I always wondered whether they’d keep you on or kill you off. You really don’t fit the job, seeing as you look like a dandelion in the grass on court number one and you behave as if nothing ever ruffled you or mattered very much. As far as the hierarchy was concerned, you were as handy as a ping-pong ball on a pool table. No way of potting you. Yes, I really did wonder whether they would let you stay on. You slipped through the net, and I’m glad for that. I wasn’t so lucky. I got caught and then got the sack.”

“Armand Vandoosler,” Adamsberg muttered as he divined beneath the old man’s skin the face of that forceful, witty, selfish and self-indulgent detective he’d last seen twenty-three years before.

“Got it in one.”

“Down south,” Adamsberg went on.

“Yeah. The girl that vanished. You got that one tied up in two ticks,
brigadier
. We trapped the man at the harbour in Nice.”

“And we had a celebration dinner in a quayside restaurant.”

“Octopus.”

“Octopus it was.”

“I’ll grant us a glass of wine,” said Vandoosler as he stood up. “This calls for lubrication.”

“So Marc’s your son, then?” Adamsberg asked as he nodded his agreement to a glass.

“He’s my nephew and my godson. He lets me live in the eaves, because he’s a kind boy. I have to warn you, Adamsberg, that I’m just as bloody-minded as I used to be. More bloody-minded, I should say. Have you grown less laid back?”

“I don’t know.”

“Back then there were heaps of things you didn’t know and that didn’t seem to worry you. So what have you come to discover in this place that you don’t know?”

“A murderer.”

“What’s the connection between that and my nephew?”

“Plague.”

Vandoosler Senior nodded. He grabbed a broomstick and knocked twice on the ceiling, adding to the many dents already clearly visible in the plaster at that position.

“There are four of us here,” the elder Vandoosler explained, “and we live on top of each other. One knock for St Matthew, three knocks for St Luke, present and outstanding with cheesecloth in hand, and four knocks for me. Seven knocks is red alert for all the apostles.”

Vandoosler glanced at Adamsberg while he put away the broomstick intercom.

“You’re just the same, aren’t you? Butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth.”

Adamsberg smiled silently, and Marc came down into the refectory. He went round the table, shook the
commissaire
’s hand, and gave his uncle a dark look.

“I see you’ve taken command of operations,” he said.

“Sorry about that, Marc. But we ate octopus together twenty-three years ago.”

“A lot of bonding goes on in the trenches,” Lucien mumbled as he folded away his duster.

Adamsberg looked carefully at Vandoosler Minor, the plague man. Slim, tense, straight black hair, and something Sioux about his features. He wore black all over, save for a rather gaudy belt and silver rings on his fingers.
Adamsberg
noticed that his footwear was rather like Camille’s – heavy black boots with buckles.

“If you want to talk privately,” he said, “I fear we may have to go elsewhere.”

“I’m fine here,” Adamsberg replied.

“I understand you have a problem with plague,
commissaire
.”

“A problem with a plague expert, to be more precise.”

“The man who’s been painting those 4s?”

“Yes.”

“Connected to yesterday’s murder?”

“What’s your view?”

“In my view, yes.”

“Because?”

“Because of the black skin. But the backward 4 is supposed to protect you from the disease, not bring it on.”

“And so?”

“So I suppose your murder victim was not protected.”

“Quite right. Do you believe in the power of the talisman?”

“No.”

Adamsberg’s eyes met Vandoosler’s. He seemed sincere and slightly irritated.

“Nor do I believe in amulets, rings, turquoises, emeralds or rubies. Or in the hundreds of other nostrums that were invented to ward off plague. All of them far more costly than a figure of 4, obviously.”

“People wore rings?”

“Those who could afford them. Rich folk died much less of plague than the poor because their better made houses were less attractive to rats than paupers’ hovels. Most of the dead were the poor. And that lent credibility to the idea of jewels. Poor people didn’t wear rubies and so they died. The top model was diamond, it was the ultimate antidote: ‘A diamond worn on the left hand is reputed to counter all kinds of becomings.’ Which is why a wealthy man would give his beloved a diamond to plight his troth, so as to save her from the scourge. The habit’s stayed with us, but nobody has the faintest idea any more why we buy diamond rings. Nor does anyone remember what the backward 4 really means.”

“The murderer remembers. Where did he dig it up?”

“In some book,” Marc Vandoosler said dismissively. “Look, if you tell me what the problem is maybe I could help solve it for you.”

“First, I have to ask you where you were Monday last around 2 a.m.”

“Is that the time of the murder?”

“Approximately, yes.”

Forensics had made it 1.30 a.m. but Adamsberg liked to be vague. Vandoosler pushed his black hair behind his ears.

“Why me?” he asked.

“I’m sorry, Vandoosler. Not many people know what these 4s mean. Not many at all.”

“It’s perfectly logical, Marc,” Vandoosler the Elder butted in. “It’s trade.”

Marc squirmed with irritation. Then he got up, took the broom handle, and knocked once.

“Calling St Matthew,” said the Elder.

They waited in silence, trying not to hear the clatter that Lucien was making as he attended to the washing up so as not to eavesdrop on the interview.

A minute later a tall, fair young man came into the refectory. His shoulders were so broad that they barely got through the doorway. He was wearing nothing apart from rough canvas trousers held at the waist by a piece of string.

“There was a call?” he asked in a baritone.

“Mathias,” Marc said, “what the hell was I doing Monday last at 2 a.m.? It’s important so nobody breathe.”

Mathias concentrated hard, crossing his blond eyebrows.

“You came home late with ironing to do around 10 p.m. Lucien gave you something to eat and then went up to his room with Elodie.”

“Emilie,” said Lucien by way of correction. “It’s really terrible the way you can’t get that name to stick in your thick skull.”

“Then we played two rounds of cards with the Elder,” Marc continued. “He bagged three hundred and twenty francs, and then went up to bed. You started with Mme Boulain’s ironing, then you did Mme Druyet’s. At 1 a.m., when you were putting the board away, you suddenly remembered
you
had two pairs of sheets to deliver in the morning. I gave you a hand and we did them together on the refectory table. I used the old iron. We finished folding around 2.30 a.m. and wrapped them up in two packages. As we went up to bed we saw the Elder going down to take a piss.”

Mathias looked at Adamsberg as if to say, how’s that? Lucien butted in from his station at the sink:

“He’s a prehistorian so he’s good on detail. You can trust him.”

“Can I go now?” asked Mathias. “I’m in the middle of a reconstitution.”

“Sure, and thanks for the help,” said Marc.

“Reconstitution?” Adamsberg queried.