The Beast of the Camargue

by Xavier-Marie Bonnot

  She opened the first page of the album delicately, as though it were an ancient grimoire. De Palma leaned forward and saw a typical marriage photograph: William Steinert, wearing a pearl gray morning jacket, stood to the left, a top hat in the crook of his right arm, and a rather carnivorous grin on his face; to the right, Ingrid, wearing a diadem set with diamonds, and holding a bouquet in her left hand, was pouting at the photographer. The whole thing looked highly conventional.

  The second shot she lingered over was a portrait of a young Steinert, with a John Lennon haircut from before the hippy era. He looked like a nice young man, and his long pointed nose gave him a sad and blasé look, which might have seemed pessimistic or melancholy, but which de Palma judged as revealing an excitable, fiery nature.

  “This is my favorite photo,” she said, placing her open hand on the portrait.

  For the first time, he noticed that she had extremely long fingers, with trimmed nails perfectly lacquered with transparent varnish.

  “It’s absolutely him. That blend of strength and melancholy, and you can see the intelligence in his eyes.”

  “It’s funny, he doesn’t look German at all.”

  “Provenzale … How true. He almost looks Provençal.”

  She showed him more photographs of Steinert, posing amid the machinery in a factory in Munich. He was born in 1942 and had inherited a majority holding in Klug-Steinert Metal, one of the largest tool manufacturers in Germany.

  “A year ago, my husband handed over most of his responsibilities to his younger brother, Karl Steinert. You can see him here, in this family portrait. He has the same forename as his grandfather, the founder of the company. William had the same name as his great-grandfather …”

  “How old is Karl Steinert?”

  “Forty-eight.”

  “Ten years younger than his brother.”

  “That’s right. But the youngest brother is Georg, who was born in 1962. He’s an eternal Bohemian, and revels in it.”

  With an agitated gesture, she turned over the page.

  “Between Karl and Georg there’s Isabella, who’s forty-two. She was artistic when she was young and started out a career as an actress. But now she deals with part of the family business.”

  She gave a scornful look and sat back.

  “She never comes here … I mean, very rarely. She has an office in Paris and looks after the watchmaking business—Klug Steinert also makes mechanisms for brands of luxury watches, like the one you are wearing, M. de Palma.”

  “Is Karl married?”

  “Yes, to the family’s worst enemy. She’s French and comes from an aristocratic family. Her name’s Ann-Sophie de Bingen. Quite a ring to it, no? I find it wirklich lächerlich … absolutely ridiculous.”

  “What, the aristocracy?”

  “No, I mean … never mind, M. de Palma. What about your name …?”

  “I’m from an old Italian family. But my grandfather was just a plain seaman in the merchant navy. My father too … And I’m just a plain policeman.”

  “I didn’t mean to offend you, I do apologize.”

  A ray of sunshine lit up the room. Through the window, two rows of olive trees were just visible as they disappeared into this fresh stream of light.

  “Forgive my asking you this, but your accent … I mean, you don’t have a German accent!”

  “My mother’s French, and I’ve spent much of my life in France, in Paris. A good family and a good education …”

  Her fingers were drumming on the table. She opened her cigarette case, took one out and turned it between her thumb and index finger.

  “And how do you find life in Provence?”

  She lit the cigarette and flexed her mouth, which for the first time made her look unrefined.

  “You can ask me that again some other time.”

  “Sorry, but I’m a police officer, not a confidant. I’m trying to understand certain things.”

  De Palma stood up abruptly and walked over to the window. The garage door was open, revealing a brand-new black Mercedes, a metallic gray 4×4 B.M.W. and the latest Porsche convertible, also gray. They all had Bouches-du-Rhône number plates.

  “Is there a car missing?”

  “Yes, the one my husband used every day. A Range Rover.”

  “Do you know its registration number?”

  “It’s 8526 VM 13.”

  She knew it off by heart, which de Palma found unusual for a woman, especially for a woman of that class.

