Have Mercy On Us All (40 page)

Hurfin. He must have hated Damascus badly enough to want to bring him down. Who’d got close to Marie-Belle just so as to pump the dim sister for information. His face was weak and lifeless, it made him look easy to push around, but underneath he was fearless and decisive, and could chuck an old man in a lake without a second thought. A quick and brutal killer. But if that’s what he was, why hadn’t he dealt with Damascus directly in the first place? Why kill five others beforehand?

Adamsberg went over to the window, leaned his forehead on the pane, and looked down on the street in darkness.

What if he got a new mobile but kept the old number?

He went through the pockets of his sopping-wet jacket, got out the gizmo and took it apart to let its inner organs dry out. You never know.

But what if the killer just
could not
kill Damascus? Because he would get lumbered with the crime straight away? The way a penniless husband is automatically fingered if his wealthy wife gets done in? That had to mean that Hurfin was Damascus’s husband. The penniless husband of an heiress called Damascus.

Or the heir. To the Heller-Deville millions.

Adamsberg called the squad on his land line.

“What’s he coughed up?” he asked.

“He’s sticking to the old man attacking him and legitimate self-defence. He’s a tough bugger. Very tough.”

“Keep on at him. Is that Gardon on the line?”

“
Lieutenant
Mordent, sir.”

“He’s our man, Mordent. He strangled the four blokes and the girl.”

“That’s not what he’s saying, sir.”

“But it’s what he did. Has he got an alibi?”

“At home, sir, at Romorantin.”

“Take it to pieces, Mordent. Get right to the bottom of the Romorantin story. Look for the link between Hurfin and Heller-Deville’s money pile. Hang on a minute,
lieutenant
. Remind me of his first name.”

“Antoine.”

“Old man Heller-Deville was called Antoine. Wake up Danglard, get him down to Romorantin at the double. He’s got to start poking around down there at first light. Danglard knows all there is to know about how families function, especially when they don’t. Tell him to find out whether Antoine Hurfin isn’t one of Heller-Deville’s sons. Illegitimate. Or paternity denied.”

“Why should he do that, sir?”

“Because that’s who he is,
lieutenant
.”

When he woke up Adamsberg cast his eye on his gutted mobile phone, all undressed and dry. He used his home phone to ring the twenty-four hour answering service for nuisance callers of all kinds, and asked for a replacement handset on his old washed-out number.

“Can’t do that, sir,” a weary female voice replied.

“You can. The electronic bit has dried out. All I have to do is put it into another handset.”

“Sorry, sir, we can’t do that. It’s not a piece of laundry, it’s an electronic chip which cannot be –’

“Enough of this nonsense, miss. I need a new handset with my old number on it.”

“Why don’t you want to have a new number?”

“Because I’m expecting an urgent call within the next ten to fifteen years.” Then he added, “Brigade criminelle”.

“Oh, I see,” said the voice, clearly impressed. “I’ll have it brought over within the next hour.”

He hung up, hoping his phone chip would turn out less soggy than Damascus’s ineffectual plot.

XXXVII

DANGLARD CALLED WHEN
Adamsberg was just finishing getting dressed. He’d put on a pair of trousers and a T-shirt that were almost identical to what he’d been wearing the day before. Adamsberg was well on the way to developing a uniform wardrobe that allowed no room for selection or for doubt, so he wouldn’t ever have to bother his head about matching or even choosing what to wear. On the other hand he hadn’t managed to track down an equivalent pair of shoes in the back of the cupboard. All he’d got were hiking boots, not suitable for clumping around the streets of Paris, so he ended up putting on a pair of leather sandals, which he wore without socks.

“I’m down at Romorantin,” said Danglard, “and I’m half asleep.”

“You can sleep for a week when you’ve finished going through the place. We’re nearly there, Danglard, we’re almost touching the wire. Don’t let the Hurfin trail go cold.”

“I’ve finished with Hurfin. I’m going to have a nap, and then get on the road back to Paris.”

“Later. Have a triple espresso and carry on.”

“I’ve carried on and I’ve come to the end of it. All I had to do was interview the mother, she’s completely open about the fact that Antoine Hurfin is Heller-Deville’s son, eight years younger than Damascus, paternity denied. Heller-Deville has –”

“Lifestyle, Danglard? Rolling in it?”

