‘No, I’m just moving about while sitting still. It’s a question of tectonic plates, but you wouldn’t understand.’
Vandoosler stood up and with a touch of his hand got Alexandra to look at him.
‘Yes, your version makes plenty of sense,’ Alexandra repeated. ‘Sophia’s father couldn’t possibly have killed her, because he loved her. His stepson couldn’t have done it, because he’s too useless. His mother couldn’t, because she’s too silly. My mother couldn’t have, because she’s my mother. Anyway she never left Lyon. So that leaves me. And I’ve been running about all over the place, I’ve told my mother lies, I sold my car, I haven’t seen Aunt Sophia for ten years, I’m bitter and twisted, I got the police to start up their enquiries when I got here, I haven’t got a job, I went out driving at night with no proper reason. I’m sunk. Well, I was already in deep trouble anyway.’
‘So are we,’ said Marc. ‘But there’s a difference between being in deep trouble and being sunk. You might be floundering if you’re in trouble, but you’re under water if you’re sunk. Not at all the same thing.’
‘Don’t play word games,’ said Vandoosler. ‘She doesn’t need that at this point.’
‘A little word game from time to time doesn’t hurt anyone,’ objected Marc.
‘What I told Alexandra is more useful to her just now. All the mistakes she made tonight, panicking, crying, getting angry, interrupting me, saying “fucking” twice, shouting, looking defeated and confused, she won’t make them on Monday. Tomorrow she’s going to lie in, read a book, take the child out to the park or down to the Seine. Leguennec will probably have her followed. That’s likely to be arranged. She mustn’t give any sign of noticing that. On Monday, she will take the child to school, and then go to the police station. She knows what they’re going to say. She will tell the truth as she sees it, without being aggressive, and that will be the best thing to slow down the investigation.’
‘She’ll tell the truth, but Leguennec won’t believe her.’
‘I didn’t say “the truth”, I said “the truth as she sees it”’.
‘Do you think she’s guilty then?’ Marc exploded again.
Vandoosler raised his hands and dropped them back onto his knees. ‘Marc, it may take a little time to make “the truth” and “the truth as she sees it” mean exactly the same thing. Time is what we need right now. And I’m trying to gain a little time. Leguennec’s a good detective, but he tends to want to catch his whale right away. He’s a harpooner, and yes, they’re necessary. But I prefer to stalk the whale, let it dive, let out a bit of rope, watch where it comes up, try again and so on. Take my time.’
‘But what do you expect from more time?’ Alexandra asked.
‘Reactions. After a murder, nothing stands still. I’m waiting for reactions, even little ones. They will happen. One just has to be on the lookout for them.’
‘And you’re going to sit up in your attic waiting for reactions?’ said Marc. ‘Without going anywhere, without looking for clues, without budging? You think reactions are going to fall on your head like pigeon shit? Do you know how often I’ve been hit by pigeon shit in the twenty-three years I’ve lived in Paris? Just once, that’s all. And there are millions and millions of pigeons flying around every day. So what on earth do you expect? That something is going to turn up on your doorstep?’
‘Just so,’ said Vandoosler, ‘because this…’
‘This is the front line,’ said Lucien.
Vandoosler stood up and nodded. ‘He catches on fast, your Great War friend.’
There was a heavy silence. Vandoosler felt in his pockets, and found two five-franc pieces. He chose the brighter and disappeared into the cellar where they kept the tools. They heard the sound of an electric drill. Then he came back, holding the coin which now had a hole through it, and nailed it to the upright wooden beam on the left of of the fireplace.
‘Have you finished this circus act?’ Marc said.
‘Since we’re talking whaling, I’m nailing this coin to the mainmast. It will go to whoever catches the murderer.’
‘Do you have to?’ said Marc. ‘Sophia is dead, and you’re playing games. You want to be Captain Ahab. It’s pathetic.’
‘It’s not pathetic, it’s symbolic. There’s a difference. Bread and symbols, not circuses. That’s basic.’
‘And you’re the captain of the ship, of course?’
Vandoosler shook his head. ‘I don’t know the answer. It’s not a race. I want to catch the murderer and I want everyone to work at it.’
‘You’ve been more indulgent towards murderers in the past,’ said Marc.
Vandoosler turned round sharply. ‘This one,’ he said, ‘will get no indulgence from me. This one is a bastard.’
‘You know that already?’
‘Oh yes. This one is a killer. A real killer, you understand? Good night everyone.’
XXIII
ON MONDAY, AT ABOUT MIDDAY, MARC HEARD A CAR DRAW UP AT THE gate. Dropping his pencil, he rushed to the window. Vandoosler was getting out of a taxi with Alexandra. The old man accompanied her to the garden house next door and came back humming to himself. So that was what he had been doing: he had gone to pick her up from the police station. Marc clenched his teeth. The subtle omnipotence of his godfather was beginning to infuriate him. A vein was throbbing in his temple. He couldn’t help these attacks of blind fury. The tectonic plates were shifting. How on earth did Mathias manage to remain so foursquare and laconic, even though nothing was working out for him either? Marc felt as if he was wasting away with exasperation. He had practically chewed his way through a pencil that morning spitting splinters of wood onto the paper. Perhaps he should try wearing sandals? No, that was ridiculous. Not only would he have cold feet, but he would lose the last shreds of originality he possessed, which lay in his sophisticated clothes. No, sandals were definitely out.
Marc tightened his silver belt and smoothed his tight black trousers. Alexandra hadn’t even come over to see them the night before.
But then why should she? Now that she had her own little house, she had her independence and freedom. She was the kind of girl who liked to feel free, and one had to watch out. Still, she had spent Sunday doing exactly what Vandoosler had told her to. She had gone to the park with Kyril. Mathias had seen them playing ball and had joined in for a while. The June sunshine was warm. The idea had not even occurred to Marc. Mathias knew how to perform quiet comforting acts which Marc would never have dreamed of, they were so simple. Marc had gone back to his study of village trade in the eleventh and twelfth centuries, though his enthusiasm for it had waned. The problem of the surplus of rural production was so treacherous that you had to lie flat on top of it, if you weren’t to plunge up to your waist in its quicksands. Bloody complicated. He might have done better to go and play ball; at least you can see what you’re throwing and what you’re catching. As for the godfather, he had spent the whole day perched on his chair, watching the neighbourhood from his skylight, the silly old bugger. Playing at being the watcher on high or the captain of the ship might make him look important to those who didn’t know him, but that kind of showing off was not going to impress Marc.
He heard Vandoosler climbing the stairs, but didn’t move, determined not to let his uncle have the satisfaction of hearing him asking for news. But Marc’s resolve weakened quickly, as it generally did over little things, and twenty minutes later, he was opening the attic door.
The godfather was standing on a chair, peering out through the skylight.
‘You look really stupid like that,’ said Marc. ‘What are you waiting for? Reactions? Pigeon shit? Moby Dick?’
‘I’m not doing anyone any harm that I can see,’ said Vandoosler, getting down from the chair. ‘Why are you so worked up?’