Theory of Remainders (28 page)

It hardly mattered if Bécot was telling the truth. Philip knew what he was dealing with: another message from the people of Yvetot.

Over Bécot’s objections, the police were called, and twenty minutes later the same all-purpose officer as before showed up, his cap in his hand as he scratched his scalp and surveyed Philip’s room, hotel personnel crowded at the doorway.

“You’re not going to tell me that
this
is a coincidence,” Philip challenged.

“No sir,” the man replied. “It sure doesn’t look like an accident to me.”

“So what are you going to do about it?”

The fellow pondered the question, glancing back at the throng of onlookers in the hallway. “Well, Monsieur Adler, I guess I’ll have to cite you for damages.”

Philip flushed red. “What?”

“There’s no sign of forced entry, sir. Monsieur Bécot himself says no one came by.” He shrugged. “What else is one to think?”

“You’re saying I slaughtered a rooster in my own hotel room and strapped it to my light fixture?”

Philip glared at Monsieur Bécot in the doorway, waiting for him to intervene, to tell this officer that his conclusions were absurd. But Bécot returned the look impassively. He’d made it clear from the beginning that he wouldn’t take sides in the matter of Adler versus the town of Yvetot—certainly not publicly. Philip wouldn’t be able to expect much assistance from him.

“Perhaps you’d like to check out of the hotel, Monsieur Adler?” the policeman suggested. “This room doesn’t look very pleasant.”

“Not a chance,” he answered through his teeth.

As the chambermaids stripped the blood-spattered sheets from the bed, Philip stood outside the hotel, scowling as passers-by crisscrossed the Place des Belges. No one looked, but he knew all eyes would be on him as soon as he turned his back.

Where had this scrutiny been fifteen years ago? No, when it concerned a member of their own community—even someone like Édouard Morin—they knew how to turn a blind eye.

Needing to get away from Yvetot, he drove up to Fécamp, where he met Roger at a terrace café at the edge of the port. The air was thick with the smell of fish, gulls screeching high overhead.

Somehow Roger had already heard about the rooster. “I don’t like the direction this has taken,” he mused.

“It’s the louts from the
Tord-boyaux
. I know it is.”

“Perhaps. But even if you’re right, they’re just carrying out actions that others would endorse. You’ve not made any friends around here, Philip. I’ve warned you about that. Even with my connections, there’s only so much I can do.”

“Don’t worry about me.” He gulped down the last of his coffee. “I’m not your responsibility.”

“Aren’t you? I’m the one who talked you into staying. But perhaps it’s time to reassess. You’re putting yourself at risk. And for what? There’s not much to show for it.” When Philip refused to concede the point, Roger clarified. “And by
not much
, I mean
absolutely nothing
.”

Which is when Philip explained to Roger about the cemetery, about the link between Sophie’s initials and the villages Morin had mentioned.

Roger’s eyes narrowed. “But that’s absurd. Surely you can see that.”

“I’ll verify it with Morin soon, but it’s a connection, Roger. A first one. There will be more.”

“
Might
be more,” Roger corrected. “But what else
might
be around that corner? Next time it won’t just be tires or poultry.”

“I’m not stopping now. There’s too much at stake.”

“But how will you—”

Philip leaned in. “I wasn’t there for her then. I’m not going to leave her now.”

Roger’s shoulders sagged and he settled back in his chair.

While they sat in silence, a whiskered snout appeared from under a pile of fishing net on the quay. The rest of a brown rat emerged, and it scuttled along the stone edge, as busy as a docker, pausing at each of the mooring bollards.

Roger was the first to speak. “I’ve always admired your determination. Your focus.”

“In my business we call it a compulsion.”

“Well, I suppose I have my share of those—though mine are not quite as noble.” He sighed. “Perhaps if I were a little less
compulsive
, I wouldn’t have been off with Élisabeth that night. I’d have been where I could have done my niece some good.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“No, of course not. No more than it is yours. But not being at fault doesn’t make you feel any less guilty, does it?” He left space for an objection. “No, I didn’t think so.” After checking his watch he pulled himself to his feet. “I have a client, I’m afraid. Well, perhaps
afraid
isn’t the term. She’s quite lovely.” He shelled a bill from his wallet onto the table. “It’s tomorrow that you and Yvonne see Morin? Why don’t we meet for dinner in Yvetot, and you can tell me all about it.” Then he leaned in over Philip. “And do tread softly, won’t you? I got you into this thing, and I’d sure as hell like to see you make it out.” He gave him a wink, then headed down the sidewalk.

Philip drove south out of Fécamp, a bitter taste rising in his mouth as the first signs pointed toward Yvetot. Did he really need to return to that purgatory? Thank God for Roger. At least there was one Norman who wasn’t afraid to buck the trend, who was willing to acknowledge—even exaggerate—his own responsibility. Roger had always been there for him. Had always been ready to help.

Once again he recalled his brother-in-law climbing the steps of the Aubert home in the rosy light of pre-dawn, pushing past the police to reach the stricken parents. That was the image. Wasn’t it?

