Dog Will Have His Day (8 page)

So, back to the accounts of the lord of Saint-Amand. He had reached the income from his barns, columns of figures from 1245 to 1256, with some gaps. It was already pretty good, this snapshot of a corner of Burgundy to put into the overall picture of the thirteenth century. Come to think of it, Kehlweiler had that strange face, as well as everything else. It makes a difference. Close to, the face was strikingly gentle. A woman might have been better at guessing whether it was the eyes, the lips, the nose, or the combination of all that, but the result was that from close to, he was worth a look. If he’d been a woman, he’d have agreed. Yeah, but he was a man, so that was stupid, and he only fancied women, which was stupid too, because women apparently didn’t fancy him above anyone else, in this world.

Shit. Marc stood up, went downstairs into the large kitchen, freezing cold as it was in November, and made himself a cup of tea. With tea to drink, he could concentrate on the seigneur of Puisaye’s barns.

Anyway, there was no sign that women made a beeline for Kehlweiler. Because seen from a distance you didn’t realise he was good-looking, in fact not at all, he seemed off-putting. And it seemed to Marc that Kehlweiler had the look of a man who was pretty lonely, when it came to it. That would be sad. But it would comfort Marc himself. He wouldn’t be the only one not to find anybody, to have disaster after disaster in his love life. Nothing worse than a love affair gone wrong to stop you giving due attention to medieval barns. It really blights your work. All the same, love exists out there, no point denying it. Still, at this moment, he wasn’t in love, nor was anyone in love with him, and that way he had a quiet life at least, so it was best to take advantage of it.

Marc went back up to the second floor with his tray. He took a pencil and a magnifying glass, because the archives were very hard to decipher. They were photocopies of course, which didn’t help. In 1245, now, they wouldn’t have given a toss about a bit of dog shit, even with a bone inside it. Yes, but then again, they might. Justice was taken very seriously in 1245. Yes, in fact, they probably would have taken notice of it, if they’d known it was a human bone, and if they had suspected it came from a murder. Of course they would. They’d have handed the matter over to the customary justice dispensed by Hugues, the lord of Saint-Amand-en-Puisaye. And what would Hugues have done about it?

OK, all very well, but that’s not the point. There’s no dog shit mentioned in the papers about the lord’s barns, don’t get everything mixed up. It was raining outside. Perhaps Kehlweiler was still sitting on his bench, since he’d left him there just now. No, he must have changed benches, and gone to sit at observation post 102, by that grid round the tree. He really must ask his godfather some questions about the guy.

Marc transcribed ten lines and drank a mouthful of tea. His bedroom was not very warm, the tea did him good. Soon, he might be able to turn on another radiator, when he got the job in the library. Because as well as everything else, he wouldn’t earn any money helping Kehlweiler out. Not a centime, he’d said. And Marc needed money, but not to look as if he would jump at anything. It’s true that Kehlweiler would find it hard to follow the dog owners on his own, with his stiff knee as well, but that was his problem. Marc had to keep following the lord of Saint-Amand-en-Puisaye and that’s what he would do. In three weeks, he’d made good progress, he’d identified a quarter of the feudal tenants. He’d always been quick at his work. Except when he stopped, of course. And Kehlweiler had noticed it in fact. Oh, the hell with Kehlweiler, and the hell with women, and with this tea that tastes of dust.

True, there might be a murderer around somewhere, a murderer no one would go looking for. But there were plenty of others, and so what? If some guy had killed a woman in a fit of rage, what business was it of his?

Dear God, the steward noting down the Saint-Amand accounts was hard-working, but his handwriting was lousy. If he’d been Hugues, he’d have changed his steward. His o’s and a’s were interchangeable. Marc picked up the magnifying glass. Kehlweiler’s business wasn’t the same as the Sophia Simeonidis case. That one he’d had to deal with because he’d been cornered, she was his neighbour, he liked her, and the murder had been a horrible premeditated one. Revolting, he didn’t want to think about it any more. Yes, but there might be a crime behind Kehlweiler’s bit of bone, and that too might be a horrible premeditated crime. Kehlweiler was thinking about it and wanted to know.

Yes, all right, but that was Kehlweiler’s job, not his. If he’d asked Kehlweiler to give him a hand transcribing the accounts of Saint-Amand, what would he have answered? He’d have said no fear, and that would be normal.

