Dog Will Have His Day (12 page)

He replaced the cover on the typewriter, as a gesture of kindness to protect it from the damp, not to conceal traces of his entry, since he had in any case removed the screws holding the bolt. He went out into the night, pulling the door shut after him. Tomorrow, Sevran would discover the break-in and react. Tomorrow, he would go and see the local mayor to find out more about the old woman who had been found dead on the beach. Tomorrow, he would also go to the seawater spa to see his little Pauline. He might tell himself she had married the man with the low brow for his money, but he couldn’t be sure. It wouldn’t be the first time he had been dropped for someone he wouldn’t have wanted to touch with a bargepole. But all the same, since Pauline was the third woman he had really loved, it hit him hard in the guts. What had Marthe said? This wasn’t supposed to be a revenge expedition. No, of course not, he wasn’t such a bastard. But it would be difficult. Because he had really suffered when she left. He had downed unimaginable quantities of beer. He had put on weight and wallowed in endless memories. Then it had taken months to recover, first the inside of his head, then the rest of his body, which was too tall but normally solid and in good shape. Yes, it would be difficult.

KEHLWEILER GOT UP
too late for breakfast at the hotel. He gave himself a near-complete shave and went out into the fine rain falling on the village. Village wasn’t really the right word. Scattered locality, he would have called it. Port-Nicolas must originally have been a small medieval port, and there were still some narrow alleyways which might have interested someone like Marc Vandoosler, but not Louis. Thinking of Marc, he found his way up to the church with its
calvaire
, which was unquestionably very fine, a calvary crawling with sculpted monsters and other horrors fit to inspire terror into religious souls. Twenty metres away, a partly demolished granite fountain emitted a thin stream of water.

Under the now heavier rain, Louis leaned over, one leg bent, the other stiff, to trail his hand in the fountain. Thousands of people must have come to dip their hands into this water, telling it their sorrows, praying for help, or for lost love, for children, or for vengeance. Centuries on, that makes the water full of meaning. Louis had always liked miraculous springs. He briefly considered plunging his knee into it. True, there was no evidence this fountain could work miracles. But in Brittany, right alongside a
calvaire
, it must be able to, people aren’t stupid, any fool could tell a miraculous spring when he saw one. It was a beautiful spot and he liked it. Up here, he could look down and see part of the modern settlement. Port-Nicolas had spread itself. Now it looked like a scatter of dispersed villas, built several hundred metres away from each other, with an industrial zone in the distance.

Of the original village centre, all that now remained after the ravages of time were a central square, with a large stone cross, the hotel, the cafe, the town hall and a handful of run-down houses. All the other buildings were ranged throughout the landscape in no particular order: a garage, a few villas, a supermarket, the spa – an unlovely structure – and the rest, thrown down like a game of dominoes and linked by a series of roads and roundabouts.

Louis preferred the miraculous fountain, in which he was still trailing his hand, and the worn granite demons on the
calvaire
. He sat there in the rain, on a rock protruding from the mown grass. Small figures were moving about down below, one around the villas, and another in front of the town hall. Perhaps it was the mayor, Michel Chevalier, of uncertain allegiance, officially listed under ‘N’ for ‘non-aligned’. Non-aligned politicians had always bothered him. They were often rather weak people, as if they had somehow shrunk in the wash of life and preferred to shelter on some vague central ground, people whose decisions were unpredictable. Louis couldn’t get much purchase on these floating politicians. Perhaps the mayor wondered every day whether his hair was dark or fair, whether he was a man or a woman, perhaps he would hesitate when faced with the simplest questions. But then, after all, Louis himself hesitated when people asked where he was from. Don’t know, it doesn’t matter, son of the Rhine. Men had spent much time trying to grasp the Rhine, they had even cut it in two. Cutting a river in two, what lunacy, only mankind could come up with something so idiotic. But the Rhine is nowhere and belongs to no one, and he was a son of the Rhine, that was what his father had told him, indefinite nationality, the world was full of horrors and bloodshed, he wasn’t going to think about that all day.

That said, the advantage of belonging nowhere was that you could be from anywhere. If he chose, and he often did, he could be Turkish, Chinese, Berber, why not, Indonesian, Malian, or from Tierra del Fuego, hands up if you object, Sicilian, Irish, or of course French or German. And the practical thing about that was that you could then lay claim to a whole gallery of ancestors, heroes or villains.

