The Lynx

by Michel Corday

  “And you? You’re not drinking?” Francette asked Le Crabe, who extended his pincer over his glass as a sign of refusal. The brute shook his head sadly. “Because of my fevers,” he explained.

  “You fevers?” Francette repeated, pricking up her ears.

  “Yes,” the doctor’s condemned me to the white stuff. “Will you pay for a milk, Casque de Lune?”

  “A milk for my pal!” Francette shouted to the tavern-keeper.

  An inexpressible emotion oppressed her. “Was she on the track? Had those same fingers that could bend silver plunged the file into old Gagny’s heart? She didn’t want to believe it, at first. It had happened to her so many times before in the course of her expeditions that she’s latched on to a deceptive clue.

  She overcame an impulse of repulsion, however, and put her trembling hand on the brute’s shoulder.

  “What fever have you had, mate?”

  “The yellow.”

  “Where was that?”

  “Not in Paris, for sure. In the colonies.”

  She thought she was about to faint. The road was mapped out and illuminated. She had only to march along it, throwing in a few capital questions as she passed. Did Le Crabe know Castillan? Was he a Seine poacher? Had he worked in the Lacaze factory, or, at least got close enough to the workshops to have procured the murder weapon? Finally, had Le Crabe studied the house in the Avenue Raphael, to discover its disposition, to notice the basement door and the manner in which it was locked?

  Immediately, the last thought obsessed her. She fixed her gaze on the monster’s right wrist, looking for a scar. But a trace of it could have existed without her being able to see it under the thick hair. Better to act by other means, to use facile perfidy, extract the revelations one by one, by means of oblique suggestions.

  Already she was imprinting a pitying tenderness on her face when she perceived that Julot, his ears pricked, was listening to them jealously.

  She turned toward him and encouraged him with a grimace. “Well then, my handsome Rossignol, you’re not giving us one today?”

  And as the other, flattered, arched a smile over his blunt teeth, Francette stood up. “Shut up!” she cried to the assembly. “Open your lugs! The Rossignol is going to sing!”

  Indeed, Julot announced: “Dans les étoiles!”

  Then, while the singer, his hand on his heart, gargled his ballad, with languors and ecstasies that made Gloire de Dijon’s eyes shine, dilated Emilie Rouquet’s throat even more and put an incandescence into Bille d’Ivoire’s waxed cheeks, Francette embarked on a duel with her grim neighbor.

  Oh, how sorry she was for him for having a bad liver. Was it raging? When one had all that was needed to succeed with the in-life, and with the ladies! How had Le Crabe got stuck with it? It was in the colonies, was it? During his service, undoubtedly. One more injustice, to send folk to die abroad. But necessary not to despair. There were good hearts in France, friends who would help you. While slaving away from time to time—because of the police, who poked their noses in everywhere—one could, on Sundays in summer, idle along the river, catching fish, and if the sun shone too much, taking one’s cup of juice.

  “Slaving…slaving,” grunted Le Crabe. “Necessary, for that, not to be bone idle…for, truth be told, I’m bone idle.”

  “What do you do, then?”

  “What I can. Depends on the occasion. At times I tout on the Seine. At times I help the birds at Issy-les-Moulineaux.”

  Francine went pale. She had understood that the birds in question were airplanes. She did not want to press the point, for the moment. But the criminal was delivering himself by the minute. She filled the glass of milk and handed it to Le Crabe.

  “You’d rather have a mêlé-cass’20, eh?”

  “You bet!”

  “It’s your doctor who put you on milk then? Necessary not to believe them, doctors. They’re all liars. Work to make you lick sawdust.”

  “Not this one!” swore Le Crabe.

  “Oh? Who’s that?”

  Did he sniff espionage? Or was it a generous scruple? He contented himself with replying: “He’s one of the best.” But the voice was suspicious, the intention evasive. Francette understood that she could spoil everything in an instant. She changed tactics, set the stage, watching every muscle in her adversary’s face.

  “Possible for that one,” she said. “There are good ones, evidently. I once knew a good one myself, who cured me, at the Hôpital Boucicaut...”

  And as Forteau manifested an increasing interest, she dropped the remark: “You don’t know Castillan?”

