Fred Vargas - Wash This Blood Clean from My Hand

Adamsberg walked slowly round behind Fulgence, holding the barrel of the gun a few inches from his neck.

‘Nervous too,’ went on the judge. ‘Just what I would expect from a little man.’

He pointed to the dragons and winds.

‘Quite correct,’ he said. ‘But it took you some time.’

Adamsberg followed the movements of that feared hand, a white hand with long fingers, and well-kept nails, its joints now enlarged with age, but moving at the end of its wrist with that strange, slightly dislocated grace that one sees in paintings by old masters.

‘The fourteenth tile is missing,’ he said, ‘and it will be a man.’

‘But not you Adamsberg,’ said Fulgence, ‘you’d dilute the hand, being of the wrong suit.’

‘A green dragon or a white one?’

‘What does it matter to you? Even in prison or in the grave, the last tile will not escape me.’

The judge pointed to the two flowers which Adamsberg had placed alongside the Hand of Honours.

‘I take it this represents Michel Sartonna, and this one Noëlla Corderon,’ he remarked.

‘Yes.’

‘Permit me to make a correction.’

Fulgence put on a glove and picked up the tile corresponding to Noëlla, which he threw back into the pile.

‘I don’t care for mistakes,’ he said coldly. ‘You may be sure I would never have troubled to follow you to Quebec. I don’t follow people, Adamsberg, I go ahead of them. I have never been to Quebec.’

‘Sartonna kept you informed about the portage trail.’

‘Yes, I was watching your movements after Schiltigheim, as you know. The murder on the footpath afforded me much amusement. A crime committed by a drunken man, with neither grace nor premeditation. How vulgar, Adamsberg.’

The judge turned round looking directly at the gun.

‘I’m sorry, little man, that’s your very own crime, and I’m leaving it to you.’

A fleeting smile from the judge and Adamsberg broke out into a sweat all over his body.

‘Don’t worry,’ Fulgence went on. ‘You’ll find it’s easier to live with than you might think.’

‘Why did you kill Sartonna?’

‘He knew too much,’ the judge said, turning back to the game. ‘It’s the kind of risk I don’t take. You ought to know as well,’ he said, picking up another flower and placing it on the rack, ‘that Dr Colette Choisel is no longer with us. An unfortunate car accident. And former Commissaire Adamsberg will shortly be following her into the underworld,’ he went on, picking up a third flower. ‘Overwhelmed by his crime, too weak to face a lifetime in prison, he killed himself, if you please. What can you expect from a little man?’

‘That’s what you think you’re going to do?’

‘It’s quite simple. Sit down, young man, your nervousness is annoying me.’

Adamsberg sat down opposite the judge, still pointing the gun at him.

‘You should be grateful to me,’ smiled Fulgence. ‘This brief formality will release you from an intolerable existence, since the memory of your crime will leave you no peace.’

‘My death won’t save you, though. There’s a complete dossier on you now.’

‘Others have been found guilty of these crimes. Nothing will be proved without my confession.’

‘The sand in the coffin points to you.’

‘True, and that is the only point at issue. That is why Dr Choisel has disappeared. And that is why I am here to have this little chat, before your suicide. It is tasteless, young man, to dig up people’s graves. A very serious lapse in taste.’

Fulgence’s face had lost its disdainful smile. He was now looking at Adamsberg with all the harshness of a former judge.

‘Which you are going to correct. By signing a little confession, quite usual in suicide cases. Indicating that you arranged the fake coffin yourself. You re-buried my body in the woods near Richelieu. Driven by your obsession, of course, and because you were determined to go to any lengths to blame the footpath murder on me. Do you understand?’

‘I won’t sign anything that helps you, Fulgence.’

‘Yes, you will, little man. Because if you refuse, we can find two more flowers for the set. Your friend Camille, and her child. Whom I will have executed immediately after your death, believe me. Seventh floor, left.’

Fulgence handed Adamsberg a sheet of paper and a pen, which he first wiped carefully. Adamsberg put his gun under his left arm, and began to write under the judge’s dictation, enlarging the letters D and R.

‘No, no, no,’ said the judge, taking away the paper. ‘Your normal writing, if you please. Begin again,’ he said, passing over another sheet.

Adamsberg finished writing and put the paper on the table.

‘Perfect,’ said Fulgence. ‘Now please put the game away.’

‘And how do you propose to suicide me?’ asked Adamsberg, using his free hand to put the tiles in the box. ‘Since I’m armed.’

‘But, you are also ridiculously human. So I count on your complete cooperation. You will allow it to happen. You will put your own gun to your head and fire. Should you choose to shoot me instead, which is of course open to you, two of my men have orders to take care of your girlfriend and your child. Am I making myself clear enough?’

Adamsberg let fall the revolver under the judge’s dazzling smile. He was so sure of himself that he had arrived without any apparent firearm himself. He would leave behind him a perfect suicide and a confession which would exonerate him.

Adamsberg examined his Magnum, of pathetically little use to him now, then looked up and stiffened. Danglard was standing a couple of feet behind the judge, moving with the silence of a cat. His pompom on his head, a tear-gas canister in his right hand, and his Beretta in his left. Adamsberg raised the revolver to his forehead.

‘Give me a moment or two,’ he said. ‘Just to gather my thoughts.’

Fulgence looked scornful.

‘A cowardly little man. I will count to four.’

On the count of two, Danglard threw the gas, moving his Beretta to his right hand. Fulgence leapt up, with a cry, to face Danglard. The capitaine , seeing the face of the judge for the first time, had a second’s hesitation, in which Fulgence’s fist hit his chin. Danglard crashed violently into the wall and his shot missed the judge who was already at the door. Adamsberg ran into the stairwell, following the old man in his headlong escape. The retreating judge was in his line of fire for a moment. Danglard joined him, as he let his gun drop to his side.

‘Listen,’ said Adamsberg. ‘That must be his car.’

Danglard ran down the last few stairs and into the street with his gun at the ready. Too far, he couldn’t even hit the tyres. The car must have had the engine running.

‘Christ Almighty, why didn’t you shoot him?’ he shouted as he came back up.

Adamsberg was sitting on the stairs, his Magnum by his side, his head bent, and his hands hanging between his knees.

‘Target seen from behind, running away,’ he said. ‘Not self-defence. I’ve done enough killing as it is, capitaine.’

Danglard led the commissaire back into the apartment. With a policeman’s flair, he found the bottle of gin and poured two glasses. Adamsberg lifted his hand.

‘Look how I’m shaking, Danglard. Like a maple leaf.’

You know what he did to me? That Paris cop? Did I tell you about that?

Danglard downed his first glass swiftly. Then he picked up the telephone, while helping himself to a second.

‘Mordent? Danglard here. Top-level protection, immediately, Camille Forestier, 23 rue des Templiers, 4th arrondissement, 7th floor, left. Two men day and night for two months. Tell them I gave the order.’