Louis took his hand out of the water and looked at it. Wiping it on his wet trousers, he thought for the thousandth time that he’d lived for fifty years in France, and for fifty years people had been calling him ‘the German’. People didn’t forget, nor did he. Standing upright again, he thought he ought to call his father. It was a month since he had heard from him. Over there, in Lörrach, across the Rhine, the old man would be amused to know what he was chasing now. From the fountain, Louis surveyed the whole of Port-Nicolas. He knew why he was hesitating. Should he start with Pauline or, less upsettingly, with the mayor?

ARRIVING AT THE
bunker at ten in the morning, Marc had prepared all possible responses to any future requests by Louis Kehlweiler. So he went in calmly, kissed Marthe hello, and was surprised not to find a note on the desk. Surely Louis would have left a message, asking him to go haring off to the other end of the country. Or perhaps Marthe was supposed to act as go-between. But Marthe wasn’t saying anything. Ah, right, everyone was keeping quiet. Just as well.

Marc had never managed to hold to a resolution, good or bad, for more than about ten minutes. Impatience always made him lower his guard and his most ferocious sulks could be ruined in a few moments by the need to rouse himself and deal with something that was hanging fire. If there was one thing he couldn’t tolerate, it was letting something hang fire. He wriggled on his chair before finally asking Marthe if she had any messages for him.

‘No messages,’ said Marthe.

‘No matter,’ said Marc, resolving again to keep his mouth shut. ‘But you know what?’ he began again. ‘Louis wants me to be a runner for him. Well, no, Marthe, I’m not cut out for that. Not that I can’t run, that’s not it. I can run very fast if I have to, well, fairly fast, and I’m especially good at climbing. Not mountains, no, too depressing, I get fed up, but walls, trees, fences. You wouldn’t think so to look at me, would you? Well, actually, I’m very gymnastic, Marthe, not strong, but gymnastic. You don’t just need strong men on earth, do you? You know something, my wife left me for this guy, a big hunk. Yeah, a hunk, but he couldn’t have balanced on a stool, and what’s more –’

‘
You
were
married
?’

‘Why not? But it’s all over now, don’t talk to me about it, please.’

‘It was you brought it up.’

‘Yes, OK, you’re right. What I’m saying, Marthe, is I’m not cut out to be in anyone’s army, even Kehlweiler’s, and he recruits you very subtly and gently. I just can’t fucking well obey orders, they drive me mad, my nerves can’t take it. And this criminal case, I can’t be bothered, no idea who to suspect. Understanding, studying, deducing, OK, but suspecting living people, can’t do that. On the other hand, I can suspect
dead
people, that’s my job. I suspect the lord of Puisaye’s steward of cheating in his records of the tithe barns. He must have been fleecing him over the number of sheepskins. But he’s long dead, you see? Big difference. In real life, I don’t suspect anyone much, I believe what people tell me, I trust them. Oh shit, I don’t know why I’m rabbiting on like this, I do it all the time, I spend my life going over what I’ve done, it’s exhausting for me, and it bores everyone else. All that to tell you that as a soldier, or a snooper, I’m completely useless, that’s all. Useless as a strong man, or a suspicious man, or a powerful man, or any other kind of superman such as your Ludwig seems to be. Kehlweiler or no Kehlweiler, I’m not going off to Brittany to be a dog that runs after another dog. It distracts me from my work.’

‘You’re hysterical this morning,’ said Marthe with a shrug.

‘Ah, you can see something’s wrong too.’

‘You talk too much for a man, it damages your image. Listen to my advice, because I know about men.’

‘I couldn’t care less about my image.’

‘You couldn’t care less, because you don’t know what to do about it.’

‘Maybe. But what difference does it make?’

‘I’ll explain to you one day how not to tie yourself in knots by chattering. You go too far. Look, next time you want to choose a woman, show her to me first, because I know about women. I’ll tell you if she’s the right one for you, then if you were going too far or getting in too deep, no harm will be done.’

Oddly enough, this idea was not displeasing to Marc.

‘What should she be like?’

