The Ghost Riders of Ordebec (Commissaire Adamsberg) (11 page)

The capitaine proceeded to drag his colleague through the town’s narrow passageways, between ancient wattle-and-daub walls, low houses with exposed beams, abandoned barns and gnarled apple trees.

‘Léo didn’t agree,’ Adamsberg was saying. ‘She seemed convinced that Herbier had been killed.’

‘Does she say why?’

Adamsberg shrugged. ‘No, she seems to know it because she knows it, that’s all.’

‘That’s the trouble with her. She’s so quick-witted that as the years go by she thinks she’s always right. If she were to be decapitated, Ordebec would lose a lot of its brains, that’s true. But the older she gets, the less explanation she gives. She likes her reputation and she fosters it. She really didn’t tell you any details?’

‘No. She said Herbier was no great loss. That she wasn’t shocked when she came across him, because she already knew he was dead. She told me more about some fox and a little bird than about what she’d seen up at the chapel.’

‘The coal tit that fell in love with the three-legged fox?’

‘That’s right. And she talked about her dog and the bitch on the farm, about St Antony, about her guest house, about Lina and her family, and about how she pulled you out of a pond.’

‘That’s quite true,’ said Émeri with a smile. ‘I owe her my life and it’s my earliest memory. They call her my “water mother” because she gave me a new lease of life after pulling me out of the Jeanlin pond, like Venus from the waves. My parents idolised Léo after that, and I was ordered never to touch a hair of her head. It was in winter, and Léo came out of the water carrying me, chilled to the bone. They say she took three days to get warm again, and then she developed pleurisy and nearly died.’

‘She didn’t tell me about the chill. Or that she was married to the count.’

‘She never shows off, she’s just happy quietly imposing her views and that’s already quite enough. No lad from hereabouts would dare shoot at her three-legged fox. Except Herbier. The fox lost his paw and tail in one of Herbier’s wretched traps. But he never managed to finish him off.’

‘Because Léo killed him before he could kill the fox?’

‘She’d be quite capable of it,’ said Émeri with a grin.

‘Are you going to keep a watch on the next person who’s supposed to be seized? The glazier?’

‘He’s not a glazier, he makes stained-glass windows.’

‘Yes, Léo said he was very gifted.’

‘Glayeux’s a hard bastard, not afraid of anyone. Not the sort to worry about the Furious Army. But if by some chance he did take fright, we can’t do anything about that. You can’t stop someone killing himself if he’s determined.’

‘But what if you’re wrong, capitaine? What if someone did kill Herbier? That someone might kill Glayeux too. That’s what I mean.’

‘You’re very obstinate, Adamsberg.’

‘So are you, capitaine. Because you haven’t got any other answers. Suicide would be a handy solution.’

Émeri slowed down, then stopped and took out his cigarettes.

‘Explain what you mean, commissaire.’

‘Herbier’s disappearance was reported over a week ago. And except for going and checking his house, you haven’t done anything.’

‘That’s the law, Adamsberg. If Herbier decided to take off without telling anyone, I had no right to go chasing after him.’

‘Even after the sighting of the Riders?’

‘That kind of idiocy has no place in a police investigation.’

‘Yes, it does. You said yourself that the Riders are behind all this. Whether someone else killed him or whether he killed himself. You knew he’d been named by Lina, and you didn’t do anything. And then when they find the body, it’s a bit late to start looking for clues.’

‘You think I’m going to get into trouble, do you?’

‘Yes, I do.’

Émeri pulled deeply on his cigarette, let out the smoke in a sigh, and leaned against the old wall along the side of the road.

‘All right,’ he admitted. ‘Perhaps I will get into trouble. Or maybe not. You can’t be held responsible for a suicide.’

‘That’s why you want to hang on to the idea. It’s less likely to be called negligent. But if it is a murder, then you’re in it up to your neck.’

‘There’s nothing to indicate murder.’

‘Why didn’t you try and find Herbier?’

‘OK, I’ll tell you. Because of the Vendermot family. Because of Lina. And her degenerate brothers. We don’t get on, and I didn’t want to play their little game. I stand for order, they stand for anarchy. It won’t work. I’ve had to tell Martin off several times, for poaching. And the oldest brother, Hippolyte. He trained a gun on a group of hunters, he made them take off their clothes, he took away their shotguns and threw the lot in the river. He couldn’t pay the fine, so he was jailed for twenty days. They’d all love to see me go down in flames. That’s why I didn’t take it any further. So as not to fall into their trap.’

