him slide down the slope, considering that Adamsberg himself had abandoned Camille at a moment’s notice.
Back in the office, he was surprised by the smell of camphor, and stopped in the Council Chamber, where Noël, his shirt unbuttoned and his forehead resting on his arms, was having his neck massaged by Lieutenant Retancourt. She was kneading his flesh from the shoulders to the nape of the neck, with long circular movements which seemed to have reduced Noël to a state of childlike bliss. He jumped,when he realised the commissaire was in the room, and buttoned his shirt up hastily. Only Retancourt showed no embarrassment, and calmly put the top back on the tube of ointment, while briefly greeting Adamsberg.
‘I’ll be with you right away,’ she said. ‘Noël, no sudden neck movements for two or three days. And if you need to carry something heavy, use your left hand, not your right.’
Retancourt came over to Adamsberg, while Noël quickly left the room.
‘With this cold snap,’ she explained, ‘you tend to get a lot of muscle spasms and stiff necks.’
‘And you can cure them?’
‘I’m not bad. I’ve prepared the dossiers for the Quebec mission, the forms have been sent off and the visas are ready. The plane tickets should be here the day after tomorrow.’
‘Thank you, Retancourt. Is Danglard about?’
‘He’s waiting for you. He got a confession from the D’Hernoncourt daughter yesterday. The lawyer is going to plead temporary insanity, which seems to be pretty much the case.’
Danglard got up when Adamsberg walked in, and held out his hand, looking rather embarrassed.
‘Well, at least you’re prepared to shake my hand,’ said Adamsberg with a smile. ‘Trabelmann has stopped doing that. Pass me the D’Hernoncourt report to sign and congratulations on tying up the case.’
While the commissaire was signing the report, Danglard observed him closely, to see whether he was being ironic, since Adamsberg himself had refused to accept the baron’s confession, and had told them to follow an alternative lead. But no, there was no sign of a sneer on his face, and the congratulations seemed to be sincere.
‘So it didn’t go too well at Schiltigheim?’
‘Well, in one respect it went very well. A brand new carpenter’s awl and a line of wounds 16.7 centimetres long and 0.8 wide. I told you, Danglard, always the same crossbar. The suspect is a poor homeless tramp,harmless and alcoholic, the ideal fall guy. Before the murder, an old man came along and gave him the fatal push. A so-called companion of the streets, but one who took his wine from a cup and wouldn’t drink out of the same bottle as a down-and-out.’
‘And in other respects?’
‘Not good. Trabelmann’s taken against me. He thinks I just follow my own nose and take no notice of anyone else. He regards Judge Fulgence as a national treasure. And in fact I’m a national treasure too, but not quite the same way.’
‘What do you mean?’
Adamsberg smiled before replying.
‘Strasbourg Cathedral. He says my ego is as big as the cathedral.’
Danglard gave a low whistle.
‘One of the pinnacles of Gothic architecture,’ he remarked, ‘the spire reaches a height of 142 metres, built in 1439, the crowning achievement of Jean Hultz …’
With a gesture, Adamsberg interrupted the flow of erudition.
‘Still,’ concluded Danglard, ‘that’s quite something, isn’t it? A Gothic edifice for an ego, an e-Gothic ego trip. Trabelmann’s a bit of a joker, is he?’
‘Yes, he can be. But just then he wasn’t joking, and he kicked me out as if I was a complete time-waster. I have to say in his defence that he looked up the judge’s dates and found out he had been dead sixteen years. He didn’t like that. Some people get put off by that kind of thing.’
Adamsberg raised his hand again to ward off a comment from his deputy.
‘Did it do any good?’ he asked. ‘The massage Retancourt gave you?’
Danglard felt his
Back in the office, he was surprised by the smell of camphor, and stopped in the Council Chamber, where Noël, his shirt unbuttoned and his forehead resting on his arms, was having his neck massaged by Lieutenant Retancourt. She was kneading his flesh from the shoulders to the nape of the neck, with long circular movements which seemed to have reduced Noël to a state of childlike bliss. He jumped,when he realised the commissaire was in the room, and buttoned his shirt up hastily. Only Retancourt showed no embarrassment, and calmly put the top back on the tube of ointment, while briefly greeting Adamsberg.
‘I’ll be with you right away,’ she said. ‘Noël, no sudden neck movements for two or three days. And if you need to carry something heavy, use your left hand, not your right.’
Retancourt came over to Adamsberg, while Noël quickly left the room.
‘With this cold snap,’ she explained, ‘you tend to get a lot of muscle spasms and stiff necks.’
‘And you can cure them?’
‘I’m not bad. I’ve prepared the dossiers for the Quebec mission, the forms have been sent off and the visas are ready. The plane tickets should be here the day after tomorrow.’
‘Thank you, Retancourt. Is Danglard about?’
‘He’s waiting for you. He got a confession from the D’Hernoncourt daughter yesterday. The lawyer is going to plead temporary insanity, which seems to be pretty much the case.’
Danglard got up when Adamsberg walked in, and held out his hand, looking rather embarrassed.
‘Well, at least you’re prepared to shake my hand,’ said Adamsberg with a smile. ‘Trabelmann has stopped doing that. Pass me the D’Hernoncourt report to sign and congratulations on tying up the case.’
While the commissaire was signing the report, Danglard observed him closely, to see whether he was being ironic, since Adamsberg himself had refused to accept the baron’s confession, and had told them to follow an alternative lead. But no, there was no sign of a sneer on his face, and the congratulations seemed to be sincere.
‘So it didn’t go too well at Schiltigheim?’
‘Well, in one respect it went very well. A brand new carpenter’s awl and a line of wounds 16.7 centimetres long and 0.8 wide. I told you, Danglard, always the same crossbar. The suspect is a poor homeless tramp,harmless and alcoholic, the ideal fall guy. Before the murder, an old man came along and gave him the fatal push. A so-called companion of the streets, but one who took his wine from a cup and wouldn’t drink out of the same bottle as a down-and-out.’
‘And in other respects?’
‘Not good. Trabelmann’s taken against me. He thinks I just follow my own nose and take no notice of anyone else. He regards Judge Fulgence as a national treasure. And in fact I’m a national treasure too, but not quite the same way.’
‘What do you mean?’
Adamsberg smiled before replying.
‘Strasbourg Cathedral. He says my ego is as big as the cathedral.’
Danglard gave a low whistle.
‘One of the pinnacles of Gothic architecture,’ he remarked, ‘the spire reaches a height of 142 metres, built in 1439, the crowning achievement of Jean Hultz …’
With a gesture, Adamsberg interrupted the flow of erudition.
‘Still,’ concluded Danglard, ‘that’s quite something, isn’t it? A Gothic edifice for an ego, an e-Gothic ego trip. Trabelmann’s a bit of a joker, is he?’
‘Yes, he can be. But just then he wasn’t joking, and he kicked me out as if I was a complete time-waster. I have to say in his defence that he looked up the judge’s dates and found out he had been dead sixteen years. He didn’t like that. Some people get put off by that kind of thing.’
Adamsberg raised his hand again to ward off a comment from his deputy.
‘Did it do any good?’ he asked. ‘The massage Retancourt gave you?’
Danglard felt his
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