have a dog?’
‘No, but I do have a hunter-gatherer housemate from the palaeolithic period. He’s a prehistorian, very into all that, so don’t tease him about the subject. And he may be a prehistorian and obsessed, but he’s a good friend. I’ve taken an interest in the kind of remains he digs up, because he’s sensitive actually, and I don’t want to offend him.’
‘Is he the one your uncle calls “St Luke”?’
‘No, that’s Lucien, he’s a historian who specialises in the Great War, he’s obsessive about that too. There are four of us in our lodgings, Mathias, Lucien and me, plus my uncle. And the Vandoosler ancestor, who insists on calling us St Matthew, St Mark and St Luke, makes us sound like we’re crazies. It wouldn’t take much to get the old man calling himself God. Well, that’s just my uncle’s bullshit. But Mathias’s little obsessions are different. In the things he digs up, there are bones like that, with tiny holes in. Mathias tells us they come from the droppings of prehistoric hyenas, and on no account to confuse them with what the hunter-gatherers ate. He used to have this stuff all out on the kitchen table, until Lucien got mad because it was getting too close to his food, and Lucien likes his food. Well, none of that’s important, but since there are no prehistoric hyenas prowling round the trees of Paris and their metal grids, I imagine it came from a dog.’
Kehlweiler nodded. He was smiling.
‘Only,’ Marc went on, ‘what of it? Dogs gnaw bones, that’s what they do, and they come out looking like that, porous and with holes in. Unless . . .’ he added after a silence.
‘Unless,’ Kehlweiler repeated. ‘Because that’s a human bone, the top joint of a big toe.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Certain. I got it confirmed at the Natural History Museum by someone who knows. It’s from the toe of a woman, quite an old one.’
‘Obviously,’ said Marc after another silence, ‘that doesn’t happen every day.’
‘It didn’t bother the cops. The local commissaire doesn’t believe it’s a bone, he’s never seen one like this. I realise that this fragment is in an unusual condition, and that I cornered him into making the mistake. He thinks I’m trying to trap him, which is quite true, but not in the way he thinks. Nobody has been reported missing from round here, so they’re not going to open an investigation because of a bone covered in dog shit.’
‘But what do you think then?’
Marc addressed anyone who called him ‘tu’ in the same way. Kehlweiler stretched out his long legs and clasped his hands behind his head.
‘I think this toe joint belongs to someone, and I’m not sure that the person on the end of it is still alive. I’m ruling out an accident, that’s too unlikely. It’s true weird things can happen, but still. I think the dog helped itself to a corpse. Dogs are carrion eaters, like hyenas. And we can forget about corpses held legally in a house or a hospital. I don’t imagine a dog would be allowed into a laying-out room.’
‘What if some old woman died alone in her room, with her dog beside her?’
‘How did the dog get out then? No, it’s impossible, the corpse must have been in the open air. A corpse that has been forgotten somewhere, or killed somewhere, a cellar, a building site, a patch of waste ground. That way a dog could have come past. The dog swallows the bone, digests it, excretes it and the torrential rain from the other night gives it a wash.’
‘A corpse abandoned on some waste ground somewhere doesn’t necessarily mean a murder.’
‘But the bone was found in Paris and that’s what bothers me. Parisian dogs don’t go exploring far from their habitat, and a corpse couldn’t remain unnoticed for long in the city. They should have found it by now. I saw Inspector Lanquetot this morning, still nothing, not the slightest hint of a body lying around in the capital. No missing persons reported either. And
‘No, but I do have a hunter-gatherer housemate from the palaeolithic period. He’s a prehistorian, very into all that, so don’t tease him about the subject. And he may be a prehistorian and obsessed, but he’s a good friend. I’ve taken an interest in the kind of remains he digs up, because he’s sensitive actually, and I don’t want to offend him.’
‘Is he the one your uncle calls “St Luke”?’
‘No, that’s Lucien, he’s a historian who specialises in the Great War, he’s obsessive about that too. There are four of us in our lodgings, Mathias, Lucien and me, plus my uncle. And the Vandoosler ancestor, who insists on calling us St Matthew, St Mark and St Luke, makes us sound like we’re crazies. It wouldn’t take much to get the old man calling himself God. Well, that’s just my uncle’s bullshit. But Mathias’s little obsessions are different. In the things he digs up, there are bones like that, with tiny holes in. Mathias tells us they come from the droppings of prehistoric hyenas, and on no account to confuse them with what the hunter-gatherers ate. He used to have this stuff all out on the kitchen table, until Lucien got mad because it was getting too close to his food, and Lucien likes his food. Well, none of that’s important, but since there are no prehistoric hyenas prowling round the trees of Paris and their metal grids, I imagine it came from a dog.’
Kehlweiler nodded. He was smiling.
‘Only,’ Marc went on, ‘what of it? Dogs gnaw bones, that’s what they do, and they come out looking like that, porous and with holes in. Unless . . .’ he added after a silence.
‘Unless,’ Kehlweiler repeated. ‘Because that’s a human bone, the top joint of a big toe.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Certain. I got it confirmed at the Natural History Museum by someone who knows. It’s from the toe of a woman, quite an old one.’
‘Obviously,’ said Marc after another silence, ‘that doesn’t happen every day.’
‘It didn’t bother the cops. The local commissaire doesn’t believe it’s a bone, he’s never seen one like this. I realise that this fragment is in an unusual condition, and that I cornered him into making the mistake. He thinks I’m trying to trap him, which is quite true, but not in the way he thinks. Nobody has been reported missing from round here, so they’re not going to open an investigation because of a bone covered in dog shit.’
‘But what do you think then?’
Marc addressed anyone who called him ‘tu’ in the same way. Kehlweiler stretched out his long legs and clasped his hands behind his head.
‘I think this toe joint belongs to someone, and I’m not sure that the person on the end of it is still alive. I’m ruling out an accident, that’s too unlikely. It’s true weird things can happen, but still. I think the dog helped itself to a corpse. Dogs are carrion eaters, like hyenas. And we can forget about corpses held legally in a house or a hospital. I don’t imagine a dog would be allowed into a laying-out room.’
‘What if some old woman died alone in her room, with her dog beside her?’
‘How did the dog get out then? No, it’s impossible, the corpse must have been in the open air. A corpse that has been forgotten somewhere, or killed somewhere, a cellar, a building site, a patch of waste ground. That way a dog could have come past. The dog swallows the bone, digests it, excretes it and the torrential rain from the other night gives it a wash.’
‘A corpse abandoned on some waste ground somewhere doesn’t necessarily mean a murder.’
‘But the bone was found in Paris and that’s what bothers me. Parisian dogs don’t go exploring far from their habitat, and a corpse couldn’t remain unnoticed for long in the city. They should have found it by now. I saw Inspector Lanquetot this morning, still nothing, not the slightest hint of a body lying around in the capital. No missing persons reported either. And
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