Read Online The Red Collar by Jean-Christophe Rufin, Adriana Hunter - Free Book Online

don’t want there to be any misunderstanding,” Morlac said, “as a result of this report you’re writing. That’s why there’s something I have to say right away: You’re wrong about the mention I received.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œWell, so, if you’ll forgive the expression, you’re beating about the bush. You keep asking me questions about my dog. You’re trying to get me to say I love him, that he’s my comrade-in-arms. I can see where you want this to go.”
    â€œIt’s in your interest, I’ve already said that.”
    Morlac had stopped in his tracks and turned to face the officer. He’d reverted to his solemn, stubborn expression. The fresh air certainly hadn’t had an effect on him for long.
    â€œI don’t want you to find attenuating circumstances for me.”
    â€œDon’t you want to get out of here?”
    â€œI don’t want what I did to be misrepresented. You won’t hush up what I have to say.”
    â€œWell, this is your opportunity to explain yourself clearly. Because I’ll readily admit I don’t understand what you did, nor your determination to be heavily penalized.”
    Morlac didn’t seem concerned by this admission. He started walking again.
    â€œDo you remember what happened in 1917, sir?”
    Lantier glanced at him anxiously. 1917, the darkest year of the war; the year of the disastrous Nivelle Offensive at the Chemin des Dames, and of widespread mutinies; the year of despair and contradictory upheavals; the Americans arriving and the Russians retreating; the defeat of the Italians and Clemenceau’s accession to power. This was not looking good.
    Luckily, Dujeux was standing by the door jangling his keys. The excursion into the yard hadn’t altered the rest of the routine, and it was food time. For once, Lantier was pleased with himself for starting the questioning so late. They’d have plenty of time the next day to embark on what promised to be no pleasure ride for the officer.
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    * * *
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    On his way back to the hotel, Lantier thought about making a detour to go and pet the dog. It grieved him to see the animal barking again, utterly exhausted, propped against a stone post at the far end of Place Michelet.
    But it was late afternoon and people were coming back outside. A cart was heading up the hill from the abbey-church, creaking over the paving stones. A laborer in a black jacket whistled on his way with a ladder on his shoulder. Lantier didn’t want to run the risk of spawning rumors in town about his sentimentality, his compassion for animals. He crossed the square in a dignified manner and set off along the Rue du 4-Septembre.
    A little further on he went into La Civette to buy some tobacco. This was in anticipation of the next day’s interrogation. He smoked little himself, but Morlac had taken to asking him for cigarettes, and he was keen to have this card in his hand for the round they were about to play.
    As he came out of the smoke shop, he met the squad commander of the local police force. He’d been wanting to meet him since he arrived but had been told the man was away.
    â€œSquadron Sergeant-Major Gabarre,” the policeman announced in a gravelly voice, standing to attention.
    Short and ruddy-faced with a protruding stomach, he was every inch the country bumpkin. He must have been born to farming but joined the force because an opportunity arose. That decision probably derived from the same pragmatic reasoning that made a peasant sow his field with lucerne rather than oats, depending on what the market was doing. From what Lantier had gathered in his conversations with the only other policeman (because the squad in this quiet town comprised all of two men), Gabarre had spent his entire career here.
    â€œI’ve just returned from a funeral twenty miles away, sir. I’m so sorry I wasn’t here to help with your