An Uncertain Place (19 page)

‘No, afraid not. But
Commandant
Danglard will translate.’

‘That is most kind of him, thank you, but I am capable to speak your language. Happy to know you,
commissaire
, and also happy to share. I saw yesterday your case in Garches. It would have been cleared up quickly if the
Blödmänner
of the press had keeped their mouths shut. Your man escaped?’

‘What does
Blödmänner
mean, Danglard?’ Adamsberg whispered.

‘Jackals.’

‘Yes, he has got away,’ Adamsberg confirmed.

‘I am regretful for you,
commissaire
, and I hope you keep the inquiry, yes?’

‘So far, yes.’

‘So maybe I can help you and you also for me.’

‘You’ve got something on Louvois?’

‘No. I have got something on the crime. That is, I am nearly sure I too have this crime, for it is not usual, no? I send you pictures, better to see what I mean.’

The blond head disappeared and a village house came up on-screen with half-timbering and a gabled roof.

‘This is the place,’ Thalberg’s mellifluous voice continued. ‘Here is Pressbaum, near Vienna, five months and twenty days ago, and one night. A man also, Conrad Plögener, younger than your man, forty-nine only, married with three children. His wife and children had gone for the weekend to Graz, and Plögener was killed. He was a furniture dealer. Killed like this,’ he went on, as a picture appeared of a bloodstained room with no visible body. ‘I don’t know for you, but in Pressbaum the body was so cut up that nothing remained. Also crushed on a stone and scattered in many directions. Do you have similar modus operandi?’

‘Looks the same at first sight, yes.’

‘I can show you some close-ups,
commissaire
.’

There followed a slide show of about fifteen pictures repeating the nightmarish spectacle of Garches. Conrad Plögener had a more modest lifestyle than Pierre Vaudel, no grand piano or tapestries.

‘I was less fortunate than you, we found no trace of the
Zerquetscher
.’

‘Crusher,’ Danglard explained, twisting his hands against each other to mime it.

‘
Ja
,’ Thalberg said. ‘The people here started calling him
der Zerquetscher
, you know they always like to give a label. I found some footprints of mountain boots. I’m saying that there is a big possibility we have the same
Zerquetscher
as you, even if it is a great rarity that a killer does not act only in his own country.’

‘Quite. Was the victim Austrian? No trace of French in his background?’

‘I have been to verify that, just now. Plögener was quite Austrian, he was born in Mautern in Styria. Mind you, I am talking just of him, because nobody is completely something, my grandmother came from Romania and so, everybody also. And Vaudel was French? You don’t have any Pfaudel or Waudel or anything else with his name?’

‘No,’ said Adamsberg, sitting chin in hand, and seeming stunned by this new bloodbath at the home of Conrad Plögener. ‘We’ve looked through most of his papers and there’s no connection with Austria. Oh. Wait a minute, Thalberg, there is a German connection. A Frau Abster in Cologne, apparently an old sweetheart of his.’

‘I’ll write down
Abster
. I check his private papers.’

‘Vaudel wrote her a letter in German to be posted to her after his death. Give me a moment, I’ll get the piece of paper.’

‘I can remember it,’ said Froissy. ‘
Bewahre unser Reich, widerstehe, auf dass es unantastbar bleibe
.’

‘Then a Russian word that seems to read “kiss lover”.’

‘I’m writing it. A bit solemn I find, but the French are often eternalists in love, opposite to what people say. So perhaps we have a Frau Abster who dismembers her former lovers. I am just making a joke of course.’

Adamsberg made a sign indicating drink to Estalère, who shot out of the room. He was the coffee specialist in the squad, knowing everyone’s preferences – with or without sugar, or milk, espresso or americano. He knew Adamsberg liked the cup with the orange bird on it. Voisenet, who was a bit of an ornithologist, said the bird didn’t look like any existing species, and that was how habits got ingrained. It was not servility that made Estalère memorise everyone’s tastes but a passion for small technical details, however insignificant, and perhaps that was what made him bad at taking an overall view. He came back with a perfect tray, as the Viennese
commissaire
was offering a diagrammatic image of a body on which the parts most savagely attacked were marked in black. Adamsberg sent in return their own version with red and green.

