The Ghost Riders of Ordebec (Commissaire Adamsberg) (39 page)

XLVI

For the past three days, Adamsberg had been taking one of Léo’s books into the hospital. He would comb her hair, then sit beside her, leaning on one arm, and read her about twenty pages. It was an old book, the story of a passionate love affair ending in catastrophe. It didn’t seem to awake any passion in the old woman, but she had been smiling a lot while he read, moving her head and fingers as if she were listening to a song rather than a story. Today, Adamsberg had decided to pick another book. He read out a technical chapter on how to help mares foal, and Léo seemed to dance in just the same way. And indeed the nurse, who never missed the half-hour’s reading, didn’t seem to react any differently. Adamsberg was beginning to be alarmed by this bland and peaceful state, since when he had first met Léo she was quite different: talkative, brusque and rather sharp-tongued. Dr Turbot, who maintained total confidence in his colleague Hellebaud – which Adamsberg was now starting to lose – assured him that the case was following the exact course predicted by the osteopath, whom he had had permission to telephone the previous day in his ‘place at Fleury’. Léone was quite capable of thinking and speaking, but her unconscious had put these functions on pause, with the doctor’s help. The old woman was being shielded in this way in a kind of health-giving refuge, and it would be several more days before the protective mechanism would be lifted.

‘It’s only a week so far,’ said Turbot. ‘Give it time.’

‘You haven’t told her about Mortembot?’

‘Not a word. We’re following instructions. Did you see the paper yesterday?’

‘The one that said the Paris cops are a waste of space?’

‘More or less.’

‘Well, they’re right. Two deaths since I got here.’

‘But two were avoided: Léone’s and the commandant’s.’

‘Avoiding isn’t the same as fighting, doctor.’

Dr Turbot spread his hands in sympathy. ‘Doctors can’t give a diagnosis without symptoms, and policemen can’t work without clues. Your killer shows no symptoms. He leaves no traces, he passes like a ghost. It’s not normal, commissaire, not normal at all. Valleray agrees with me.’

‘Father or son?’

‘Father of course. Denis couldn’t give a toss about what’s going on here.’

‘Do you know him well?’

‘So-so. We don’t see much of him in Ordebec. But twice a year the count organises a dinner for the local professionals and I get an invitation. Not much fun, but you have to go. The food’s excellent though. Why, is Denis a suspect?’

‘No.’

‘You’re right. He’d never be tempted to kill anyone and you know why? It would need decisiveness and he’s quite incapable of it. He didn’t even choose his own wife, so you can imagine. At least that’s what they say.’

‘We’ll have a word about that again, doctor, when you have a moment.’

*   *   *

Hippolyte was hanging clothes on the line, a blue string attached to two apple trees. Adamsberg watched him: he shook out the creases in one of his sister’s dresses before hanging it up carefully. It was out of the question of course to come out with some direct statement about his birth. It would only precipitate an unpredictable, perhaps violent reaction and
the killer was too elusive and mobile for any more unforeseen events to be added to a situation which was already out of control. Hippolyte stopped what he was doing as he saw Adamsberg approach, and automatically wiped the edge of his right hand.

‘
Ruojnob
, commissaire.’

‘Bonjour,’ said Adamsberg. ‘Have you hurt your hand?’

‘It’s nothing, just the missing finger. When there’s rain in the air it itches. It looks a bit threatening in the west.’

‘It’s been doing that for days now.’

‘But this time it’s for sure,’ said Hippo, carrying on with his task. ‘It’s going to rain a lot. It’s really itching.’

Adamsberg wiped his brow hesitantly. Émeri would have suspected that it wasn’t the missing finger that was troubling Hippo, but the edge of his hand, after having used it to hit Danglard on the neck.

‘It doesn’t do the same on the left?’

‘Sometimes it’s the one, and sometimes the other, and sometimes both. It’s not mathematical.’

Abnormal intelligence, sharp wit, not particularly friendly manner. If Adamsberg hadn’t been running the investigation, Émeri would surely have had Hippo under lock and key by now. Hippo, putting his sister’s vision into practice, killing the ‘seized’ men, and then eliminating the heir to the Valleray fortune among them. Hippo seemed perfectly calm. Just now he was shaking out one of Lina’s flowery tops, which immediately brought the image of her breasts before Adamsberg’s eyes.

‘She changes her clothes every day, makes a massive amount of work.’

