Fred Vargas - An Uncertain Place

Émile was making progress (‘He’ll pull through, mon vieux ’ was one of the messages on his desk). Lavoisier had transferred him, but as agreed was not revealing where he was now being treated. Adamsberg read the news about Émile to the dog. Someone had given Cupid a bath – someone kind, or who had lost patience – and his fur was now soft and smelt of soap. The dog rolled over in his lap and Adamsberg stroked his back. Danglard came in and crashed down like a bag of old clothes on to a chair.

‘You look well,’ he said.

‘I’m just back from seeing Josselin. He fixed me like an engineer fixes a boiler. The man’s a pro.’

‘Not like you to go and consult someone.’

‘I meant just to talk to him, but I passed out in his surgery. I’d been through two ghastly hours this morning. A burglar got into the house and got hold of both my guns.’

‘Good grief, I told you to keep them by you.’

‘And I didn’t. So this burglar grabbed them.’

‘And?’

‘When he realised I didn’t have any money, he left in the end. But I felt like a wet rag.’

Danglard looked at him with some suspicion.

‘Who washed the dog?’ asked Adamsberg, changing the subject. ‘Estalère?’

‘Voisenet. He couldn’t stand the smell any longer.’

‘I read the note from the lab. So the horse shit on Cupid matched the lot on Émile. They both picked it up from the same farm.’

‘That may take the pressure off Émile a bit, but he’s not out of the woods yet. Nor is Pierre junior, because he puts money on horses a lot, so he goes to the races and training stables where there’s no shortage of manure. He’s even supposed to be buying a horse.’

‘He didn’t tell me that. How long have you known?’

As he talked, Adamsberg was leafing through the little pile of postcards which Gardon had put on the desk for him, taken from among Vaudel’s effects. They were mostly conventional holiday messages posted by his son.

‘The Avignon police found that out yesterday, and I did this morning. But hundreds of people go to the races. There are thirty-six major racecourses in France, hundreds of stud farms and riding schools and tens of thousands of racegoers. So there are vast quantities of horse manure all over the place. It’s one of the most widely distributed materials there is.’

Danglard pointed to the floor under Adamsberg’s desk.

‘More widespread, for instance, than pencil shavings and powder from pencil leads. If one were to find that at a crime scene, it would be a much better bit of forensic evidence than horse manure. Especially since people who like drawing don’t choose their pencils by chance. You don’t, for a start. What kind of pencil do you use?’

‘Cargo 401-B and Seril-H.’

‘So here on the floor, that would be shavings from Cargo 401-B and Seril-H? Bit of charcoal too perhaps?’

‘Well, naturally, Danglard.’

‘So that would be much more helpful at a crime scene, wouldn’t it? Better than some damn horse shit.’

‘Danglard,’ said Adamsberg, fanning himself with a postcard, ‘get to the point.’

‘I’m not that keen to. But if something’s going to fall on us, better get there first. Like in cricket, you have to dash to catch the ball before it hits the ground.’

‘All right, dash for the ball, Danglard, I’m listening.’

‘A team went to look for the spent cartridges, on the ground, out at the farm where Émile got shot.’

‘Yes, that was a priority.’

‘And they found three.’

‘Well, for four shots, that’s pretty good.’

‘And then they found the fourth,’ said Danglard, getting up and clenching his fingers in his back pocket.

‘Where was that then?’ asked Adamsberg, stopping fanning himself with the postcard.

‘At Pierre’s house, Pierre the son. It had rolled under the fridge. But they couldn’t find the revolver.’

‘So who found it? Who asked for his house to be searched?’

‘Brézillon. Because of the link between Pierre and the horses.’

‘And who told the divisionnaire about that?’

Danglard spread his hands in a gesture of ignorance.

‘So who went to look out at the farm for the cartridges?’

‘Maurel and Mordent.’

‘I thought Mordent was supposed to be with Froissy.’

‘Well he wasn’t, he wanted to go with Maurel.’

There was a silence, and Adamsberg ostentatiously sharpened a pencil over his waste-paper basket, letting shavings of Seril-H fall there before blowing on the lead, and fetching a piece of paper to rest on his thigh.

‘So what does all this mean?’ he asked quietly, as he began to draw. ‘Pierre fired four shots, but only took one cartridge away with him?’

‘They think it might have got stuck in the barrel.’

‘Who’s “they”?’

‘The Avignon police.’

‘And that doesn’t bother them? Pierre gets rid of the gun, but first he ejects a jammed cartridge? Then he saves this precious little cartridge? Until he stupidly drops it in his kitchen, where it rolls under his fridge. And why did they go to such lengths in the search? Moving a fridge? Did they know there was something underneath?’

‘The wife apparently said something to them.’

‘Now that would really amaze me, Danglard. The day that woman betrays her husband, Cupid will have given up on Émile.’

‘Well, precisely, that’s what bothered them. Their top guy isn’t the sharpest knife in the box, but he got to thinking maybe someone had planted it. Especially since Pierre is swearing black and blue he’s innocent. So they got out the whole shenanigans: vacuum cleaner, sieve, microscopic samples. And they found something. That,’ said Danglard, pointing to the floor.

‘That what?’

‘Bits of pencil lead and shavings probably off someone’s shoes. But Pierre never uses pencils. We’ve only just received this information.’

Danglard was now tugging at his shirt collar, and went into his own office to get a glass of wine. He was looking deeply unhappy. Adamsberg waited.

‘They’re going to send the stuff to the lab, expecting results in two or three days – what kind of lead, what make of pencil. It’s not simple apparently. Of course, it would be easier if they had a sample to compare and I think they are quite soon going to know where to look.’

‘For pity’s sake, Danglard, what are you thinking?’

‘The worst. Like I said. I’m thinking what they’ll think. That you planted the cartridge under Pierre Vaudel’s fridge. Of course they’ll have to prove it. So they’ll have to analyse the shavings, identify the pencil, compare it to the sample. So probably it’ll be four days before they start asking you questions. Four days to catch the ball before it hits the ground.’

‘OK, let’s just get this clear, Danglard,’ said Adamsberg, with a fixed smile on his face. ‘Why would I want to implicate Pierre junior?’

‘To save Émile?’

‘And why would I want to save Émile?’

‘Because he’s going to inherit a fortune which mustn’t be contested by the natural heir.’

‘But why would he contest it?’

‘Because the will could be a forgery.’

‘Oh really? Do they think Émile is capable of forging a will?’

‘No, he would have had an accomplice. An accomplice who was handy with a pen. An accomplice who’d get fifty per cent.’

Danglard drank off his glass of white wine in a single gulp.

‘For pity’s sake,’ he said, ‘it’s not rocket science. Do I have to spell it out? Émile and his accomplice, let’s call him Adamsberg, they prepare a false will. Émile lets the son know – he’s going to cut you out of his will – which alarms Pierre Vaudel. Then Émile kills the old man, puts down some horse manure to incriminate Pierre, and makes it look like a murder by some complete madman, to distract people from the money. A smokescreen which leaves in the shadows a simple plan. Then Adamsberg, according to a prearranged scenario, shoots Émile, a couple of serious shots to make it look convincing, and immediately rushes him to hospital. He leaves three cartridges on the spot, then plants one in Pierre’s house and that way Pierre is guilty of attempted murder of Émile. On the lie detector, they find that Pierre knew about the will. Then Émile declares he saw Pierre junior leave the house at night. Pierre killed his own father, so of course he can’t inherit now. And his whole share also goes to Émile, as per the will. Adamsberg and Émile share it out, not forgetting their old mothers. That’s the scenario. The end.’