The Beast of the Camargue (5 page)

He placed the book at the bottom of his bag and went out. The first tourists had now appeared. He walked fast, turned down the first alley to the right and stopped in a doorway, as though following a pre-rehearsed route, then from his bag he took a cotton jacket and a baseball cap. He added a pair of light sunglasses and took out his Nikon with the 200 mm lens.

He retraced his steps and stopped for a moment to examine his appearance in the chemist's window: his disguise looked convincing enough to confuse any potential witnesses. Whatever happened, he would be the man in a cap with sunglasses and a camera—a commonplace sight in the streets of Tarascon in midsummer.

A minute later, he went into the Bar des Amis and ordered a beer at the counter by pointing at the tap of Leffe. That way, he would be the man in the cap who did not even speak French.

The owner, a big Corsican with a gray complexion and smiling eyes, set the beer down and went on shining the zinc bar in silence, occasionally glancing at the television screen, which was showing highlights from that year's football championship.

All at once, Christian Rey emerged from the back room like a shadow, accompanied by the man with gray hair. The two exchanged a few words. As they did so, he paid and left the bar.

Rey and the man with gray hair … this was something new. But, it did not disturb him, and did not unduly complicate the mission he had set himself. Maybe he would have to eliminate Gray Hair too? It did not matter much. One more or one fewer. He took a couple of photographs in front of the bar, as Rey turned left, and Gray Hair right.

Then he had to change once again, quickly at the corner of rue
de la Mairie. He knew that Rey was cunning, and he did not want to take any risks. He took off his jacket and glasses and put on a red polo shirt.

Rey stopped at Chez François, then opposite the town hall at Le Narval, and finally at the Bar de la Fontaine, not far from the ramparts of King René's Castle. Each time, the scenario was the same: he went inside, shook a few hands, then came out again a few minutes later with a package concealed in a supermarket bag. And each time, the man took some photographs.

Rey then headed for the castle car park and got into his Kompressor convertible. The man watched as he drove off, and only stopped looking when he took the bridge that crosses the Rhône toward Beaucaire.

The morning had been well spent. He now knew exactly where he would capture Christian Rey.

Then he would take him to see the beast.

It was time.

De Palma saw her as he passed the war memorial commemorating the dead of the wars in the Far East. She was standing on the other side of Corniche Kennedy, looking out to sea from the bridge of white stones that arches above the stream in the valley of Les Auffes.

From that distance, he couldn't make out her face, but she looked beautiful and blond, with a slender figure. Probably a foreigner making the most of the last light of day to take a photograph of the sea.

Just like thousands of other tourists.

But the woman had neither a camera nor a camcorder, just a black bag slung over her shoulder. And she seemed to be observing him.

De Palma stopped for a moment and leaned on the cast-iron railing in front of the war memorial. Rain was on the way. At the far side of the port, the housing estates of the northern suburbs were fading into the dingy nightfall.

A customs boat emerged from the Passe Sainte-Marie, slipping across the calm sea. The customs officers had recently decided to dismantle the cigarette-smuggling networks, so they were pulling in all the boats that came from North Africa. Instinctively, de Palma glanced to his left and, through the gray light, could make out the
El Djezaïr
in the distance as it slid calmly between the Château d'If and the Frioul archipelago.

The din of cars along the harbor road rose above the railings then spread out across the sea. De Palma stopped in front of the Grand Bleu bar, looked inside and signaled to the waiter to serve him a beer on the terrace outside.

He sat down facing the sea, turning his back on the roar of the
traffic. A migraine was starting up. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, as if to open the jaws of a vice.

“Good evening, M. de Palma.”

He opened his eyes. A violent rush of adrenalin pinned him to his chair. The creature he had seen near the war memorial was standing in front of him. It was Isabelle Mercier, with her almond eyes.

For a few seconds, de Palma wondered if he wasn't suffering from one of his now familiar hallucinations. His hands shook slightly. He hid them beneath the table.

“Forgive me for introducing myself in such an abrupt manner … My name is Ingrid Steinert.”

After his appointment with Chandeler, he had supposed that this business of the German billionaire was well and truly over. But he took Ingrid Steinert's proffered hand, and its soft touch made him feel ill at ease.

“Good evening, Mme. Steinert … please, do sit down. Can I offer you a drink?”

She was wearing a huge diamond ring on her middle finger. The sort of luxurious gem that can be seen either in jewelers' windows on place Vendôme in Paris, or among the hauls from famous burglaries.

“Mmm …” she said, pursing her lips. “I'd really like a pastis…”

Mme. Steinert trained her eyes on the Baron. Her resemblance to Isabelle Mercier was striking. She had large eyes of a pure blue that fondled whatever they looked at. Big blue eyes that shifted to turquoise when her mood suddenly changed.

She produced from her bag a cigarette case of leather and gold and opened it delicately.

“Cigarette?”

“No thanks, I've quit.”

He saw in her eyes that he was failing to conceal his discomfort. He cleared his throat, and his curiosity was drawn by the wedding ring on Ingrid Steinert's finger, which matched her diamond and her earrings. An absolute fortune.

“What can I do for you, Madame Steinert?”

Her eyes clouded over, and she ran the tips of her elegant fingers through her hair. De Palma realized that he had upset her, and immediately felt sorry about his brusqueness. He felt awkward, and she noticed.

“My lawyer met you and he told me that you refused to help me. So today I've come to see you myself.”

“You haven't wasted time! You're not used to people refusing you, is that it?”

“You're quite right. But that's not why I'm here.”

“How did you find me?”

“It wasn't hard,” she said, and glanced at a man who stood across the avenue.

De Palma spotted the bodyguard, then another: two heavies, probably Germans, who were trying to blend in among the kids of Malmousque who were kicking a ball about.

“And you never go out without your two bruisers?”

“Not since my husband died. There are three of them, actually. It's the price I have to pay to feel safe.”

De Palma swallowed a mouthful of beer, then slammed his glass down so hard that its contents shot over the rim and splashed her cigarette case.

“I'm sorry, Mme. Steinert, but I'm going to have to repeat what I told your lawyer. I can't and won't do anything to help you.”

She did not reply, but merely raised her glass of pastis to her lips, without taking her eyes off the Baron. A yacht was moving almost imperceptibly toward the old port, its main jib swollen by the dying wind. For the first time in months, de Palma felt a stab of fear. He observed Ingrid Steinert and realized that something was happening, a game that he couldn't control.

“Does it surprise you,” she said mockingly, “that a woman should make contact directly?”

“It does, when it's a woman like you.”

“Why?”

“Because you're extremely rich and you can pay for men like me just as you please, and not have to stir yourself!”

“You think so? Don't put yourself down! Money can't buy everything,
and
Es ist höchste Zeit!
as we say in German—we're out of time.”

She opened her cigarette case again. Her fingers were shaking slightly. She looked toward the islands.

“You have to help me, M. de Palma.”

The tone of her voice had darkened. Her whole body was tense. De Palma felt sorry for her.

“You have heard of my husband, William Steinert, haven't you?”

“No, sorry, I haven't.”

Ingrid Steinert's expression hardened, and her chin jutted out as though to stress her determination. She clasped her hands on the table. In the distance, the hills of L'Estaque were fading into the twilight. In Mourepiane, the lights from the gantries glittered on the ro-ro ships bound for North Africa or the Black Sea.

“My husband has been murdered,” she said calmly. “And I want to find the person or persons who did it.”

“Look, I understand how upset you must be, but I can't help you. Really I can't. I'm just not allowed to.”

“You tell me what's allowed? The Tarascon police are shelving the case. So far as they're concerned, my husband has gone off somewhere and there's nothing they can do about it! No one will believe me. What does it all mean?”

She kept her hands clasped tightly together, which gave even more strength to her bearing.

“All I can advise you to do is to go to the authorities, to the public prosecutor, and try to have them open an investigation. That's what Chandeler should have told you to do. The
Brigade Criminelle
in Marseille has some very good people, the Tarascon section too. I've an old friend I could phone up if you want. You could …”

“There are things that I can't tell you here. We'll have to meet again.” Then she added: “If you want to, that is. And don't forget that money is no object.”

De Palma remained silent for some time. His migraine was returning and he gently massaged his temples. Ingrid Steinert was observing his slightest reactions. He looked up and met her steady gaze.

“O.K., tomorrow, I'll try to get to know your husband's case.”

The lights of the cargo boats heading for Corsica lit up one after the other. The wind had turned again, barely a breath of air.

“Thank you.”

“Let's get this straight, I am promising you nothing.”

A voice inside told him he'd just been snared by Ingrid Steinert. He wanted to say something spiteful, but swallowed it back. The woman in front of him wasn't just trying to clear up her husband's death. In fact, all through their conversation she had spoken his name just once, and hadn't shown the slightest sign of sadness. Anxiety, yes, but not sadness.

“Here's my card,” she said. “It has all of my addresses and phone numbers, personal and professional. You can contact me whenever you want.”

She smiled and raised her glass. He had the impression that she was about to propose a toast to their unlikely collaboration.

“Try the mobile numbers first,” she said in a strangely muted voice. “They're the most reliable.”

The moment she stood up, a Mercedes 500 with German number plates drew up at the pavement. De Palma had no idea how Ingrid had summoned her watchdogs. The driver got out and opened the door. She disappeared behind the smoked-glass windows.

A few sailing boats were roaming around the port of Marseille, propelled by their outboard motors. As it passed by the seawall, the
Danièle-Casanova
gave two blasts of its siren, filling the sky.

He strolled for a while in the little quartier of Malmousque before returning to his new acquisition: a vintage red and chrome Alfa Romeo Giulietta coupé, which he had haggled for with an old collector in Mazargues, a few days after coming out of hospital.

Ten minutes later, he found his legendary car where he had left it in traverse de la Cascade and, not for the first time, had to admit to himself that he was suffering from lapses of memory.

Reversing dangerously, he crossed traverse de la Cascade and turned onto Corniche Kennedy. The traffic was getting heavier, in fits and starts in some places and total gridlock in others. Most of the
Marseillais who worked in the middle of town went home to the southern suburbs by way of the Corniche.

The Giulietta was heating up. The Baron clenched his jaws, and kept an eye on the dashboard thermometer. His nerves were as taut as steel cables, no doubt because of going on the wagon. Since his accident, alcohol affected him physically as never before, hacking away at his nerve endings.

In the distance, at the far side of the harbor, the day's last ray of sunlight crossed the grayness hanging over Ile Maïre. It came like a sign from the elements: it was there, years before, that he had first kissed Marie, his ex-wife. Now and then, on days of nostalgia, he would stand in front of Maïre to count the waves. For some time the island's tip had been his navel, the center of his existence, but now he was not so sure. He needed a new center.

At the end of the Corniche, he drove around the statue of David and left the calm of the sea behind him. The long traces of the cars' brake lights drenched the view of Le Prado in blood red and created the impression that they were rising up to the hills of Saint-Loup. He slipped a C.D. into his walkman and put on his headphones: Mozart, or Boche music, as Jean-Louis Maistre used to say, who preferred the full and brassy melodies of the Italian masters.

“I'm the bird-catcher,
Ever joyful, hooray!
I'm known as a bird-catcher
By the young and old in all the land.”

Mme. Steinert's face settled in his mind, the sheerest fact, above the traffic jams, with its perfectly oval shape, straight nose and azure eyes that could pierce sheet metal.

Isabelle Mercier.

The real world up to its tricks again.

A cop at the end of his tether.

Dark thoughts his constant visitors.

A slight prickling made his brows crease. Another migraine. He chased away the images of the two women.

“I'm known as a bird-catcher
By the young and old in all the land.
If I wanted girls, I'd trap them by the dozen!”