He raised his arms and let them fall on his thighs.
‘So,’ he said. ‘That’s it, really. And now it’s over.’
He closed his eyes tight, and stuffed his pipe with more tobacco.
‘You’ll have to provide us with a statement about your movements this evening. That is indispensable, I’m afraid,’ said Danglard, as usual not beating about the bush. Le Nermord looked at them in turn.
‘I don’t understand. You mean it wasn’t this lunatic killer who…’
‘We don’t know who it was,’ said Danglard.
‘Oh, no, messieurs, you’ve got it wrong. All that comes to me from my wife’s death is a hole in my life, desolation. As far as money goes, since I’m sure you’ll be interested in that, most of her money, and she had quite a bit, goes to her sister, and indeed so does this house. Delphie had decided that was what she wanted to do. Her sister’s always been hard up.’
‘Nevertheless,’ Danglard repeated, ‘we still need an account of your movements. Please.’
‘Well, as you saw, there’s an entryphone in this house and no concierge. So who could tell you whether I’m telling the truth or not? But… well, until about eleven, I was planning my lectures for next year. You can look, they’re in that stack of paper on the table. Then I went to bed, read for a while, and went to sleep until I heard the buzzer. But nobody can confirm any of that, can they?’
‘More’s the pity,’ said Danglard.
Adamsberg was letting him run the interview now. Danglard was better than him at putting routine but upsetting questions. Throughout their exchange, he kept his gaze on Le Nermord, who was sitting opposite him.
‘Yes, I see,’ said Le Nermord, rubbing the warm bowl of the pipe against his forehead, in visible distress. ‘I do see. A husband betrayed and humiliated, the new lover who stole away his wife. I understand there are these classic scenarios. Oh God! But do you always have to go for the most obvious solutions? Don’t you ever think there could be more complicated explanations?’
‘Yes,’ said Danglard, ‘we do sometimes. But I have to say that your situation appears to be delicate.’
‘I appreciate that,’ agreed Le Nermord. ‘I just hope for my own sake that I’m not going to pay the price for any errors of judgement by the police. I suppose this means you want to see me again?’
‘On Monday?’ suggested Adamsberg.
‘Yes, all right, Monday. I suppose, as well, that there’s nothing I can do for Delphie now? You’re holding her.’
‘I’m afraid so, monsieur. Sorry.’
‘Will there be a post-mortem?’
‘Yes, I’m afraid so.’
Danglard let a minute pass. He always let a minute pass after any reference to a post-mortem.
‘For Monday,’ he went on, ‘please think about what you were doing on Wednesday 19 and Thursday 27 June. Those were the nights of the two previous murders. You’ll be asked that. Unless you can tell us now.’
‘No need to think,’ said Le Nermord. ‘It’s quite simple and sad. I don’t go out at night. I spend every evening writing. Nobody lives with me to confirm that, and I don’t see much of my neighbours.’
They all sat nodding, without knowing why. There are moments when everyone just sits nodding.
There was no more to be done that night. Adamsberg, seeing the weariness in the eyes of the scholar of Byzantium, gave the sign that the interview was over, getting up quietly.
XIV
DANGLARD LEFT HOME NEXT MORNING WITH A BOOK BY Le Nermord under his arm: Ideology and Society under Justinian, published eleven years earlier. It was the only one he could find on his shelves. On the back cover there was a short and flattering biography of the author, accompanied by a photograph. A younger Le Nermord was smiling at the camera. He was no better-looking than at present, without any particularly remarkable features – unless you counted regular teeth. The day before, Danglard had noticed that like most pipe-smokers Le Nermord had a tic of tapping the stem against his teeth. A banal remark, as Charles Reyer would have said.
Adamsberg wasn’t there. He must already have gone to interview Delphie’s lover. Danglard put the book on the commissaire‘s desk, conscious that he was hoping to impress his boss with the contents of his personal bookshelves. Pointlessly, since he now knew that very few things impressed Adamsberg. Too bad.
Danglard had one aim in his head this morning: to find out what had happened at Mathilde’s house during the night. Margellon, who was good at surviving night watches, was waiting for him, ready with his report before going home to bed.
‘There were a few comings and goings,’ Margellon said. ‘I stayed opposite the house until seven-thirty this morning as agreed. The Fish Lady didn’t go out. She put the lights off in her sitting room at about half past midnight and her bedroom light about half an hour after that. But that old Valmont creature came staggering in at five past three. She reeked of drink, the works. When I asked what had happened, she started snivelling. Pathetic old bag, isn’t she? Anyway, I gathered she’d been waiting all evening for her date – well, she called him her fiancé – to turn up in some bar. He didn’t come, so she drank to cheer herself up and passed out at the table. The barman woke her up to chuck her out at closing time. I think she was ashamed, but she was too drunk to stop talking. I couldn’t get the name of the bar. It was hard enough getting any sense out of her. And anyway, she gives me the creeps. I helped her as far as the door and left her to sort herself out. Then this morning, out she trots with her little suitcase. She recognised me right away, didn’t seem surprised, and told me she was “fed up with trying newspaper ads” and was going off for a few days in the country with some pal of hers, a dressmaker in the Berry. Dressmaking, that’s a safer bet, she said.’
‘What about Reyer? Did he go out?’
‘Yes, he did. He went out dressed up to the nines at about eleven, and came back looking just as spruce, tapping his stick, at one-thirty. I could talk to Clémence because she doesn’t know me, but that’s not on with Reyer, because he knows my voice. So I stayed undercover and just noted the times. In any case, no way he’d have spotted me, would he?’
Margellon laughed. Yes, he was silly, Danglard thought.
‘Call him on the phone for me, Margellon.’
‘Who, Reyer?’
‘Yes, of course Reyer.’
Charles chuckled when he heard Danglard’s voice, though Danglard failed to see why.
‘Ha, well now,’ said Charles, ‘the radio says you’ve got another problem on your hands, Inspecteur Danglard. Brilliant! And you’re still harassing me? No other leads in the case?’
‘Where did you go last night, Reyer?’
‘I went out to see if I could pick up a girl, inspecteur.’
‘Where?’
‘At the Nouveau Palais.’
‘Can anyone back that up for you?’
‘Nope! Too many people in these nightclubs for anyone to remember faces, you must know that.’
‘What’s so funny, Reyer?’
‘You! Your phone call. Makes me laugh. My dear Mathilde, who can’t keep her mouth shut, informed me that your commissaire told her to be sure and stay in last night. I guessed from that that you thought something might happen. So I decided it was an excellent moment to go out.’