The Beast of the Camargue

by Xavier-Marie Bonnot

  Simian put his glasses back on and looked at his watch.

  “There is a small problem, Monsieur Simian … you tell me that you’ve never heard of S.O.D.E.G.I.M., but I know that you were contacted by this development company, just over a year ago …”

  The mayor went back to his desk and tapped his nose several times.

  “Indeed. I did hear about that project. But, as you surely must realize, the town hall of Eygalières cannot take part in a … an amusement park. You should go and see the people in Maussane. The land is there, in fact.”

  “But it would be a good thing for the district, wouldn’t it?”

  The mayor looked once more at his watch and stood up, his hands pressed on his desk.

  “I’m sorry, M. de Palma, but I have a meeting with the intermunicipal steering committee. I shall have to leave you.”

  The dark waters of the Rhône merged with the night. From Beaucaire bridge, beyond King René’s Castle, the restless tips of the trees sketched out a shadowy silhouette.

  De Palma left his Giulietta in the castle car park. Before going out into the darkness, he waited for a municipal police patrol to disappear behind the church of Saint Martha. He walked for some time through the streets of Tarascon, drinking in the atmosphere of the old town center with its inevitable pots of flowers at each corner and its paving stones polished by the tourists’ heels.

  When he was just a few meters away from the theater, he stopped and listened to the sounds of the evening. Most of the inhabitants were at home in front of the evening’s film or talk show.

  A few tourists were still wandering around. Two of them, apparently Dutch, were standing in front of the baroque façade of the theater. A salvo of flashes lit the darkness.

  He waited for a while, pretending to read the theater’s program: they were performing Mireille with some star unknown to him.

  As soon as the tourists had vanished into the humid night, he walked toward the door of Steinert’s building. He gave a last glance around, then climbed up the drainpipe that ran down from a neighboring house.

  Trying to make as little noise as possible, he arrived on a terrace roof made of old tiles and crouched down for a moment to get his breath back. His temples were pounding and he wiped his forehead with a nervous gesture. He was thirsty; like a carpet slipper in your mouth, as Maistre put it.

  Slowly, he stood up. No one could have seen him.

  He crept forward like a cat, being careful not to disturb the terracotta tiles. After a few meters, he arrived below the window of Steinert’s office. The hardest part was still to come. He had to hand himself upward, open the window, get a foothold and find his way inside.

  For the first time in his life, he paid homage to the skills of the Groupe d’Intervention of the national police force. He decided to proceed a stage at a time.

  He leaped up, gripped on with one hand and opened the shutters with the other. Then he slumped back onto the roof, exhausted by his efforts.

  Now for the window. During his visit with Mme. Steinert, he had wedged it open with a piece of paper folded in four, so there should be no problems.

  He waited to get his breath back, braced himself again, slid one elbow over the sill, then the second, and pushed the doors open with a sudden jerk of his head, making them bang against the inner walls of the office. The noise alerted a neighborhood dog, which started howling into the night.

  With a single leap, de Palma vanished into Steinert’s office and then closed the shutters and window behind him.

  Once inside, he flopped into the armchair and gathered his wits. His shirt was soaked with sweat and stuck to his back. He had scratched his forearm against the roughcast on the wall and cut one of his fingers while climbing up the drainpipe. It was nothing to be proud of.

  Gently, he slipped on his surgeon’s gloves, took out his Maglite and, without moving from the chair, played the beam methodically around the room, meter by meter.

  Nothing had been touched, or at least nothing that he had mentally photographed during his first visit. There was still that dominant fragrance of fine tobacco, tinged with honey; presumably a special pipe blend.

  De Palma got out his notebook and jotted down this detail, then went into the library to examine each shelf thoroughly.

  Among the dozens of books about the occult sciences, his attention was drawn to some files that were yellow with age, bound in thick cardboard and tied up with blue ribbons. He took down three of them and laid them on the central table.

