Seeking Whom He May Devour

by Fred Vargas

“I don’t think other people here are as brainless as you imagine. They wouldn’t jump on Massart. They know perfectly well that the killer is a wolf.”

  “You’re right. In normal times you would be completely right. But you’re forgetting one thing: this is no ordinary wolf. I saw its bite marks. And you can believe me when I tell you that this is one hell of a beast, Camille. I’ve never seen anything like it in my life.”

  “I believe you,” Camille whispered.

  “And I won’t be the only person who knows that for much longer. The lads aren’t blind, they’re even quite knowledgeable, despite what the old bag says. They’ll catch on soon enough. They’ll know they’re dealing with something out of the ordinary, something they’ve not seen before. Do you see, Camille? Do you see the risk? Something not normal. So they’ll be afraid. And that’ll be their downfall. Fear will make them believe in idols and burn loners at the stake. And if the old bag’s gossip gets around, they’ll hunt down Massart and slice him open from throat to crotch.”

  Camille gave a taut nod. Johnstone had never said so much in one go before. He wouldn’t let go, it was as if he was trying to protect her. Camille felt his hands warm on her back.

  “That’s why we absolutely must find the animal, dead or alive. If they find it, it’ll be dead, and if I find it, it’ll still be alive. But until then, mum’s the word.”

  “What about Suzanne?”

  “We’ll go and see her tomorrow and tell her to keep her trap shut.”

  “She doesn’t like being told what to do.”

  “But she likes me.”

  “She might have told someone else already.”

  “I don’t think so. I really don’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because she thinks the inhabitants of Saint-Victor are fuckwits one and all. I’m different because I’m a foreigner. And also she told me because I know about wolves.”

  “Why didn’t you say anything on Wednesday evening when you got back from Les Écarts?”

  “I thought the trackers would raise the beast and that all this would be forgotten. I didn’t want to demolish your view of Suzanne for nothing.”

  Camille nodded.

  “She’s a nutcase,” Johnstone said gently.

  “I’m fond of her all the same.”

  “I know.”

  X

  NEXT MORNING AT seven-thirty Johnstone kick-started his motorbike. Camille was hardly awake, but she got on the pillion, and slowly they covered the two kilometres to Les Écarts. Camille held Johnstone by the waist with one hand, and in the other she held the empty grape jar. Suzanne did not supply grapes in alcohol unless you brought the old jar back. That was the rule.

  Johnstone turned left up the stony path leading to the shack.

  “Police!” Camille yelled, shaking Johnstone by the shoulder.

  Johnstone signalled that he had seen, stopped the engine and dismounted. He and Camille took off their helmets and looked at the blue van parked at the farm, just as it had been the other day, with the same two gendarmes, the tall one and the medium one, going from the vehicle to the building and back again.

  “Shit,” Johnstone said.

  “Bloody hell,” said Camille. “Another savaging.”

  “God almighty. This isn’t going to settle the old bag’s nerves.”

  “You mean Suzanne.”

  “I mean Suzanne.”

  “If only it had happened somewhere else.”

  “The wolf does the choosing,” said Johnstone. “Not chance.”

  “He chooses?”

  “Sure he does. He starts off sniffing around until he finds the right place. Somewhere easy to break into, somewhere far from other houses, and where the dogs are kept on the chain. So he comes back for more. And he’ll carry on coming back. If he makes a habit of it, it’ll be easier to corner him.”

  Johnstone laid his helmet and gloves on the motorbike seat.

  “Come on,” he said. “Let’s go check the gashes. See if they’re the same.”

  Johnstone shook his long fair hair like a waking animal, which he often did when he was in difficulty. Camille thrust her clenched fists deep into her trouser pockets. The path smelled of thyme and basil and, to Camille’s mind, of blood. Johnstone reckoned that it smelled most of all and as always of lanolin and rancid piss.

  They shook hands with the medium policeman, who looked worn and overwhelmed.

  “Can I see the wounds?” Johnstone asked him.

  The gendarme shrugged. “Nothing may be touched,” he said as if by rote. “Nothing may be touched.”

