Have Mercy On Us All (14 page)

Seventeen. This affliction is thus present and extant in some place, and has been since the Creation, for there is nothing new under the sun, and all that is, was created
The
town crier glanced at Adamsberg to indicate that the “special” had just gone by, and carried on with his job.

Eighteen. Growing ivy up party walls is not entirely safe.

Adamsberg listened to the end of the newscast, which included the surprising item about
Louise Jenny
, a French steamer of 546 register tons, carrying wines, liqueurs, dried fruits and preserves, which capsized off Basse aux Herbes and was driven on to Pen Bras. All lost, save for the ship’s dog. Mutterings of dismay and grunts of satisfaction greeted that last item; part of the crowd drifted off to the Viking straight away. The late final edition was over, the crier jumped off his box and picked it up with one hand. Adamsberg, somewhat bewildered, turned towards Danglard to see what his number two made of it all, but the latter had gone, to the Viking presumably, to finish his drink. Adamsberg found him with his elbow on the bar, looking quite unperturbed.

“This is outstanding apple brandy,” Danglard said, pointing to his glass on the counter. “Among the best
calva
I’ve ever come across.”

A hand fell on Adamsberg’s shoulder from behind. Ducouëdic motioned to follow him to the table at the back of the room.

“Since you’re in the area, I’d better tell you that the town crier is the one and only person in town who knows my real name. Got that? Here, my name is Decambrais.”

“Just a minute,” said Adamsberg, who wrote down the name in his memory-jogger.

Plague
,
Ducouëdic
and
white hair
makes
Decambrais
.

“I saw you jot something down during the newscast,” Adamsberg said as he put his notebook away again.

“Ad number 10. I’m making an offer for the runner beans. You get good vegetables here, you know, at rock-bottom prices. Now, as for the ‘special’ …”

“The special?”

“The message from the nutter. For the first time the plague has been referred to directly, under the transparent mask of ‘affliction’. That was one of its names. It had many others – the malady, the infection, the contagion,
the
fevers … People tried to avoid saying its real name, out of fear. So the man continues to advance. He has almost named it, he’s near to his goal.”

A diminutive young blonde with her hair done in a bunch came up to Decambrais and shyly put her hand on his sleeve.

“Marie-Belle?” he asked.

She stood up on tiptoes and kissed the old man on the cheek.

“Thank you!” she said with a smile. “I knew you’d get there in the end.”

“It was nothing, Marie-Belle,” Decambrais smiled back.

The young woman departed with a wink and left the Viking on the arm of a tall dark fellow with auburn shoulder-length hair.

“Pretty girl,” said Adamsberg. “What did you do for her?”

“I got her brother to put on a jumper,” said Decambrais. “And believe me, it was hard going. The next hurdle comes in November, when I have to get him to wear a jacket. I’m working on it already.”

Adamsberg gave up trying to follow the story. He reckoned he was getting into some convoluted piece of local life, which didn’t interest him one bit.

“Another thing,” Decambrais added. “You’ve been spotted. There were people in the square who already knew you were from the police.” Decambrais looked Adamsberg up and down. “I cannot imagine what gave you away.”

“The town crier?”

“Possibly.”

“Doesn’t matter. Might even be a good thing.”

“Is that your assistant over there?” Decambrais asked with a stab of his chin in the direction of Danglard.

“
Commissaire
Danglard.”

“Bertin the barman is currently telling him all about the rejuvenating effect of his very special home-made
calva
. At the rate your
commissaire
is lapping it up, he’ll be fifteen years younger in no time at all. I’m just pointing out the facts, for your information, sir. A quite outstanding brew, in my experience, but it tends to put you out of action for the whole of the following morning, speaking conservatively.”

“Danglard is frequently out of action in the morning.”

“Oh, all right then. But all the same he ought to be told that the concoction
has
a stunning effect. Literally. Teaches you what it must be like to be brain-dead. To feel like a cat in an aquarium.”

“Does it hurt?”

“No, it’s like being away for the day.”

Decambrais nodded and left; he thought it better not to shake the hand of a
commissaire principal
in front of so many people. Adamsberg carried on watching Danglard turn the clock back, and around eight he made him sit down at the dining table and get something solid inside.

