The Ghost Riders of Ordebec (Commissaire Adamsberg) (24 page)

‘A dirty little bastard,’ she said reluctantly.

‘A
dratsab
– that sounds quite suitable,’ remarked Danglard, looking intellectually satisfied.

‘Well, because of that little dratsab, I came back home, and Mother hid
me under Lina’s bed. I was living here in secret and Mother didn’t know how to manage. But Hellequin found the solution. He split my father’s head in two. And it was just after that when Lina saw them for the first time.’

‘The Riders?’ asked Danglard. ‘How do you say that backwards?’

‘Oh no, we don’t have the right to say their name backwards,’ Hippolyte said, shaking his head decisively.

‘I see,’ said Adamsberg. ‘So your father was killed how long after you got back from the chateau?’

‘Thirteen days.’

‘His head split open with an axe.’

‘And his chest,’ said Hippolyte cheerfully.

‘The monster was dead,’ said Martin.

‘It was the bullet’s fault,’ whispered their mother.

‘So in the end,’ Hippolyte summed up, ‘Lina should never have made me call Sooty off. It would have been settled that night once and for all.’

‘You can’t blame her,’ said Antonin, shrugging his shoulders cautiously. ‘Lina’s just too soft-hearted, she’s too nice.’

‘We’re all nice people,’ said Hippolyte, nodding.

As she got up to wish them goodbye, Lina’s shawl slipped to the ground and she gave a little cry. With an elegant gesture, Danglard swept it up and placed it round her shoulders again.

*   *   *

‘So what do you make of that, commandant?’ asked Adamsberg as they walked slowly back up the track to Léo’s house.

‘Could be a whole
family
of killers,’ said Danglard coolly, ‘self-contained, sheltered from the outside world. All of them with a screw loose, they’ve been badly abused, they’re wild, incredibly talented and very engaging.’

‘I meant the radiation. Did you notice it? Although when she’s with her brothers she holds back a bit.’

‘Yes, I did notice,’ admitted Danglard reluctantly, ‘the honeyed bosom and so on. But not a good kind of radiation. Infrared or ultraviolet, dark light.’

‘You’re saying that because of Camille. But, Danglard, these days, Camille only wants to kiss me on the cheek, like a friend. A very precise and determined kiss that means we’ll never sleep together again. No relenting.’

‘Mild punishment, considering the crime.’

‘But what do you want me to do about it? Go and sit under an apple tree and wait for Camille for years?’

‘Doesn’t have to be an apple tree.’

‘And I’m not allowed to notice this woman with her fantastic breasts?’

‘You’re right, they are,’ conceded Danglard.

‘Just a sec,’ said Adamsberg, stopping on the path. ‘Message from Retancourt. Our battleship diving into the shark-infested abysm.’

‘Abyss, you mean,’ corrected Danglard, peering across at the phone. ‘And battleships don’t dive.’

Sv 1 home v late night of fire. Didnt know but reaction normal so not involved? But acted edgy.

How edgy?
Adamsberg texted.

Sacked chmbermaid.

Why?

Complicated not important.

Tell anyway.

Sv gave labrador sugar when home.

‘Danglard, what is it with all these people, they’re forever feeding sugar to their dogs?’

‘They want to be loved. Go on.’

Lab refused. Chmbrmd tried. Refused again. Chmbrmd criticised sugar. Sv 1 sacked her same night. Jumpy.

Coz dog not eat sugar?

I sed. Drop it. Cheers.

*   *   *

Zerk came bounding towards them, with his cameras slung from his neck.

‘The count came by. He wants to see you after supper, at ten.’

‘Is it urgent?’

‘He didn’t ask, he more or less ordered.’

‘What’s he like?’

‘Every inch a count. Old, elegant, bald-headed, and wearing a scruffy gardening jacket. Commandant, I’ve finished cooking the chicken.’

‘You added the cream and herbs, like I told you?’

‘Yes, right at the end. I took some to the Pigeon. He loved it. He’s spent the day drawing cows with the pencils.’

‘So is he any good at drawing after all that?’

‘Not really, but cows are hard. Harder than horses.’

‘OK, let’s eat our chicken, Danglard, and then we’ll go up there.’