Finished, over, impossible to concentrate. All because of this guy, and his story of the dog, the grid, the murder, the bench. If his godfather had been around, he could have told him exactly what he thought of Louis Kehlweiler. He’d been hired for a little filing job, and it had gone haywire, he was being obliged to do something else. Although, to be fair, Kehlweiler hadn’t
obliged
him to do anything. He had suggested something, and he hadn’t got mad when Marc refused. In fact no one was stopping him carrying on with his study of the barns of Saint-Amand.

No one except the dog. No one except the bone. No one except the idea of a woman at the end of the bone. No one except the idea of a murder. No one except Kehlweiler’s face. Something convincing in his eyes, true, clear, sorrowful as well.

Right, but everyone had their cross to bear, and his was well worth Kehlweiler’s. To each his cross, his quest and his archives.

True, when he had launched himself into the Simeonidis affair, it hadn’t done him any harm. You can mix up your own quest and archives with other people’s and not lose your way. Yes, maybe, or definitely, but it wasn’t his job. No way. End of story.

Marc knocked his chair over in anger, as he stood up. He flung the magnifying glass on the pile of papers, and grabbed his jacket. Half an hour later, he walked into the bunker with Kehlweiler’s archives, and there, as he had hoped, he found Marthe.

‘Marthe, do you know where this bench number 102 is?’

‘Are you allowed to know that? Because they’re not mine, you know, the benches.’

‘Good grief!’ said Marc. ‘I’m Vandoosler’s nephew, and Kehlweiler lets me work in his office, of course I get to know the benches.’

‘All right, all right, no need to hit the roof,’ said Marthe. ‘Just kidding.’

She explained where bench number 102 was, in her loud voice. Fifteen minutes later, Marc arrived within sight of the tree and its metal grid. It was already dark, at half past six. From the other end of the Place de la Contrescarpe, he saw Kehlweiler sitting on a bench. He was leaning forward, elbows on knees, smoking a cigarette. Marc stopped for a few minutes, observing him. His gestures were slow and infrequent. Marc was once more undecided, unsure whether he was the winner or the loser, or whether he should think in those terms at all. He moved back a step. He watched as Kehlweiler stubbed out his cigarette, then ran his hands through his hair, slowly, as if he were holding his head very tightly. He held his head for a few seconds, then both hands fell to his thighs, and he stayed like that, looking down at the ground. This sequence of silent movements made up Marc’s mind for him. He walked over to the bench and sat down at the other end, boots stretched out in front of him. Neither spoke for one or two minutes. Kehlweiler hadn’t looked up, but Marc was sure he had recognised him.

‘You do remember that there’s no money in this?’ Kehlweiler said finally.

‘I remember.’

‘You’ve probably got some other damn thing you’d rather do.’

‘True.’

‘Me too.’

Another silence. Their breath steamed when they spoke. Hell’s teeth, how cold it was!

‘You remember it could just be an accident, a set of coincidences?’

‘I remember everything about it.’

‘Take a look at this list. I’ve got twelve people already: nine men, three women. I eliminated dogs that were too big or too small. In my view, it came from a medium-sized dog.’

Marc ran his eyes down the list. Brief descriptions, ages, appearance. He reread it several times.

‘I’m tired and hungry,’ Kehlweiler said. ‘Do you think you could spell me for a few hours?’

Marc nodded and gave him back the list.

‘Keep it, you’ll need it tonight. I’ve got two beers left – want one?’

They drank their beer in silence.

‘See that man coming along, a bit more to the right? No, don’t look straight at him, look over his head. See him?’

‘Yes. So what?

‘This guy is bad news, ex-torturer and more no doubt. Ultranationalist. Know where he’s been going for a week now? No, don’t for God’s sake stare at him, look down into your beer.’

Marc obeyed. He kept his eyes fixed on the mouth of the small glass bottle. He didn’t think it obvious why he should look down, and it was dark anyway. He couldn’t see anything in fact. He heard Kehlweiler whispering.

‘He’s going to the second floor of the building opposite. It’s where this politician’s nephew lives, and he’s up to something. And I’d like to know who he’s up to something with, and whether the politician knows about it.’

‘I thought we were dealing with a story about dog shit,’ muttered Marc into the beer bottle.

When you blow into a bottle it makes a fantastic sound. Almost like the wind in the sea.

‘This is something different. I’m letting Vincent chase up the politician. He’s a journalist, he’ll be good at it. Vincent is sitting on the other bench, over there, the guy who looks like he’s asleep.’

‘Yeah, got him.’

‘You can look up now, the fascist has gone inside. But try to look natural. These people look out of their windows.’

