‘As sure as I can be. Your best course is to trust me, or yes, you’ve had it. You’re not defending yourself, you’re getting yourself deeper in it.’
Into the mud of the dead lake, thought Adamsberg.
‘I just can’t remember anything about that night,’ he repeated, mechanically. ‘I had my face and hands covered in blood.’
‘Yes, I know. The janitor told them that.’
‘Perhaps it wasn’t my own blood?’
‘You see? You’re getting yourself in deeper and deeper. You’re accepting it. The idea’s wriggling into your mind like a worm, and you’re allowing it to.’
‘Maybe the idea’s always been in my mind, since the Trident came back to life. Maybe something went off in my head when I saw the fork.’
‘You’re going down into his grave,’ Retancourt insisted. ‘You’re putting your head on the block.’
‘I realise that.’
‘Commissaire, think quickly. Who are you going to choose to trust? You or me?’
‘You,’ Adamsberg replied instinctively.
‘OK. Run for it.’
‘Can’t be done. They’re not stupid.’
‘Neither are we.’
‘But they’re already right behind us.’
‘Well, we certainly can’t run in Detroit. The arrest warrant has been issued to cover Michigan. We’re going to return to the Hotel Brébeuf on Tuesday morning as arranged.’
‘And sneak out via the basement? But when they see I haven’t turned up at the right time, they’ll look everywhere. In my room, everywhere in the building. They’ll see the car’s gone, put a watch on the airports. I’d never have time to get a flight, or even leave the hotel. They’ll eat me alive, like they did Brébeuf.’
‘But they’re not going to be chasing us, commissaire. We’re going to lead them where we want them.’
‘Where?’
‘Into my room.’
‘But your room’s as small as mine. Where are you going to hide me? On the roof? They’ll go up there.’
‘Of course.’
‘Under the bed, in the wardrobe?’
Adamsberg hunched his shoulders in a gesture of despair.
‘No, on me.’
The commissaire turned to the lieutenant.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘but it’ll only take two or three minutes. There’s no other way.’
‘Retancourt, I’m not a hairpin. What are you going to turn me into?’
‘Nothing, I’m going to turn myself into something. A pylon.’
XXXV
RETANCOURT HAD STOPPED FOR TWO HOURS TO SLEEP AND THEY entered Detroit at seven in the morning. The city was as mournful as an old duchess, in the ruins of her estate, still wearing the ragged remains of her robes. Dirt and poverty had replaced the former wealth of old Detroit.
‘Here’s the block,’ said Adamsberg, consulting his street plan.
He looked up at the building, which was soot-blackened but otherwise in good condition, with a cafe on the ground floor, as if he were examining a historic monument. And in a sense he was, since behind these walls Raphaël lived, moved and slept.
‘The Mounties are parking twenty metres behind us,’ Retancourt remarked. ‘Very clever. What can they be thinking of? Do they really imagine we haven’t noticed they’ve been behind us all the way from Gatineau?’
Adamsberg was leaning forward, his arms folded tightly against his stomach.
‘You go in on your own, commissaire,’ she said. ‘I’ll go and sit in the cafe.’
‘I can’t,’ said Adamsberg in a whisper. ‘And what’s the use anyway? I’m on the run like he is.’
‘Exactly, so you’re quits. He won’t be alone any more, nor will you. Go on, it’s the best thing to do, commissaire.’
‘You don’t understand, Retancourt. I just can’t. My legs won’t move. They feel as if they’ve turned to iron bars.’
‘Shall I have a go?’ asked the lieutenant, turning sideways and putting her hands on his shoulder blades.
He nodded. After about ten minutes of the massage, he felt as if a kind of warm oil was flowing down through his thighs, making it possible to move again.
‘Is that what you did to Danglard in the plane?’
‘No, Danglard was just afraid of dying.’
‘So what am I afraid of?’
‘Exactly the opposite.’
Adamsberg nodded and got out of the car. Retancourt was about to leave him and go into the cafe when he put a hand on her arm.
‘He’s in there,’ he said. ‘With his back to us, at that table, I’m sure it’s him.’
The lieutenant looked at the silhouette of the man Adamsberg pointed to. That back could indeed only belong to his brother. Adamsberg’s grip tightened on her arm.
‘Go in on your own,’ she said. ‘I’ll go back to the car. But I’d like to see him.’
‘Raphaël?’
‘Yes, Raphaël.’
Adamsberg pushed the glass door, his legs still feeling stiff. He went over to Raphaël and put his hands on his shoulders. The man with his back turned didn’t jump. He looked at the brown hands one after the other.
‘So you found me?’ he said
‘Yes.’
‘I’m glad.’
From the other side of the narrow street, Retancourt watched as Raphaël got up, and the two brothers embraced, looking at each other with their arms intertwined, holding each other tightly. She took a small pair of binoculars from her bag and focussed on Raphaël Adamsberg, whose forehead was now touching his brother’s. Same body, same face. But whereas Adamsberg’s elusive beauty was a miraculous combination emerging from his chaotic features, his brother’s was altogether more regular and obvious. They were like twins who had grown from the same root, one into a shapely plant, the other into an engaging disorder. Retancourt refocussed on Adamsberg whose three-quarters profile was towards her. But she quickly dropped the binoculars, mortified at having trespassed too far on to another’s emotion. Once they had sat down, the two Adamsbergs still did not let go of each other’s arms, but clasped them, forming a closed circle. Retancourt sat down in the car again with a slight shiver. She put the binoculars away and closed her eyes.
By ten o’clock, Raphaël had found them something to eat and settled them on a sofa in his flat, with some coffee, Adamsberg having fetched his lieutenant in from the car by rapping on the window. The two brothers did not move more than a few inches away from each other, Retancourt noted.
‘Will Jean-Baptiste be found guilty? Are you sure?’ Raphaël asked her.
‘Sure as I can be,’ Retancourt stated. ‘The only way out is to make a run for it.’
‘With about a dozen cops watching the hotel,’ added Adamsberg.
‘It’s do-able,’ Retancourt said.
‘So what’s your plan, Violette?’ asked Raphaël.
Raphaël had argued that since he was neither a flic nor a soldier he was not going to call the lieutenant by her surname.
‘We go back to Gatineau tonight,’ she explained. ‘We get to the Hotel Brébeuf in the morning at about seven, and walk in quite openly, for them to see us. You, Raphaël, will follow us three and a half hours later. Can you do that?’
Raphaël nodded.
‘You get to the hotel at about ten-thirty. What do the cops see? Just another guest arriving at the hotel. They’re not bothered about you, they’re looking for someone leaving, and there’s plenty of toing and froing at about that time. The two who followed us last night won’t be on duty again in the morning, so none of the police on duty will recognise you. You check in under your own name and go to your room.’
‘OK.’
‘Have you got a suit? A smart business suit with shirt and tie?’
‘Three, two grey, one blue.’
‘Perfect. Wear one and bring the other, both the grey ones. And bring two coats and two ties.’