Read Online The Madonna of Notre Dame by Alexis Ragougneau, Katherine Gregor - Free Book Online
Authors: Alexis Ragougneau, Katherine Gregor
Tags: Literary, Literature & Fiction, Crime, Mystery, Crime Fiction, Literary Fiction, Noir, Thrillers & Suspense, Thriller & Suspense, Police Procedurals
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brought his face a couple of inches away from the young man’s. “Earlier, you told us that you were still living with your mother. In Saint-Cloud, right? How’s your mom going to feel when she finds out that her son is suspected of killing a girl?”
The boy’s breathing suddenly quickened. “My mother? What does my mother have to do with all this?”
“How’s she going to feel, Thibault? Do you think she’ll come to your trial? Do you think she’ll bring you oranges when you’re in Fleury prison?”
“Leave my mother alone. I didn’t kill that girl.”
“Then why did you hit her, Thibault? Tell me why.”
Upset, Thibault started mumbling something, then, suddenly, the words crowded in his mouth and gushed out, like a powerful jet of water from a faucet because the washer’s come loose. “Because she was a whore! Because she was mocking the Virgin Mary in her white dress. I hit her because she deserved it! Because she was strutting about before our very eyes in that provocative prostitute dress! I hit her to teach her a lesson! I hit her because she was asking for it! I hit her to urge her to be pure, humble, good, I hit her to urge her toward virginity!”
Thibault had off-loaded in spite of himself, and immediately seemed to regret it. He apologized for his choice of words. Opposite him, however, Captain Landard seemed suddenly filled with hot air, like a balloon, as though he was about to take off from the top of his desk.
“Write that down, Gombrowicz, ‘I hit her to urge her toward virginity.’”
Gombrowicz was tapping away on his keyboard. He found the abrupt change of pace of the interrogation somewhat disturbing.Landard waited for the computer keys to stop rattling, then lit another cigarette and took a drag contentedly.
“Gombrowicz, will you call the little magistrate on her direct line, please?”
Once again, he leaned toward the suspect. “Tell me, Thibault. How about we take a little trip to your mother’s to have a look inside your drawers? Do you think we’ll be there before nine p.m.?”
He closed his door and double-locked it. He remained there for a moment, his forehead against the wood, his hand tense on the handle, listening for the city noises outside, which he could hear as though through a dense fog that had descended abundantly on this late afternoon of August 17th. In the street, a car drove by. The sound of a woman’s footsteps. A child laughing. Then nothing.
He let go of the door handle, then went into the apartment, which was simple, bare, tidy, and where he had now been living for fifteen years. He abandoned his jacket on the back of a chair. Went to drink a glass of water. Or rather, he just filled it while staring at the clock on the white wall without really seeing it, for what might have been a long or a short time, standing there, holding the glass, before putting it down in the sink, still full.
He went into the bedroom, sat on the bed, looked at his hands, resting on his knees like a well-behaved child during the class photo, then stood up again and opened the closet in front of the bed. He took out a shoe box and placed it on a small table in the corner of the room, beneath a wooden crucifix nailed to the wall. He took an old Bayard alarm clock out of the box, then a magnifying glass, and an inkstained pencil case, and pulledopen the zipper. There, he found pliers and four screwdrivers of different colors and sizes, which he lined up on both sides of the alarm clock. Finally, he took a black and white photo from the bottom of the box, and placed it in front of him, leaning it against the wall. He switched on a reading lamp fixed to the edge of the table, picked up the alarm clock in one hand and one of the four screwdrivers—the one with a faded red wooden handle—in the other. Slowly and with childlike application, he unscrewed the metal cover and finally opened it, revealing a mechanism that was at once basic and complex, as well as its
The boy’s breathing suddenly quickened. “My mother? What does my mother have to do with all this?”
“How’s she going to feel, Thibault? Do you think she’ll come to your trial? Do you think she’ll bring you oranges when you’re in Fleury prison?”
“Leave my mother alone. I didn’t kill that girl.”
“Then why did you hit her, Thibault? Tell me why.”
Upset, Thibault started mumbling something, then, suddenly, the words crowded in his mouth and gushed out, like a powerful jet of water from a faucet because the washer’s come loose. “Because she was a whore! Because she was mocking the Virgin Mary in her white dress. I hit her because she deserved it! Because she was strutting about before our very eyes in that provocative prostitute dress! I hit her to teach her a lesson! I hit her because she was asking for it! I hit her to urge her to be pure, humble, good, I hit her to urge her toward virginity!”
Thibault had off-loaded in spite of himself, and immediately seemed to regret it. He apologized for his choice of words. Opposite him, however, Captain Landard seemed suddenly filled with hot air, like a balloon, as though he was about to take off from the top of his desk.
“Write that down, Gombrowicz, ‘I hit her to urge her toward virginity.’”
Gombrowicz was tapping away on his keyboard. He found the abrupt change of pace of the interrogation somewhat disturbing.Landard waited for the computer keys to stop rattling, then lit another cigarette and took a drag contentedly.
“Gombrowicz, will you call the little magistrate on her direct line, please?”
Once again, he leaned toward the suspect. “Tell me, Thibault. How about we take a little trip to your mother’s to have a look inside your drawers? Do you think we’ll be there before nine p.m.?”
He closed his door and double-locked it. He remained there for a moment, his forehead against the wood, his hand tense on the handle, listening for the city noises outside, which he could hear as though through a dense fog that had descended abundantly on this late afternoon of August 17th. In the street, a car drove by. The sound of a woman’s footsteps. A child laughing. Then nothing.
He let go of the door handle, then went into the apartment, which was simple, bare, tidy, and where he had now been living for fifteen years. He abandoned his jacket on the back of a chair. Went to drink a glass of water. Or rather, he just filled it while staring at the clock on the white wall without really seeing it, for what might have been a long or a short time, standing there, holding the glass, before putting it down in the sink, still full.
He went into the bedroom, sat on the bed, looked at his hands, resting on his knees like a well-behaved child during the class photo, then stood up again and opened the closet in front of the bed. He took out a shoe box and placed it on a small table in the corner of the room, beneath a wooden crucifix nailed to the wall. He took an old Bayard alarm clock out of the box, then a magnifying glass, and an inkstained pencil case, and pulledopen the zipper. There, he found pliers and four screwdrivers of different colors and sizes, which he lined up on both sides of the alarm clock. Finally, he took a black and white photo from the bottom of the box, and placed it in front of him, leaning it against the wall. He switched on a reading lamp fixed to the edge of the table, picked up the alarm clock in one hand and one of the four screwdrivers—the one with a faded red wooden handle—in the other. Slowly and with childlike application, he unscrewed the metal cover and finally opened it, revealing a mechanism that was at once basic and complex, as well as its
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