  “I have to leave you now, M. de Palma. The tasters’ meeting will be over in a few minutes’ time, and we have to make our choices by this evening.”

  They went out onto the patio and strolled toward the tennis court and swimming pool. A damp, slightly sour smell hung in the air. A tractor appeared at the far end of the drive, pulling a huge chrome-plated tank.

  “By the way, why did you go to see the police in Tarascon instead of the local gendarmerie?”

  “Because the last time I saw my husband was in Tarascon, not far from his office. In fact, I just followed Chandeler’s advice. He doesn’t have much time for the gendarmes.”

  “His office?”

  “Yes, he has a huge one, just by the theater. I was going to suggest showing it to you, if it isn’t too late.”

  “I don’t think that’s essential. I …”

  “You don’t believe me when I say he’s dead, do you? I suppose I don’t seem sad enough for you …” she said, drawing out her words.

  He ignored her remark.

  “William doesn’t sound very German. It’s more of an English name.”

  “Yes, in German it’s Wilhelm … My mother-in-law was English.”

  She moved closer to him.

  “We should talk about your payment. I thought that a sum of …”

  “I don’t want anything, Mme. Steinert.”

  He spoke so firmly she was left speechless.

  A sound of tinkling bells echoed off the walls of the barn. In the hills just above the farmhouse, a shepherd was leading his flock to pasture, shouting incomprehensible instructions to his dog.

  “Look, M. de Palma, my meeting will be over at about six o’clock. We could meet at seven in front of the theater in Tarascon. If you agree, of course …”

  “I … alright.”

  The shepherd came to a halt. De Palma could have sworn that he was observing them.

  “So you have neighbors?”

  “That’s Eugène Bérard, an old shepherd. You wouldn’t guess it from looking at him, but he’s ninety-two and he’s a poet, a real, very traditional Provençal poet.”

  De Palma took his eyes off the hills and went over to his car. On the way, he noticed a huge rectangular container carved from limestone. He stopped to look at what he first supposed was an old water trough.

  “What is this thing?”

  “It’s a genuine Roman sarcophagus. My husband discovered it in the Downlands.”

  “The what?”

  “Some fields we own on the other side of the main road. Nothing of any real interest, apart from their size. About thirty hectares, if you include the woods and hills. We grow a bit of lavender there, that’s all.”

  By the Fairy Pines, de Palma turned left then drove toward Eygalières, away from Maussane. He went far enough to be out of sight from any curious eyes in the farmhouse and parked his car in a hollow in the road.

  In front of him was a tiny valley, dug out by wind and rain storms, a mineral chaos in which only green scented grasses, a few stubborn mastic trees and oaks could survive.

  He plunged into this network of pathways and corridors that usually ended in limestone gulches, overhung with rock faces pitted with skulls of stone, their empty eye-sockets staring out to the void.

  From the far side of one such block, de Palma could hear the bells of Bérard’s sheep, but the echo stopped him placing them exactly. He clambered over a large ledge overgrown with brambles and at last emerged from the canyon. An arid slope dott
ed with charred tree trunks led up to the foothills of the Alpilles.

  Suddenly, a sharp whistle and a booming voice echoed off the rock face. De Palma spun round, with the feeling that someone was playing a trick on him.

  “Matelot, toque lei.”

  He saw nothing and could hear only the rhythm of the bells that was speeding up as though on an infernal merry-go-round.

  “Toque lei.”

  De Palma turned round once more and, two meters further down, saw a huge mongrel dog, its fur ruffled by the vegetation, and its canines bared.

  “Matelot, it’s a friend,” the voice said.

  The dog started wagging its tail, and the shepherd emerged at last from behind a bush. He was a short man, gnarled by the years, and wore an ancient black hat, with a ribbed velvet waistcoat of the same color over a gray shirt. Beneath his aquiline nose, his thin, almost white lips were quivering, dropping down in a half-moon over a slightly protruding chin. His extraordinarily bright, jade eyes danced below bushy eyebrows, constantly shifting from his flock to de Palma.