  He opened the first folder. One by one, he turned over the pages, which were covered by a very fine, very regular handwriting with occasional sketches of vases appended with captions.

  Some of the captions were in French: Massaliots, Mouriès, canopic jar, aquamanila … and after each one there was a date: 525, 480 …

  The second file also dealt with vases from Mouriès, while the third was about bronzes and contained a large number of drawings.

  He went back into the office and checked all of the surfaces that might hold fingerprints. Nothing. Which meant that someone had wiped everything off after their visit.

  “Not very smart,” he thought to himself. It was better to wear gloves rather than clean everything up. This was an amateur job … They should have realized that a place like this should at least contain its owner’s dabs.

  He returned to the library and checked the other surfaces. Nothing. The only conclusion he could draw from all this was that someone skilled enough to open a reinforced door had then wiped the whole place behind him. Why?

  “Unless the person in question had the keys,” he thought. “That would be quite a different story …”

  Going back into the office, he sat down in Steinert’s chair and leaned back. A migraine was on its way, no doubt triggered by the exertions he had just made. He massaged his temples for some time and at last took in the scale of what he had done.

  But, in fact, it was not the first time that he had broken into someone’s place, and presumably not the last. He closed his eyes as though to evade his guilty conscience.

  When he opened them again, he at once saw three objects on Steinert’s desk: a white feather, the ebony and ivory hammer and a large pen of the Omas brand. This rarity lay beside a pile of notes, photographs of sculptures and reproductions of ancient engravings. He picked up the pen and turned it round under his eyes. Not a single fingerprint on this either.

  “Things are looking more professional,” he mumbled. To make sure, he dismantled the bakelite handle of a drawer with his Swiss army knife and checked inside. Nothing. The cleaner had clearly not missed a thing.

  “Someone came here, certainly several times … then came back to remove all the fingerprints and any clues he might have left behind. Someone who doesn’t want to be traced …”

  De Palma picked up the hammer and tapped it several times on his palm. “But it’s not necessarily Steinert’s murderer.” He put it back and began to examine the papers, which had to be Steinert’s. They were written in perfect French:

  The oldest and most horrible representation of terror is a man-eating monster, called the Tarasque by the Provençals.

  There are countless depictions of the Tarasque in paintings, sculptures and drawings: the most impressive example is without doubt the 140-centimeter sculpture in the Musée Lapidaire in Avignon.

  It is an expression of what the Salluvii, or more precisely the Cavari, found most terrifying.

  The Tarasque is depicted holding two severed bearded heads in its lion’s claws, while devouring a human torso in its mouth. It would seem that the Greeks, who were widely present in the region of Tarascon, were inspired to make such a representation of horror by various barbarian customs: head hunting etc. For these Greeks, it would also seem that the civilized world stopped at the summit of the Alpilles …

  The British scholar Moore saw in it the murderous aspect of the gods and compared the Tarasque to other man-eating monsters that can be found in Ireland an
d throughout Northern Europe (cf. Crom, the idol struck down by Saint Patrick).

  According to art historians, this tradition seems to have been initially Italian, essentially Etruscan, and then Greek. It can thus be supposed that the monster followed the routes of colonization. In my opinion, the myth’s origin lies in the sedentarisation of mankind during the Neolithic period.

  Previously, the natural world that surrounded hunter-gatherers was magical (cf. the depictions in painted caves). With the emergence of notions of ownership, the Neolithic farmers began to experience fears of the future: worries about drought, or extreme weather … They answered the questions that tormented them by inventing gods and monsters … These forces of chaos could be tamed only by being depicted, and no doubt by being offered human sacrifices to satisfy their appetite …

  The text ran on for another three pages. He set it down and glanced at the photographs. There was an old picture of a flagon with the caption: “Bronze from Durenberg, Austria, with monster devouring a human head.” There were also amateur shots of the papier-mâché Tarasque that the inhabitants of Tarascon paraded in the streets during the town’s festivities, and a picture of a stone monster eating a man, reproductions of other sculptures on the same theme … after that he found ten sheets of paper, the first of which was headed in the right-hand corner by a title written in black felt-pen:

  Heracles, the civilizing hero of Provence.