XXIV

Night was falling as Adamsberg stopped the car in front of the chateau’s iron gates, up on the hill overlooking the citadel of Ordebec. Danglard extracted his long body from the front seat with unaccustomed agility, and went at once to stand at the gate, gripping it with both hands and looking at the building. Adamsberg read on his face unadulterated delight, a state of mind free of melancholy, which Danglard achieved only rarely. He glanced up at the great chateau built of pale stone, which no doubt represented for his deputy a kind of honey
kouglof.

‘I told you you’d like it here. Is it very old, this chateau?’

‘The first lords of Ordebec are recorded in the eleventh century. But it was above all at the Battle of Orléans in 1428 that the Comte de Valleray distinguished himself when he joined the French troops commanded by the Comte de Dunois, known as Jean, the bastard son of Louis, the Duc d’Orléans.’

‘OK, Danglard, but what about the chateau?’

‘That’s what I’m explaining to you. Valleray’s son, Henri, built it after the Hundred Years War, at the end of the fifteenth century. The west wing that you can still see and the west tower date from then. But the main body of the chateau was rebuilt in the seventeenth century, and the big arches are eighteenth-century additions.’

‘Shall we ring the bell?’

‘There are at least three or four dogs barking. We can ring and then
wait for an escort. I don’t know what it is with these people and their dogs.’

‘And sugar,’ added Adamsberg, tugging the bell pull.

*   *   *

Rémy François de Valleray, Comte d’Ordebec, was waiting for them in the library, and received them informally, still wearing the shabby blue canvas jacket that made him look like a farm labourer. But Danglard noted that each of the cut-glass goblets on the table would have cost easily a month of his salary. And that judging simply by its colour, the alcohol which they were being served made the journey from Paris entirely worthwhile. Not like the grocer’s port he had drunk out of mustard pots at the Vendermots’ house, which had made his stomach protest. The library must have contained about a thousand volumes, and the walls were lined with about forty paintings, at which Commandant Danglard’s jaw dropped. In short, the kind of surroundings to be found in an aristocratic mansion where money had not yet run short, except that any solemnity the room might have had was dispelled by the incredible disorder. Boots, sacks of seed, medicines, plastic bags, screws, melted candles, boxes of nails, papers were strewn everywhere on the floor, tables and shelves.

‘Gentlemen,’ said the count, putting aside his walking stick, and holding out his hand. ‘Thank you for answering my appeal.’

He was indeed every inch a count. The tone of voice, the rather imperious gestures, the direct gaze and the confidence in his perfect right to meet them wearing a peasant’s jacket. At the same time, one could also easily glimpse in him the old Norman countryman, with his ruddy cheeks, dirty fingernails and a secret amusement directed at himself. He filled the glasses with one hand, leaning on his stick with the other, and gestured to them to be seated.

‘I hope you like this Calva, it’s the one I give Léo. Ah, come in, Denis. May I introduce my son. Denis, these gentlemen are from the Criminal Division of the Paris Police.’

‘I didn’t realise you had company,’ said the man who had entered, shaking hands coolly, without smiling.

White hands and well-kept nails, a solid if plump body, grey hair combed back.

So this was the filthy little
dratsab
, as the Vendermots had called him, the one who had cut short Hippolyte’s refuge at the castle. Well, Adamsberg observed, the man did have a rather
dratsab
-like face, jowly with thin lips and a furtive or remote gaze, at any rate one that indicated he was keeping his distance. He poured himself a glass of Calvados, from politeness rather than any desire to stay. Everything about his body language indicated that the guests didn’t interest him, nor, for all intents and purposes, did his father.

‘I just came to say that Maryse’s car will be ready tomorrow. We’ll have to ask Georges to be here to receive it, because I’ll be in the salerooms all day.’

‘You couldn’t find Georges, then?’

‘No, the brute must have got drunk and he’s probably in the stables. Damned if I’m going to go and crawl under some horse’s belly to wake him.’

‘All right, I’ll see to it.’

‘Thank you,’ said Denis, putting down his glass.

‘Don’t let us chase you away.’

‘No, I’m going anyway. I’ll leave you to your guests.’

The count pulled a slight face as the door clicked shut.

‘Apologies, gentlemen. My relations with my stepson are not the best, especially since he knows what I want to talk to you about, and he doesn’t like it. I want to talk about Léo.’

‘I’m very fond of Léo,’ said Adamsberg without having prepared his reply.

‘I believe you. And you’d only known her a few hours. You were the one who found her when she’d been injured. And you’ve succeeded in getting her to speak. Which probably prevented Dr Turbot declaring her brain-dead.’