  But at the same time he waved them on in with a weary flap of his arm.

  “Careful,” the policeman said, “it’s not pretty. Really not.”

  “Sure it’s not pretty,” Johnstone said.

  “Did you come for the grapes?” he asked, seeing the empty jar in Camille’s hand.

  “Sort of,” Camille said.

  “Well, it’s not the right time for that. Not the right time at all.”

  Camille wondered why the gendarme said everything twice. It must take a lot of time to say everything in duplicate; you could waste half the day as easy as pie. Whereas Johnstone who scarcely articulated one third of his sentences saved a great deal of time. But it could also be argued that he was wasting his time too. Camille’s mother used to say that time wasted is time gained.

  She looked up towards the sheep-pen, but this morning neither Watchee nor Soliman was standing guard. Johnstone was already inside when she entered the low building. He turned, looking as pale as a sheet in the gloom, and held out both hands to stop her coming in any further.

  “Stay where you are, Camille,” he breathed. “It’s not a sheep, for heaven’s sake.”

  But Camille had already seen. Suzanne was lying on her back in the messed straw with her arms asplay and her dress up over her knees. Blood had gushed from a ghastly wound on her neck. Camille closed her eyes and ran out. She ran straight into the medium gendarme, who held her back.

  “Whatever happened?” she bawled.

  “The wolf,” the policeman said. “The wolf.”

  He took her by the arm, helped her to the van, made her sit down in the front seat.

  “I’m all cut up about it, too,” the gendarme said. “But I mustn’t show it. It’s against standing orders.”

  “Did Suzanne take a blind bit of notice of your standing orders, I wonder?”

  “No, of course not, dearie.”

  He took a flask from the glove-compartment and offered it to her, clumsily.

  “I don’t want any hooch,” she wept. “I want grapes. I came for grapes.”

  “Come on, don’t be a baby. Don’t be a baby.”

  “Suzanne,” Camille moaned. “My big fat Suzanne.”

  “She must have heard the animal,” the gendarme said. “She must have come up to see what the mayhem in the sheep-pen was about. She must have had the beast cornered, and then it jumped her. Jumped her. She was too brave by half, she was.”

  “And Watchee?” Camille growled. “What the fuck was Watchee doing?”

  “Don’t be a baby,” the gendarme said once more. “Watchee was out. There was one lamb missing, new-born this spring. He spent part of the night looking for it, then when he was too far away to come back in the dark he slept in a meadow. Got back here at seven this morning and called us straight away. So watch it, dearie.”

  “Watch what?” Camille said, looking up.

  “You mustn’t take it out on Watchee when he’s grieving. You mustn’t say ‘And what about Watchee? What about Watchee? What the fuck was he doing?’ or any other rubbish like that. You’re not from hereabouts, so you don’t say anything, anything at all, without thinking it through very carefully first. For Watchee Suzanne was like a saint. So watch what you say. Watch it.”

  Camille was impressed by the medium gendarme. She nodded her assent and wiped her eyes with the back of her sleeve. The policeman proffered a paper handkerchie
f.

  “Where is he?”

  “At the back of the pen. Keeping watch.”

  “And Soliman?”

  The gendarme shook his head in resignation.

  “He’s locked himself in the toilet. In the toilet. He says he’ll die there. They’re sending us someone from psychology. Can be useful, in special cases.”

  “Has he got a gun with him?”

  “No, no weapon on him.”

  “I mended the leak, last Wednesday,” Camille said glumly.

  “Yes. The leak. Do you know how Suzanne came to adopt Soliman Melchior when he was a baby?”

  “Yes. I’ve been told all about it.”

  The gendarme nodded knowingly.

  “The baby wouldn’t have anyone but Suzanne. He laid his wee head right there and stopped bawling. That’s what they say. I wasn’t there. I’m not from these parts. Gendarmes don’t have the right to be from the whereabouts, so as not to get too involved.”

  “I know,” Camille said.

