Wash This Blood Clean From My Hand (46 page)

Adamsberg nodded. It was truly diabolical wickedness at work. He turned to the sergeant.

‘Sanscartier, surely you didn’t search that pile of leaves on your own?’

‘No, at that stage I had to tell Laliberté. I already had the statement from the watchman and the DNA of your blood. Christ, though, he went up the wall when I told him what I’d been doing on the so-called sick leaves. I won’t tell you what he said. He even accused me of having been your accomplice from the start and helping you escape. He went ballistic. Sure, I’d been way out of line. But in the end I got him to calm down and see reason. Because with our boss, you know, it’s rigour, rigour always that counts for him. So he cooled off and he had to admit there was more to the case than met the eye. After that, he moved heaven and earth and authorised us to do the search. And he lifted the warrant that was out for you.’

Adamsberg looked at them in turn. Danglard and Sanscartier. Two men who had not abandoned him for a second.

‘Don’t try to say anything,’ said Sanscartier. ‘It’s too much to take in right now.’

The car was moving slowly through the traffic jams on the outskirts of Paris. Adamsberg was in the back, leaning his head against the window, his eyes half shut, watching the familiar landmarks go by and glancing at the two men in front who had rescued him. The end of Raphaël’s exile. And the end of his own purgatory. The novelty and the relief were so great that they created in him an immense fatigue.

‘Hey, pretty good work, all that stuff about the Mah Jong,’ said Sanscartier. ‘Laliberté was stunned, he said it was a fantastic bit of detection. He’ll tell you so tomorrow.’

‘He’s coming over?’

‘I guess you might not want to see him, but he’s coming for your
capitaine
’s promotion the next day. Have you forgotten? Your big boss Brézillon asked him over, because they’ve got a few bones to pick and need to make it up.’

Adamsberg found it hard to take it in that now he could just walk into the office if he liked. Without his lumberjack hat, he could just open the door and say hullo, shake people’s hands. Go and buy a loaf of bread. Sit by the banks of the Seine.

‘I’m trying to think how to thank you, Sanscartier, but I can’t find the words.’

‘Don’t worry, it’s all sorted. I’m going to a Toronto posting. Laliberté has promoted me to inspector. And all because you got drunk that night.’

‘But the judge has got away with it,’ said Danglard gloomily.

‘He’ll be found guilty in absentia,’ said Adamsberg. ‘And Vétilleux and those other people will be released. That’s what matters most, after all.’

‘No,’ said Danglard, shaking his head. ‘There’s still the fourteenth victim to think about.’

Adamsberg sat up and leaned forward. Sanscartier smelled of almond soap.

‘I’ve worked out who the fourteenth victim is,’ he said, smiling.

Danglard glanced in the mirror. It was the first time in six weeks that he had seen Adamsberg smile.

‘The last tile is the major element. Until you have that one, the game isn’t over and nothing makes sense. It closes the Hand of Honours, and gives its shape to the whole thing.’

‘OK, that’s logical,’ said Danglard.

‘And that major piece has to be a white dragon. But a dragon that’s white because it’s perfect, honour through excellence. Lightning, white light. It’s himself, Danglard. The Trident will join his father and mother, in a perfect run of white dragons, three tiles, once the whole thing is finished.’

‘He’s going to stab himself with a trident?’ frowned Danglard.

‘No. His natural death will complete the hand. It’s on what you taped, Danglard. “Even in prison, even in the grave, the last one won’t escape me.”’

‘But he always kills everyone with the damn trident,’ Danglard objected.

‘Well, not the last one. The judge
is
the Trident.’

Adamsberg leaned back in his seat and fell fast asleep. Sanscartier looked round in surprise.

‘Does he often go off to sleep like that?’

‘When he’s bored, or in shock,’ Danglard explained.

LXIII

ADAMSBERG GREETED THE TWO POLICEMEN, UNKNOWN TO HIM, WHO
were on duty on Camille’s landing, and showed them his badge – still in the name of Denis Lamproie.