‘What trap?’

‘It’s quite simple. Lina Vendermot pretends to have a vision, and Herbier disappears. They’re all in it together. I start searching for Herbier, and they immediately complain to the authorities that I’m exceeding my powers and infringing their liberty. Lina’s studied law, she knows the rules. So let’s suppose I persist and go on looking for Herbier. The complaint goes up to the top. One fine day Herbier turns up again, right as rain; he adds his voice to theirs, and also lodges a complaint against me. I get a reprimand or a transfer.’

‘But in that case, why would Lina mention the names of the army’s two other hostages?’

‘To add credibility. She’s as cunning as a weasel, although she makes out she’s just a simple country girl. The Riders often seize several people, she knows all that. By naming a few others, she muddies the waters. That’s what I
thought
, anyway. And I was absolutely sure of it.’

‘But it’s not what happened.’

‘No.’

Émeri stubbed out his cigarette against the wall, and dropped the fag end between two stones.

‘That’s enough now,’ he said. ‘Instead of that, he topped himself.’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Bloody hell!’ exclaimed Émeri in exasperation, and moving to address Adamsberg familiarly as ‘tu’. ‘What have you got against me? You don’t know anything about this case, you don’t know the people around here, you waltz down from your capital city without warning and start giving orders.’

‘Not
my
capital city. I’m from the Béarn.’

‘I don’t give a damn where you’re from.’

‘And they weren’t orders.’

‘I’ll tell you what’s going to happen next, Adamsberg. You’re going to get back on the train, I’m going to file this as suicide, and it will be forgotten in a few days. Unless of course you’re determined to ruin my career with your suspicions of murder. Something you’ve conjured out of thin air.’

Thin air: his mother had always said that a current of thin air went through Adamsberg’s head, from one ear to the other. With that kind of
wind blowing through, no idea can remain in place for a moment, let alone become fixed. Adamsberg knew that, and distrusted himself.

‘I have absolutely no intention of ruining your career, Émeri. All I’m saying is that if I were you, I’d get some protection for the next one on the list. The glazier.’

‘The stained-glass man.’

‘Right. Put him under protection.’

‘If I did that, Adamsberg, I’d be walking off a cliff. You still don’t understand? It would mean I didn’t believe in Herbier’s suicide. Which I
do
believe in. If you want my opinion, Lina had every reason to drive that guy to suicide. And maybe she did it quite deliberately. And there, yes, I could open an inquiry. Driving someone to suicide. The Vendermot kids have very good reasons for wanting Herbier to rot in hell. Their father and Herbier were such a pair of villains it was a moot point which one was worse.’

Émeri had started walking again, hands in pockets, spoiling the cut of his uniform.

‘They were friends, you said?’

‘Like that,’ Émeri replied, showing two crossed fingers. ‘They say Vendermot
père
had an Algerian bullet lodged in his skull and that explained his outbursts of violence. But when he was with his pal, the sadist Herbier, they egged each other on, no question. So trying to terrorise Herbier and drive him to suicide would be a sweet revenge for Lina. Like I said, she’s cunning. Her brothers are too, though they’re all damaged in some way.’

They had arrived at the highest point in Ordebec, from where one could see the little town and its fields. The capitaine pointed to the east.

‘The Vendermot house,’ he said. ‘The shutters are open, they must be up and doing. Léo’s statement can wait, I’m going over to talk to them. When Lina isn’t there, it’s easier to get the brothers to talk. Especially the one made of clay.’

‘Made of clay?’

‘You heard. Crumbly clay. Believe me, just get on the train and forget them. If there’s one thing that’s true about the Chemin de Bonneval, it’s that it can drive people nuts.’

