and turned round.
‘Ludwig? Is that his name?’
‘Mmm, yes,’ said Marthe.
‘He isn’t called Ludwig.’
‘Mmm, yes he is, he’s called Louis. Louis, Ludwig, same name, isn’t it? Anyway, talking of names, seems you’re the nephew of Vandoosler? Armand Vandoosler? When he was commissaire, he was good to us girls.’
‘That doesn’t surprise me,’ said Marc drily.
The older Vandoosler had never been able to restrain himself, he had spent his life seducing with passion, abandoning carelessly, distributing pleasure, excess and also damage, for which Marc, who was rather cautious with women, bitterly reproached him. It was a constant subject of dissension between them.
‘He never once hit any of the girls,’ Marthe went on. ‘When I met your uncle, we’d talk it through. Is he OK? You’re a bit like him, now it occurs to me, looking at you. Anyway, I’ll let you get on.’
Marc stood up, sharpening a pencil.
‘But Kehlweiler, why do you call him Ludwig?’
Though really, what did it matter to him?
‘What’s the problem?’ asked Marthe. ‘Don’t you like Ludwig as a name?’
‘Yeah, it’s all right.’
‘Well, I like it better than Louis. Louis, Louis . . . that’s a bit of a posh name in French.’ Marthe buttoned up her coat.
‘Yes,’ said Marc. ‘Where’s he from, Kehlweiler? Paris?’
Now what, really, did it matter, for heaven’s sake? All he had to do was let the old woman push off, that’s all. Marthe seemed to have buttoned herself up, like her coat.
‘Paris?’ Marc repeated.
‘He’s from the Cher
département
, in central France. People have the right to be called what they want, haven’t they, far as I know?’
Marc nodded, he was missing something here, it seemed.
‘Anyway, what sort of name is Vandoosler?’ Marthe went on.
‘Belgian.’
‘Right, well, there you are.’
Marthe went out with a wave of her hand. A wave that also meant ‘Put a sock in it’, if Marc wasn’t mistaken.
Marthe grumbled to herself as she went downstairs. Too nosy and too chatty that guy, like herself. Oh well, if Ludwig trusted him, that was his own business.
Marc sat back down, a little preoccupied. If Kehlweiler had once worked for the Ministry of the Interior, all right. That he went on poking his nose into anything and everything and organising this demented archive, with no rhyme or reason, seemed crazy to him. Big words didn’t explain everything. Big words often hide little personal matters, sometimes honest, sometimes sordid. He looked up at the shelves where the box files were all lined up. No. He had always kept his word, he was an honest man, honest to the point of annoying everyone with his honest talk, he wasn’t going to poke about. He didn’t have so many good qualities that he could afford to sacrifice one of them.
VIII
LOUIS KEHLWEILER HAD spent part of the night in thought.
The previous evening, he had counted the people who had brought a dog to lift its leg against a tree in the little square near bench number 102. At least ten: it was all go, what with bladder-emptying dogs and docile owners. Between ten thirty and midnight, he had looked at the faces and noted details to try and distinguish them, but he didn’t see how he was going to trail everybody. It might take days and days. Not counting the legion who had no doubt gone past before ten thirty. An exhausting task, but he was resolute that he could not let this rest. A woman had perhaps been killed. He had always been able to sniff out wrongdoing, and he couldn’t simply drop it.
There was no point checking the morning dog walkers – the grid round the tree had been clean when he left the bench at 2 p.m. on Thursday. The dog had come along afterwards. And if there was at least one thing you could count on, it was that dog walkers are regular in their habits. Always at the same time, and one or two possible routes, ending back at the start. As for the dogs’ habits, that was trickier.
‘Ludwig? Is that his name?’
‘Mmm, yes,’ said Marthe.
‘He isn’t called Ludwig.’
‘Mmm, yes he is, he’s called Louis. Louis, Ludwig, same name, isn’t it? Anyway, talking of names, seems you’re the nephew of Vandoosler? Armand Vandoosler? When he was commissaire, he was good to us girls.’
‘That doesn’t surprise me,’ said Marc drily.
The older Vandoosler had never been able to restrain himself, he had spent his life seducing with passion, abandoning carelessly, distributing pleasure, excess and also damage, for which Marc, who was rather cautious with women, bitterly reproached him. It was a constant subject of dissension between them.
‘He never once hit any of the girls,’ Marthe went on. ‘When I met your uncle, we’d talk it through. Is he OK? You’re a bit like him, now it occurs to me, looking at you. Anyway, I’ll let you get on.’
Marc stood up, sharpening a pencil.
‘But Kehlweiler, why do you call him Ludwig?’
Though really, what did it matter to him?
‘What’s the problem?’ asked Marthe. ‘Don’t you like Ludwig as a name?’
‘Yeah, it’s all right.’
‘Well, I like it better than Louis. Louis, Louis . . . that’s a bit of a posh name in French.’ Marthe buttoned up her coat.
‘Yes,’ said Marc. ‘Where’s he from, Kehlweiler? Paris?’
Now what, really, did it matter, for heaven’s sake? All he had to do was let the old woman push off, that’s all. Marthe seemed to have buttoned herself up, like her coat.
‘Paris?’ Marc repeated.
‘He’s from the Cher
département
, in central France. People have the right to be called what they want, haven’t they, far as I know?’
Marc nodded, he was missing something here, it seemed.
‘Anyway, what sort of name is Vandoosler?’ Marthe went on.
‘Belgian.’
‘Right, well, there you are.’
Marthe went out with a wave of her hand. A wave that also meant ‘Put a sock in it’, if Marc wasn’t mistaken.
Marthe grumbled to herself as she went downstairs. Too nosy and too chatty that guy, like herself. Oh well, if Ludwig trusted him, that was his own business.
Marc sat back down, a little preoccupied. If Kehlweiler had once worked for the Ministry of the Interior, all right. That he went on poking his nose into anything and everything and organising this demented archive, with no rhyme or reason, seemed crazy to him. Big words didn’t explain everything. Big words often hide little personal matters, sometimes honest, sometimes sordid. He looked up at the shelves where the box files were all lined up. No. He had always kept his word, he was an honest man, honest to the point of annoying everyone with his honest talk, he wasn’t going to poke about. He didn’t have so many good qualities that he could afford to sacrifice one of them.
VIII
LOUIS KEHLWEILER HAD spent part of the night in thought.
The previous evening, he had counted the people who had brought a dog to lift its leg against a tree in the little square near bench number 102. At least ten: it was all go, what with bladder-emptying dogs and docile owners. Between ten thirty and midnight, he had looked at the faces and noted details to try and distinguish them, but he didn’t see how he was going to trail everybody. It might take days and days. Not counting the legion who had no doubt gone past before ten thirty. An exhausting task, but he was resolute that he could not let this rest. A woman had perhaps been killed. He had always been able to sniff out wrongdoing, and he couldn’t simply drop it.
There was no point checking the morning dog walkers – the grid round the tree had been clean when he left the bench at 2 p.m. on Thursday. The dog had come along afterwards. And if there was at least one thing you could count on, it was that dog walkers are regular in their habits. Always at the same time, and one or two possible routes, ending back at the start. As for the dogs’ habits, that was trickier.
Similar Books
