Yes.
‘And the other one?’
Yes.
‘See my hand? Know who I am?’
‘C-commissaire.’
‘Yep. You’re hurt, stomach and leg. What happened? Did you get into a fight?’
‘Not a fight, gun. Four shots. Two got me. See the water tower?’
Émile raised his left hand slightly. Turning off the torch, Adamsberg peered into the darkness. The water tower was about a hundred metres away, near the wood through which Émile must have dragged himself to get to the gate, which he had almost reached. Whoever did the shooting might still be there.
‘No time to call an ambulance, we’re getting out of here.’
He felt all over Émile’s back.
‘You’re in luck. The bullet exited your side, didn’t touch the spine. I’m going to get my car. Two minutes. Tell your dog to shut up.’
‘Shush, Cupid.’
Adamsberg stopped the car, without headlights, as near Émile as he could manage and lowered the front passenger seat. An official beige raincoat had been left in the back of the car, probably Froissy’s since she always took care to dress the part. With his knife, he cut off the sleeves to make two long strips, and found himself bumping against the pockets, which were bulging with objects. He shook the coat and out fell a couple of tins of pâté, some dried fruit, biscuits, half a bottle of water, a few sweets, a 25ml carton of wine and three miniature bottles of brandy, like you get on trains. He had a moment’s sympathy for Froissy, then offered up thanks. Her eating disorder was helpful.
The dog was now quiet and stood aside letting Adamsberg take over. He shone the torch on the stomach wound which was now clean, the dog’s tongue having licked it all over, pulled away the shirt and removed the mud.
‘Your dog’s been busy.’
‘Dog’s saliva. Antiseptic.’
‘I didn’t know that,’ said Adamsberg, binding the wounds with the fabric strips as best he could.
‘Don’t know a lot, do you?’
‘What about you, eh? Bet you don’t know how many arms Shiva has. And I knew how to find you here. I’m going to carry you now, try not to yell.’
‘Thirsty.’
‘Later.’
Adamsberg installed Émile in the car, carefully arranging his legs.
‘Guess what,’ he said. ‘We’ll let the dog come too.’
‘Ah,’ said Émile.
Adamsberg drove the first few kilometres along the lanes without lights, then stopped, keeping the engine running. He opened the bottle of water, but halted his hand in mid-air.
‘No, I daren’t let you drink,’ he said, ‘in case your stomach’s been touched.’
He set off again and reached a minor road.
‘Another twenty kilometres to Châteaudun and the hospital. Think you can make it?’
‘Keep me talking, gonna pass out.’
‘Keep looking ahead. Guy who shot you, did you see anything?’
‘No, behind the water tower. Must have been waiting for me. Four shots. Like I said. Just the two got me. Not a pro. I go down and I hear him coming. So I pretend to be dead. He goes for me pulse, see if that’s it. He’s panicking, right. Could have put in a couple more though. Make sure.’
‘Take it easy, Émile.’
‘This car come up the crossroads. He runs off, fast as he can. I wait a bit. Then I try to crawl up to the farm. If I’ve had it, monsieur, don’t want Cupid to wait for ever. Waiting. No way to live. Don’t know your name.’
‘Adamsberg.’
‘Right, Adamsberg. No way to live, eh? Ever do that? Wait a long time?’
‘Wait? Yeah, I think so.’
‘A woman?’
‘You could say so.’
‘No way to live, eh?’
‘Right,’ said Adamsberg.
Émile gave a spasm of pain and gripped the door.
‘Only eleven kilometres to go.’
‘You talk. I’m all in.’
‘Stay with me, Émile, I’ll ask you questions, you just say yes or no. Like in the game.’
‘No, not like the game,’ Émile whispered. ‘In the game, you don’t say yes or no.’
‘No, OK, you’re right. So. This guy was waiting for you, right? You tell anyone you were going to the farm?’
‘No.’
‘Only old Vaudel and me, we were the only people knew where you kept the dog?’
‘Yeah.’
‘But Vaudel might have told someone? Like his son?’
‘Yeah.’
‘It wouldn’t do him any good to kill you, because your share wouldn’t go to him anyway if you died. It’s in the will.’
‘Angry.’
‘With you? Yes, probably. Have you made a will?’
‘No.’
‘You’ve got no one who would inherit from you? No kids – you’re sure about that?’
‘Yeah.’
‘The old man didn’t give you anything? Papers, letters, files, confessions, anything he was guilty about?’
‘No. Hey, someone could’ve followed you,’ Émile gasped.
‘Only one person knows,’ said Adamsberg, shaking his head. ‘An old Spanish man, with one arm and no car. Anyway, they shot you before I got here.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Only three kilometres. You could have been followed too, from the hospital in Garches. Three police cars – that told people you were there. You stayed inside the hospital?’
‘Two hours.’
‘Where.’
‘A & E. Waiting room. Lotta people.’
‘Nice one. Nobody following you when you came out?’
‘No. Maybe. Motorbike.’
Adamsberg parked by the emergency room, pushed open the plastic curtain, alerted an exhausted intern, and flashed his badge to hurry things up. A quarter of an hour later, Émile was on a trolley, with a tube in his arm.
‘Can’t keep the dog, sir,’ said a nurse, giving him a plastic bag holding Émile’s clothes.
‘No, I know,’ said Adamsberg, disentangling Cupid from Émile’s legs. ‘Émile, listen to me. No visitors, no one at all. I’ll tell them in reception. Where’s the surgeon?’
‘In the operating block,’ said the nurse.
‘Tell him to keep the bullet from his leg.’
‘Wait,’ said Émile, as the trolley started to move. ‘If… if I snuff it. Vaudel did ask me something, an’ all. If he died.’
‘Ah, you see.’
‘Some woman. Old now, he said. But still. Wrote it in code. Didn’t trust me. Post it if he died. Made me swear.’
‘Where is it, Émile, and the address?’
‘Overalls.’
XIII
THE TINS OF PÂTÉ, THE BISCUITS, THE CARTON OF UNDRINKABLE wine and the mini-brandies – these were all Adamsberg could think about as he made his way back to the car park. Any other time, in any other place, he would have found the thought deeply off-putting, but just now they constituted a clear and beautiful promise of satisfaction on which all his energy was concentrated. Sitting in the back of the car, he spread Froissy’s treasures on the seat. The pâté could be opened with ring-pulls, there was a straw attached to the wine box – she really was a practical genius, lieutenant Froissy, the squad’s nonpareil sound engineer. He spread some pâté on a biscuit and gobbled it up: a peculiar sweet and sour mixture. Then one for the dog and another for himself, until he had emptied both tins. He had no problem with the dog. It was clear they had been through a campaign together, and their friendship needed no commentary or past. So Adamsberg forgave Cupid for stinking like a farmyard and smelling out the car. He poured a little water for the dog in the ashtray and opened the wine. This plonk, no other word for it, entered his organism etching in acid all the contours of his digestive system. He drank it all, welcoming the burn, since mild suffering makes life taste sweeter. And since he was happy, happy to have found Émile before he bled to death in the grass with his dog whimpering at his side. Happy, almost euphoric, and he took some time to admire the mini-brandies before pocketing them.