This Night's Foul Work (44 page)

‘For instance?'

‘For instance, the inn in Haroncourt.'

‘See, it was quite easy. In Haroncourt, where the whole thing started, but under the protection of Robert and Oswald. They'll be a lot less obvious than a bunch of cops. Cops are always easy to spot.'

Veyrenc looked doubtful.

‘Even a cop who's come down out of the mountains and hasn't bothered to do up all his shirt buttons or to get rid of the mist in his eyes?'

‘Yes, even me, Veyrenc. And do you know why? Why do you think an ordinary customer sitting in a café drinking his beer doesn't look like a policeman sitting at a table and drinking his beer? Because the policeman's on duty and the other isn't. Because a man on his own thinks, daydreams, and wonders about things. But the cop is watching the whole time. The ordinary guy's eyes are looking in at himself, but the cop's eyes are always flicking round his surroundings. He might as well put up a sign. So we won't put an officer in the bar at the hotel.'

‘I see. Not bad,' said Veyrenc, stubbing out his cigarette.

‘Well, anyway, I hope so,' said Adamsberg, getting up.

‘What did you really come here for,
commissaire?'

‘To ask you whether any more details had come back to you, now you've remembered where it really happened, the attack: in the High Meadow.'

‘Just one.'

‘And that is?'

‘That fifth boy, the one under the tree, standing looking at the others getting to work on me.'

‘Yes.'

‘He had his hands behind his back.'

‘So?'

‘So I'm wondering what he was holding in his hands, or hiding. A weapon, perhaps?'

‘You're getting warm. Keep on thinking,
lieutenant.'

Veyrenc watched as the
commissaire
picked up his jacket, of which one sleeve was inexplicably soaking wet, and went out, slamming the door. He closed his eyes and smiled.

C
ROUCHING IN A DARK CORNER OF THE LINEN STORE, THE
S
HADE WAS
waiting for the evening routines to be over. The night shift would soon be there, and the nurses were going round the rooms, emptying bedpans, putting out lights, and getting ready to return to their lodgings. Getting into Saint-Vincent-de-Paul Hospital had been even easier than expected. No distrust, no questions, not even from the
lieutenant
on duty on the first floor, who tended to drop off to sleep every now and then but who had saluted pleasantly and reported that all was well. The hypersomniac idiot, that was a piece of luck. He had gratefully accepted a cup of machine coffee, containing two sleeping pills, which meant he'd be out for the count till tomorrow morning. When people don't suspect you, it's all quite simple. Soon now, the incredible hulk would be unable to say anything: it was about time she was shut up for good. Retancourt's unpredictable survival capacity had been an unexpected setback. And those damned lines from Corneille that she had stammered out. Luckily none of the imbeciles in the squad had understood, not even their resident intellectual, Danglard, never mind an airhead like Adamsberg. Retancourt, though, was dangerous, as smart as she was strong. Still, tonight there would be a double dose of Novaxon, and in her present condition she'd croak at the first intake of breath.

The Shade smiled, thinking of Adamsberg, who right now would be
setting up his gimcrack little trap in the inn at Haroncourt. A pathetic little trap, which would close on him, making him look ridiculous and humiliated. In the distress that would be caused by the incredible hulk's death, the Shade would have no trouble getting to the goddamn third virgin, who had escaped by a hair's breadth last time. What a pathetic halfwit – and they were protecting her as if she were a precious vase. That had been the Shade's only mistake. Who would have thought that anyone would guess there was a bone like a cross in the heart of a stag? Or that such an ignorant and vague mind as Adamsberg's would find the link between the stags and the virgins, between Pascaline's cat and the
De reliquis
. But by some monumental bad luck, that's what he had done, and he'd identified the third virgin quicker than might have been expected. It was also bad luck that Danglard was well-read enough to want to see the book at the priest's house and had recognised the 1663 edition. Typical that fate should throw some cops like this in the way.

But, after all, these obstacles weren't serious: Francine's death was only a matter of weeks away and there was still plenty of time. By the autumn the mixture would be ready and both time and the enemy would be powerless.