‘I would be convinced that these two cases must be connected.’

‘Yes, I would be convinced also,’ murmured Adamsberg.

He drank his coffee, registering the marked zones on the Austrian diagram: head, neck, joints, feet, thumbs, heart, liver – yes, almost a carbon copy of their own drawing. Thalberg’s face came back on-screen.

‘Give me the address of this Frau Abster, I will see that someone visits her in Köln.’

‘In that case, you could take her the letter from her friend Vaudel.’

‘Yes, that would be polite.’

‘I will send you a copy. You will take care how you tell her about his death, won’t you? I mean, there’s no need to go into detail.’

‘Always I take care,
commissaire
.’

‘The
Zerquetcheur
,’ Adamsberg repeated several times, thoughtfully, when the videoconference was over. ‘Armel Louvois, the
Zerquetcheur
.’ He pronounced it as a French word.

‘
Zerquetscher
,’ Danglard corrected, in German.

‘What do you think of this face?’Adamsberg asked, taking up the newspaper Danglard had left on the table.

‘Mugshots fix people’s features in a rigid pose,’ said Froissy, respecting the ethical obligation not to comment on the physical appearance of suspects.

‘That’s true, Froissy, he does look fixed and rigid.’

‘Because he’s looking straight at the camera, without moving.’

‘Makes him look a bit of a thug,’ commented Danglard.

‘But what else? Can you see danger in this face? Or fear? Lamarre, would you like to meet him in the corridor?’

‘Negative,
commissaire
.’

Estalère took the paper and concentrated, then he gave up and handed it back.

‘Well?’ asked the
commissaire
.

‘Nothing. I think he just looks normal.’

Adamsberg smiled and put down his cup. ‘I’m going to visit the doctor,’ he said, ‘and Vaudel’s imaginary enemies.’

He consulted his watches, which were as usual out of sync, took an average, and gathered that he had little time in hand. He picked up Cupid, who looked somewhat odd, since Kernorkian had cut off some of the dog’s coat to collect traces of manure, and went across the main office towards the cat and the photocopier. Adamsberg presented the animals to each other, and explained that the dog was just a temporary visitor unless his master died, which was not impossible, because some bastard had given him blood poisoning. Snowball unfolded part of his enormous round body, and glanced briefly at the frantic little creature which was licking Adamsberg’s wristwatches. Then he put his head back down on the warm lid of the machine, indicating that so long as his meals continued to be served on time, and so long as he could occupy the photocopier, the newcomer left him indifferent. On condition of course that Retancourt did not become seduced by this dog. Retancourt belonged to him and he loved her.

A
S HE REACHED THE DOOR OF THE BUILDING
, A
DAMSBERG
realised that he had not memorised the name of Vaudel’s doctor, despite the fact that this man had saved the kitten’s life and that they had all had a drink together in the tool shed. He found the brass plate on the wall,
Dr Paul de Josselin Cressent, osteopath and somatopath
, and realised he now had a clearer idea why the doctor had seemed so disdainful towards the policemen who had been blocking his way with their brawny arms.

The concierge was watching television, from his wheelchair, muffled in blankets. His hair was long and grey, his moustache grimy. He did not turn his head, not apparently intending to be rude, but because, like Adamsberg himself, he seemed to be incapable of watching a film while listening to a visitor.

‘The doctor’s gone out to see someone with sciatica,’ he finally vouchsafed. ‘He’ll be back in a quarter of an hour.’

‘Are you one of his patients too?’

‘Yes. He’s got magic fingers.’

‘Did he come to see you during the night of last Saturday to Sunday?’

‘Is this important?’

‘Yes it is, if you don’t mind.’

The concierge asked for a few minutes’ grace, to see the end of the soap he was watching, then turned away from the screen without switching it off.

‘I fell on my way to bed,’ he said, pointing to his leg. ‘I just managed to reach the phone.’

‘And you called him out again a couple of hours later?’

‘I did apologise. My knee was puffed up like a football. I
did
apologise.’