Then a gap appeared along the edge of this memory. Something didn’t fit. There was a wrongness to it. Suddenly Philip felt short of breath.

Yes, Roger had been there for him. For both of them. But not in the middle of the night. He had not arrived at the same time as Élisabeth. No, Roger had appeared later, as dawn was breaking. That, at least, was Philip’s recollection.

But if Roger and Élisabeth had been together all night, as Roger insisted, why would they have arrived separately? And above all, why would Roger have described it otherwise?

He chided himself for formulating such questions. It was insane! Because of Roger, he had stayed in France. Thanks to Roger he’d made progress. Roger was the only one who had offered him a shred of help.

Nevertheless, doubt had worked the edge of its lever into his thoughts, and once he had asked himself these questions, he was incapable of un-asking them.

He didn’t call Yvonne. Talking to her about Roger was unthinkable.

More surprising, though, was the fact that she didn’t call him. He’d assumed word would spread about the feathered warning in his hotel room, but apparently information flowed at different speeds depending on the direction. While his own actions belonged to the public domain—broadcast live throughout Normandy—measures undertaken by the Yvetotais were cloaked in the silence.

Perhaps it was just as well. He didn’t need complications now. So, after the chambermaids finished their work—at Philip’s expense—he made a show of staying on the premises, taking his meals in his room and working late. He hoped at least to have fueled some chatter in the
Tord-boyaux
.

Sixteen

The next day he drove to Rouen under a hazy sun. The university campus, perched on a hill over the town center, churned with students in short-sleeves, jeans, and pencil skirts—walking with the easy gait of gods enjoying their well-formed bodies. Pulling around the central fountain in the Smart Car, Philip spotted Yvonne alone at a curb, dressed in a white blouse and mid-length skirt, gazing vacantly toward a stand of trees. A leather messenger bag hung over her shoulder, a stack of typewritten pages bulging under the flap. She was on her way to meet with her daughter’s murderer, but she also had papers to grade.

He had half a mind to cruise on by. Did he really need to pluck Yvonne out of this successful present and parachute her into the past? Then she turned and raised her fingers in a gesture of greeting, and a pleasing shiver ran through him as she climbed in. He recognized the way her body settled in the seat, and he caught a whiff of perfume, a sweet but nutty fragrance. Everything was different—the car, the campus, the era, the destination—and yet absolutely the same: here he was, stopping for his wife at the end of the day, on their way to encounter, however indirectly, their daughter.

He handed over the files of newspaper clippings and court records, which Yvonne rested on her lap, fingering only the edge of the top folder.

Threading the vehicle through the trickle of pedestrians, he navigated away from campus, heading the car down the road that would loop past the city center, then south toward the psychiatric hospital.

She gazed out her window, not speaking.

“How was class?” he asked. When she didn’t respond, he added, “I don’t even know what you’re teaching.”

“Don’t try to make small talk, Philip,” she said. “You’re taking me to see the man who raped and murdered our daughter. I’m not in the mood to chat.”

He wound them through the congested city center, and soon they were entering the countryside.

Yvonne broke the silence. “In fact, I didn’t teach.”

He nodded. When she’d told him to pick her up on campus, he’d marveled at her ability to carry on. This sign of humanness was reassuring.

“I thought I could,” she continued, talking into her window, “but I was wrong. I sat in my office. Students knocked on my door, and I didn’t answer.”

He nodded.

“Do you know what I was thinking about?” she said. “Paper dolls. Do you remember? How she loved to make those when she was little? And then she’d unfold all the figures. A string of little people.”

Yes, he remembered.

“So I sat in my office. With scissors.” She turned away. “Cutting goddamned paper dolls.”

He reached out to rest a hand on her knee.

As they traveled into the hills Yvonne turned to the folders, lifting open the first cover and staring down. She leafed through and Philip watched out of the corner of his eye, the pages sweeping against her blouse, settling over the curve of her thigh. When she came to the press clippings from Monsieur Guérin, she paused over a grainy photograph of Édouard Morin.

“He’s changed now,” Philip said. “Not entirely, of course. But be prepared.”

The court records held no interest for her. Nor did the police reports. In the end she came to the envelope where Philip kept his photos, and these she lingered over. The bicycle. The ski hill. Sophie’s arm in a cast. The Rubin’s vase.

Tufted pastures flanked the road. Ancient Calvary crosses of stone rose from the weeds at the older intersections. They were close to the hospital now, and the car dipped in a swale, hugged a turn, then rose up again.

He explained how the conversation with Morin would go. It was important to follow the plan. Philip would lead, and Yvonne was to remain in the background. She would listen and, when needed, translate. She might hear things that Philip did not, but they would review those points later, after Morin had left the room.

They came to a stop in the parking lot at the base of the slope leading to the hospital. From the car Yvonne looked up at the great tan fortress of stucco, the white shutters gleaming in the sun.

“I can take you back right now,” Philip murmured at her side. “We can let the whole thing drop.”

“I said I’d do it. And I’m here.” She turned and met his eyes for the first time since climbing into the car. “Let’s get it over with.”