‘Hippo, tonight your house is going to be under surveillance. That’s what I came to say. If you see two men outside, don’t get out your gun. Veyrenc and I will be here from ten to two and Émeri and Faucheur will take over until daylight.’

‘Why?’ asked Hippo, with a shrug of his shoulders.

‘Three people have died. Your mother is right to be worried about you. I saw a new graffiti on the walls of the grain store on my way here: “Death to the Vs.’”

‘Doesn’t mean anything,’ said Hippo.

‘It could mean “Death to the Vendermots”: the family who’ve brought the troubles on the town.’

‘But what would be the point of anyone killing us?’

‘To break the curse.’

‘Rubbish. I told you nobody would dare come near us. And keeping watch won’t do any good if you ask me. After all, Mortembot was killed. Not wishing to be rude, commissaire, but you haven’t got anything done here. You were all round his house, circling like buzzards, and they killed him right under your noses. Can you help me with this?’

Hippolyte offered one side of a sheet to Adamsberg in all simplicity and the two men shook it out in the warm air.

‘The murderer,’ Hippo went on, giving the commissaire two clothes pegs, ‘was sitting comfortably on a stool, he must have had a good laugh afterwards. The cops have never stopped anybody killing if he’s a mind to. Once he wants to, it’s like a bolting horse. He just gets over the obstacles and that’s it. And this one, he really has a mind to. You’ve got to be a cold-blooded bastard to push a man on to the railway track. Do you know why your deputy was attacked?’

‘No, we still don’t know,’ said Adamsberg, on alert. ‘Apparently he may have been mistaken for me.’

‘Rubbish,’ Hippo said once more. ‘Someone like this, he doesn’t make mistakes. I’d be careful if I were you, while you’re on watch tonight.’

‘There’s no point killing cops, they’re like thistles, there’ll always be more coming up.’

‘Maybe so, but this guy, he’s got some kind of bloodlust. Axe, crossbow, train, horrible. A shot from a gun’s cleaner, isn’t it?’

‘Well, not always. Herbier’s head was practically blown off. And it makes a lot of noise.’

‘True,’ said Hippo, scratching his neck. ‘And this one’s like a ghost. Just flits about and nobody sees him.’

‘That’s what Turbot said.’

‘Well, for once he’s not wrong. Watch all you like if you think it’ll help, commissaire. At least it’ll reassure my mother. She’s all over the place just now. And she’s got Lina to look after.’

‘Lina’s ill?’

‘Here,’ said Hippo, pointing to his forehead. ‘When Lina’s seen the army, she’s on edge for weeks. She gets these panic attacks.’

*   *   *

Danglard’s call came through to the Running Boar shortly before nine. Adamsberg got up feeling apprehensive. He moved slowly towards the telephone, wondering how he was going to code the conversation. Word games weren’t his strong suit.

‘You can reassure your dispatcher,’ said Danglard. ‘I picked up the two packets from left luggage, the key was the correct one.’

Right, Adamsberg thought with relief, Danglard has found Zerk and Mo, they must still be in Casares.

‘Not too much damage?’

‘The paper was a bit torn and the string coming off, but in reasonable overall condition.’

Right, thought Adamsberg, the two youngsters are a bit tired but OK.

‘So what should I do about them now?’ Danglard asked. ‘Return to sender?’

‘If it’s not too inconvenient, can you hang on to them for a bit? I need to contact the sorting office.’

‘Well, it is a bit inconvenient. Where am I going to put them?’

‘Not my problem. Have you eaten?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Perhaps it’s aperitif time over there, so raise a glass of port and drink my health.’

‘Never touch the stuff.’

‘Well, I do, so have some for me, just this once.’

All right, Danglard said to himself. Rather heavy-handed but not stupid. Adamsberg wanted him to take the boys to Porto, that is, in the opposite direction from the one they had so far taken. And there was still no news from Retancourt. So it was too soon to bring them back across the frontier.

‘How’s Ordebec?’

‘Nothing much happening. Tonight maybe.’

Adamsberg rejoined Veyrenc at the table and finished his meat, which was getting cold. A clap of thunder suddenly made the windows rattle. ‘Clouds gathering in the west,’ murmured Adamsberg, raising his fork.