  Then some notes:

  His life was a series of senseless murders … [There followed a list of massacres carried out by Heracles]. In the Crau, he stoned to death the monster Albion (personification of the Albigues of Upper Provence) and Lusis (eponym of the Ligures). BUT [word underlined in red] a civilizing aspect:

  —he forbade human sacrifice

  —by killing the thousand-armed Lysis, he overcame the dangers of the Rhône, thus making it navigable

  —he taught weaving

  —he taught house building

  —he taught how to organize a city

  —etc. …

  Cf. the release of the cosmic cattle [two words underlined in red]. The guardian corresponds to the forces of chaos, the cattle to life … By freeing the red, divine kine from Geryon’s control, Heracles effects a change in his nature: he abandons brute force and becomes a civilizing hero … WORLD HARMONY.

  And, at the foot of the page:

  See the digs in Maussane and Mouriès. Especially, Art strt/37-10B and Art strt/38-11A.

  Finally, written in large letters he read:

  DOWNLANDS.

  De Palma lingered for a while over that last sentence. It presumably indicated two library reference numbers—the last thing Steinert had noted before his death. He noted them carefully, and beside them wrote the names of the Tarasque and Heracles and underlined them twice.

  It was two in the morning. He decided to search William Steinert’s den with a fine-tooth comb, like a forensic scientist. This took him longer than he expected, but he was careful to miss nothing.

  At three thirty, he leaned out of the window, checked that no one could see him and let himself slide down the wall until his elbows were resting on the sill.

  Just as he was about to brace himself to close the first shutter, he heard a faint metallic click that he recognized immediately. It was the safety catch being taken off an automatic, somewhere in the darkness.

  In an instant, he turned round and saw a figure on the opposite pavement taking aim at him. He only just had time to drop down onto the roof before he heard the “plop” of a silencer. Intense pain held him pinned to the tiles. Instinctively, he curled up in the darkness to get out of the sniper’s sight.

  His entire body was shaking, each of his muscles twitching uncontrollably. This was not the first time that he had been fired at, but it still took some time to collect himself.

  Then he analyzed the situation.

  Someone had just shot him.

  Using an automatic with a silencer.

  The bullet had hit his right shoulder, that was all.

  The person knew where he was.

  The person must have followed him from La Balme farmhouse, or even before.

  Perhaps he’d had orders to follow him.

  He touched his wound and found that the bullet had just left a shallow graze. He took out a paper handkerchief and pressed it onto the gash. He closed his eyes as his fingers made contact with the sticky blood.

  This was the second time in less than a year that someone had tried to kill him.

  “It’s amateur work …” he said to himself. “The guy’s a bastard, but not a professional one. Otherwise he would have waited for me to come down the drainpipe and taken me out without any problem.”

  He let fifteen minutes go by and listened to the night. All he could hear was a T.V. set somewhere up above him and some more distant music.

  A car drove by. He went over to the edge of the roof and looked down into the street, his face pressed against the tiles. It was empty.

  Suddenly, loud voices and laughter echoed off the walls; apparently a group of young people were leaving a party in the building across the street. De Palma made the most of the situation and threw himself down onto the pavement, his Bodyguard pressed against his chest.

  When he hit the ground, he rolled over to take cover behind a delivery van, just as he had learned during his commando training course in the army. Then he stood up, pretended to be getting out of the van and stayed as close as possible to the group …

  An hour later, he parked on a lay-by on the R.N. 568 in the middle of the vast plain of La Crau. His hands gripping the wheel, he stared into space. Far, very far in the distance glowed the flames of Fossur-Mer.

  9.

  The weather had been stifling all day. At the end of the afternoon, as the temperature went down, a light wind had risen out to sea, stirring the air as gently as a fan.