‘I had a few words with the doctor.’

‘That doesn’t surprise me. He can be a
dratsab
sometimes. Not all the time though.’

‘You like using Hippolyte’s words, monsieur le comte?’ asked Danglard.

‘Just call me Valleray, that’s simpler. I’ve known Hippo since he was a baby. I like the word, it fits.’

‘When did he start reversing letters?’

‘When he was thirteen. He’s an exceptional chap and the brothers and sister are too. Lina has this extraordinary luminosity.’

‘Something that didn’t escape the commissaire,’ remarked Danglard, who was feeling profoundly relaxed, what with the succulence of the Calvados and the sight of the chateau.

‘But you didn’t notice it?’ asked the count, surprised.

‘All right, yes, I did,’ Danglard admitted.

‘Good. And the Calva?’

‘It’s perfect.’

The count dipped a lump of sugar in his drink and sucked it unconcernedly. Adamsberg felt himself momentarily besieged by lumps of sugar coming at him from all directions.

‘This is what I always used to drink with Léo. I have to tell you that I loved that woman with all my heart. I married her, and my family, which contains a good number of
dratsabs
, believe me, beat me down. I was young and weak. I gave in, and we were divorced two years later. This may seem strange to you,’ he went on, ‘but never mind. If Léo survives her injuries from this vicious attacker, I intend to marry her again. I had decided and she had accepted. And that’s where you come in, commissaire.’

‘To catch the killer.’

‘No, to bring Léo back to life. Don’t go thinking this wedding is just an old man’s fancy. I’ve been thinking about it for over a year. I was hoping to bring my stepson round to it, but nothing doing. So I’ll just have to go ahead without his blessing.’

The count stood up with some difficulty, walked with the stick to the huge fireplace and threw on a couple of large logs. The old man was still strong, and determined enough to decide on this marriage of two near-nonagenarians, over sixty years after their first marriage.

‘You don’t find this idea shocking?’ he said, rejoining them.

‘On the contrary,’ said Adamsberg, ‘I’ll willingly come to the wedding if you invite me.’

‘You certainly will, commissaire, if you can bring her back from where she is. And you will do it. Léo telephoned me an hour before the attack, she was delighted with the evening you spent at her place and her opinion’s good enough for me. There must be some fate operating, if you’ll forgive this rather simple-minded idea. We who live near the Chemin de Bonneval are all a bit inclined to believe in fate. You and you alone managed to rescue her from speechlessness, got her to speak.’

‘Only three words.’

‘Yes, I heard. How long had you been at her bedside?’

‘Getting on for two hours, I think.’

‘Two hours, talking to her, combing her hair, stroking her cheek. I know all about it. What I’m asking you to do is be there ten hours a day, fifteen if necessary. Until you can bring her back up to you. I’m sure you can do it, Commissaire Adamsberg.’

The count paused and his gaze wandered round the walls of the room.

‘If you can, I’ll give you this,’ he said, pointing carelessly with his cane towards a little picture near the door. ‘It’s made for you.’

Danglard gave a start and looked at the canvas. It showed an elegant knight posed in front of a mountain landscape.

‘Take a closer look, Commandant Danglard,’ said Valleray. ‘Do you recognise where it is, Adamsberg?’

‘I think that’s the summit of the Gourgs Blancs.’

‘Precisely. Not far from your own stamping ground, if I’m not much mistaken.’

‘You’re well informed about me.’

‘Obviously. When I need to find something out, I usually manage it. The remains of ancient privileges, but still quite effective. I also know that you’re going after the Clermont-Brasseur family.’

‘No, monsieur le comte. Nobody is “going after” the Clermont-Brasseurs, not me nor anyone else.’

‘Late sixteenth century?’ Danglard asked, as he peered at the painting.
‘School of François Clouet?’ he added, lowering his voice, and sounding less confident.

‘Yes, or if we indulge in a little wishful thinking, by the master himself, a break from his usual work as a portraitist. Of course, we don’t know for certain that he ever travelled to the Pyrenees. But he did do a portrait of Jeanne d’Albret, Queen of Navarre in 1570, possibly in her own city of Pau.’

Danglard came back to sit down, awed, his glass empty. The picture was a real rarity and worth a fortune, though Adamsberg seemed unaware of that.