“Why should I?” Danglard asked in bleary-eyed indignation.

“To have something inside you to bring up tonight. Vomiting on an empty stomach can be painful.”

“What a good idea,” gurgled Danglard. “Let’s have dinner.”

XIII

ADAMSBERG CALLED A
cab to take Danglard home from the Viking and then had himself dropped off at Camille’s. From below, in the street, you could see lights on in her studio. He leaned on the bonnet of a parked car for a few minutes to rest his tired eyes on the brightly lit loft. Camille’s body would soon cleanse him of the wearisome worries of the day; all those crazy notions of plot and plague would split into shreds and tatters and waft away on a breeze.

He walked up the seven flights of stairs and crept silently into the loft. Camille always left the door on the latch when she was composing so she wouldn’t have to break off in the middle of a bar. She was wearing her professional headset and she kept her hands on the keyboard while giving Adamsberg a coded smile that meant she hadn’t finished work. Adamsberg stood around in the meanwhile, listening to the music that leaked through the phones. Camille worked on for ten minutes before switching off the synthesiser and releasing her ears from the equipment.

“Action movie?” Adamsberg enquired.

“Sci-fi,” said Camille as she stood up. “A TV series. I’ve got a contract for six episodes.”

Camille drew closer and put her arm around him.

“It’s about an alien who turns up without warning,” she explained. “He’s got supernatural powers and intends to use them to do people in. No idea why. Nobody seems to be interested in the why. Wanting to do people in seems to need no more explanation than wanting a drink. He wants to do
people
in and that’s that. What makes him special is that he doesn’t sweat.”

“I’ve got something like that, too,” said Adamsberg. “A science-fiction case. I’m just at the start of episode one, and I haven’t yet worked out what the story is. Someone has turned up who aims to do everyone in. What makes him special is that he speaks Latin.”

In the middle of the night Camille shifted in bed and woke Adamsberg up. She had fallen asleep with her head on his midriff, and had ended up almost smothered by Adamsberg’s arms and legs. He was vaguely puzzled by this. He extricated himself with infinite care to give Camille all the room she needed.

XIV

AS NIGHT FELL
the man slid down the little alley that led to the tumbledown house. He knew the uneven cobblestones like the back of his hand. He knocked five times on the familiar worn surface of the old wooden door.

“Is that you?”

“It’s me, Narnie. Open up.”

A large, plump old woman showed him into the front room by the light of a torch, as there was no electricity in the narrow hallway. He’d offered many times to have Narnie’s house fixed up but such ideas had been consistently turned down.

“One day, Arnaud,” she used to say. “When it’s your money you’re offering. Mod cons don’t mean much to me anyway.”

Then she would point to her feet in their coarse black moccasins and say: “You know how old I was before they could afford to buy me a pair of shoes? I was four. Up to the age of four I went around in bare feet.”

“You’ve told me that before, Narnie. But right now the leak in the roof is rotting the boards in the attic floor. I don’t want to have you falling through the ceiling, that’s all.”

“You’ve got your own stuff to worry about.”

The man sat down on the flowery sofa. Narnie brought in a bottle of Madeira and a plate of girdle cakes. She put it all down on the low table, and said: “Times were, when I made your girdle cakes with the skin of the milk. But you can’t get milk that has a proper skin these days. It’s dead and
done
with. You can leave it on the sill for a week, it’ll turn sour before it makes any skin. It’s not milk they sell you these days, it’s dishwater. So I have to use cream instead. I’m sorry, Arnaud, but I have to.”

“I know, Narnie,” Arnaud said as he poured the Madeira into the rather large glasses the old woman had laid out.

“Does it affect the taste a lot?” she asked

“No, the cakes are just as tasty, really. You shouldn’t get upset about them.”

“You’re right, no more of this nonsense. How far have you got?”

“Everything’s ready.”

Narnie’s face spread into a wide, harsh smile.

“How many doors?”

“Two hundred and fifty-three. I’m getting faster. They’re really beautiful, you know. Very elegant.”

The old woman beamed with a kindlier smile.

“You’ve got many gifts, Arnaud my boy, and I swear by the Holy Bible that you’ll come into them all.”

Arnaud smiled as well and laid his head on the old woman’s broad and sagging bosom. She smelled of perfume and olive oil.