  “Good day to you, M. Bérard.”

  Bérard gave no reply, but just stared intently at the police officer, leaning his knotty hands on the top of his stick.

  “So she told you my name, did she?”

  “You mean Mme. Steinert, I suppose … there’s no hiding anything from you, at least! You’re highly observant.”

  “Good lord no, I can scarcely see anything any more … not at my age.”

  “Well enough to have watched me just now.”

  Bérard turned toward his sheep which, driven by some whim or another, suddenly formed a file and vanished behind a rock.

  “Matelot, toque lei, aqui, ah … Aqui.”

  “Did everything burn here?”

  “Yes, three years back. Some business about hunting, and rivalry between federations. That’s the fashion around here, they burn everything down if you won’t toe the line.”

  The shepherd sat down and his stare became calm, almost engaging. He took off his hat to reveal steel-gray hair which was still curly above his broad, deeply wrinkled forehead.

  “How many head do you have?” De Palma asked, gazing round in the direction of the flock.

  Bérard plucked a piece of yellow grass and chewed it.

  “Good lord, almost none. Forty-odd. But only old ewes. The young ones are up in the mountain pastures with my grandson.”

  The animals came back, driven once again by some unfathomable instinct, and continued to graze, in time and hurriedly. The sound of tearing grass rose up between the two men.

  “In the old days, there used to be lots of flocks in the area, but now there’s no money in it. Except down there, on the plain of La Crau. But not up here in the hills … Anyway, they all think of nothing but making oil.”

  Bérard stared down at the Steinerts’ fields of olive trees. From there, the property looked huge.

  “It’s because the land’s got expensive. Young people can’t afford to start out here nowadays.”

  “How much does a farm like La Balme cost?”

  Bérard looked at his stick with a cunning air.

  “There’s a farm on sale like this one, with its land and machines, over by Mouriès … Say a price, just to see.”

  “No idea.”

  “Over a billion, young fellow.”

  “You mean in centimes …”

  “Yes, in old francs!”

  “Who can afford such a place?”

  “Some Americans are interested. But the youngsters are trying to organize something with the local authorities so that they can turn it into a cooperative.”

  “What about the Steinerts?”

  Bérard looked at the Baron for a few seconds, knitting his eyebrows, then he turned back toward La Balme.

  “That’s not the same. William was a real man, a master, with fine manners. I taught him how to prune olive trees and many other things about the land. I’m going to miss him.”

  Bérard licked his lips with his pointed tongue and swayed gently back and forth. Then he nervously slashed at the grass in front of him with the tip of his stick.

  “Why do you say that William was a good man? What about his family?”

  “They’re not the same. No one knows his wife, and she never speaks to anyone. His brothers are worse. Poor old William! And poor old me, I’m all alone now.”

  “All alone?”

  “Some things you can’t talk about …”

  “Why are you so sure that he’s dead?”

  Bérard stood up and walked toward his sheep. De Palma followed him.

  “Everything to do with La Balme is cursed.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “There are evil stones, from the old days …”

  “Evil stones?”

  “Goodbye, Monsieur. My sheep are waiting for me.”

  The old man vanished into the scrub, just as he had arrived, followed by his sheep, with his huge dog bringing up the rear.

  Going back down into the valley, the light changed, becoming grayer and more uniform. The bushes in the rugged rocks looked darker. As he walked, de Palma had the feeling that he could hear a voice. He stopped and listened. It was like a complaint, an ancient vibrato recitation in a language unknown to him, words arising from some mysterious place he could not locate, from behind one of those countless rocks:

  “… Alabre

  De sang uman e de cadabre,

  Dins nòsti bos e nòsti vabre

  Un moustren, un fléu di diéu, barruolo … Agués pieta!”*

  Anne Moracchini had taken advantage of the perfect calm that reigned in the offices of the brigade to look through some files. At 6:15 p.m. she called de Palma on his mobile.

  “Michel, I’ve got some info about your fellow, William Steinert.”