‘Here comes a dog,’ said Marc. ‘Medium-sized.’

‘Good, make a note. Coming towards us: 18.47, bench 102. Owner a woman about forty, dark complexion, straight hair, mid-length, thin, not very pretty, well dressed, must be well off, blue coat, looks newish, trousers. Coming from the rue Descartes. Stop writing, the dog’s coming.’

Marc took a swig of beer, while the dog pottered around the tree. If it had been a bit closer in the darkness, it would have pissed on his feet. No sense of propriety, Parisian dogs. The woman was waiting, with an absent-minded and patient air.

‘Make a note,’ Kehlweiler went on. ‘Return same direction. Medium-sized dog, golden cocker spaniel, old, tired, limping.’

Kehlweiler finished off his beer with a gulp.

‘There,’ he said, ‘that’s what you do. I’ll come back later. Not too cold, are you? You can go into the cafe from time to time. You can see the street from the counter. But don’t come rushing back to the bench in a hurry, do it slowly, as if you’re just wanting to digest your beer, or waiting for a woman who hasn’t turned up.’

‘I get it.’

‘In two days, we’ll have a complete list of the regulars. After that we’ll share out shadowing them, to see where they come from and who they are.’

‘OK. What’s that in your hand?’

‘My toad. I’m just damping him a bit.’

Marc clenched his teeth. Yeah, right, this guy was really nuts. And he’d walked straight into this one.

‘You don’t like toads, I’m guessing? He won’t hurt, we talk to each other, that’s all. Bufo – that’s his name, Bufo – listen carefully. The guy I’m talking to is called Marc. He’s a relation of Vandoosler. And Vandoosler’s relatives are our relatives. He’s going to watch the doggies for us, while we go and have a bite to eat. Understand?’

Kehlweiler looked up at Marc.

‘You have to explain everything to him. He’s very dumb.’

Kehlweiler smiled and put Bufo back in his pocket.

‘Don’t look like that. It’s very useful, having a toad. You have to make things extremely simple in order to be understood, and that can be quite a relief.’

Kehlweiler smiled again. He had a special kind of smile, very infectious. Marc smiled back. He wasn’t going to be thrown by the sight of a toad. What would you look like, if you were scared of a toad? A total idiot, that’s what. Marc was scared stiff of touching a toad, yes, but he was also scared stiff of looking a total idiot.

‘Can I ask a question in exchange?’ Marc said.

‘You can ask.’

‘Why does Marthe call you Ludwig?’

Kehlweiler took his toad out of his pocket again.

‘Bufo,’ he said, ‘Vandoosler’s relative is going to be more of a bloody nuisance than we thought. What do you think?’

‘You don’t have to answer,’ said Mark weakly.

‘You’re like your uncle, you pretend, but you really want to know everything. Whereas I was told you were quite happy looking after your Middle Ages.’

‘Not quite, not always.’

‘It did surprise me, I must say. Ludwig is my name. Louis, Ludwig, one or the other, that’s the way it is, you can choose. It’s always been like that.’

Marc looked at Kehlweiler. He was stroking Bufo’s head. How ugly toads are. Gross too.

‘What are you wondering now, Marc? How old I am? You’re doing the maths?’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘No need to bother. I’m fifty years old.’ Kehlweiler stood up.

‘Got it now?’ he asked. ‘Worked it out?’

‘Yes.’

‘Born in March 1945, just before the end of the war.’

Marc twisted the little beer bottle in his hands, looking down at the ground.

‘Your mother’s . . . French?’ he asked, in a neutral voice.

At the same time, Marc was thinking, that’s enough, leave him alone, what business is it of yours?

‘Yes, I’ve always lived here.’

Marc nodded. He was twisting and turning the bottle in his hands, staring down at the pavement.

‘You’re from Alsace then? Your father’s Alsatian?’

‘Marc,’ said Kehlweiler with a sigh, ‘don’t act more stupid than you are. They call me “the German”, OK? And get on with it, another dog’s coming.’

Kehlweiler left, and Marc took up the list and the pencil. ‘Middle-sized dog, don’t know what breed, no idea about that, dogs worry me, black with white patches, mongrel. Man, about sixty, balding, big ears, worn out, looks stupid, no, not stupid, coming from the rue Blainville, no tie, drags his feet, brown coat, black scarf, dog does his business, three metres from the tree grid, I think it’s a bitch, going away the other way, no, goes into the cafe, I’ll wait and see what he drinks and I’ll have the same.’