  “But you do get involved, all the same. Take Suzanne, for instance. Nobody –”

  The gendarme stopped in mid-sentence as he saw Johnstone coming, in sombre mood, his head sunk in his shoulders.

  “Sure you didn’t touch anything?” he asked.

  “Your colleague never took his eyes off me.”

  “Well?”

  “Could be the same animal. Can’t be certain.”

  “The big wolf?” the gendarme queried defensively, screwing up his eyes.

  Johnstone pursed his lips. He raised his hand and spread out his thumb and ring finger.

  “Big, yes. At least that much between his carnassial and his canine. Can’t see easily in there. One gash in the shoulder, one in the throat. Couldn’t have had time to pull the trigger.”

  Two vehicles were bumping their way up the drive.

  “Here come the technicians,” said the gendarme. “With the medic behind them.”

  “Come on,” Johnstone said, putting a hand on Camille’s shoulder and shaking her gently. “Let’s not stay around.”

  “I’d like to talk to Soliman,” Camille said. “He’s shut himself up in the toilet.”

  “When people have shut themselves in the john there’s no way you’ll get anything out of them.”

  “I’m going to have a try even so. He’s all on his own now.”

  “I’ll wait for you by the bike.”

  Camille went into the silent and ill-lit house, climbed the stairs and stood in front of the closed door.

  “Sol,” she said, knocking on the panel.

  “You fuckwits can all go to hell!” the young man screamed at her.

  Camille nodded. Soliman would keep the tradition alive.

  “Sol, I’m not trying to get you out.”

  “Fuck off!”

  “I’m upset, too, you know.”

  “You don’t know what upset means! You know nothing, got that? You’ve not even got the right to be here. You weren’t her daughter, OK? So get out! Bloody hell, just fuck off, will you!”

  “Of course I don’t know what upset means. I was just a friend of Suzanne’s, that’s all.”

  “So there! You see?” Soliman roared.

  “I used to mend her plumbing and in return she supplied me with veg and liquor. And anyway I’m not bothered whether you stay in there or not. We’ll slide slices of ham under the door to keep you going.”

  “Oh, terrific!” the young man shouted.

  “So this is the position, Sol. You’re going to stay in the toilet. Watchee won’t leave the pen, and Buteil is stuck in his shack. Nobody’s moving, not anywhere. The sheep will all die.”

  “I couldn’t care less about those bloody woolsacks! They’re totally stupid!”

  “But Watchee’s an old man. He won’t come out, and he won’t move either, and he’s stopped saying anything. He’s gone as stiff as his crook. Don’t let him drop, Sol, or else I’ll have to have him looked after in an old people’s home.”

  “What do I care?”

  “Watchee’s gone like that because he was in the hills when the wolf attacked and he wasn’t able to come to Suzanne’s aid.”

  “And I was in bed! Asleep!”

  Camille could hear Soliman burst into tears.

  “Suzanne always insisted you slept lots. You were doing what she wanted you to do. It’s not your fault.”

  “Why didn’t she wake me?”

  “Because she didn’t want you to get in harm’s way. You were her little prince.”

  Camille leaned her hand on the door.

  “That’s what she said, you know.”

  Camille went out and walked back up towards the pen. The medium gendarme stopped her halfway.

  “What’s he up to?” he asked.

  “He’s crying,” she replied wearily. “It’s difficult having a conversation with someone locked in the toilet.”

  “I know,” the gendarme agreed, as if he had frequently tried to converse with people locked in their toilets. “Psychology’s late,” he said with a glance at his watch. “Don’t know what they’re playing at.”

  “What’s the doctor saying?”

  “Same thing as your trapper. Throat cut. Cut. Between three and four this morning. Toothmarks still can’t be seen properly. Have to clean her up first. But he says it won’t be very clear in any case. It’s not like the teeth had been stuck into modelling clay, right?”

  Camille nodded. “Is Watchee still inside?”

  “Yes. We’re afraid he’ll turn into a statue.”

  “You could ask psychology to take a look at him.”

  The gendarme shook his head, adamant.

