The Beast of the Camargue (28 page)

Texeira advanced slowly. Soon they were standing in about ten centimeters of water. All around, the Baron observed hordes of creatures that were unknown to him. All around him, the marsh was crawling with life.

Suddenly, Texeira stopped.

“There are some footprints here.”

De Palma walked over and saw on a strip of earth that rose above the water the trace of a footprint: a man's, with size eight or nine shoes. There was just one, because the person who left it must have walked through the water, just as they were doing now. A footprint made by a sole with crampons, and which was easily recognizable to a knowledgeable eye—Vibram soles.

“This is a real surprise,” Texeira said. “You can't come here unless you really know the place well.”

De Palma regretted not having brought a camera with him. He removed a piece of paper from his pocket and stuck it on a reed stalk. Then he produced his notepad and made a rough sketch showing the direction of the foot: just about due north, according to Texeira's indications.

“Let's go on.”

“We can't be that far from the hut.”

They walked on a few meters further. The reeds grew less dense and opened out onto a second marsh, smaller than the first. In the distance, a reed hut with rather dingy white walls stood on a mound of earth between two poplars.

“How many huts are there like this one?”

“Just two.”

“And have you ever been inside this one?”

“No, I must admit I haven't. It's silly, but that's the way it is. One of my students went in last year. And he told me that there wasn't much there. It's just another hut. Also, it's not in a very good position for observation. Ever since they've dammed the stream you saw earlier, the water has risen here and you can't get to it by foot.”

“O.K.,” de Palma said. “Let's try it anyway.”

“In that case, we'll go back to the punt and carry it to here.”

Half an hour later, de Palma and Texeira set foot on the mound and went over to the hut. They walked all around it before going inside.

It was an oval room. In the middle stood an old table gnawed by wood lice. There were three chairs with broken straw seats, an ancient haversack and some glasses full of dust.

De Palma scrutinized every nook and cranny. The only thing of interest that he found were traces of a recent presence. Very recent, judging by the marks that could be seen, especially in the dust on the table.

The earth floor had been swept, and then the traces of the broom removed. When he bent down, he saw that it had been cleaned recently.

No more than three or four days ago, he thought.

Texeira called him from outside.

“Look.”

On the bank, the earth had been turned over and the sand below the water plowed up by someone or something.

“It's as if a large animal has been blundering around.”

“Which would explain the sounds of splashing,” Texeira said, pointing at the marks.

“And you heard that noise the second time?”

“No, probably because I was further away. Or maybe because I didn't pay attention.”

The traces on the bank were also recent. They went down into the water and vanished into the silt. And yet some hollow, wedgeshaped marks could still be seen. The water of the marsh had dug deeper around the marks.

De Palma noticed that on the bank everything that might have been recognizable had been wiped away. That much was clear.

A heron landed on a dead tree which was rocking on the gray waters. At that moment, the natural world quivered. On the tips of the reeds, a pink light glittered briefly. The sun was setting, in the distance, on the far bank of the Vaccarès.

“No, Michel, I can't answer that! I don't know if William was a freemason or not. He was very discreet about his private life. And don't imagine that I was part of his private life.”

Mme. Steinert was agitated. Her hair was still damp. She had tied it up over her neck, and secured it with an ebony chopstick.

After leaving the Vaccarès, de Palma had gone to see her at La Balme. He had warned Maistre that he would be back late that night. Maistre had grumbled, Moracchini had thrown a fit of jealousy, and the Baron had done as he pleased.

“I'm sorry to disturb you for so little reason. I'll go.”

“You're not disturbing me, Michel. I want you to stay to dinner.”

“I'm afraid of upsetting you with all my questions.”

“Not at all. Don't forget that I was the one who put you in this position.”

De Palma squirmed in his chair.

“Have you heard from Chandeler?”

“No, not since I decided to dispense with his services.”

“And may I ask why you decided to fire him?”

“Quite simply because he was too greedy. Too voracious. In fact, he only handled a tiny part of the family's business.”

From her frown, de Palma guessed that Chandeler had probably tried his luck with her and had been turned down.

“Can you tell me more about the Downlands?”

“We could go for a stroll there.”

“But it's nighttime!”

“Then we'll go tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?”

“That is, if you agree to sleep over at the farmhouse. There's plenty of room to spare, you know.”

All the Baron did in answer was to gaze up at the white dry stone walls pierced by little windows. The house had three floors. On the top one, a few of the windows glowed in the darkness. They must be the servants' quarters.

“Did you ever wonder why your husband was so determined to keep this place as it is?”

“I'm sorry?”

“Why he didn't want to change anything, or hardly anything?”

The question had caught her unawares. She seemed almost upset, as though he had just made her realize that she had never really worried about her husband's strange behavior.

“I don't know. I think that he was very concerned about authenticity.”

“There was more to it than that.”

Her turquoise eyes peered at him cautiously. Then, slowly, she picked up a cigarette, placed it in her lips and flicked open her lighter.

“It's because William was the son of the house's former owner, Mme. Maurel.”

Ingrid put her lighter down slowly, and looked at him hard. Clearly, she had not known the truth. She looked away. He saw that her eyes were shining.

“I didn't want to shock you, but I think I owe you the truth.”

She undid her hair and let it tumble down, still damp, onto her golden shoulders. Then she folded her hands over her chest with a gesture of self-protection and squeezed hard.

“I'm not blaming you. That was the real problem with William. He hid so much from me. I think you can now understand … life with him wasn't easy.”

She stood up and paced toward the swimming pool. Her dark shadow undulated over the blue surface.

“It was Bérard who told you that, I suppose?”

“Yes.”

“He knows a lot of things about my husband.”

“Yes, it would seem so. I think you should go and see him.”

Suddenly, she looked fragile. She trembled. A wrinkle appeared on her forehead. She stubbed out her cigarette.

“I … stay here tonight, Michel. This … this isn't an invitation, it's a demand. Do me this service …”

“I don't want you to consider it as a service.”

“In my world … I mean, in my … Um … I feel really clumsy this evening.”

She put her hand back onto her cigarette case and took out another, which she lit and dragged on deeply. De Palma realized that he did not like seeing her smoke. It made her seem too familiar. He looked away.

“One day, I was summoned to what we call the scene of the crime. It was years ago. When I'd just joined the force. I was in Paris. And I can remember it like it was yesterday.

“Her name was Isabelle Mercier. She was sixteen. Blond … a beautiful girl. Or rather, I didn't know that till later, if you see what I mean. When I saw the photos and films that her father agreed to show us.

“I've searched for a long time. A very long time. Without ever letting up. I have entire books full of notes and statements. Ever since, I've been out to get the person who made her suffer what she went through … And I might die like this! But I'll never stop searching. I'll construct a thousand different scenarios. I may never find the right one, but that's just too bad. You know, it's rather like an endless quest.”

She drew heavily on her cigarette then stubbed it out in the ashtray.

“She looked like you, Ingrid. The resemblance is terrible. Terrible.”

“Stop it, Michel, you're scaring me.”

She crossed the living room then stopped in a doorway that presumably led to what she called her “private domain.”

“Goodnight, Michel. You'll find your room on the first floor, opposite the lounge you're already familiar with. I'll see you tomorrow.”

She let her arm drop down beside her, then vanished into her own quarters.

Morini tried to lift himself up on his arms, but failed. His muscles had melted away. His legs were barely responding any longer.

He remembered the voices that he had heard the day before, or just now. This morning or last night. It made no difference.

The voices had been so distant it was as if they were being filtered through thick layers of cotton. He remembered yelling out, but he wondered if his voice had not remained stuck to his lips, or in the depths of his burning throat.

After that, he had drunk his urine and his thirst had eased off for a while. But only for a while. Before long, an acidic slime had built up in his mouth and on the edge of his tongue.

But he could clearly remember the voices. One had said: “Everything's been cleaned up here,” or something like that. And the other one: “There are still some traces in the water.” They were two men who did not know each other very well, to judge by the way they spoke.

Of that he was sure.

He fell asleep, exhausted by this effort of recall. An enormous racket woke him up. A sound of splashing in the water, just on the other side of his prison wall.

And then a song surged up into the darkness. As high-pitched as a child's voice.

“Lagadigadeu, la tarasco, lagadigadeu …”

And then a second, far deeper voice. Like the cry of a farmer calling in his herd.

“Laïssa passa la vieio masco … Laïssa passa que vaï dansa …”

The two voices then blended into a strange duet:

“La tarasco dou casteu, la tarasco dou casteu …”

This chant brought back fond memories. It was the song that the Knights of the Tarasque sang when pushing their papier-mâché monster through the streets of Tarascon, before charging the terrified crowd.

And him, Morini, in the pure white uniform of the Knights, with a musketeer's hat. He had been a little boy the first time he had seen the Tarasque, raised on tiptoe, his chin resting on the windowsill.

He swore that if he ever got out of this alive, then the amusement park would be named after the Tarasque. He was Le Grand. The person everyone listened to. Whom everyone obeyed.

He would have liked to remain a Knight of the Tarasque … if prison hadn't interfered with his fate. Since he had left the monster, there had been a void in his life. That was why he had put so much effort into the Big South.

The park must carry the stamp of the monster. Or at least its image. With entertainments wholly devoted to it. His father would have liked that idea. Not his mother, but he did not care about that.

The ceiling of the prison opened suddenly. Earth fell down onto his face.

A fierce light struck his eyes like a slap. A superhuman force seized him and dragged him up into the dark sky.

De Palma woke early. The farmhouse was deserted. He went out onto the patio and savored the fading freshness of the morning. The farm workers had gathered around a huge tractor in the garage and were discussing the coming day's work.

An intense light surged up between the breasts of the Alpilles. In under an hour, La Balme would be inside the furnace.

He looked at his watch and found that it had stopped during the night; it still said 11:30, the time he had gone to bed.

He took out his mobile, switched it on and found that he had nine messages. The recorded voice told him that the first message had been left at eighteen minutes past midnight.

“M. de Palma, Christophe Texeira. I'm sorry to bother you so late, but the voices are back again. Call me back as soon as you get this message.”

He cursed himself for having turned off his telephone while in Ingrid's company.

He listened to the others. They were all from Texeira, who had tried to contact him all night at various times; the last message had been at 2:19 a.m.

He telephoned him back at once.

“I heard them around midnight.”

“Midnight?”

“Yes, that's right. The same routine in Provençal again. But this time I had a great idea: I recorded them.”

“How's the result?”

“Come and listen!”

De Palma did not wait to say goodbye to Mme. Steinert. He got into the 205 and made straight for La Capelière.

There was thunder in the air. Clouds were drifting up from the sea and gathering over the vast meadows of La Crau and the swamps of the Camargue.

When he turned into chemin de la Capelière, heavy drops exploded onto the Peugeot's dusty bonnet.

Texeira was waiting in the little museum's doorway. De Palma ran over to him.

“Good to see you, M. de Palma!”

“Good to see you too!”

“Let's not waste any time, come inside.”

Texeira placed a small tape recorder on his desk, of the kind the Baron had often seen in old-fashioned listening devices.

“It's a Nagra,” Texeira said with a hint of pride in his voice. “And here's the magic microphone.”