Degenerate creatures that they were, town dogs didn’t mark out their territories any more, they did their business on any old spot, but obviously it was on their owner’s route.
So there were very good chances the same dog would return to this grid. Dogs like grids, even better than the tyres on cars. But even if he managed to identify twenty-five dog owners, how could he get their names and addresses without spending a whole month on it? Especially since these days he wasn’t too good at tailing people. With his stiff leg, he walked more slowly and was more easily spotted. Being so tall didn’t help.
He needed someone to give him a hand, but he had no money for that now. It was over, missions with all expenses paid. He was alone, he should really give up. So he’d found a piece of bone on a grid round a tree, he should just get over it.
For a long stretch of the night he’d tried to force himself to forget it. It could just be left to the police. Who couldn’t give a toss. As if, every day, dogs swallowed bits of someone’s toe which they then excreted here and there. Kehlweiler shrugged. The cops would never mobilise unless they had a body, or a missing person was reported. And a stray little toe joint is not a corpse, it’s just an isolated bit of bone. But no, he wasn’t going to drop it. He looked at his watch. He just had time to catch Marc Vandoosler in the bunker.
Marc was leaving the office when Kehlweiler called out to him in the street. He stiffened. What did Kehlweiler have to say to him on a Saturday? He usually dropped by on a Tuesday, to pick up the previous week’s report. Had that old Marthe woman said something? Reported the questions he’d asked? Very quickly, Marc, who didn’t want to lose this job, concocted in his head a rapid web of defensive lies. He was gifted at this, could do it in a flash. Being fast at defending yourself was a useful skill when you were bad at attacking. When Kehlweiler was close enough for him to see his face, Marc realised that there was no attack to parry, and he relaxed. One day, as the next new year’s resolution perhaps, he’d try to stop getting so worked up. Or the year after that – the way things were, there was no hurry.
Marc listened and replied. Yes, he had time, yes, OK, he could go along with him for half an hour, what was it about?
Kehlweiler dragged him to a nearby bench. Marc would have preferred to go to a nice warm cafe, but this big fellow seemed to have an irritating fondness for benches.
‘Take a look,’ said Kehlweiler, pulling a crumpled ball of newspaper from his pocket. ‘Open it carefully and tell me what you think.’ He had started to address Marc familiarly as ‘tu’.
Though
why
he was asking this question, Louis wondered, since he himself knew perfectly well what he thought about the bone. Probably so that Marc could start at the exact point he had started from himself. The young relation of the elder Vandoosler intrigued him. The summary reports he had provided so far were excellent. And he had solved the Simeonidis affair, two terrible crimes, six months ago. But Vandoosler had warned him: his nephew was only interested in the Middle Ages and unrequited love. St Mark, he called him. Apparently he was very good in his field. But it might transfer to other things, might it not? Louis had learned three days ago that the painter Delacroix was thought to be the son of Talleyrand, and this combination had given him much pleasure. Genius for genius, painting and diplomacy, incompatible itineraries might fit together.
‘Well?’ Louis asked.
‘Where was this found?’
‘Paris, grid round tree near bench number 102, the Contrescarpe. What do you think?’
‘At first sight, I’d say it’s a piece of bone, extracted from some dog shit.’
Kehlweiler gave a start and looked at Marc carefully. Yes, this guy interested him.
‘No?’ asked Marc. ‘Am I way off beam?’
‘Not off beam at all. But how did you know? You
So there were very good chances the same dog would return to this grid. Dogs like grids, even better than the tyres on cars. But even if he managed to identify twenty-five dog owners, how could he get their names and addresses without spending a whole month on it? Especially since these days he wasn’t too good at tailing people. With his stiff leg, he walked more slowly and was more easily spotted. Being so tall didn’t help.
He needed someone to give him a hand, but he had no money for that now. It was over, missions with all expenses paid. He was alone, he should really give up. So he’d found a piece of bone on a grid round a tree, he should just get over it.
For a long stretch of the night he’d tried to force himself to forget it. It could just be left to the police. Who couldn’t give a toss. As if, every day, dogs swallowed bits of someone’s toe which they then excreted here and there. Kehlweiler shrugged. The cops would never mobilise unless they had a body, or a missing person was reported. And a stray little toe joint is not a corpse, it’s just an isolated bit of bone. But no, he wasn’t going to drop it. He looked at his watch. He just had time to catch Marc Vandoosler in the bunker.
Marc was leaving the office when Kehlweiler called out to him in the street. He stiffened. What did Kehlweiler have to say to him on a Saturday? He usually dropped by on a Tuesday, to pick up the previous week’s report. Had that old Marthe woman said something? Reported the questions he’d asked? Very quickly, Marc, who didn’t want to lose this job, concocted in his head a rapid web of defensive lies. He was gifted at this, could do it in a flash. Being fast at defending yourself was a useful skill when you were bad at attacking. When Kehlweiler was close enough for him to see his face, Marc realised that there was no attack to parry, and he relaxed. One day, as the next new year’s resolution perhaps, he’d try to stop getting so worked up. Or the year after that – the way things were, there was no hurry.
Marc listened and replied. Yes, he had time, yes, OK, he could go along with him for half an hour, what was it about?
Kehlweiler dragged him to a nearby bench. Marc would have preferred to go to a nice warm cafe, but this big fellow seemed to have an irritating fondness for benches.
‘Take a look,’ said Kehlweiler, pulling a crumpled ball of newspaper from his pocket. ‘Open it carefully and tell me what you think.’ He had started to address Marc familiarly as ‘tu’.
Though
why
he was asking this question, Louis wondered, since he himself knew perfectly well what he thought about the bone. Probably so that Marc could start at the exact point he had started from himself. The young relation of the elder Vandoosler intrigued him. The summary reports he had provided so far were excellent. And he had solved the Simeonidis affair, two terrible crimes, six months ago. But Vandoosler had warned him: his nephew was only interested in the Middle Ages and unrequited love. St Mark, he called him. Apparently he was very good in his field. But it might transfer to other things, might it not? Louis had learned three days ago that the painter Delacroix was thought to be the son of Talleyrand, and this combination had given him much pleasure. Genius for genius, painting and diplomacy, incompatible itineraries might fit together.
‘Well?’ Louis asked.
‘Where was this found?’
‘Paris, grid round tree near bench number 102, the Contrescarpe. What do you think?’
‘At first sight, I’d say it’s a piece of bone, extracted from some dog shit.’
Kehlweiler gave a start and looked at Marc carefully. Yes, this guy interested him.
‘No?’ asked Marc. ‘Am I way off beam?’
‘Not off beam at all. But how did you know? You
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