“No, sir, very modest, down-at-heel. Antoine works at a locksmith’s and he has a room over the shop. Heller-Deville has –”

“Perfect. Get in the car, you can tell me the rest when you get here. Did you get anywhere with the scientist thug?”

“He finally popped up on screen late last night. It’s Châtellerault. Messelet Fabricators, a huge plant out in the industrial park. World’s largest suppliers to the aircraft industry.”

“That’s a big fish you’ve caught, Danglard. Does Messelet actually own the firm?”

“Yes, the owner’s called Rodolphe Messelet, he’s got degrees in mechanical engineering, a university chair and his own research lab, as well as being CEO and sole proprietor of nine industrial patents.”

“One of them for unshatterable superlight steel?

“Shatterproof, sir. Among others. That patent was granted seven years and seven months ago.”

“That’s him, Danglard. He’s the one who set up the chamber of horrors and the theft.”

“Of course it is. He’s also a provincial bigwig and a famous captain of French industry. Friends in high places, sir.”

“They’ll dry their tears.”

“I doubt if the Ministry will back us up, sir. Too much money at stake, not to mention national interest.”

“We don’t have to ask permission, Danglard, nor even let Brézillon know ahead of time. Leak it to the media and they’ll have the animal buried under his own shit within forty-eight hours. He’ll have no option but to drive into a large tree. We’ll scrape him off the courthouse floor later on.”

“Perfect,” said Danglard. “Now, as I was saying, Madame Hurfin –”

“Later, Danglard. Her son’s expecting me.”

The night officers had left their report lying in Adamsberg’s in-tray. Antoine Hurfin, age twenty-three, place of birth Vétigny, residing at Romorantin, department of Loir-et-Cher, had stuck obstinately to his original story and had phoned a solicitor who’d advised him off the cuff to keep his mouth shut. Since when Antoine Hurfin hadn’t said a word.

Adamsberg went and stood at the door of Antoine’s cell. The youngster was sitting on the bunk. He was clenching his teeth; dozens of tiny muscles
were
twitching all over his bony face; and he kept on cracking the joints of his slender fingers.

“Antoine,” Adamsberg said, “you are the son of Antoine. You are a Heller-Deville without anything to show for it. You’ve not got the name, you’ve not got a father, you’ve not got the dough. But you probably got all the thrashings and misery you could take. You’re a rough customer, too. You thumped your big brother Damascus, the lucky boy who got the name. Your half-brother. Who got pushed around as much as you did, in case you weren’t aware of it. Same father, same bruiser.”

Hurfin did not respond, save for giving Adamsberg a look revealing vulnerability and profound hatred at the same time.

“Your solicitor told you to keep your mouth shut and you’re following his orders. You’re obedient and self-controlled, Antoine. That’s odd, in a murderer. If I came into your cell, I don’t know if you’d knock me over and slit my throat, or curl up in a ball in the corner. Or do both. I don’t even know if you’re aware of what you’ve done. You’re all action, and I don’t know what’s on your mind. Whereas Damascus is all mind, and no action. You’re both destructive, but you do it with your hands and he does it in his head. Are you listening to me, Antoine?”

The lad shivered but didn’t move an inch.

Adamsberg let go of the bars of the door and moved away, feeling as upset by the twitching, tortured face of Antoine as he had been by Damascus’s imperturbable blankness. What a wonderful father you must have been, Mr Heller-Deville.

Clémentine and Damascus were at the other end of the cell block. They’d begun a game of poker, sliding the cards to each other on the floor, through the gap under the bottom bars. Since they didn’t have any chips they used girdle cakes for stakes.

“Did you get any sleep, Clémentine?” Adamsberg enquired as he unlocked the door.

“Can’t grumble,” the old lady replied. “Not like my own bed, but a change is as good as a rest, that’s what I say. When can we go home, me and the boy?”

“
Lieutenant
Froissy will take you to the washroom and give you a towel. Where did you get hold of the playing cards?”

“Your
brigadier
Gardon lent them to us. We had a fine time down here last night.”

“Damascus,” Adamsberg said. “Get ready. It’ll be your turn next.”

“My turn for what?”

“To wash.”

Hélène Froissy took the old lady down the corridor and Adamsberg moved on to Kevin Roubaud.

“You’re getting out, Roubaud, so get up. You’re being transferred.”

“I’m quite OK here,” said Roubaud.