*   *   *

The two men began their night-time vigil under pouring rain and resounding claps of thunder. Adamsberg lifted his face up to the deluge. During a storm, and at such moments only, he felt himself to be somehow linked to the mass of energy exploding up there, without any objective or motive, simply the deployment of fantastic and futile power. Power was what he had singularly lacked over the last few days; the power had been entirely in the hands of the enemy. And that night, it was finally consenting to flow over him.

XLVII

The ground was still damp in the morning, and Adamsberg was sitting under the apple tree for breakfast, having put Léo’s sugar container out of sight behind him. He could feel his trousers soaking up the moisture. He was pulling at blades of grass with his bare toes. The temperature had fallen about ten degrees, and the sky was misty, but the dauntless morning wasp wasn’t discouraged and had returned to find him. Hellebaud was pecking about, four metres from the doorway, and that was significant progress. But none had been made regarding the ghostly killer: the night had passed without incident.

And now, Blériot was coming towards him, moving his large body as fast as he could.

‘Voicemail full up!’ he puffed as he reached Adamsberg.

‘What?’

‘Your voicemail. Must be full. Couldn’t reach you.’

He had rings under his eyes and hadn’t shaved.

‘What is it, brigadier?’

‘It’s Denis de Valleray. No chance
he’d
try to kill the Vendermots in the night. He’s dead, commissaire! Hurry up, you’re wanted at the chateau.’

‘Dead! But how?’ cried Adamsberg, hastening barefoot to his room. ‘Threw himself out of the window,’ Blériot shouted back, which troubled him, because it isn’t the sort of thing you want to yell out loud.

Adamsberg didn’t bother to find dry trousers, but picked up his phone,
thrust on the nearest pair of shoes and ran to shake Veyrenc awake. Four minutes later, he was getting into the brigadier’s ancient car.

‘Go ahead, Blériot, I’m listening. What do we know?’

‘The count found Denis’s body at 8.05 this morning. He called Émeri. The capitaine went up there without you, because we couldn’t reach you. He sent me to fetch you.’

Adamsberg clenched his teeth. Coming back from their late-night watch, he and Veyrenc had disabled their phones, so as to talk about the young people on the run. And he had forgotten to switch it back on again before going to sleep. He had for so long considered his mobile as a personal enemy, which it was, that he had not paid it enough attention.

‘What does he say?’

‘That Denis de Valleray killed himself, no question. The body stinks of whisky, can’t miss it, sir. Émeri says Denis must have drunk a lot to give himself courage. I wouldn’t know about that. Anyway, seems he was ill, he’d leaned over and puked out the window. His room’s on the second floor and the yard underneath is cobbled.’

‘Could he have fallen by accident?’

‘Yessir, could have, right enough. The windowsills up the chateau, they’re pretty low. But there are all these bottles of tranquillisers, and they’re empty and his bottle of sleeping pills was open, so the capitaine thinks he must have wanted to kill himself.’

‘Do we know when?’

‘Midnight to one this morning. For once the police doctor got there fast, and the technical team. They get a move on when it’s for the toffs.’

‘Did he usually take a lot of pills?’

‘You’ll see, his bedside table’s covered with ’em.’

‘Did he drink a lot too?’

‘So they say. Though you never saw him drunk or the worse for wear. Trouble is, sir,’ Blériot said, pulling a face, ‘Émeri says he’d never have done it at all if you hadn’t started asking questions about the crossbow club.’

‘So it’s
my
fault?’

‘Sort of. See, yesterday the secretary of this club turned up at the chateau for drinks.’

‘They didn’t waste any time then.’

‘Still, after that, or so the count says, Denis didn’t seem too bothered at dinner. But then in that family, they don’t really notice each other. They eat at different ends of their great big table and don’t hardly talk. Nobody else was there; Denis’s wife is off in Germany with her children.’

‘Émeri
ought
to be thinking that if Denis did kill himself, it was because he was guilty.’

‘Yeah, he says that too. But you know the capitaine, he gets on his high horse – well, he is the great-great-grand-something of the marshal – then he comes down again. He just says you should have gone about it another way. More cautious like, collect the evidence in secret, and have Denis watched. Then he wouldn’t be dead.’

‘But sentenced to life and his murders revealed for everyone to see. Exactly what he didn’t want. How is the count taking it?’

‘He’s in shock, he’s shut himself in the library. I wouldn’t say he’s that grieved though. They couldn’t stand each other no more.’

Adamsberg called Émeri on the mobile when they were two kilometres from the chateau.