Free The Madonna of Notre Dame by Alexis Ragougneau, Katherine Gregor Page A

expressing by chance. From the moment of the arrest, he had gathered that the suspect’s weak spot was his relationship with his mother. He managed more or less to keep to the same version of the events with the police, but Landard sensed that, in the presence of hismother, he was a vulnerable child at the mercy of a terrible judgment, bordering on panic. So he laid it on thick until the very last drawing, the one that obviously interested him most for his investigation.
    “You must have guessed—you must have—which one I’ve chosen to complete the exhibition, Thibault. Look carefully, ladies and gentlemen, the masterpiece above all masterpieces, the major component of this cabinet of curiosities of my friend Thibault. Look carefully. This is what we’re going to call it: giving in to her dirtiest urges, hot Mary stuffs hot wax up her fanny.” Landard clapped. “My dear members of the Beaux-Arts judging panel, I would like to give a Special Mention to young Thibault in the religious pornography category. If the panel doesn’t agree, speak loud and clear now, or forever hold your peace.”
    Almost simultaneously, Lieutenant Gombrowicz and Deputy Magistrate Kauffmann felt the irrepressible urge to go out, to leave this unbreathable air, he in order to find a toilet and finally free his stomach of the burger and fries that had been torturing him for an least an hour; she—in order to crack open the nearest window in the living room. The faint draft that filtered through the sealed blinds did her a world of good, and Claire Kauffmann remained like this, holding the window handle, pressing her forehead against the blind.
    “My son has been taking refuge in religion for a long time, mademoiselle. For the past year or so his piety has been bordering on obsession. I’ve hardly seen him since the summer. He spends all day in Notre Dame. And yet trust me, mademoiselle, Thibault is not a murderer.”
    Claire Kauffmann took one last breath of oxygen, and turned to the suspect’s mother. “You must admit that your son has an odd concept of religion, madame, and a very dirty concept of women.”
    Thibault’s mother lowered her head and Claire Kauffmann, irritated by her silence, decided to start her interrogation. “What time did he come home on Sunday night? Do you remember?”
    “I go to bed at around eight. You see, I’m sick. I guess sorrow’s been eating away at me all these years. The death of my husband. I’m scared of everything. I don’t dare go out anymore. I get vertigo. Mademoiselle, if only you knew the kind of life I’ve had since my husband’s death. Raising a boy on my own, you know. You’re so attractive. Do you have children?”
    “Consequently, you didn’t hear your son come back in, right? Not even a vague recollection? A sound ... Something ... Please try to remember. It could be very important.”
    She looked at her with a lost, distraught expression that was an evident plea: What must I say to prove that my son is innocent? At what time must he have come home on Sunday night in order to be cleared once and for all?
    However, all that came from her lips was an inaudible whisper that turned into a sob.
    At the end of the corridor, Thibault was sitting on his bed, his face buried in his adolescent hands, surrounded by his madman’s pornography in black pencil. Landard put a finger on his shoulder. “Come on, Thibault, let’s go back to prison. You’ll spend the night there and you can sleep on it. You’ve got a decision to make, my boy. Tomorrow morning we’ll have another talk, you and I. Then we’ll take you before a committing magistrate and you’ll have to be a bit more talkative than you’ve been today. Do you understand what I’m saying? It’s crunch time, Thibault. You really don’t have a choice now, so you’d better spit it out. Gombrowicz, put the cuffs back on. Let’s see what the magistrate’s up to and go home.”
    Gombrowicz leaned over the young man to cuff him.