  De Palma was leaning on his balcony rail and sipping a beer. He had spent the morning at the emergency admissions of the La Timone hospital, waiting for a houseman to sew up his shoulder. Nine stitches.

  The doctor had been skillful and hadn’t asked too many questions. De Palma had simply told him that he had torn his shoulder on a car-park fence while getting out of his vehicle.

  The telephone rang. It was Jean-Louis Maistre reminding him that they had arranged to meet at the yachting harbor of Pointe-Rouge.

  De Palma put on a light jacket, slipped his Bodyguard into its holster and also took the .45 that he kept hidden behind a pile of C.D.s. He checked the clip and slipped the automatic behind his back. Then he changed his mind and replaced it, telling himself that he would not let paranoia get to him yet.

  In any case, the Bodyguard with its six .38 special rounds was good enough to deal with the most desperate situations.

  Half an hour later, Maistre and de Palma were strolling along the quays of Pointe-Rouge.

  In the shipyard of Plaisance Plus, a whole row of hulls stood on a set of huge shelves, waiting for a lick of paint. There were also small speedboats and a fishing vessel half corroded by the sea. A workman in blue overalls started up a sander. Maistre had to shout:

  “I think it’s here, Michel. He said the fourth ring after the electricity meter. I think he must have meant that one.”

  A dilapidated boat was bobbing up and down on the sluggish swell. Maistre gave it a long affectionate look, then walked slowly toward it, like a child encountering his wildest dreams made real.

  “Yes, this is the one, Michel. There’s a bit of wood missing from its bow.”

  De Palma stared blankly in the opposite direction.

  “Hey, Michel, are you listening to me or daydreaming? Don’t forget that we’re here to look at a boat, not just for a stroll on the quays.”

  “Sorry, I was miles away.”

  Maistre pulled on the mooring rope to bring the boat nearer, then clumsily clambered aboard.

  “You coming, Michel?”

  The manager of Rouge Plaisance,
a ship chandler, came out at once, wiping his hands on an oily rag.

  “Excuse me, gentlemen. But do you know this boat’s owner?”

  De Palma gave him a chilly look.

  “We’ve got an appointment with him. He’s late.”

  “And why do you want to see him?”

  “We want to buy his boat.”

  “What, is it for sale?”

  De Palma remained silent. The man from Rouge Plaisance turned on his heel and went back into his store.

  “O.K., Jean-Louis, is your comedian going to show up or isn’t he?”

  Maistre came back onto the quay, still staring at the object of his dreams.

  “I don’t get it, Michel. We’ve talked about buying a boat a hundred times. You agreed to it and now you’ve got cold feet.”

  “I’ve not got cold feet.”

  “If you could only see yourself, you’d scare away a sea snake. Just think about the boat and going sailing in her.”

  “We haven’t bought it yet.”

  “And if our man doesn’t show, we certainly won’t be able to.”

  Maistre’s mobile rang. It was the boat’s owner to cancel the meeting. He had decided to keep the boat for his son.

  “Fuck him,” Maistre said as he hung up. “The bugger’s called it off.”

  “It doesn’t matter, Jean-Louis. We’ll find another one.”

  “Sure, but I could just picture myself in this one already. Behind Maïre making soup, just like two and two make four.”

  “That’s for later.”

  “Yeah … but when I think of all these boats that just stand here idle, it really gets me down …”

  “I’m deep in shit, Jean-Louis.”

  Maistre looked his friend up and down, while searching for something in his pockets.

  “What’s going on?”

  “A nasty business. Something serious happened to me yesterday evening. I mean, last night.”

  Maistre opened a packet of cigarettes, removed one, lit it and dragged on it nervously, swaying on his feet.

  “What happened is that someone shot me …”

  Maistre closed his eyes, exhaled loudly and stared at the boats that were rocking gently in the port. After a long silence, de Palma added in a flat voice: