Read Online This Night's Foul Work by Fred Vargas - Free Book Online Page B

even his placid absence of desires concerned Adamsberg, since so much of that resembled him. Not to mention the dark eyebrows, the nose which looked as if it would later be dominant,and a face so unusual in every respect that he looked two years older than his age. Thomas Adamsberg was a chip off the old block, which was not what the
commissaire
would have wished on him. But through the resemblance, Adamsberg was starting to see, in fits and starts, that this child really was the fruit of his own loins.
    He opened the book at the page marked by the metro ticket. He usually turned down the corner of the page, but his sister had asked him not to spoil this book.
    â€˜Tom, now listen to me, we’re both going to be educated, we’ve got no choice. Remember what I read you last time about north-facing façades? Remember all that? Now, this is how it goes on.’
    Thomas looked up calmly at his father, his expression attentive but indifferent.
    â€˜â€¦ “The use of stones from the river bed to build walls, a combinatory approach indicating an organisation adapted to local resources, is a widespread, though not universal practice.”
Like the sound of that, Tom? “
The introduction of the opus piscatum into many of these walls constitutes a compensatory mechanism, occasioned by the small dimensions of the materials and the weakness of the unstable mortar.” ’
    Adamsberg put the book down, meeting his son’s gaze.
    â€˜I don’t know what the hell the
“opus spicatum”
is, son, and I don’t care. So we can agree about that. But I’m going to teach you how we resolve a problem like this when it crops up in our lives. How to proceed when you don’t understand something. Just watch.’
    Adamsberg took out his mobile and slowly tapped out a number under the child’s unconcerned eyes.
    â€˜What you do is you call Danglard,’ he explained. ‘It’s quite simple. Just remember that, always keep his phone number about you. He can fix anything in this line of country. You’ll see, just pay attention now.’
    â€˜Danglard? Adamsberg. I’m sorry to disturb you, but the little one doesn’t understand this word, and needs an explanation.’
    â€˜Go ahead,’ said Danglard wearily. He was used to the
commissaire
‘swayward habits. He had implicitly been given the mission of dealing with them.
    â€˜Opus spicatum
. He wants to know what that means.’
    â€˜No, he doesn’t – he’s only nine months old, for God’s sake.’
    â€˜I’m not joking,
capitaine
, he wants to know.’
    â€˜Commandant,’
Danglard corrected.
    â€˜Danglard, are you going to harp on about your rank for ever?
Capitaine
or
commandant
, does that really matter between us? Anyway, that isn’t the question. The question concerns the
opus spicatum.’
    â€˜Piscatum,’
Danglard corrected.
    â€˜OK. It’s some sort of
opus
they put in village walls by some compensatorily occasioned mechanism. Tom and I are stuck in this place, and we can’t think about anything else. Except that in Brétilly, a month ago, someone demolished a stag and didn’t even take the antlers, but cut out the heart. What does that say to you?’
    â€˜Some crazy lunatic,’ said Danglard, gloomily.
    â€˜Exactly. That’s what Robert said too.’
    â€˜Who’s Robert?’
    Danglard might curse as much as he liked every time Adamsberg called him up for some inconsequential trifle, but he could never tear himself away from the conversation, assert himself, or get cross and hang up. The commissaire’s voice, like a slow, gentle and embracing breeze, carried his will-power along like a leaf on the ground, or one of the damned pebbles in the damned river. Danglard reproached himself for this, but in the end he always gave way. The water wins in the end.
    â€˜Robert’s a new friend I’ve made in