Wash This Blood Clean From My Hand (44 page)

LX

ON SUNDAY EVENING AT TEN-THIRTY, ADAMSBERG PUT ON HIS THICK
bullet-proof vest and holster again. He switched on all the lights to indicate he was at home, so that the great insect in its cave would crawl up into the light.

At eleven-fifteen, the front door clicked open, signalling the arrival of the Trident. The judge slammed the door casually behind him. It was exactly like him, Adamsberg thought. He was at home, anywhere and everywhere he pleased. ‘I can bring down a thunderbolt on your head whenever I wish.’

Adamsberg raised his gun, as the old man moved into his field of vision.

‘What a barbaric welcome, young man,’ said Fulgence in his gravel-toned voice.

Taking no notice of the muzzle pointing at him, the judge took off his long cape and threw it on a chair. For all Adamsberg’s anticipation of this moment, he had tensed at the sight of the tall old figure. He had aged in the face since their last meeting, but still held himself erect, with his haughty air and the same arrogant gestures Adamsberg remembered from his boyhood. The deep lines etched on the judge’s face enhanced even further that devilish beauty which the village women had admired and done penance for. The judge sat down and, crossing his legs, examined the game laid out on the table.

‘Sit down,’ he ordered. ‘We have a few things to talk about.’

Adamsberg stayed where he was, adjusting his range, watching both his enemy’s eyes and his hands. Fulgence smiled and leaned back in the chair, perfectly at his ease. The judge’s dazzling smile, which was an element of his beauty, was unusual in that it stretched back to the first molars. This feature had accentuated over time, giving his lean jaws a macabre air.

‘You’re not in my league, young man, and you never have been. Do you know why? Because when I kill, I kill. But you’re just a small-time cop. A banal and messy murder on a footpath changes you into a miserable creature. Yes, a very little man.’

Adamsberg walked slowly round behind Fulgence, holding the barrel of the gun a few inches from his neck.

‘Nervous too,’ went on the judge. ‘Just what I would expect from a little man.’

He pointed to the dragons and winds.

‘Quite correct,’ he said. ‘But it took you some time.’

Adamsberg followed the movements of that feared hand, a white hand with long fingers, and well-kept nails, its joints now enlarged with age, but moving at the end of its wrist with that strange, slightly dislocated grace that one sees in paintings by old masters.

‘The fourteenth tile is missing,’ he said, ‘and it will be a man.’

‘But not you Adamsberg,’ said Fulgence, ‘you’d dilute the hand, being of the wrong suit.’

‘A green dragon or a white one?’

‘What does it matter to you? Even in prison or in the grave, the last tile will not escape me.’

The judge pointed to the two flowers which Adamsberg had placed alongside the Hand of Honours.

‘I take it this represents Michel Sartonna, and this one Noëlla Corderon,’ he remarked.

‘Yes.’

‘Permit me to make a correction.’

Fulgence put on a glove and picked up the tile corresponding to Noëlla, which he threw back into the pile.

‘I don’t care for mistakes,’ he said coldly. ‘You may be sure I would never
have troubled to follow you to Quebec. I don’t follow people, Adamsberg, I go ahead of them. I have never been to Quebec.’

‘Sartonna kept you informed about the portage trail.’

‘Yes, I was watching your movements after Schiltigheim, as you know. The murder on the footpath afforded me much amusement. A crime committed by a drunken man, with neither grace nor premeditation. How vulgar, Adamsberg.’

The judge turned round looking directly at the gun.

‘I’m sorry, little man, that’s your very own crime, and I’m leaving it to you.’

A fleeting smile from the judge and Adamsberg broke out into a sweat all over his body.

‘Don’t worry,’ Fulgence went on. ‘You’ll find it’s easier to live with than you might think.’

‘Why did you kill Sartonna?’

‘He knew too much,’ the judge said, turning back to the game. ‘It’s the kind of risk I don’t take. You ought to know as well,’ he said, picking up another flower and placing it on the rack, ‘that Dr Colette Choisel is no longer with us. An unfortunate car accident. And former
Commissaire
Adamsberg will shortly be following her into the underworld,’ he went on, picking up a third flower. ‘Overwhelmed by his crime, too weak to face a lifetime in prison, he killed himself, if you please. What can you expect from a little man?’

‘That’s what you think you’re going to do?’