  Le Crabe could have confessed his crime and Francette would not have been more convinced when she glimpsed the violent and instinctive contraction of the pincers at that moment. At the same time, a flash escaped from the man’s bloodshot gaze and penetrated her. No doubt: it was him. But he contained himself, kept quiet.

  “Don’t know,” he declared.

  The interrogation was becoming dangerous. Francette was afraid of having ventured too far already. A terrible threat had passed through the brute’s eyes. Anyway, what point was there in continuing? She would not have learned any more without danger. She only had one goal now: to run to the nearest telephone, to tell Mirande that she had the pirate, to indicate the hovel, and then get back into the dive to keep watch on the rogue until the petit patron arrived with the police.

  She turned back to Julot le Rossignol. He had just finished his ballad with a highly effective swoon. She complimented him, while bravos rang out around. But for having crooned, he must lack saliva, poor friend! He’d accept something nice for the beak, then?

  Francette seized the pretext. “Hang on, mates. I don’t have any more cash, but I’ll go see if there isn’t a means of making an arrangement with Monsieur Achille.”

  She stood up, saluted by cries. Le Rempart de Sèvres offered her his hand, Nénesse, alias l’Anguille, recommenced juggling in her honor. Even the demoiselles showed themselves sensible to her generosity. La Gloire de Dijon smiled, Emilie Touquet swelled a fourth chin and Bille d’Ivoire helped her over the bench. As soon as she had left the room, though, Le Crabe stood up, his pincers clenched.

  “Go see if she’s really talking to the boss.”

  “No more than to the Pope!” proclaimed l’Anguille, his eye stuck to the gap in the door. “She’s off, the bitch.”

  Then Forteau declared: “No mistake, mates, as true as I’m Le Crabe, Casque de Lune is with the cops, Necessary to get out of here, double quick!”

  There was a panic. However, before leaving, the bandits held a brief conference. Then Forteau left first and soon caught up with Francette, whom he followed, galloping through the night.

  For Francette was running. She was running at top speed toward a telephone. The office was closed at this hour. She was counting on addressing herself to a waterside restaurant, where she had noticed a sign advertising a telephone. Oh, my God, as long as the flood-water hadn’t cut it off. As long as they weren’t suspicious of her, that they wouldn’t make difficulties for her in the place. No. She would explain. She would pay. She would say that someone was sick and dying. She would even affirm, if necessary, that she was employed by the police,

  And she ran, through the night thick with mist, feeling her route more than seeing it, bumping into sidewalks, trees, walls, and heaps of paving-stones. She reached the Rue de Meudon, and turned on to the quay, still running. In broad daylight, at that sped, the trajectory would have required two minutes. She took ten.

  Fortunately, things worked out. The restaurant, that evening, had been abandoned by its masters; Francette only had to address herself to the domestic, who let her into a redoubt forming a cabin. Feverishly, she appealed: “Hello! Mademoiselle, give me...

  Ah! The numbers! She had forgotten the number! Quickly, she consulted her cuff, which she always wore, in accordance with the recommendation of the petit patrons, but when she wanted to resume the communication, the telephonist had go
ne. She had to wait for five minutes. She stamped her feet. Weren’t the others, out there, going to be suspicious of her absence? Wasn’t Le Crabe already alert? He had given her such a look just now...

  She thought momentarily about leaving the capture until the following day, about making a rendezvous with the pirate somewhere else. But the telephonist responded to the appeal.

  “Finally! It’s you. You were having a snooze? Give me 1900-05, and at the trot, eh?”

  A further wait. Then confused, distant voices. She demanded, impatiently: “Monsieur Mirande? Is that Monsieur Mirande?”

  When she finally heard the voice of the petit patron, she poured out, without even waiting for the response: “Ah, Boss, I have him. Come quickly. He’s in Billancourt right now, in a dive in the Rue Nationale... Yes, it’s the only one open, a hundred meters from the square... Yes, I’ll try to keep him there. But what if I can’t?... If not, I’ll bring him to the Rue de Meudon, and then along the Seine, on the left. For sure he’ll follow me, like a dog. Bring agents... Why not agents?... Nitaud?... You’ve alerted him?... He’s with you? Good. Listen, Boss: take the quay as far as the Rue de Meudon. That way, you’re certain... See you soon, Boss.” Then she added, replying to another voice: “Yes, that’s right, as many men as you can... See you soon, Monsieur Nitaud.”