The ancillary staff were leaving the kitchens on the first floor, the nurses were going round saying their usual goodnights to each patient (close your eyes now, try to get a good night's rest). The night lights in the corridor had been lit. Best to wait a good hour, so that the insomniacs had time to drop off. But by eleven o'clock the hulk would be asleep for good.

ADAMSBERG CONSIDERED THAT HE HAD LAID HIS TRAP WITH CHILDLIKE
simplicity and he was quite pleased with it. It was a classic mousetrap, of course, but it ought to be secure, complete with the slight twist he was banking on. Sitting behind the door of the bedroom, he was waiting for the second consecutive night. Three metres to his left sat Adrien Danglard, an excellent exponent of the speedy assault, unlikely though that might seem. In action, his lethargic body snapped into movement like a rubber band. Danglard was wearing a particularly elegant suit this evening. His bulletproof vest affected its lines somewhat, but Adamsberg had insisted on his wearing it. To his right was Estalère, whose qualities included seeing uncommonly well in the dark, like the Snowball.

‘It won't work,' said Danglard, whose pessimism always got the better of him at night.

‘Yes, it will,' said Adamsberg for the fourth time.

‘It's ridiculous. The Haroncourt inn. He's sure to smell a rat.'

‘No. Hush, Danglard. Estalère, take care – I can hear you breathing.'

‘Sorry,' said Estalere. ‘It's hay fever.'

‘Well, blow your nose once for all, then keep quiet.'

Adamsberg rose silently one last time and twitched the curtain another few centimetres along. He had to have the dark absolutely under control. The killer would be completely silent, as the cemetery keeper at
Montrouge had described, and as Gratien and Francine had confirmed. There would be no heavy footsteps to give warning of approach. They would have to be able to see the killer before the killer saw them. The darkness in the corners where they were posted would have to be denser than the light round the door. He sat back down and gripped the light switch. His job was to switch it on the moment the killer got inside the door. Then Estalère would block the exit while Danglard pulled his gun. Perfect. He looked at the bed where the woman he was protecting was peacefully asleep.

As Francine slept under her guard in the inn at Haroncourt, the Shade checked the time in Saint-Vincent-de-Paul, a hundred and thirty-six kilometres away. At ten fifty-five, the Shade silently opened the door of the linen store and slipped along the corridor, syringe in hand, checking the numbers of the rooms. Retancourt's room, number 227, had its door open, being guarded by the sleeping Mercadet. As the Shade tiptoed round him, he did not stir. In the middle of the room the large body of the
lieutenant
was visible under the sheets, her arm hanging down vulnerably at the side of the bed.

A
DAMSBERG WAS THE FIRST TO SEE THE SHADE COME INTO HIS FIELD OF
vision. His heart did not miss a beat. He pressed the switch with his thumb, Estalère barred the doorway, Danglard pushed the gun into the back of the figure, which did not cry out or utter a word as Estalère rapidly put the handcuffs on it. Adamsberg went over to the bed and stroked Retancourt's hair.

‘OK, let's go,' he said.

Danglard and Estalère dragged their prisoner out of the room and Adamsberg took care to switch the light off on the way out. Two squad cars were waiting outside the hospital.

‘Wait for me back at headquarters,' said Adamsberg. ‘I won't be long.'

At midnight he was knocking at the door of Dr Roman. Five minutes later the doctor opened the door, looking pale and dishevelled.

‘You're mad,' said Roman. ‘What are you getting me up for?'

The doctor could hardly stand and Adamsberg pulled him along in his slippers into the kitchen, where he sat him down in the same place as he had on the evening of their conversation about the ‘quick of virgins'.

‘Do you remember what you asked me for?'

‘I didn't ask you for anything,' said Roman, looking dazed.

‘You asked me to find you an old recipe against the vapours. And I promised I would.'

Roman blinked and rested his heavy head on his hand.

‘So what did you find me? Eye of newt and toe of frog? Gall of pig? Or some recipe that tells you to cut up a chicken and lay it on my head? I know those old wives' tales.'

‘And what do you think of them?'

‘Are you waking me up in the middle of the night for rubbish like that?' said Roman, reaching out sleepily for his stimulant pills.

