"In your opinion, could only a climber have positioned the body in the rock face?"
Fanny became serious once more. She observed the glowing tip of her cigarette.
"No, not necessarily. The rocks almost form a natural staircase. On the other hand, you'd have to be extremely strong to be able to carry the body without losing your balance."
"One of my inspectors thinks that the killer climbed up from the other side instead, where the slope is less steep, then lowered the body down on a rope."
"That would be one hell of a long way round." She hesitated, then went on. "In fact, there's a third possibility, quite simple, if you know a little about climbing."
"Which is?"
Fanny Ferreira stubbed her cigarette out on her heel and threw it away.
"Come with me," she commanded.
They went inside the gymnasium. In the half-light, Niémans made out a heap of mats, the straight shadows of parallel bars, poles, knotted ropes. As they approached the right-hand wall, Fanny remarked:
"This is my den. No one else comes here during the summer. So I keep my equipment here."
She lit a stormlight, which hung over a sort of workbench. On it were various instruments, metal parts with a variety of points and blades, casting silvery reflections or sharp glints. Fanny lit another cigarette.
Niémans asked her:
"What's all this?"
"Picks, snaphooks, triangles, safety catches. Climbing equipment"
"So?"
Fanny exhaled once more, with a sequence of simulated hiccups.
"And so, superintendent, a murderer in possession of this sort of equipment, and who knew how to use it, could quite easily have raised the body up from the river bank."
Niémans crossed his arms and leant back against the wall. While handling her tools, Fanny kept her cigarette in her mouth. This innocent gesture heightened the policeman's craving. He really did find her extremely attractive.
"As I told you," she began, "that part of the rock face has a sort of natural staircase. It would be child's play for someone who knew about climbing, or even trekking for that matter, to climb up first without the body."
"And then?"
Fanny grabbed a fluorescent green pulley, with a constellation of tiny openings.
"And then you stick that in the rock, just above the crevice."
"In the rock! But how? With a hammer? That would take ages, wouldn't it?"
Behind her screen of cigarette smoke, she replied:
"You seem to know practically nothing about rock climbing, superintendent." She seized some threaded pitons from the workbench. "Here are some spits. Now, with a rock drill like this one" – she indicated a sort of black, greasy drill – "you can stick several spits into any sort of rock in a matter of seconds. Then you fix your pulley and all you have to do is haul up the body. It's the technique we use for lifting bags up into difficult or narrow spaces."
Niémans pouted skeptically.
"I haven't been up there, but I reckon the crevice is extremely narrow. I don't see how the murderer could have crouched inside, then been able to pull up the body with just his arms, and with no pull from his legs. Which takes us back to the same portrait of our killer: a colossus."
"Who said anything about pulling it up? To raise his victim, all the climber had to do was lower himself down on the other side of the pulley, as a counterweight. The body would then have gone up all on its own."
The policeman suddenly caught on and smiled at such a simple idea.
"But then the killer would have to be heavier than his victim, wouldn't he?"
"Or the same weight. When you throw yourself down, your weight increases. Once the body had been raised, your murderer could have quickly climbed back up, still using the natural steps, then wedged his victim in that theatrical rock fault."
The superintendent took another look at the spits, screws and rings that were lying on the workbench. It reminded him of a burglar's set of tools, but a particular sort of burglar – someone who breaks through altitudes and gravity.
"How long would all that take?"
"I could do it in less than ten minutes."
Niémans nodded. The killer's profile was becoming clearer. The two of them went back outside. The sun was filtering through the clouds, shimmering on the mountain peaks. The policeman asked: "Do you teach at the university?"
"Geology."
"More exactly?"
"I teach several subjects: rock taxonomy, tectonic displacements and glaciology, too – the evolution of glaciers."
"You look very young."
"I got my PhD when I was twenty. By then, I was already a junior lecturer. I'm the youngest doctor in France. I'm now twenty-five and a tenured professor."
"A real university whiz kid."
"That's right. A whiz kid. Daughter and granddaughter of emeritus professors, here in Guernon."
"So you're part of the clan?"
"What clan?"
"One of my lieutenants studied at Guernon. He told me how the university has a separate elite, made up of the children of the university lecturers…"
Fanny shook her head maliciously.
"I'd prefer to call it a big family. The children you're talking about grow up in the university, amidst learning and culture. They then get excellent results. Nothing very surprising about that, is there?"
"Even in sporting competitions?"
She raised her eyebrows.
"That comes from the mountain air."
Niémans pressed on:
"I suppose you knew Rémy Caillois. What was he like?" Without any hesitation, Fanny replied:
"A loner. Introverted. Sullen, even. But extremely brilliant. Dazzlingly cultivated. There was a rumor going round…that he had read every book in the library."
"Do you think there was any truth in that?"
"I don't know. But he certainly knew the library well enough. It was his cave, his refuge, his earth."
"He was very young, too, wasn't he?"
"He grew up in the library. His father was head librarian before him." Niémans casually paced forward.
"I didn't know that. Were the Caillois also part of your `big family'?"
"Definitely not. Rémy was even hostile to us. Despite all his culture, he never got the results he was hoping for. I think…or rather, I suppose he was jealous of us."
"What was his subject?"
"Philosophy, I believe. He was trying to finish his thesis."
"What was it about?"
"I've no idea."
The superintendent paused. He looked up at the mountains. Under the increasing glare of the sun, they looked like dazzled giants. Another question:
"Is his father still alive?"
"No. He passed on a few years ago. A climbing accident."
"There was nothing suspicious about it?"
"What are you after? He died in an avalanche. The one on the Grande Lance of Allemond, in '93. You're every inch a cop."
"So we have two rock-climbing librarians. Father and son. Who both died in the mountains. That is a bit of a coincidence, isn't it?"
"Who said that Rémy was killed in the mountains?"
"True. But he set off on a hike on Saturday morning. He must have been attacked by the killer up there. Perhaps the murderer knew the route he was tatting and…"
"Rémy wasn't the sort of person who follows regular routes. Nor one who tells others where he's going. He was very…secretive."
Niémans nodded his head.
"Thank you, young lady. You know the form – if you think of anything that may be of importance, then phone me on one of these numbers."
Niémans jotted down the numbers of his mobile and of a room which the vice-chancellor had given him at the university – he had preferred to set up base inside the university rather than with the gendarmerie. He murmured:
"See you soon."
The young woman did not look up. The policeman was leaving when she said:
"Can I ask you a question?"
She stared at him with her eyes of crystal. Niémans felt decidedly uneasy. Her irises were too light. They were made of glass, white water, as chilling as frost.