‘It’s quite simple. Sit down, young man, your nervousness is annoying me.’

Adamsberg sat down opposite the judge, still pointing the gun at him.

‘You should be grateful to me,’ smiled Fulgence. ‘This brief formality will release you from an intolerable existence, since the memory of your crime will leave you no peace.’

‘My death won’t save you, though. There’s a complete dossier on you now.’

‘Others have been found guilty of these crimes. Nothing will be proved without my confession.’

‘The sand in the coffin points to you.’

‘True, and that is the only point at issue. That is why Dr Choisel has disappeared. And that is why I am here to have this little chat, before your suicide. It is tasteless, young man, to dig up people’s graves. A very serious lapse in taste.’

Fulgence’s face had lost its disdainful smile. He was now looking at Adamsberg with all the harshness of a former judge.

‘Which you are going to correct. By signing a little confession, quite usual in suicide cases. Indicating that you arranged the fake coffin yourself. You re-buried my body in the woods near Richelieu. Driven by your obsession, of course, and because you were determined to go to any lengths to blame the footpath murder on me. Do you understand?’

‘I won’t sign anything that helps you, Fulgence.’

‘Yes, you will, little man. Because if you refuse, we can find two more flowers for the set. Your friend Camille, and her child. Whom I will have executed immediately after your death, believe me. Seventh floor, left.’

Fulgence handed Adamsberg a sheet of paper and a pen, which he first wiped carefully. Adamsberg put his gun under his left arm, and began to write under the judge’s dictation, enlarging the letters D and R.

‘No, no, no,’ said the judge, taking away the paper. ‘Your normal writing, if you please. Begin again,’ he said, passing over another sheet.

Adamsberg finished writing and put the paper on the table.

‘Perfect,’ said Fulgence. ‘Now please put the game away.’

‘And how do you propose to suicide me?’ asked Adamsberg, using his free hand to put the tiles in the box. ‘Since I’m armed.’

‘But, you are also ridiculously human. So I count on your complete cooperation. You will allow it to happen. You will put your own gun to your head and fire. Should you choose to shoot me instead, which is of course open to you, two of my men have orders to take care of your girlfriend and your child. Am I making myself clear enough?’

Adamsberg let fall the revolver under the judge’s dazzling smile. He was so sure of himself that he had arrived without any apparent firearm himself. He would leave behind him a perfect suicide and a confession which would exonerate him.

Adamsberg examined his Magnum, of pathetically little use to him
now, then looked up and stiffened. Danglard was standing a couple of feet behind the judge, moving with the silence of a cat. His pompom on his head, a tear-gas canister in his right hand, and his Beretta in his left. Adamsberg raised the revolver to his forehead.

‘Give me a moment or two,’ he said. ‘Just to gather my thoughts.’

Fulgence looked scornful.

‘A cowardly little man. I will count to four.’

On the count of two, Danglard threw the gas, moving his Beretta to his right hand. Fulgence leapt up, with a cry, to face Danglard. The
capitaine
, seeing the face of the judge for the first time, had a second’s hesitation, in which Fulgence’s fist hit his chin. Danglard crashed violently into the wall and his shot missed the judge who was already at the door. Adamsberg ran into the stairwell, following the old man in his headlong escape. The retreating judge was in his line of fire for a moment. Danglard joined him, as he let his gun drop to his side.

‘Listen,’ said Adamsberg. ‘That must be his car.’

Danglard ran down the last few stairs and into the street with his gun at the ready. Too far, he couldn’t even hit the tyres. The car must have had the engine running.

‘Christ Almighty, why didn’t you shoot him?’ he shouted as he came back up.

Adamsberg was sitting on the stairs, his Magnum by his side, his head bent, and his hands hanging between his knees.

‘Target seen from behind, running away,’ he said. ‘Not self-defence. I’ve done enough killing as it is,
capitaine.’

Danglard led the
commissaire
back into the apartment. With a policeman’s flair, he found the bottle of gin and poured two glasses. Adamsberg lifted his hand.

‘Look how I’m shaking, Danglard. Like a maple leaf.’

You know what he did to me? That Paris cop? Did I tell you about that?

Danglard downed his first glass swiftly. Then he picked up the telephone, while helping himself to a second.

