‘The Trident is an unprecedented character. A monster, exceptional in all respects. I don’t know how I can persuade you of that. You never met him.’
‘All the same,’ said Danglard again, ‘you’re suggesting he stopped in 1983 and then started again twenty years later. That just doesn’t make sense.’
‘Who says he hasn’t killed in the interval?’
‘You do. You said you had watched the press like a hawk. And then nothing happens for twenty years.’
‘That’s quite simply because I stopped looking in 1987. I told you I tracked him for fourteen years, but not for thirty.’
Danglard looked up in surprise.
‘But why? Did you get fed up? Did someone lean on you?’
Adamsberg stood up and walked about for a moment or two, his head hanging down towards his injured arm. Then he came back to the table, supported himself with his right hand and leaned forward towards his deputy.
‘Because in 1987, he died.’
‘What did you say?’
‘He died. Judge Fulgence passed away, about sixteen years ago, of natural causes, in Richelieu, the last place he was living, on 19 November 1987. The death certificate indicated a heart attack.’
‘Good God, are you sure?’
‘Of course. I heard about it straight away and I went to his funeral. The press was full of obituaries. I saw his coffin lowered into the grave and saw the monster buried under the earth. And on that terrible day, I despaired of ever being able to clear my brother’s name. The judge had got away from me for good.’
There was a long silence, which Danglard did not know how to break. Out of countenance, he automatically smoothed the files on the table with his hand.
‘Go ahead, Danglard, say something. Say what you’re thinking.’
‘Schiltigheim,’ murmured Danglard.
‘Precisely. Schiltigheim. The judge has come back from hell, and I’ve got a chance to catch him again. Do you understand? One more chance. And this time he isn’t going to get away with it.’
‘If I’m reading you right,’ Danglard said hesitantly, ‘he’s got a disciple, a son perhaps, or an imitator.’
‘No, that’s not it at all. He wasn’t married, he has no children. The judge is a solitary predator. Schiltigheim is his work, not some copycat crime.’
Anxiety stopped the capitaine speaking for a moment. He wavered, then opted for sympathy.
‘This recent murder has unsettled you. It’s a terrible coincidence.’
‘No, Danglard, no, it’s not.’
‘Commissaire,’ Danglard began carefully, ‘the judge has been dead for sixteen years. He’s nothing but dust and bones.’
‘So what? Do you think I give a damn? It’s the Schiltigheim girl that matters to me now.’
‘Good grief,’ exclaimed Danglard, running out of patience, ‘what do you believe in? The resurrection of the body?’
‘I believe in actions. It’s him all right and one more chance for me to catch him. And I’ve had signs too.’
‘What do you mean “signs”?’
‘Signs, warnings. The barmaid, the poster, the drawing pins.’
Danglard stood up as well now, this time really alarmed.
‘Great God in heaven, “signs”? Are you turning into a mystic? What are you chasing after, commissaire? A ghost? A zombie? And where does the creature live? In your mind?’
‘I’m going after the Trident. Who was living not far from Schiltigheim quite recently.’
‘But he’s dead! Dead!’
Under his capitaine’s thunderstruck gaze, Adamsberg started to put the files back in his briefcase, carefully, one by one.
‘The devil snaps his fingers at death, Danglard.’
Then he picked up his coat and, waving his good arm, said goodbye.
Danglard sat down again, in desperation, and raised the can of beer to his lips. Adamsberg was a lost soul, caught up in a spiral of folly. Babbling about drawing pins, a barmaid, a poster and a zombie. It had gone much further than he had realised. Mad, doomed, carried off by some evil wind.
After a few hours sleep, Danglard arrived late at the office. A note had been left on his desk. Adamsberg had taken the train to Strasbourg that morning and would be back the following day. Danglard spared a sympathetic thought for Commandant Trabelmann and prayed he would be indulgent.
X
FROM A DISTANCE, ACROSS THE FORECOURT OF STRASBOURG RAILWAY station, Commandant Trabelmann looked short, thickset and tough. Setting aside the military haircut, Adamsberg concentrated on the commandant’s round face and detected in it both determination and a sense of humour. There was perhaps some chink of hope there for opening the impossible dossier he was bringing. Trabelmann shook hands, giving a brief laugh, for no reason. He spoke loudly and distinctly.
‘Battle wound?’ he said, pointing to the arm in the sling.
‘A difficult arrest,’ Adamsberg confirmed.
‘How many does that make?’
‘Arrests?’
‘Scars.’
‘Four.’
‘I’ve got seven. There’s not a flic in the regular police who can beat me for stitches,’ concluded Trabelmann of the gendarmerie. ‘So, commissaire, you’ve brought along your childhod memory, is that it?’
Adamsberg pointed to his briefcase with a smile.
‘It’s all in here. But I’m not sure you’re going to like it.’
‘Well. It costs nothing to listen,’ said the other, opening his car door. ‘I’ve always enjoyed fairy stories.’
‘Even ones about murder?’
‘Do you know any other kind?’ asked Trabelmann, as he started the engine. ‘Cannibalism in Little Red Riding Hood, attempted infanticide in Snow White, the ogre in Tom Thumb.’
He braked at a traffic light and laughed again.
‘Murders, nothing but murders everywhere,’ he went on. ‘As for Bluebeard, he was the original serial killer. What I used to like in the Bluebeard story was the fatal spot of blood on the key, that would never come off. It was no use trying to wash it or scrub it off, it kept coming back like a mark of guilt. I often think about that when a criminal gets away. I say to myself, all right, my boy, run all you like, but the bloodstain will come back and then I’ll catch up with you. Don’t you do that?’
‘The story I’ve got here is a bit like Bluebeard. There are three bloodstains in it that are wiped out and then keep coming back. But it’s like in the stories: only people who believe in them can see them.’
‘I’ve got to go round by Reichstett to pick up one of my men, so we’ve got a bit of a drive ahead of us. Why don’t you start telling me your story now? Once upon a time there was a man…’
‘Who lived alone in a huge manor with two dogs,’ Adamsberg went on.
‘A good start, commissaire, I like it!’ said Trabelmann with a fourth burst of laughter.
By the time they had reached the small car park in Reichstett, the commandant was looking more serious.
‘All right. Your story’s got some convincing elements, I won’t deny that. But if it was your man who killed our Mademoiselle Wind – and I’m saying if, please note – that would mean he’s been going round the country with this all-purpose trident for fifty years or more. Do you realise that? How old was your Bluebeard when he started on his killing spree – still in short pants?’
Different style from Danglard, thought Adamsberg, but the same objection; naturally.
‘Not quite.’
‘Come on, commissaire, out with it, what’s his date of birth?’
‘That I don’t know,’ Adamsberg prevaricated. ‘I don’t know anything about his family.’
‘Yeah, but come on, he can’t be a young man by now, can he? He’s got to be between seventy and eighty minimum, am I right?’