IX

On the hill overlooking Ordebec, Adamsberg found a wall in the sun, and sat down on it cross-legged. He took his shoes and socks off, and gazed at the pale green rolling hills, the cows standing like statues in the fields as if they were landmarks. It was perfectly possible that Émeri was right, quite on the cards that Herbier had shot himself in the head, having been terrified by the arrival of the dark horsemen. True, aiming a shotgun at yourself from several centimetres away didn’t make a lot of sense. It would be more sure and more natural to put the barrel in your mouth. Unless, that is, as Émeri had suggested, Herbier wanted to make some kind of expiatory gesture. Killing himself like he did the animals, shooting himself full in the face. But was that man capable of remorse, of a guilty conscience? Above all, was he someone who could be scared by the Riders to the point of suicide? Well, yes. The black cavalcade with its mutilated and stinking corpses had been roaming the region of Ordebec for centuries. It had dug deep pits into which anyone, even the most sensible, might suddenly tumble and remain captive.

A message from Zerk told him that Hellebaud was now drinking water without help. Adamsberg took a few seconds to recall that that was the name of the pigeon. There were also several messages from the squad: analysis had confirmed the presence of breadcrumbs in the throat of the victim, Tuilot, Lucette, but none in her stomach. It was a clear-cut case of murder. The little girl with the gerbil was recovering in the hospital in Versailles, and the so-called great-uncle had regained consciousness and
was now under guard. Retancourt had sent a more alarming text message, in capital letters:
MOMO QUESTIONED, CHARGES IMMINENT, WE HAVE ID OLD MAN IN CAR, BIG SCANDAL, CALL BACK SOONEST.

Adamsberg felt a prickling at the back of his neck, a feeling of irritation, perhaps one of the little bubbles of electricity Émeri had talked about. He rubbed his neck as he called Danglard’s number. It was 11 a.m. and the commandant ought to be at his desk. A bit early for him to be operational, but he ought to be there.

‘What are you still doing out in the sticks?’ Danglard asked in his usual grumpy morning voice.

‘They found the hunter’s body yesterday.’

‘Yes, I saw about that. And it’s none of our business. Get out of that goddam
grimweld
before it swallows you up. There’s trouble here. Émeri can manage perfectly well without us.’

‘He’d certainly like to. He’s OK, not uncooperative, but he wants me back on the next train. He thinks it’s suicide.’

‘That would be good news for him. Best outcome really.’

‘Yes. But this old woman Léo, whose house I stayed in, was convinced it was murder. She is to the town of Ordebec what a sponge is to water. She’s been absorbing everything for eighty-eight years.’

‘And when you squeeze her, she tells you?’

‘Squeeze her?’

‘Like a sponge.’

‘No, she’s careful, not a gossip, Danglard. She takes seriously the butterfly wing that moves in New York and causes an explosion in Bangkok.’

‘Did she say that?’

‘No, that was Émeri.’

‘Well, he’s wrong. It’s in Brazil that the butterfly moves its wing, and it causes a hurricane in Texas.’

‘Does that make any difference, Danglard?’

‘Yes. Because once you get away from the original words, the purest of theories just become rumours. Then we don’t know anything. From one approximation to another inaccuracy, the truth unravels and obscurantism takes over.’

Danglard’s mood was improving, as it did every time he had a chance to give a lecture, or better still to contradict someone with his knowledge. The commandant wasn’t a chatterbox, but silence wasn’t good for him either, because it offered too much room for his melancholy to take over. Sometimes it just took a few exchanges to hoist Danglard out of his despondency. Adamsberg was putting off the moment of mentioning Momo the local fire-raiser, and so was Danglard, which was not a good sign.

‘There must be several versions of the butterfly story.’

‘No,’ said Danglard firmly. ‘It’s not a fable, it’s a scientific theory about predictability. It was formulated by Edward Lorenz in 1972 in the version I gave you. The butterfly’s in Brazil and the hurricane’s in Texas, you can’t go altering that.’

‘All right, Danglard, let’s leave it alone. So what the heck is Momo being questioned for?’

‘He was picked up this morning. The petrol corresponds to the kind he uses.’

‘Exactly?’

‘No, not as much oil. But it certainly was two-stroke, the kind you put in a moped. And Momo has no alibi for the night of the fire, nobody saw him. He claims some guy arranged to meet him in some park to talk to him about his brother. Momo says he waited two hours and when no one turned up he went home.’

‘That’s not enough grounds to arrest him, Danglard. Who took the decision?’

‘Retancourt.’

‘Without your permission?’

‘With. There were footprints all round the car from trainers with petrol on the soles. And this morning we found the shoes showing traces of petrol in a plastic bag at Momo’s place. No arguing with that, commissaire. Momo just keeps stupidly saying they’re not his. His defence is completely hopeless.’