‘Mordent? Danglard here. Top-level protection, immediately, Camille Forestier, 23 rue des Templiers, 4th arrondissement, 7th floor, left. Two men day and night for two months. Tell them I gave the order.’

Adamsberg drank the gin, with chattering teeth.

‘Danglard, how the hell did you get here?’

‘Just doing my job.’

‘How?’

‘Go to sleep first,’ said Danglard, who could see Adamsberg’s drained features.

‘To sleep, perchance to dream,
capitaine
. He said I killed Noëlla.’

She was all washed up, poor Noëlla. Did I tell you about that? My chum?

‘I know, I got it all on tape.’

The
capitaine
felt in his trouser pocket and took out a handful of pills. He looked them over expertly, and chose a greyish capsule.

‘Take this and go to bed. I’ll call for you at seven in the morning.’

‘What for?’

‘Taking you to see a policeman.’

LXI

DANGLARD HAD DRIVEN OUT OF PARIS AND WAS NOW CAREFULLY
negotiating the three-lane highway through patches of thick fog. He was talking to himself, cursing himself for not having been able to clap hands on the judge. No ID on the car, no possibility of roadblocks. At his side, Adamsberg seemed indifferent to their failure to thwart the judge’s getaway: he was alone still on the portage trail. In the space of a night, the certainty of having committed the crime had wrapped itself round him like the bands of a mummy.

‘Don’t blame yourself, Danglard,’ he said at last in a flat voice. ‘Nobody can catch the judge, I already told you.’

‘I had him in arm’s reach, for God’s sake.’

‘I know. It’s happened to me too.’

‘I’m a cop, I was armed.’

‘Me too. Doesn’t alter anything. He runs away like sand.’

‘He’s heading for his fourteenth murder.’

‘How did you come to be there, Danglard?’

‘You
read things in people’s eyes, in their voices, in their movements. I go by the logic of the word.’

‘I didn’t tell you anything.’

‘On the contrary, you had the excellent intuition to send me a warning.’

‘No, I didn’t.’

‘You called me about the child. You said “There’s something I want to know first.” First before what? Going to see Camille? No, you’d already
paid her a visit when you were drunk. I phoned Clémentine. I got a quavery little voice on the other end – is that your hacker?’

‘Yes, Josette.’

‘She told me you’d gone out with your bullet-proof vest and your gun, and said you’d be back, before you kissed them goodbye. Gun, kisses and reassurance all pointed to your being uncertain. About what? About a fight to the death. It had to be with the judge of course. And the only way to do that was to expose yourself to him on your own territory. The old stakeout technique, with yourself as the goat.’

‘Well, the technique was for a mosquito, in fact.’

‘A goat surely?’

‘Whatever you say, Danglard.’

‘Well the goat generally gets eaten. Crunch, gone. As you knew.’

‘Yes.’

‘But you didn’t really want that to happen, because you warned me. So from Saturday I kept watch from the basement in the house opposite. I had a good view from the basement window, across to your main door. I thought the judge would strike at night, probably after eleven. He’s a symbolist.’

‘Why were you alone?’

‘Same reason as you. Didn’t want anyone else to get hurt. I was wrong, I took on too much. We could have cornered him.’

‘No, six men wouldn’t have caught him.’

‘Retancourt would have blocked him.’

‘Yes, she’d have stood in his way, and he’d have killed her.’

‘He wasn’t armed.’

‘Yes, he was. His walking stick – it’s a sword-stick, a third of a trident. He’d have stabbed her.’

‘I suppose it’s possible,’ said Danglard rubbing his chin. Adamsberg had given him some of Ginette’s yellow ointment to treat it.

‘No, he really would have. Don’t blame yourself.’

‘I left the lookout during the day and came back in the evening. He appeared soon after eleven. Looking very relaxed, and so tall, so old, that I couldn’t mistake him. I came up behind him and waited at your door. I got his confession on tape.’

‘And you heard him deny that he committed the crime on the path.’

‘Yes, that too. He raised his voice when he said, “I don’t follow people, Adamsberg, I go ahead of them.” I took advantage of that to open the door.’

‘Well, you saved the goat anyway. Thanks, Danglard.’

‘You’d called me. It was my duty.’

‘And it’s your duty now to hand me over to Canadian justice. We’re on our way to the airport, aren’t we?’

‘Yes.’

‘Where a fucking cop from the RCMP is waiting for me, right?’