‘Listen to me,' said Adamsberg, holding back his arm.

‘All right, but put some cold water on my head.'

Adamsberg once more rubbed the doctor's head with the wet and still grubby dishcloth. Then he looked in the drawers for a plastic bin bag, which he opened and put down between them.

‘They're here, your vapours,' he said, putting his hand on the table.

‘In the bin bag?'

‘You're not with it, Roman.'

‘No.'

‘They're here,' said Adamsberg, showing him the packet of red and yellow stimulants, which he dropped into the bag.

‘Hey, give me back my stuff.'

‘No.'

Adamsberg got up and opened all the medicine packs he could see, looking for capsules.

‘What's this one?' he asked when he found some.

‘It's Gavelon.'

‘Yes, I can see that, but what's it for?'

‘It's for stomach relief. I've always taken it.'

Adamsberg made one pile with the boxes of Gavelon and another with the stimulants, Energyl, and swept the lot into the bin bag. ‘Have you taken many of these?'

‘As many as I could. Give me back my pills.'

‘Your pills, Roman, are what were giving you the vapours. It was in the capsules.'

‘I know what Gavelon is, don't be silly.'

‘You don't know what's inside these capsules.'

‘Gavelon, of course,
mon vieux.'

‘No, some ghastly stuff, eye of newt and toe of frog, ground up with pig's gall and chicken's blood. We'll get it analysed.'

‘You're the one who's not with it now, Adamsberg.'

‘Listen carefully, and concentrate as hard as you can,' said Adamsberg, taking the doctor's wrist. ‘You've got plenty of friends, haven't you, Roman? Plenty of excellent women friends too, like Retancourt, who run errands for you and help you out, don't they? Like going and fetching your prescriptions from the pharmacy because you can't go yourself.'

‘Yes.'

‘Someone comes to see you every week and brings you your pills?'

‘Yes.'

Adamsberg closed the bin bag and put it down beside him.

‘Are you taking that lot away?' asked Roman.

‘Yes. And now you've got to drink as much fluid as you can and piss it out. In a week's time, you should almost be yourself. Don't worry about your supplies of Gavelon and Energyl, I'll get you some. The genuine article. Because what you've been taking is really eye-of-newt stuff. Or your vapours, if you want to put it like that.'

‘You don't know what you're saying, Adamsberg. You don't know who has been bringing me them.'

‘Oh yes, I do. One of your contacts for whom you have great esteem.'

‘How do you know?'

‘Because your contact is sitting in my office this minute, with handcuffs on. Because she's killed eight people.'

‘You can't be serious, Adamsberg,' said Roman after a shocked silence. ‘Are we talking about the same person?'

‘A very sharp mind, with a head screwed on to her shoulders. And one of the most dangerous killers I've come across. Ariane Lagarde, the most famous pathologist in France.'

‘You must be out of your mind.'

‘No,
she
is. She's a dissociator, Roman.'

Adamsberg helped the doctor up and took him to his bed.

‘Get the dishcloth,' said Roman. ‘You never know.'

‘OK.'

Roman sat down on the bed, looking both tired and stunned, gradually remembering all the times Ariane had been to visit him.

‘But we've known each other for ever,' he said. ‘I can't believe you,
mon vieux –
she would never try to kill me.'

‘No, she wasn't trying to
kill
you. She just needed you out of circulation, so that she could take your place for as long as was necessary to carry out her plans.'

‘Plans for what?'

‘Her plans to examine her own victims, so that we wouldn't know what she was after. She told us it was a female killer about one metre sixty-two tall, so I'd go chasing off after that district nurse. She didn't mention that Elisabeth and Pascaline had had their hair scalped at the root. You didn't tell me the whole truth, Roman.'

‘No, all right, I didn't.'

‘You realised that Ariane had made a serious professional mistake if she hadn't noticed that the hair had been shaved. But if you told me that, you'd get your friend into trouble. On the other hand, if you said nothing you'd be hampering the investigation. You wanted to be sure before acting, so you asked Retancourt for enlargements of the photographs of Elisabeth.'