Theory of Remainders (34 page)

Roger gave a low whistle of admiration. “My sister? I have a newfound respect for her.”

Although he was practiced in the detection of lies, Philip recognized none of the symptoms in Roger’s response: no crossing of arms, no fidgeting, no loss of eye contact, no change of voice. Whatever was going on with Roger would need to be excavated more carefully. What came to mind was the chessboard, the old game with Faruk89. Play the expected moves, he told himself, and wait for an opportunity.

In the meantime, he needed Roger. Édouard Morin had shown he was waiting, that he had things to say. But without Roger’s help, it would be difficult, perhaps impossible.

“There’s a problem,” he said while Roger loaded jam on the horn of his croissant. “I have to speak to Morin one more time, but Suardet isn’t going to allow it.”

“Why is that?”

“Things turned . . . rather ugly last time. I’m not proud of it, but Suardet isn’t going to want a repeat performance.”

Roger went pensive, then waved away this difficulty with a flap of his hand. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’ll just have to be persuasive.”

“You think you should call him?”

“Call? Nonsense. People can refuse you anything over the phone. We’ll drive out there and spring it on him. That way it’s much harder for him to turn us away. We’ll talk our way in.”

“You don’t mind? It seems like a long shot.”

Roger leaned over the table. “You forget. Talking is my specialty.”

Philip was reluctant to leave his car in Yvetot, where out-of-town vehicles tended to attract odd accidents, so the two men—one tall, the other broad—packed themselves into the red Smart Car and headed out on the back roads. South of town they threaded their way through a herd of black-faced sheep, and later through a peloton of middle-aged cyclists, swaying as they pumped their way up the steady incline.

Less than an hour later they arrived at the wheat-colored hospital, where Roger’s silver-tongued strategy might have worked if there’d been an ear to listen to him. But Suardet was not even on the premises, and to Roger’s further disappointment, the receptionist was a young man, immune to his charms. The fellow paged through the calendar, offering to schedule them for an appointment. How would Tuesday of next week suit them?

Out in the hallway Roger mulled over alternatives, considering how best to track Suardet down. Meanwhile, Philip was trying door handles in the corridor.

“What the devil are you doing?” Roger said.

“It can’t hurt to look around.”

A few doors were unlocked. They surprised two physicians in the midst of sessions with patients, a third on the phone, and a fourth dozing in his chair. Finally they located a break room containing a vending machine, a row of lockers, and a broad table littered with plastic cups.

Philip began opening locker doors, eyeing the contents like an actor in a costume shop.

“Say, you know I’m not a stickler for rules,” Roger began. “Far from it. But those are private belongings.”

“Suardet isn’t available,” he replied. “And I’m running out of time.” He pulled a white lab coat out of a locker and measured it against his chest.

“Philip? Don’t you think this is a tiny bit insane?”

“Then we’re in the right place, aren’t we?”

“And perhaps slightly illegal.”

Philip turned to him, straightening up. There was no time to argue. This was the test. Where did Roger stand? “Are you in or out?” he said, crossing his arms as he waited for his brother-in-law to make up his mind. The answer, whatever it was, would be useful.

Roger wrestled briefly with his conscience. “All right!” he said, throwing his hands in the air. “I guess this is what they call American ingenuity.” He helped Philip into the lab coat.

In another locker they located a clipboard. At the end of a hallway, they found the entrance to the secure part of the facility, where Philip caught the door behind another physician.

Roger stayed behind as the lookout.

He found Édouard in a remote corner of the library, a vast hangar of a room with industrial carpeting and racks of shelving. It smelled vaguely medicinal. Among the few patients scattered throughout the reading area, Morin sat alone with a large volume split open on the table before him. Though dressed in the same simple uniform as always, he appeared more ragged than before, the white shirt rumpled, his hair less perfectly groomed. And when he looked up, startled by the arrival of an unannounced guest, Philip could tell he’d not slept well, his usually prominent eyes dulled, his features drawn.

“Mr. Adler. I did not expect to see you again so soon.” His tone was flat, each S buzzing. He peered past Philip in the direction of the door, swallowing twice. “Madame Legrand is not with you, is she?”

Philip shook his head. He took a seat across the table. It was the same configuration as the meeting room, but closer, more intimate. A worker wheeled a book cart past them, and the two men waited for him to disappear.

“You’ve come without Doctor Suardet in tow,” Morin said. “Don’t you think he’ll mind being left out?”

“I thought it might be best to meet one-on-one,” Philip replied. “Perhaps you can speak more freely.” He tried to keep his tone even. Suardet might show up at any moment, but if Morin sensed he was rushing, it could derail the discussion. “I know you have things to tell me, Édouard, and this is your chance.” He pulled out the voice recorder, placing it between them and pressing the button.

As if in slow motion, Morin raised his right arm, reached forward, and nudged a corner of the device. Then he brought his fingertips to the point of his hairline and smoothed back his hair.

“That’s better,” he said. “Don’t you think?”

Philip didn’t reply.

Morin gestured at the volume in front of him. “I have just been reading about the Mesolithic era, Mr. Adler. Do you know about that? It is the period between the Paleolithic and the Neolithic. This is a wonderful encyclopedia, although not entirely without error. I am currently up to the letter M.”