  “No, it’s not worth it,” he declared. “Watchee is as tough as old bootleather. Psychology would have about as much effect on him as peeing on a tree-trunk.”

  “Is that right?” Camille said. “Would you mind telling me your name?”

  “Lemirail. Justin Lemirail.”

  “Thank you.”

  Camille went on her way, swinging her arms.

  She joined Johnstone beside the motorbike and put on her helmet without a word.

  “Can’t remember where I put the bloody jar,” she muttered.

  “I don’t think that’s a big issue,” Johnstone said.

  Camille nodded in agreement, hopped onto the pillion and clasped the big man around his middle.

  XI

  JOHNSTONE DREW UP in front of the house and kept the bike still while Camille dismounted.

  “Aren’t you coming in?” she asked. “I’ll make coffee, all right?”

  Johnstone shook his head without relaxing his grip on the handlebars.

  “Are you going straight back into the hills? Do you really want to go on looking for that foul wolf?”

  Johnstone hesitated, then took off his helmet and shook his mane.

  “Off to see Massart,” he said.

  “Massart? At this time of day?”

  “It’s already nine,” he said, glancing at his watch.

  “I don’t get it,” Camille said. “What have you got against the guy?”

  Johnstone made a face. “Last night’s attack doesn’t make good sense to me, for a wolf.”

  “But it must have, to the wolf.”

  “Wolves are frightened of humans,” Johnstone persisted. “They do not stand up to people.”

  “If you say so. But last night’s wolf stood up to Suzanne.”

  “Look, the old bag was the size of a battleship and made one hell of a noise. She was determined and she was armed. She would have to have got the wolf in a corner with no way out.”

  “If you say so. That’s what she did do, Lawrence. She trapped the wolf in a corner. Everyone knows that wolves go on the attack when they’re cornered.”

  “That’s just what worries me. The old bag wasn’t born yesterday, she knew damn well not to back a wild animal into a corner with no way out. She’d have stayed outside the pen, she’d have gone round the back, and then
taken aim through one of the window openings. That’s how the old bag would have shot the wolf and killed it stone dead. But for the life of me I cannot imagine her going inside the sheep-pen and backing the creature into a corner.”

  Camille frowned.

  “So tell me just what it is you’re thinking.”

  “Not yet. Not sure I’m right.”

  “Say it all the same.”

  “Bloody hell. Suzanne accused Massart and now Suzanne is dead. She could easily have been to see Massart and thrown all that werewolf nonsense at him. She wasn’t scared of anything.”

  “So what, Lawrence? Given that Massart is not a werewolf. What would he have done about it? He’d have had a good laugh, don’t you think?”

  “Not necessarily.”

  “He’s already got a bad reputation and kids keep away from him. What more could Suzanne’s accusations do to him? He’s supposed to be hairless, impotent, queer, crazy and God knows what else besides. So what, if people say he’s a werewolf as well? He can take that on the chin, I reckon. He’s been through worse already.”

  “Good grief, you really don’t get it.”

  “Well, tell me straight out what’s on your mind. This is no time for swallowing your words.”

  “Massart doesn’t give a damn for gossip, I agree. Fine. But what if the old bag was right? What if Massart really had been savaging sheep?”

  “You’re losing it, Johnstone. You told me you didn’t believe in werewolves.”

  “Not in werewolves, no.”

  “You’re forgetting the gashes, for heaven’s sake. You’re not telling me those were made by Massart’s front teeth?”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “There you are, then.”

  “But Massart has a dog. A very large dog.”

  Camille shivered. She’d seen that dog on the village square. It was a remarkable, long-legged, brindled dog with a massive head that stood as high as a man’s waist.

  “A mastiff,” said Johnstone. “The largest breed there is. The only dog that can grow as big or even bigger than a male wolf.”

  Camille rested her foot on the kick-stand and sighed.

  “Johnstone, why can’t it just be a wolf?” she asked. “A plain old wolf? Why can’t it be Crassus the Bald? You couldn’t find him yesterday.”

  “Because the old bag would have shot him from behind. Through the window. I’m off to see Massart.”