Free Dog Will Have His Day by Fred Vargas Page A

except the idea of a woman at the end of the bone. No one except the idea of a murder. No one except Kehlweiler’s face. Something convincing in his eyes, true, clear, sorrowful as well.
    Right, but everyone had their cross to bear, and his was well worth Kehlweiler’s. To each his cross, his quest and his archives.
    True, when he had launched himself into the Simeonidis affair, it hadn’t done him any harm. You can mix up your own quest and archives with other people’s and not lose your way. Yes, maybe, or definitely, but it wasn’t his job. No way. End of story.
    Marc knocked his chair over in anger, as he stood up. He flung the magnifying glass on the pile of papers, and grabbed his jacket. Half an hour later, he walked into the bunker with Kehlweiler’s archives, and there, as he had hoped, he found Marthe.
    ‘Marthe, do you know where this bench number 102 is?’
    ‘Are you allowed to know that? Because they’re not mine, you know, the benches.’
    ‘Good grief!’ said Marc. ‘I’m Vandoosler’s nephew, and Kehlweiler lets me work in his office, of course I get to know the benches.’
    ‘All right, all right, no need to hit the roof,’ said Marthe. ‘Just kidding.’
    She explained where bench number 102 was, in her loud voice. Fifteen minutes later, Marc arrived within sight of the tree and its metal grid. It was already dark, at half past six. From the other end of the Place de la Contrescarpe, he saw Kehlweiler sitting on a bench. He was leaning forward, elbows on knees, smoking a cigarette. Marc stopped for a few minutes, observing him. His gestures were slow and infrequent. Marc was once more undecided, unsure whether he was the winner or the loser, or whether he should think in those terms at all. He moved back a step. He watched as Kehlweiler stubbed out his cigarette, then ran his hands through his hair, slowly, as if he were holding his head very tightly. He held his head for a few seconds, then both hands fell to his thighs, and he stayed like that, looking down at the ground. This sequence of silent movements made up Marc’s mind for him. He walked over to the bench and sat down at the other end, boots stretched out in front of him. Neither spoke for one or two minutes. Kehlweiler hadn’t looked up, but Marc was sure he had recognised him.
    ‘You do remember that there’s no money in this?’ Kehlweiler said finally.
    ‘I remember.’
    ‘You’ve probably got some other damn thing you’d rather do.’
    ‘True.’
    ‘Me too.’
    Another silence. Their breath steamed when they spoke. Hell’s teeth, how cold it was!
    ‘You remember it could just be an accident, a set of coincidences?’
    ‘I remember everything about it.’
    ‘Take a look at this list. I’ve got twelve people already: nine men, three women. I eliminated dogs that were too big or too small. In my view, it came from a medium-sized dog.’
    Marc ran his eyes down the list. Brief descriptions, ages, appearance. He reread it several times.
    ‘I’m tired and hungry,’ Kehlweiler said. ‘Do you think you could spell me for a few hours?’
    Marc nodded and gave him back the list.
    ‘Keep it, you’ll need it tonight. I’ve got two beers left – want one?’
    They drank their beer in silence.
    ‘See that man coming along, a bit more to the right? No, don’t look straight at him, look over his head. See him?’
    ‘Yes. So what?
    ‘This guy is bad news, ex-torturer and more no doubt. Ultranationalist. Know where he’s been going for a week now? No, don’t for God’s sake stare at him, look down into your beer.’
    Marc obeyed. He kept his eyes fixed on the mouth of the small glass bottle. He didn’t think it obvious why he should look down, and it was dark anyway. He couldn’t see anything in fact. He heard Kehlweiler whispering.
    ‘He’s going to the second floor of the building opposite. It’s where this politician’s nephew lives, and he’s up to something. And I’d like to know who he’s up to