“I don’t care about that.”

“I try to be regular with my studies. Otherwise one never gets one’s work done, don’t you find?”

“I’m not here to talk about your readings, Morin.”

He shook his head. “I don’t know how you can be so disinterested in things, Mr. Adler. Books have so much to teach us, if only we had the time to—”

“But of course we don’t always have time.”

Morin stared. “I don’t suppose,” he began, “that you’ve had a chance to look into the word
eyeshot
for me?”

The conversation was falling into the same weary themes.

Philip’s cell phone buzzed in his pocket, and he flicked it open to read a one-word message from Roger:
Suardet
. The doctor had arrived.

“Tell, me,” he said. “Why did you attack Yvonne the other day?”

Morin forced a smile. “Well, Madame Legrand was rather
exercised
, wasn’t she? Though I suppose she had her reasons. It cannot be easy speaking to the murderer of your daughter, can it?”

As he watched the Adam’s apple bob in Morin’s fragile neck, Philip thought of the urge he’d suppressed fifteen years before, when he’d had the chance to take the younger version of this man by the throat.

Morin raised his chin and leaned forward, looking him in the eye. “I don’t think anyone here would stop you,” he said, as though reading Philip’s thoughts. He glanced at the other patients in the library. “Especially not this lot. They’re a rather sorry bunch.”

He ignored the invitation. “I’m tired of this, Édouard. Why have you agreed to these meetings if you’re not going to tell me anything?”

“But Mr. Adler, I’ve told you—”

“No. You’ve
spoken
a great deal. But you haven’t told me a thing.”

Morin frowned. “It’s not easy, Mr. Adler. Often it is better to say things in a tongue that is not one’s own—even though they say that languages are unfaithful, that translation betrays. You know:
traduttore, traditore.
And we all know what becomes of traitors of the fatherland.”

“What’s your point?” Philip said.

Now Morin leaned forward, taking on a conspiratorial tone. “You and I, Mr. Adler, I think we understand each other. We share an appreciation for a certain kind of tidiness. You like things to be even, and you have a hard time accepting the situation when they are not. Am I right?”

Philip refused to play this game. “If you have something to say, now is the time to say it. I will not be coming back.”

A pained expression flashed across Morin’s face. “I’m doing my best, can’t you see that?”

“Frankly, no.”

Morin’s eyes were tired. “You know, we share more than you might think. Almost a kind of brotherhood. For example, the interest in language? All the different ways people have of expressing themselves—it is endlessly fascinating, don’t you agree?”

Suardet would be there any moment, and they were looping through the same old pattern, performing the same roles as before. Philip needed to change the dynamic, to alter the script. An idea came to him—risky, but possible.

He rose to his feet. “Well, I’m afraid this wasn’t a very good idea, after all,” he said. “I won’t say it was a pleasure meeting you Édouard. It’s unfortunate that we couldn’t help each other. I won’t be bothering you again—I head back to the States soon.”

It was the trick of the interrupted session—taking time out of the hands of the patient, forcing him to choose. He turned and started for the door, walking in an unhurried gait. Five paces, six. Soon he was nearly halfway there.

“
Wait
,” Morin called, his voice pained. “Wait. One more thing.”

But Philip didn’t stop—not until he heard the shuffling of the chair and Morin calling out once again.

“Mr. Adler!”

Now, along with everyone else in the library, Philip turned.

Morin was standing, his arms dangling at his sides. “Although I can tell you exactly nothing, or nothing exactly, I would like to say a few words.” He paused to massage his jaw, then uttered a single phrase with torturous care. “The kernel of our grief.”

Philip took a step closer. “What is that supposed to mean?” It was a nonsense phrase, not even a full sentence.

Instead of replying, Morin continued with his careful articulation, cradling his jaw with his hand. “I am . . . the boy of my father.”

Philip’s eyes narrowed. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“The apple . . . fell near . . . the tree. And a king gave . . . law by an oak.” The words tripped out one at a time, each of them making Morin wince with pain.

“Monsieur Adler,” yelled another voice. It was Suardet. The cannonball of a man had bolted through the glass doors of the library, and he was bearing down quickly. “
That’s quite enough!
”

But Morin raised a finger and swallowed hard. “We each carry a burden.” Through the pain in his mouth he forced out one more phrase. “And the Calvary . . . a likely mount.”

Philip took Morin by the shoulders now, shaking him. “What are you talking about? Tell me, before it’s too late.”

But now Morin slumped back into his chair. “I have said everything I have to say, Mr. Adler. Which is perfectly nothing. That is all I am permitted to do. I am done.”

Suardet was there, grabbing Philip’s arm. “Monsieur Adler,” he roared.

The doctor hauled Philip and Roger into his office, upbraiding them with such a torrent of reprimands that Philip could barely keep pace with the French. Roger, on the other hand, now pressed into the role of spokesperson, remained composed, responding with great congeniality to Suardet’s outrage. He was right, Roger agreed. This went well beyond the pale! They had no business pulling such a stunt! And no, Roger could not think of a single good reason not to report this incident to the police—although, he observed, it might reflect poorly on the Legrand family, to which he was related. But whatever the doctor thought best, of course!