so.’
Adamsberg drew up a chair and sat down, stretching his legs, completing the little circle of three men around the hearth.
‘All the same,’ he began – and his sentence stopped there, for want of an exact thought to take it further.
Danglard had never got used to the cloudy vagueness of the commissaire’s mental processes, his lack of logical, overarching reason.
‘All the same -’ Danglard picked up his expression to complete it – ‘it’s just the story of some unfortunate young woman who is disturbed enough to have visions. And of a mother sufficiently frightened to believe in them and ask the police for help.’
‘All the same, it’s also the story of a woman who foretells several deaths. What if Michel Herbier hasn’t just gone off somewhere, and they find his body?’
‘Then your Lina would be in a very awkward spot. Who’s to say she didn’t kill Herbier herself? And then go round telling this story to confuse people?’
‘What do you mean “confuse” them?’ said Adamsberg, smiling. ‘Do you really believe that the horsemen in the Furious Army are credible suspects for the police? Do you think Lina is being Machiavellian, by pointing to a culprit who’s been riding round the area for a thousand years? Who are they going to arrest? Capitaine Hennequin?’
‘Hellequin. He’s a nobleman. Maybe a descendant of Odin.’
Danglard refilled his glass with a steady hand.
‘Just forget it, commissaire. Leave the limbless horsemen be, and this Lina person too.’
Adamsberg nodded his agreement and Danglard drank off the glass. When he had left, Adamsberg paced round the room with a blank expression.
‘Do you remember,’ he said to Zerk, ‘the first time you came here, there wasn’t a bulb in the overhead light?’
‘There still isn’t.’
‘Shall we replace it?’
‘You said it didn’t bother you whether there was a bulb working or not.’
‘That’s right. But there comes a time when you have to take action. A time when you tell yourself to replace the light bulb, and decide to call the captain of the Ordebec gendarmes tomorrow. And then you just have to do it.’
‘But Commandant Danglard’s quite right. That woman’s crazy. What are you going to do about her Furious Army?’
‘It’s not these ghosts riding round the countryside that bother me, Zerk. It’s that I don’t like people coming and warning me about some impending violent deaths, however they do it.’
‘Yes, I see. OK, I’ll look after the light bulb.’
‘Are you going to wait till eleven to feed the bird?’
‘I’ll stay down here tonight to feed it every hour. I’ll just take a nap in the armchair.’
Zerk touched the pigeon with the back of his fingers.
‘He doesn’t feel very warm, in spite of the heat.’
VI
At 6.15 next morning Adamsberg felt someone shaking him.
‘He’s opened his eyes! Come and see. Quick!’
Zerk still didn’t know what to call Adamsberg. Father? Too formal. Papa? He was rather old to do that. Jean-Baptiste? That might seem too familiar and inappropriate. So for the time being, he didn’t call him anything, and this absence caused embarrassing gaps in his sentences. Hollow spaces. But those hollow spaces perfectly summed up his twenty-eight years of absence.
The two men went downstairs and peered into the strawberry basket. Yes, things certainly looked better. Zerk took the dressings off the bird’s feet and applied antiseptic, while Adamsberg filtered the coffee.
‘What are we going to call him?’ asked Zerk as he wound bandages round the bird’s legs. ‘If he survives, we’ll have to give him a name. We can’t keep on saying “the pigeon”. Shall we call him Violette after your beautiful lieutenant?’
‘Not suitable. Nobody would ever be able to catch Retancourt and tie her ankles together.’
‘OK, let’s call him Hellebaud, like the guy in Danglard’s story. Do you think he revised his texts before he came over?’
‘Yes, he must
Adamsberg drew up a chair and sat down, stretching his legs, completing the little circle of three men around the hearth.
‘All the same,’ he began – and his sentence stopped there, for want of an exact thought to take it further.
Danglard had never got used to the cloudy vagueness of the commissaire’s mental processes, his lack of logical, overarching reason.
‘All the same -’ Danglard picked up his expression to complete it – ‘it’s just the story of some unfortunate young woman who is disturbed enough to have visions. And of a mother sufficiently frightened to believe in them and ask the police for help.’
‘All the same, it’s also the story of a woman who foretells several deaths. What if Michel Herbier hasn’t just gone off somewhere, and they find his body?’
‘Then your Lina would be in a very awkward spot. Who’s to say she didn’t kill Herbier herself? And then go round telling this story to confuse people?’
‘What do you mean “confuse” them?’ said Adamsberg, smiling. ‘Do you really believe that the horsemen in the Furious Army are credible suspects for the police? Do you think Lina is being Machiavellian, by pointing to a culprit who’s been riding round the area for a thousand years? Who are they going to arrest? Capitaine Hennequin?’
‘Hellequin. He’s a nobleman. Maybe a descendant of Odin.’
Danglard refilled his glass with a steady hand.
‘Just forget it, commissaire. Leave the limbless horsemen be, and this Lina person too.’
Adamsberg nodded his agreement and Danglard drank off the glass. When he had left, Adamsberg paced round the room with a blank expression.
‘Do you remember,’ he said to Zerk, ‘the first time you came here, there wasn’t a bulb in the overhead light?’
‘There still isn’t.’
‘Shall we replace it?’
‘You said it didn’t bother you whether there was a bulb working or not.’
‘That’s right. But there comes a time when you have to take action. A time when you tell yourself to replace the light bulb, and decide to call the captain of the Ordebec gendarmes tomorrow. And then you just have to do it.’
‘But Commandant Danglard’s quite right. That woman’s crazy. What are you going to do about her Furious Army?’
‘It’s not these ghosts riding round the countryside that bother me, Zerk. It’s that I don’t like people coming and warning me about some impending violent deaths, however they do it.’
‘Yes, I see. OK, I’ll look after the light bulb.’
‘Are you going to wait till eleven to feed the bird?’
‘I’ll stay down here tonight to feed it every hour. I’ll just take a nap in the armchair.’
Zerk touched the pigeon with the back of his fingers.
‘He doesn’t feel very warm, in spite of the heat.’
VI
At 6.15 next morning Adamsberg felt someone shaking him.
‘He’s opened his eyes! Come and see. Quick!’
Zerk still didn’t know what to call Adamsberg. Father? Too formal. Papa? He was rather old to do that. Jean-Baptiste? That might seem too familiar and inappropriate. So for the time being, he didn’t call him anything, and this absence caused embarrassing gaps in his sentences. Hollow spaces. But those hollow spaces perfectly summed up his twenty-eight years of absence.
The two men went downstairs and peered into the strawberry basket. Yes, things certainly looked better. Zerk took the dressings off the bird’s feet and applied antiseptic, while Adamsberg filtered the coffee.
‘What are we going to call him?’ asked Zerk as he wound bandages round the bird’s legs. ‘If he survives, we’ll have to give him a name. We can’t keep on saying “the pigeon”. Shall we call him Violette after your beautiful lieutenant?’
‘Not suitable. Nobody would ever be able to catch Retancourt and tie her ankles together.’
‘OK, let’s call him Hellebaud, like the guy in Danglard’s story. Do you think he revised his texts before he came over?’
‘Yes, he must
Similar Books