  “Go ahead, but don’t ask me to take notes. I’m driving and it’s starting to pour again. I can’t wait to get back to Marseille.”

  “I dropped in on the S.T.I.C.,† and they have him on file. Nothing much, just some business about financing a political party …”

  “Was he convicted?”

  “Just formally questioned, by the boys in Tarascon.”

  “Which party?”

  “Jacques Chirac’s R.P.R.”

  “Really? I would have imagined him more as center left, the champagne socialist type, someone who cares about paupers like you and me.”

  “Hang on a minute, that doesn’t mean he was in the R.P.R. What’s more he’s German. Anyway, it was all based on phone tapping and town hall rumors. The sort of thing that smells decidedly fishy.”

  Suddenly arriving at a roundabout that he had forgotten existed, de Palma had to brake abruptly. To his right, a brand-new sign indicated the Abbaye de Montmajour and Fontvieille. A truck from a cellulose factory on the banks of the Rhône was concealing the exit for Tarascon. He drove all the way round the roundabout, now breathing heavily into his telephone.

  “Are you still there Michel?”

  “Shit, I nearly took the road to Montmajour!”

  “It’s for holidaymakers … So, as I was saying, he was questioned for corruption.”

  “O.K., I’m not deaf! So what had our dear William done?”

  “Nothing at all, apparently, he was completely cleared!”

  “Hmm. Listen, don’t worry about all that, I’m going to see what I can find out today, and then I’ll let it drop. Maybe he’s the sort of man who vanishes like that, only to reappear a few days later.”

  “You think so?”

  “It’s possible. He might be a billionaire who likes to treat himself to a little adventure from time to time. He could be sunbathing in the Caribbean while I’m getting drenched in Provence.”

  “Whatever, Michel, you should still get some rest.”

  “Yes, chérie, I know. What happened with Casetti by the way?”

  “He’s here, in Daniel’s office. We’re waiting for the D.N.A. tests to come back from Nantes.
He’ll be home tonight or tomorrow morning. That’s all. See you later, Commandant.”

  The clock-tower of Saint Martha’s church was ringing the angelus when Ingrid Steinert got out of her B.M.W. in front of the Tarascon theater and adjusted the strap of her sandal.

  From the far end of the street, de Palma was watching her. As she approached him, he observed the mane of disheveled hair that fell over her bare shoulders.

  “Excuse me,” she said contritely. “I’m a little bit late.”

  She had changed her clothes, and was now wearing a yellow cotton dress that fluttered over her body. She had also removed her big diamond and now just a fine gold chain hung around her neck while discreet earrings were hidden by her blond hair.

  When she was just a meter away from him, he smelled the perfume that she was wearing on her neck. At that moment, the policeman’s head was about as much in order as a jigsaw violently shaken in its box.

  “Let’s go,” she proclaimed, with a hint of anxiety in her voice.

  William Steinert’s office was on the second floor of an old nineteenth-century building. She produced a huge set of keys and, as she went over to the door, he could not help admiring the hem of her dress as it swung against her sumptuous legs.

  The door was reinforced, as were both sides of the walls, enough to keep out the most determined of burglars.

  “I think it’s the round key, the yellow one.”

  “Really? If you say so.”

  “There’s maybe an alarm. You should be careful.”

  “We’ll see.”

  She eventually found the right key, which was indeed the one that de Palma had suggested.

  “It’s the first time I’ve been here … It’s very upsetting. Please, go in first. I’m feeling rather apprehensive.”

  She pronounced the final word with a slight accent, rolling the “r” and aspirating the “h.” De Palma noticed this tiny detail at once. He stopped on the threshold and groped for the light switch.

  No alarm went off, even though William Steinert had furnished his office with the latest in security equipment. The detective at once deduced that either the industrialist had forgotten to switch it on—which seemed strange for someone who took such precautions—or else somebody had disconnected it and couldn’t put it back into action. Why not Ingrid Steinert herself? But that didn’t square with the emotion that showed in her gaze.