‘The doctor says your name is Francisco.’

‘Francisco, that’s right.’

‘But I need your full name.’

‘Not wanting to refuse, but why is that?’

‘One of Dr Josselin’s patients has been murdered. We have to make inquiries about everything, it’s the rule.’

‘Your job, eh?’

‘Correct. So I need your full name,’ said Adamsberg, taking out his notebook.

‘Francisco Delfino Vinicius Villalonga Franco da Silva.’

‘OK,’ said Adamsberg, who had not managed to get any of this down. ‘Sorry, I don’t speak Spanish. Where does your first name end and your family name begin?’

‘It’s not Spanish, it’s Portuguese,’ said the man, with a snap of his jaw. ‘I’m Brazilian, my parents were deported under the dictatorship of those sons of bitches, God damn them to hell. Never seen again.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Not your fault. As long as you’re not a son of a bitch yourself. The family name is Villalonga Franco da Silva. The doctor’s on the second floor. There’s a waiting room on the landing, all you need up there. That’s where I’d live too, if I could.’

It was true, the landing on the second floor was as large as an entrance hall. The doctor had installed a coffee table and armchairs, with magazines and books, an antique lamp and a water cooler. A refined and somewhat ostentatious person. Adamsberg sat down to wait for the man with magic fingers, and called Châteaudun hospital, with apprehension, Retancourt and her team, without hope, and Voisenet’s team, while trying to keep at bay the unworthy reflections of
Commandant
Danglard.

Professor Lavoisier was slightly more hopeful – ‘Well, he’s hanging on.’ The fever had gone down slightly; the stomach had survived the pumping; the patient had been asking whether the
commissaire
had found the postcard with the word on it –’ He seems obsessed with that,
mon vieux
.’ ‘Tell him we’re looking for the postcard,’ said Adamsberg, ‘and that we’re dealing with the dog, the samples of manure. Everything going to plan.’

Must be a coded message, thought Professor Lavoisier, noting down every word. Well, none of my business, I suppose the police have their methods. But with this new inflammation and a perforated stomach, it was still touch and go.

Retancourt sounded relaxed, almost jovial, whereas all the signs were that Armel Louvois would not be back. He had gone out at 6 a.m. The concierge had seen him leave with a backpack. Instead of their usual friendly morning exchange, the young man had merely waved his hand at her as he went past. It sounded as though he had been heading for a train. Weill was unable to confirm this, since he did not rise until the gentlemanly hour of midday. He turned out to have a certain affection for his young neighbour, and was extremely vexed by the news of the crime. He had fallen silent, appeared to be sulking, and had provided only a few irrelevant scraps of information. Unusually, Retancourt did not seem too affected by this obstruction. It was possible that Weill, who was a connoisseur of fine wines, had distracted the duty patrol by offering them a decent vintage in fancy glasses. With Weill, who had his suits handmade, since he was extremely rich, extremely snobbish and almost spherical in shape, anything was possible, including the suborning of officers on duty, something which would no doubt give him a paradoxical pleasure. Retancourt did not seem to realise she was on guard outside the apartment of a madman, the
Zerquetscher
who had reduced an old man to mincemeat; indeed, it seemed that Weill’s indulgent attitude to his neighbour had overcome her vigilance. ‘Tell Weill that he dismembered another person in Austria,’ Adamsberg ordered her.

The Voisenet–Kernorkian team, on the other hand, now on its way back, was on its knees. Raymond Réal, the father of the artist, had taken ten minutes to put down his shotgun and let them into his semi-basement in Survilliers. Yes, he’d heard the news, and yes, he called down God’s blessings on the guy who had taken revenge and wiped out that old bastard Vaudel, and God willing the cops would never catch him. So, the papers had come out in time to warn him, and he’d got away? Good! Vaudel had at least two deaths on his conscience, Réal’s son and his wife, and don’t you forget it. Did he know who might have killed Vaudel? Could he tell them where his sons were? They must be joking if they thought he’d tell them, even if he knew. What fucking planet were they on? Kernorkian had muttered, ‘Planet Deep Shit,’ which had seemed to mollify him somewhat.