He rang the bell. He had spent the previous day coming back to life in solitude and in a daze, finding great difficulty in getting back in touch with himself again. After these seven weeks buffeted by winds from all four quarters, he found himself thrown up on the sandy shore, soaked and calmed, with the wounds inflicted by the Trident all healed. And at the same time, stunned and surprised. He knew at least that it was imperative that he tell Camille that he had not killed anyone. At least he must do that. And if he could manage it, he would tell her that he had expelled the image of the new father with the dogs from his mind. He felt ill at ease, with his uniform cap under his arm, his sharply-creased trousers, his jacket with its gold epaulettes and his medal in the button hole. The cap would at least have covered the remains of his tonsure.

Camille opened the door and signalled to the two officers that she knew her visitor.

‘There are two policemen on the landing the whole time,’ she said, ‘and I don’t seem to be able to reach Adrien.’

‘Danglard’s at the Prefecture. He’s putting the finishing touches to a massive file. The uniforms will be guarding you for two months.’

* * *

Pacing up and down the studio, Adamsberg managed to tell his story, more or less. Trying not to say too much about Noëlla. and mixing up various elements. He interrupted himself half-way through.

‘And you know,’ he said, ‘I’ve sorted out that business about the man with the dogs.’

‘Ah,’ said Camille slowly. ‘So what do you think of him now?’

‘He’s much the same as his predecessor.’

‘Glad you like him.’

‘It’s easier this way. We can shake hands.’

‘For instance.’

‘Exchange a few words, like human beings.’

‘Yes …’

Adamsberg nodded, and went on with the story: Raphaël, exile, dragons. He gave her back the rules of Mah Jong, and left, closing the door quietly behind him. The quiet click shocked him. Each of them on one side of the wooden barrier, living on separate levels. Separated by his own actions. At least the two watches were not separate, but locked together in a a discreet coupling on his left wrist.

LXIV

EVERYONE WAS IN DRESS UNIFORM AT THE SQUAD HEADQUARTERS
. Danglard looked around contentedly at the hundred or so people in the Council Chamber. At one end, a dais had been prepared for the official speech by the
divisionnaire
, who would recount Danglard’s merits in the service, compliment him and pin on his new stripes. Then he would have to make an acceptance speech, crack a few jokes and convey some emotion. After that, his colleagues would congratulate him, everyone would relax, and there would be booze, canapés and chatter. He was watching the door to see whether Adamsberg turned up. It was possible the
commissaire
might not want to return to the squad on such a formal occasion. Clémentine was there however, in her best flowered dress, accompanied by Josette who wore a smart suit and tennis shoes. Clémentine was quite at ease, a cigarette in her mouth, and happily reunited with
Brigadier
Gardon, who had once, long ago, lent her a pack of cards, as she had not forgotten. The fragile hacker, the indispensable lawbreaker, afloat in a sea of police, stuck close to Clémentine’s side, holding her glass in both hands. Danglard had seen to it that the best quality champagne had been ordered, and had laid in plenty of it, as if wishing to make this evening as dense as possible, to impregnate it with fine bubbles which would run through it like molecules. For him the ceremony was less about his promotion than about the end of Adamsberg’s long agony.

* * *

The
commissaire
appeared discreetly at the door and for a moment, Danglard was vexed to see that he had not even put on his uniform. Then he realised who he was, as the man advanced hesitantly through the crowd. This man, with a handsome dark face with high cheekbones was not Jean-Baptiste but Raphaël Adamsberg. The
capitaine
understood how Retancourt’s plan had been able to work, if he was glimpsed across a car park in Gatineau. He pointed him out to Sanscartier.

‘That’s him, the brother,’ he said. ‘The one talking to Violette Retancourt.’

‘I can see how he fooled my colleagues,’ said Sanscartier with a grin.

The
commissaire
had followed his brother in soon afterwards, his uniform cap covering his tonsure. Clémentine looked at him, openly appraising him.

‘That’s three kilos he’s put on with us, Josette,’ she said proudly surveying her work. ‘It suits him well, his blue uniform.’

‘Now he has no more locked doors, we won’t be hunting in the underground any more,’ said Josette with regret.

‘Don’t worry.
Flics
pick up trouble non-stop, it’s their job. He hasn’t finished with his troubles, you can be sure, m’dear.’

Adamsberg gripped his brother’s arm and looked around. In the end it was probably a good thing to re-enter the office like this, seeing all the officers and other staff at once. In a couple of hours it would all be over, his return, the questions and answers, emotions and thanks. Much more simple than going round to see people one by one, office after office, in confidential conversations. He let Raphaël’s arm go, made a friendly sign to Danglard and joined the official top brass, Brézillon and Laliberté.

