‘I would be convinced that these two cases must be connected.’
‘Yes, I would be convinced also,’ murmured Adamsberg.
He drank his coffee, registering the marked zones on the Austrian diagram: head, neck, joints, feet, thumbs, heart, liver – yes, almost a carbon copy of their own drawing. Thalberg’s face came back on-screen.
‘Give me the address of this Frau Abster, I will see that someone visits her in Köln.’
‘In that case, you could take her the letter from her friend Vaudel.’
‘Yes, that would be polite.’
‘I will send you a copy. You will take care how you tell her about his death, won’t you? I mean, there’s no need to go into detail.’
‘Always I take care, commissaire.’
‘The Zerquetcheur,’ Adamsberg repeated several times, thoughtfully, when the videoconference was over. ‘Armel Louvois, the Zerquetcheur.’ He pronounced it as a French word.
‘Zerquetscher,’ Danglard corrected, in German.
‘What do you think of this face?’Adamsberg asked, taking up the newspaper Danglard had left on the table.
‘Mugshots fix people’s features in a rigid pose,’ said Froissy, respecting the ethical obligation not to comment on the physical appearance of suspects.
‘That’s true, Froissy, he does look fixed and rigid.’
‘Because he’s looking straight at the camera, without moving.’
‘Makes him look a bit of a thug,’ commented Danglard.
‘But what else? Can you see danger in this face? Or fear? Lamarre, would you like to meet him in the corridor?’
‘Negative, commissaire.’
Estalère took the paper and concentrated, then he gave up and handed it back.
‘Well?’ asked the commissaire.
‘Nothing. I think he just looks normal.’
Adamsberg smiled and put down his cup. ‘I’m going to visit the doctor,’ he said, ‘and Vaudel’s imaginary enemies.’
He consulted his watches, which were as usual out of sync, took an average, and gathered that he had little time in hand. He picked up Cupid, who looked somewhat odd, since Kernorkian had cut off some of the dog’s coat to collect traces of manure, and went across the main office towards the cat and the photocopier. Adamsberg presented the animals to each other, and explained that the dog was just a temporary visitor unless his master died, which was not impossible, because some bastard had given him blood poisoning. Snowball unfolded part of his enormous round body, and glanced briefly at the frantic little creature which was licking Adamsberg’s wristwatches. Then he put his head back down on the warm lid of the machine, indicating that so long as his meals continued to be served on time, and so long as he could occupy the photocopier, the newcomer left him indifferent. On condition of course that Retancourt did not become seduced by this dog. Retancourt belonged to him and he loved her.
XX
AS HE REACHED THE DOOR OF THE BUILDING, ADAMSBERG realised that he had not memorised the name of Vaudel’s doctor, despite the fact that this man had saved the kitten’s life and that they had all had a drink together in the tool shed. He found the brass plate on the wall, Dr Paul de Josselin Cressent, osteopath and somatopath, and realised he now had a clearer idea why the doctor had seemed so disdainful towards the policemen who had been blocking his way with their brawny arms.
The concierge was watching television, from his wheelchair, muffled in blankets. His hair was long and grey, his moustache grimy. He did not turn his head, not apparently intending to be rude, but because, like Adamsberg himself, he seemed to be incapable of watching a film while listening to a visitor.
‘The doctor’s gone out to see someone with sciatica,’ he finally vouchsafed. ‘He’ll be back in a quarter of an hour.’
‘Are you one of his patients too?’
‘Yes. He’s got magic fingers.’
‘Did he come to see you during the night of last Saturday to Sunday?’
‘Is this important?’
‘Yes it is, if you don’t mind.’
The concierge asked for a few minutes’ grace, to see the end of the soap he was watching, then turned away from the screen without switching it off.
‘I fell on my way to bed,’ he said, pointing to his leg. ‘I just managed to reach the phone.’
‘And you called him out again a couple of hours later?’
‘I did apologise. My knee was puffed up like a football. I did apologise.’
‘The doctor says your name is Francisco.’
‘Francisco, that’s right.’
‘But I need your full name.’
‘Not wanting to refuse, but why is that?’
‘One of Dr Josselin’s patients has been murdered. We have to make inquiries about everything, it’s the rule.’
‘Your job, eh?’
‘Correct. So I need your full name,’ said Adamsberg, taking out his notebook.
‘Francisco Delfino Vinicius Villalonga Franco da Silva.’
‘OK,’ said Adamsberg, who had not managed to get any of this down. ‘Sorry, I don’t speak Spanish. Where does your first name end and your family name begin?’
‘It’s not Spanish, it’s Portuguese,’ said the man, with a snap of his jaw. ‘I’m Brazilian, my parents were deported under the dictatorship of those sons of bitches, God damn them to hell. Never seen again.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Not your fault. As long as you’re not a son of a bitch yourself. The family name is Villalonga Franco da Silva. The doctor’s on the second floor. There’s a waiting room on the landing, all you need up there. That’s where I’d live too, if I could.’
It was true, the landing on the second floor was as large as an entrance hall. The doctor had installed a coffee table and armchairs, with magazines and books, an antique lamp and a water cooler. A refined and somewhat ostentatious person. Adamsberg sat down to wait for the man with magic fingers, and called Châteaudun hospital, with apprehension, Retancourt and her team, without hope, and Voisenet’s team, while trying to keep at bay the unworthy reflections of Commandant Danglard.
Professor Lavoisier was slightly more hopeful – ‘Well, he’s hanging on.’ The fever had gone down slightly; the stomach had survived the pumping; the patient had been asking whether the commissaire had found the postcard with the word on it -’ He seems obsessed with that, mon vieux.’ ‘Tell him we’re looking for the postcard,’ said Adamsberg, ‘and that we’re dealing with the dog, the samples of manure. Everything going to plan.’
Must be a coded message, thought Professor Lavoisier, noting down every word. Well, none of my business, I suppose the police have their methods. But with this new inflammation and a perforated stomach, it was still touch and go.
Retancourt sounded relaxed, almost jovial, whereas all the signs were that Armel Louvois would not be back. He had gone out at 6 a.m. The concierge had seen him leave with a backpack. Instead of their usual friendly morning exchange, the young man had merely waved his hand at her as he went past. It sounded as though he had been heading for a train. Weill was unable to confirm this, since he did not rise until the gentlemanly hour of midday. He turned out to have a certain affection for his young neighbour, and was extremely vexed by the news of the crime. He had fallen silent, appeared to be sulking, and had provided only a few irrelevant scraps of information. Unusually, Retancourt did not seem too affected by this obstruction. It was possible that Weill, who was a connoisseur of fine wines, had distracted the duty patrol by offering them a decent vintage in fancy glasses. With Weill, who had his suits handmade, since he was extremely rich, extremely snobbish and almost spherical in shape, anything was possible, including the suborning of officers on duty, something which would no doubt give him a paradoxical pleasure. Retancourt did not seem to realise she was on guard outside the apartment of a madman, the Zerquetscher who had reduced an old man to mincemeat; indeed, it seemed that Weill’s indulgent attitude to his neighbour had overcome her vigilance. ‘Tell Weill that he dismembered another person in Austria,’ Adamsberg ordered her.