arms?’
‘Émile Feuillant’s inherited Vaudel’s estate, except the legal share that goes to Pierre junior. Mordent broke the rules and told him he was about to be arrested. So Émile, aka Basher, floored him and made a break for it.’
‘And Retancourt couldn’t catch him?’
‘She didn’t manage it. She can’t have had all her arms working, and he’d broken one of her ribs when he took off. We’re expecting you, commandant . Mordent’s out of it more or less.’
‘I dare say. But my train doesn’t leave until nine twelve in the evening. I don’t think I can change my ticket.’
‘What train, Danglard?’
‘The train that goes through the goddam tunnel, commissaire . Don’t imagine I’m doing this for my own amusement. But I saw what I came to see. And if he didn’t cut off my uncle’s feet, it came pretty close.’
‘Danglard, where are you?’ asked Adamsberg slowly, sitting back down at the table and turning off the speaker.
‘Where the heck do you think I am? I’m in London, and they’re pretty sure now, the shoes are almost all French, some good quality, some bad. Different social classes. Believe me, we’re going to get the whole lot on our plate, and Radstock is already rubbing his hands.’
‘But what the devil took you back to London?’ Adamsberg almost shouted. ‘Why the hell did you have to go and get mixed up with the damned shoes again? Leave them in Higg-Gate, leave them to Stock!’
‘Radstock you mean. Commissaire , I told you I was going and you agreed, it was necessary.’
‘Don’t mess me about, Danglard, it was that woman Abstract, and you swam the Channel to see her.’
‘No, I did not.’
‘Don’t tell me you haven’t seen her again!’
‘I didn’t say that, but that’s got nothing to do with the shoes.’
‘I certainly hope not, Danglard.’
‘If you thought that someone had cut off your uncle’s feet, you’d want to go and take a look too.’
Adamsberg looked up at the sky which was clouding over, watched as a duck flew across the horizon, and turned back to the phone more calmly.
‘What uncle? I didn’t know there was an uncle involved.’
‘I’m not talking about a living uncle, I’m not talking about someone walking around with no feet. My uncle died about twenty years ago. My aunt’s second husband, and I was very fond of him.’
‘Without wanting to upset you, commandant , nobody would be capable of recognising their uncle’s dead feet.’
‘Not his feet, no, the shoes. As our friend Lord Clyde-Fox rightly said.’
‘Clyde-Fox?’
‘That eccentric English lord we met.’
‘Ah. Yes,’ said Adamsberg with a sigh.
‘I saw him again yesterday, incidentally. He was down in the dumps because he’s mislaid his new Cuban pal. We had a few drinks, he’s a specialist on Indian history. And as he quite rightly said, what can you put into shoes? Feet of course. Usually your own. And if the shoes belonged to my uncle, there was every chance the feet did too.’
‘A bit like the horse shit and the horse,’ Adamsberg commented. Fatigue was starting to give him a backache.
‘Like the container and the contents. But I’m not sure whether it’s actually my uncle or not. It could be a cousin, or someone from the same village. They’re all cousins of some kind over there.’
‘OK,’ said Adamsberg, sliding along to the end of the table. ‘Even if some nutter has made a collection of French feet and his path unfortunately crossed that of your uncle, or his cousin, what the hell has that got to do with us?’
‘You said yourself that there was no rule against taking an interest,’ said Danglard, sounding disgruntled. ‘You were the one who wouldn’t let the Highgate feet drop.’
‘While we were there, yes, maybe. But now we’re in Garches and I’m not interested. And that was a big mistake to go back, Danglard. Because if these feet are French, Scotland Yard will want us to collaborate. It could have been sent to
‘Émile Feuillant’s inherited Vaudel’s estate, except the legal share that goes to Pierre junior. Mordent broke the rules and told him he was about to be arrested. So Émile, aka Basher, floored him and made a break for it.’
‘And Retancourt couldn’t catch him?’
‘She didn’t manage it. She can’t have had all her arms working, and he’d broken one of her ribs when he took off. We’re expecting you, commandant . Mordent’s out of it more or less.’
‘I dare say. But my train doesn’t leave until nine twelve in the evening. I don’t think I can change my ticket.’
‘What train, Danglard?’
‘The train that goes through the goddam tunnel, commissaire . Don’t imagine I’m doing this for my own amusement. But I saw what I came to see. And if he didn’t cut off my uncle’s feet, it came pretty close.’
‘Danglard, where are you?’ asked Adamsberg slowly, sitting back down at the table and turning off the speaker.
‘Where the heck do you think I am? I’m in London, and they’re pretty sure now, the shoes are almost all French, some good quality, some bad. Different social classes. Believe me, we’re going to get the whole lot on our plate, and Radstock is already rubbing his hands.’
‘But what the devil took you back to London?’ Adamsberg almost shouted. ‘Why the hell did you have to go and get mixed up with the damned shoes again? Leave them in Higg-Gate, leave them to Stock!’
‘Radstock you mean. Commissaire , I told you I was going and you agreed, it was necessary.’
‘Don’t mess me about, Danglard, it was that woman Abstract, and you swam the Channel to see her.’
‘No, I did not.’
‘Don’t tell me you haven’t seen her again!’
‘I didn’t say that, but that’s got nothing to do with the shoes.’
‘I certainly hope not, Danglard.’
‘If you thought that someone had cut off your uncle’s feet, you’d want to go and take a look too.’
Adamsberg looked up at the sky which was clouding over, watched as a duck flew across the horizon, and turned back to the phone more calmly.
‘What uncle? I didn’t know there was an uncle involved.’
‘I’m not talking about a living uncle, I’m not talking about someone walking around with no feet. My uncle died about twenty years ago. My aunt’s second husband, and I was very fond of him.’
‘Without wanting to upset you, commandant , nobody would be capable of recognising their uncle’s dead feet.’
‘Not his feet, no, the shoes. As our friend Lord Clyde-Fox rightly said.’
‘Clyde-Fox?’
‘That eccentric English lord we met.’
‘Ah. Yes,’ said Adamsberg with a sigh.
‘I saw him again yesterday, incidentally. He was down in the dumps because he’s mislaid his new Cuban pal. We had a few drinks, he’s a specialist on Indian history. And as he quite rightly said, what can you put into shoes? Feet of course. Usually your own. And if the shoes belonged to my uncle, there was every chance the feet did too.’
‘A bit like the horse shit and the horse,’ Adamsberg commented. Fatigue was starting to give him a backache.
‘Like the container and the contents. But I’m not sure whether it’s actually my uncle or not. It could be a cousin, or someone from the same village. They’re all cousins of some kind over there.’
‘OK,’ said Adamsberg, sliding along to the end of the table. ‘Even if some nutter has made a collection of French feet and his path unfortunately crossed that of your uncle, or his cousin, what the hell has that got to do with us?’
‘You said yourself that there was no rule against taking an interest,’ said Danglard, sounding disgruntled. ‘You were the one who wouldn’t let the Highgate feet drop.’
‘While we were there, yes, maybe. But now we’re in Garches and I’m not interested. And that was a big mistake to go back, Danglard. Because if these feet are French, Scotland Yard will want us to collaborate. It could have been sent to
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