‘Oh, there aren’t any rules, don’t imagine things. We can discuss it when you bring one along. Apart from that, I can’t see why you’re so worked up this morning. You’ve been talking about yourself for a quarter of an hour, God knows why.’

‘I told you. I don’t intend to go off with Louis.’

‘Don’t you think the job’s worth it?’

‘Good grief, Marthe, of course I do! And I’ve already done a job like that before.’

‘Ludwig said you did it well.’

‘I wasn’t alone. Anyway, that’s not the point. I’m surrounded by corrupt ex-cops and would-be prosecutors, and I don’t want to be dragged around with a ring through my nose, I’ve done it all week, that’s enough.’

‘Well, naturally, when you’re only thinking about yourself, you won’t understand anything about other people.’

‘I know. That’s a problem.’

‘Let’s see your nose.’

Without thinking, Marc leaned towards Marthe.

‘No room for a ring, it’s too thin. Believe me, I know about men. Anyway, having you hanging about him all day can’t be much fun either.’

‘Ah, you see.’

‘And nobody’s asking you to go with Ludwig.’

‘Not in so many words. He’s tempting me with this piece of crap, yes, effective, and subtle, and then he’ll drag me away to Brittany because he knows I can’t give up on something once I’ve started. It’s like a bottle of beer. Once you open it, you’ve had it, you’ve got to drink the lot.’

‘This isn’t beer, it’s a crime.’

‘I know what I mean.’

‘Ludwig went yesterday.
Without
you, young Vandoosler. He very respectfully left you to carry on with your studying.’

Marthe smiled at him, and Marc had nothing left to say. He felt hot, he’d talked too much. On New Year’s Day, he’d make a resolution. He asked in a calm voice if it wasn’t perhaps time for some coffee.

They made their usual little cup of coffee without a word. Then Marthe asked him for some help with her crossword. Exceptionally, because he was feeling rather weak, Marc agreed to put aside his work. They both sat on the sofa bed, now a sofa. Marc put a cushion behind his back and fetched one for Marthe, got up to look for an eraser, you can’t do a crossword without one, fiddled about with the cushions again, took off his boots, and wondered about 6 across: ‘Form of art’ 10 letters.

‘Plenty of choice,’ said Marthe.

‘Don’t talk, think.’

BEFORE TACKLING THE
town hall, Louis went for breakfast at the Market Cafe facing him on the other side of the square. He was waiting for his jacket to dry off a bit. At a glance, Louis had judged the cafe to be the kind he liked: untouched for forty years. It had an original pinball machine, and a billiard table with a notice on a dirty scrap of cardboard: ‘Caution, new cloth’. Hitting one ball in order to pocket another was a system whose subtlety had always pleased him. Calculating the cushions, the angles, the rebounds, aiming left to catch the right. Very clever. The games room was large and dark. They must only put the lights on when people were playing, and this Monday morning at eleven thirty, it was too early. The feet of the little players on the table football game were worn away with use. Feet, ah yes, feet again. He would have to see about this big toe, and not let himself be drawn into a catechism class with the pinball machine holding out its arms towards him.

‘Would I be able to see the mayor today?’ Louis asked the old lady dressed in black and grey who was behind the bar.

She thought about it, then leaned her thin hands on the counter.

‘If he’s in his office, no reason why not. But if he’s not there . . .’

‘Yes?’ said Louis.

‘Tell you what, he usually comes in for his aperitif at about twelve thirty. If he’s out on a site, he won’t come. But if he isn’t, he will.’

Louis thanked her, paid, picked up his still damp jacket and went across the square. Inside the little town hall, he was asked if he had an appointment because monsieur le maire was working in his office.

‘Can you tell him I’m passing through and would like to see him? Kehlweiler, Louis Kehlweiler.’

Louis had never had any visiting cards made, it didn’t suit him.

The young man spoke on the phone, then told him he could go up to the first floor, the door at the end of the corridor. There was only one more floor in the building anyway.

Louis had no memory of this mayor, who was also a member of the French Senate, apart from his name and label of ‘non-aligned’. The man who received him was rather heavily built, but flabby, with one of those faces you have to concentrate hard to remember, always in motion. He bounced a little when he walked, and without making them crack, he had a disturbing habit of twisting the fingers of one hand with the other. As Louis was watching this movement, the mayor put his hand in his pocket, and asked him to sit down.