“You’ll be back,” said Adamsberg as he opened the cell door wide. “You’re going to be charged with grievous bodily harm and on suspicion of rape.”

“Bloody hell,” said Roubaud, “I was just the back-up man.”

“But you weren’t very backward about coming up front, were you? You were number six on the list. That means you were one of the nastiest in the bunch.”

“Fucking hell, I came in of my own accord, didn’t I? Helping the police with inquiries, don’t I get something off for that?

“Bugger off. I don’t fix sentences.”

Two officers came to take Roubaud away. Adamsberg looked at his memory-jogger.
Acne
plus
jutting
plus
solicitude
equals
Maurel
.

“Maurel, who took over outside Marie-Belle’s?” he asked, with an eye on the wall clock.

“Noël and Lamarre, sir.”

“What are they playing at? It’s nine thirty.”

“Maybe she doesn’t want to go out. She’s not opened Rolaride since her brother got nabbed.”

“I’ll get over there,” Adamsberg said. “Since Hurfin won’t sing, Marie- Belle will have to tell me what he dragged out of her.”

“You’re going just like that, sir?”

“Just like what?”

“I mean, in your sandals, sir. Would you like to borrow some shoes?”

Adamsberg looked down at his toes, poking out through worn leather straps and wondered what was wrong with them.

“What’s the problem, Maurel?” He was genuinely puzzled.

“I don’t know, sir,” said the
lieutenant
, back-pedalling as fast as he could. “You’re the boss.”

“Ah, I see,” said Adamsberg. “Not dressed properly? Is that it, Maurel?”

The
lieutenant
didn’t dare answer.

“I’ve not got time to go buy a pair of shoes” said Adamsberg with a shrug. “And Clémentine is just a tiny bit more important than my appearance, don’t you think?”

“Certainly, sir.”

“Make sure she has everything she needs. I’m going to get the sister, and will be back shortly.”

“Do you think she’ll say anything?”

“I expect so. Marie-Belle loves telling her life story.”

As he went out the main gate a special delivery man handed him a parcel which he opened in the street. It contained his new handset, which he stuck on a car roof while he looked for the contract note with terms and conditions
after the fact
. The chip was good. They’d managed to transfer the old number to the new phone. Great. He put the gizmo in his inside pocket and walked on, with his hand on his chest as if he was warming the handset through the denim and resuscitating the conversation he’d been having with the phone.

He spotted Noël and Lamarre on duty in the street when he got to Rue de la Convention. The shorter of the two was Noël.
Big ears
plus
crew cut
plus
bomber jacket
make
Noël
. The pikestaff was Lamarre, the fellow from Granville who’d trained as a gendarme. Both men glanced at the
commissaire
’s feet.

“Yes, I know, Lamarre, I’ll get a pair later. I’m going up,” he said, nodding towards the fourth floor. “You can stand down.”

Adamsberg crossed the opulent hallway and went up the red-carpeted staircase. Before he even got to the landing he could make out the envelope tacked to Marie-Belle’s front door. He slowed down in dismay and walked up the last few steps to put his hand finally on the white rectangle of paper inscribed with his name:
To Jean-Baptiste Adamsberg
.

Flown the nest. Marie-Belle had slipped out under the noses of his officers of the watch. She’d scarpered. Scarpered without taking care of
Damascus
. Adamsberg frowned as he looked at the envelope. Damascus’s sister had abandoned the theatre at the height of the battle.

The sister of Damascus
and
of Antoine.

Adamsberg slumped down and sat on the top step with the envelope in his lap. The time switch on the stair light ran out. Antoine hadn’t dragged info out of Marie-Belle, Marie-Belle had given it to him. To my brother the strangler. To my obedient brother. Murder by order of big sister, Marie-Belle Hurfin. He rang Danglard in the dark.

“I’m in the back of the car,” said Danglard. “Trying to sleep.”

“Danglard, did Heller-Deville have another illegitimate child, by the Romorantin woman? A daughter, by any chance?”

“That’s what I was trying to tell you. Marie-Belle Hurfin is two years older than Antoine. She’s Damascus’s half-sister. She’d never met him before she turned up in Paris twelve months ago and tracked him down.”

Adamsberg nodded to himself.

“Is that a nuisance?”

“Yes. I was after the killer’s mind. Now I’ve got it.”