“All of them, my boy,” she repeated as she stroked his head. “They’re all going to die, every last one, and all on their own.”

“Every last one,” said Arnaud, with a tight squeeze of the old woman’s hand. Then she gave a start.

“Have you got your ring, Arnaud? Where’s your ring?”

“Don’t worry,” he said as he sat up. “I just put it on the other hand.”

“Show me.”

Arnaud held out his right hand with the ring on the second finger. Narnie passed her thumb over the diamond that glinted on Arnaud’s palm. Then she slipped the ring off and put it on his left hand.

“Keep it on the left and never take it off again.”

“All right. No need to fuss.”

“On the left, Arnaud, and on the ring finger.”

“Sure.”

“We’ve been waiting and waiting for years on end. And tonight we’re going to get there. I thank the Lord for letting me live to see this night.
And
if He has let me live so long, Arnaud, it’s because He wanted me to see it. He wanted me to be there so as you could get it done.”

“That’s true, Narnie.”

“Let’s drink to your salvation, Arnaud.”

Narnie put her arm through Arnaud’s, raised her glass and chinked it against his. They stayed interlocked as they took several sips of Madeira without speaking.

“Now no more of this nonsense,” said Narnie. “Is everything in place? Have you got the door code and the floor number? How many of them will there be inside?”

“He lives on his own.”

“Come on up, I’ll give you the necessary, you mustn’t hang around here too long. I’ve starved them for the last forty-eight hours, they’ll be all over him, like flies on dogshit. Put your gloves on.”

Arnaud followed her to the loft ladder.

“Be careful on that thing, Narnie.”

“Mind you own business. I use it twice a day.”

Narnie climbed up to the attic which echoed with high-pitched squeals.

“Calm down, my dearies! Give me some light, Arnaud, on the left.”

Arnaud directed the torch towards a huge cage swarming with a score of rats.

“Look at that one croaking in the corner. I’ll have newborns to replace her tomorrow morning at the latest.”

“Are you sure they’re infected?”

“Packed to the gills, they are. You wouldn’t be doubting my skill, would you now? On the eve of the great deed?”

“Of course not, Narnie. But I’d rather you let me have ten of them instead of five. To make doubly sure.”

“You can have fifteen if you want. If it helps to keep you calm.”

The old woman bent down to pick up a canvas bag lying on the attic floor beside the cage.

“Died of plague yesterday, this one did!” she said as she waved the bag in Arnaud’s face. “We’ll comb the fleas from his coat, and hey presto. Light me down.”

Arnaud watched Narnie toiling in the kitchen over the dead rat.

“Do be careful. What if you get bitten?”

“I’m quite safe, as I’ve told you before,” said Narnie with a grunt. “And I’ve got olive oil all over, from head to toe. Satisfied?”

Ten minutes later she had finished. She threw out the rat with the rubbish and handed Arnaud a fat envelope.

“Twenty-two fleas,” she said. “That gives you plenty to spare.”

Arnaud slid the package into the inside pocket of his jacket.

“I’m off, then.”

“Open it quickly, in one go, and slip it under the door. And don’t be afraid. You’re in charge now.”

She held him in her arms for a moment.

“So let’s get on with it. It’s your move now. May the Lord watch over you. And keep an eye out for the
flics
.”

XV

ADAMSBERG WENT INTO
the office around nine next day. It was a saturday, with only a skeleton staff on duty, and no hammer drills working. Danglard was off too, presumably paying the due price for his experiment in self-rejuvenation at Bertin’s bar. Adamsberg was only aware of that pleasant weariness in his thigh and back muscles which afflicted him after a night spent with Camille. The muffled echo of the night before which was lodged in his physical being would last until about 2 p.m. Then it would vanish.

He spent the morning ringing round all the stations in the metropolitan area once again. Nothing to report, they all said. Not a single suspicious death in any of the blocks that had been daubed with the 4 symbol. But three new complaints of defacement had been received, for blocks located respectively in the first, sixteenth and seventeenth arrondissements of Paris. All of the new graffiti were 4s, and all of them had that CLT signature or logo underneath. Adamsberg concluded his telephone survey with a call to an old friend at the Quai des Orfèvres.