XVI
ON TUESDAY 14 OCTOBER, THE EIGHT MEMBERS OF THE QUEBEC mission were waiting to board their Boeing 747, take-off scheduled for 16.40, estimated arrival time midnight, or 18.00, local time. Adamsberg knew just how much that term ‘estimated’, repeated by the reassuring voices over the loudspeakers, was piercing Danglard with sick apprehension. He had been watching him attentively for the couple of hours that they had been waiting at Roissy-Charles-de-Gaulle airport.
The rest of the team was regressing into teenage behaviour, disoriented by the unusual context, as if they were off on a school trip. He glanced at Lieutenant Froissy, a sharp-witted woman, but still subject to an attack of depression, occasioned by an unhappy love affair, according to what he had heard in the Chat Room. Although she was not joining in the rather infantile rowdiness of her colleagues, the break from routine seemed to distract her and he had seen her smile a few times. But the same could not be said for Danglard. Nothing seemed to rouse the capitaine from his sombre prognostications. His long and already lethargic body seemed to have become almost invertebrate as the time of departure approached. His legs no longer appeared able to carry him, and he had shrunk back into the curved metal seat, as if it were moulded to him. Adamsberg had seen him three times fish in his pocket and produce a pill which he then thrust between his bloodless lips.
Danglard’s colleagues, since they were aware of his fear of flying, were being deliberately discreet. The scrupulous Justin, who always hesitated to give an opinion, in case he offended someone or altered their ideas, was by turns re-telling standard jokes and pretending frantically to revise the ranks and insignia of the Québécois police. He was the opposite of Noël, who always rushed in where angels fear to tread. Any kind of movement was a good thing as far as Noël was concerned, so he was looking forward to the trip, as was Voisenet. The ex-chemist and naturalist was hoping to pick up plenty of scientific information on the visit, but also to explore the geology and fauna of Canada. In Retancourt’s case, there was no problem of course, since she was adaptability personified, always adjusting to the demands of any situation. As for the young and timid Estalère, his large green eyes with their perpetual look of amazement were always on the alert for some new surprising curiosity. In short, Adamsberg thought, they all found some form of release or advantage in the expedition, which contributed to the noisy collective excitement.
All except Danglard, that is. His five children had been left in the care of his generous neighbour on the sixth floor, along with the cat, and on that front everything was under control, except the prospect of leaving them orphans. Adamsberg tried to think of some way of rescuing his deputy from his increasing panic, but the growing coolness between them left him little room for manoeuvre in trying to comfort him. Or perhaps, Adamsberg thought, he ought to try a different tack: provoke him and force him to react. What better way than to tell him about the visit to the phantom of the Schloss? That would certainly make Danglard angry, and anger is much more stimulating and distracting than fear. He had been thinking about this for a moment or two, smiling to himself, when their flight for Montreal-Dorval was called, bringing them all to their feet.
They were seated in a compact group in the middle of the plane, and Adamsberg saw to it that Danglard was seated to his right, as far as possible from a window. The safety instructions which were mimed by a smiling flight attendant, explaining what to do if there was a loss of pressure, or a landing on water, and how to evacuate the aircraft via the escape chutes, did not help at all. Danglard fumbled under his seat for his lifejacket.
‘Don’t bother,’ said Adamsberg. ‘If there really was any trouble, you’d be sucked out through the window without even being conscious, and disappear like the toad. Puff, puff, bang.’
This kind remark failed to bring a smile to the capitaine’s face.
When the plane stopped to rev up to full power, Adamsberg really thought he was going to lose his deputy, just like the damned toad. Danglard survived take-off by clinging to the armrests. Adamsberg waited till the plane had finished its ascent before trying to distract him.
‘Look,’ he explained, ‘you have your own TV screen. They put on some good films. There’s a cultural channel too. See here,’ he added, consulting the programme. ‘There’s a documentary about the precursors of the Italian Renaissance. That’s for you, isn’t it? The Italian Renaissance?’
‘Already know all that stuff,’ muttered Danglard, his expression fixed, his fingers still gripping the armrests.
‘Even the precursors?’
‘Know all that too.’
‘If you switch on your radio, there’s a debate about Hegel’s aesthetics, it says here. What about that?’
‘Know all about that too,’ Danglard repeated gloomily. So if neither the precursors nor Hegel could captivate Danglard, the situation was indeed desperate, Adamsberg thought. He glanced at his neighbour on the other side, Hélène Froissy, who had turned towards the window and was already fast asleep, or else lost in sad thoughts.
‘Danglard, do you know what I did on Saturday?’ Adamsberg asked.
‘Don’t give a damn, Adamsberg.’
‘I went to visit the last known residence of our deceased judge, near Strasbourg, a residence that he left like a thief in the night, six days after the Schiltigheim murder.’
In the capitaine’s distraught features, Adamsberg thought he could detect a slight flicker of interest.
‘I’ll tell you about it.’
Adamsberg dragged out his account, omitting none of the details, the Bluebeard’s attic, the stable, the summer house, the bathroom, and taking care to refer to the owner only as ‘the judge’, ‘the dead man’, or ‘the spectre’. Although the tale did not quite manage to provoke anger, it did stimulate a sort of irritable interest on the capitaine’s face.
‘Interesting, eh?’ said Adamsberg. ‘A man who’s invisible to everyone, an impalpable presence?’
‘Just some recluse,’ Danglard objected in a distant voice.
‘Yes, but a recluse who systematically wipes out all his traces? Who leaves behind, and then only by accident, a few stray hairs, snow-white incidentally.’
‘You can’t do anything with those hairs,’ muttered Danglard.
‘Yes, I can, Danglard, I can compare them.’
‘With what?’
‘With those in the judge’s grave, in Richelieu. I’d just have to apply for an exhumation. Hair survives a long time, so with a bit of luck…’
‘What’s that noise?’ interrupted Danglard in a changed voice. ‘That whistling sound?’
‘It’s just the cabin pressure, it’s normal.’
Danglard subsided in his seat with a long sigh.
‘But I couldn’t remember what you told me about the meaning of “Fulgence”,’ Adamsberg said, untruthfully.
‘It comes from fulgur, lightning or a thunderbolt,’ Danglard could not resist replying. ‘Or from the verb fulgeo: to shine, dazzle, light up. In a figurative sense to be brilliant, illustrious, to shine forth brightly.’
Adamsberg registered mentally the new meanings his deputy was reeling off with erudition.
‘And what about “Maxime”?’
‘Don’t tell me you don’t know that,’ grumbled Danglard. ‘It’s maximus, of course, the biggest or most important.’
‘I didn’t tell you the name our man used when he bought the Schloss. Would you like to know?’
‘No.’
In fact, Danglard was perfectly aware of the efforts Adamsberg was making to distract him from his panic, and although he found the Schloss story irritating, he was grateful for this kindness. Only another six hours twelve minutes to go. They were over the Atlantic by now and would be for some time.