‘Hey man,’ said Laliberté, slapping him on the back, ‘I got you royally wrong, I was way out of line. Will you accept my apologies? I tracked you like a damned murderer.’

‘You had every reason to think it,’ said Adamsberg with a wry smile.

‘I was talking about the profiling with your boss. Your lab worked overtime to get it done by tonight. They’re the same hairs, goddamnit, they belong to your infernal judge. I wouldn’t have credited it, but you were right. A great piece of work.’

Unsettled by Laliberté’s familiarity, Brézillon had stiffened into a very unbending French manner, and shook Adamsberg’s hand formally.

‘But say, you made me look a real dummy, slipping out under my nose like that,’ Laliberté interrupted, giving Adamsberg a vigorous shake. ‘I’ll tell you straight, I was fit to be tied.’

‘I bet you were, Aurèle. You don’t do things by halves.’

‘Don’t worry, I’m not mad at you now. Right? It was the only thing for you to do. You’ve got your head screwed on right, for someone who shovels clouds.’

‘Commissaire,’
Brézillon broke in, ‘Favre has been posted to St Etienne under observation. There are no further consequences as far as you’re concerned. I condoned your action as a mere show of strength in the face of insubordination. But that’s not what I think it was. The judge had already got under your skin. Am I right?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘In future, please be on your guard.’

Laliberté took Brézillon by the shoulder.

‘Don’t worry, pal,’ he said. ‘A hellhound like that isn’t going to turn up again in a hurry.’

Embarrassed, the
divisionnaire
extracted himself from the superintendent’s large hand and made his excuses. The platform was waiting.

‘Bit uptight, your boss, isn’t he?’ commented Laliberté. ‘Talks like a book, walks like he could shit logs. He always like that?’

‘No, he puts out his cigarette with his thumb.’

Trabelmann was advancing on them.

‘So that’s your childhood memory wrapped up then,’ he said, shaking Adamsberg’s hand. ‘Prince Charming can spit fire after all.’

‘The black prince.’

‘The black prince, yeah.’

‘Thanks for coming, Trabelmann.’

‘Sorry about what I said about Strasbourg Cathedral. Shouldn’t have said that.’

‘Don’t be sorry, on the contrary. It’s been keeping me company all through this.’

Adamsberg realised, as they spoke of the cathedral, that the menagerie had melted away from its apertures. The spire, windows and doors were all open and unencumbered. The beasts had returned to their usual haunts. Nessie was back in her loch, the dragons in their fairy tales, the labradors in fantasy land, the fish in its pink lake, the general of the Canada geese in the Ottawa River, the one-third of the
commandant
of
gendarmes
back in place. The cathedral had returned to being a jewel of Gothic architecture and was soaring high among the clouds, much higher than him.

‘A hundred and forty-two metres,’ said Trabelmann, picking up a glass of champagne from a passing tray. ‘None of us is that big, not you or me.’

And he burst out laughing.

‘Except in fairy tales,’ said Adamsberg.

‘How right you are,
commissaire.’

Once the speeches were over and Danglard had had his medal pinned on his chest, the Council Chamber was full of chatter, discussion and cries, all made louder by the champagne. Adamsberg went to greet the twenty-six agents of the squad who, during his absence, had been waiting with bated breath for twenty days, without one of them believing the charges against him. He heard the voice of Clémentine, around whom a little group had gathered, consisting of Gardon, Josette, Retancourt, who was followed everywhere by Estalère, and Danglard, who was watching the level of champagne in the glasses and topping them up relentlessly.

‘When I said the phantom was a real devil, I was right, wasn’t I?’ she was saying. ‘And it was you, my little one,’ she went on, turning to Retancourt, ‘who hid him in your skirts, under the noses of the Mounties. How many of them were there?’

‘Three, in a room six metres square.’

‘Well, there you are. He was as light as a feather, easy to lift, before I fattened him up. I always say the simplest ideas are the best.’

* * *

Adamsberg smiled, as Sanscartier moved over to him.

‘Gee, it’s great to see them all in this full dress stuff. You look a treat in your ceremonial gear. What are those leaves on the epaulette?’