Wash This Blood Clean From My Hand by Fred Vargas Read Free Book Online

plane in the air. But just now, Danglard had more confidence in his pompom than in his superior officer. He wondered fleetingly if a sawn-off pompom was quite as powerful as the real thing, a bit like asking whether a eunuch was still potent.
    ‘I’m going to tell you a story, Danglard. I warn you, it’s a long one. It lasted fourteen years. It began when I was ten, it exploded when I was eighteen, and went on simmering until I was thirty-two. Don’t forget, by the way, that people sometimes fall asleep when I’m talking to them.’
    ‘No chance of that today,’ said Danglard. ‘But is there a chance of a little drink? I’m feeling a bit shaken after all that.’
    ‘There’s some gin, behind the olive oil, in the top cupboard in the kitchen.’
    Danglard came back looking happier, with a glass and the heavy earthenware bottle. He helped himself, then went to put the bottle back.
    ‘See,’ he said. ‘I’m starting. Just one glass at a time.’
    ‘That stuff’s 44 per cent proof.’
    ‘It’s the thought that counts.’
    ‘Oh well, that’s different then.’
    ‘Yes, it’s different. And is that any of your business?’
    ‘All right, I’m poking my nose in, like you did. Even when they’re over, accidents leave their traces.’
    ‘Very true,’ said Danglard.
    Adamsberg let his deputy take a few sips.
    ‘In my village in the Pyrenees,’ he began, ‘there was this old man. When we were kids we called him “the Lord and Master”. Grown-ups called him by his name and title: Judge Fulgence. He lived alone in Le Manoir , a big house surrounded by trees and walls. He didn’t socialise with anyone, he didn’t talk to anyone, he hated us boys and we were scared stiff of him. We would gang up to look out for him at night, when he went into the forest to take his dogs for a walk, two great big alsatians. How can I describe him to you, Danglard? I was just a kid of ten or twelve at the time. He seemed old to us, very tall, white hair brushed back, the best cared-for hands in the village, and the most elegant clothes ever seen there. As if the man were coming back from the opera every night, according to our parish priest – and priests are supposed to be indulgent on principle. Judge Fulgence always wore a white shirt, an expensive tie, a dark suit, and a grey or black woollen cape, short or long, depending on the season.’
    ‘A dandy then, a poser?’
    ‘No, Danglard. A very cold fish. When he walked into the village square, old men sitting on benches would greet him with respect, in a murmur that ran round the edge of the square, and every conversation stopped. It was more than respect, it was fascination, almost cowardice. Judge Fulgence left behind him a trail of slaves, never bothering to spare them a glance, like a ship ploughing on and leaving a wake behind it. You would have thought he was still dispensing justice in the olden days, sitting on a stone bench with the poor peasants crawling at his feet. But above all, people were afraid of him. Old and young, everyone was afraid. And nobody knew exactly why. My mother forbade us to go near the Manor, so of course we dared each other to get as close as we could. We tried some new trick every week, to see if we had balls, I suppose. The worstpart, was that although he was getting on, Judge Fulgence was a man of striking beauty. Old women would whisper, hoping that heaven wasn’t listening, that he had the beauty of the devil.’
    ‘Perhaps that’s just the imagination of a twelve-year-old?’
    With his good arm, Adamsberg felt among the files and pulled out two black and white photographs. He leaned forward and threw them on to Danglard’s knee.
    ‘Take a look, mon vieux , and tell me if that’s just the imagination of a child.’
    Danglard studied the photographs of the judge, one three-quarters profile, the other full profile. He whistled softly.
    ‘Impressive, isn’t he? Film star looks?’ said Adamsberg.
    ‘Yes, very,’ said Danglard,