  Oof! They would arrive. They’d arrest him. And vive Lacaze. Vive Mademoiselle! Vive the entire world of worthy folk!

  She hung up the receiver. At that moment, she heard a noise in the next room, as if someone were moving away, knocking over chairs in the darkness. She didn’t pay any more attention to it. Perhaps it was a dog. She was in haste to rejoin the bandits and serve them up a story in her fashion to explain her long absence. She gave twenty sous to the maid and left the restaurant, sniffed the fog, turned right along the quay and moved into the roadway in order to run more freely. She had not gone ten meters when she heard footsteps behind her. Surprised, she made a detour, but the sound followed her, drawing closer. Then she stopped, fearfully.

  “Go on your way,” she said to a shadow that was now almost touching her.

  “Is that you, Casque de Lune?”

  Then she recognized the voice. “Le Crabe…,”

  “Yes, my chick, it’s me who’s Le Crabe.” And he sniggered. “Ah, you’re not afraid of wanting to deliver my meat to the Widow!”

  She understood. Frightened, she tried to get away, but the monster’s pincer had already closed on her throat. A violent blow in the middle of her chest stretched her on the ground.

  She wanted to scream, to cry for help—in vain, for the air was lacking. At the same time, it seemed to her that a hard point was withdrawn from her left side, which caused her to suffer atrociously for a second. But the pain was dulled. She realized that her aggressor was running away, that she was alone on the road, in the fog, incapable of movement, that autos were going to run over her as they passed. Oh, the brandy coffee had deceived her this time...

  Then she felt cold. All sensation died away in her, in the infinite despair of never seeing the petit patron again. And there was a gentle slide into oblivion.

  A long quarter of an hour weighed upon the crime. The nearby river was already thickening its shroud of mist over her. The large round eye of an auto headlight cleaved through the fog, however. Ten meters from the body, the brakes screeched on the wheels.

  “What is it?” asked a voice.

  “A woman lying in the road.”

  “Should we take a look, Monsieur Nitaud?”

  Two men got out. Aided by the policeman, Mirande unhooked the headlight and projected the light on to the victim.

  “Francette! It’s my poor Francette!” he croaked, his throat tight.

  “She’s had it,” Nitaud estimated, having leaned over Francette.

  “Is she dead?”

  “I fear so. She’s no longer breathing, and her heart isn’t beating.”

  Gabriel suspected the genesis of the drama. He did not pause to debate it any more than he persisted in the idea, impracticable in any case, of pursuing the pirate. He owed it to that admirable associate to occupy himself exclusively with her.

  Suddenly, under the insistence of pity and gratitude, Doisteau’s opinion regarding the frequency of apparent deaths came to mind. What if Francette were not doomed? If she were only in that transitory state when the flame was flickering before going out? What if that state could be prolonged until the intervention of the surgeon? Oh, let her be saved! Let her be brought back from the gulf!

  “I’ll carry her,” he said to the policeman.

  “Where?”

  “To a clinic, to confide her to the care of a surgeon, one of my friends.”

  Nitaud shrugged his shoulders. What was the point in persisting? If the unfortunate woman were still alive, she wouldn’t resist transportation. Better not to torture her final minutes…

  Then he changed his mind. “After all,” he said, “perhaps you’re right. At any rate, we can’t leave her on the road like this. It would be necessary to tell the police. More stories, complications. Necessary to expect anything on the part of those fellows. So if you have a clinic, the best thing is to take her there…without me, for I need to wait for my men, who will be arriving shortly.

  Aided by the driver, they transported Francette gently to the vehicle. Mirande took his place there after giving the address of a clinic in the Rue du Sergent-Hoff, in the Ternes quarter, where Doisteau generally carried out his operations.

  Oh, that return through the darkness! That funeral proximity, with the head tilting at the slightest shock, the arms dangling along the body, sometimes seeming to be animated by the jolts of the vehicle! And that sensation of cold dampness, that blood in the darkness, which Gabriel collected when he placed his hand on the young woman’s breast in order to monitor the inert heart.

  So many other concerns were clawing at Mirande’s sincere despair. If it was all over for Francette, if her mouth remained closed for ever, what a new disaster for the cause! The thread scarcely glimpsed had broken abruptly. The whole web required to be rewoven, and in far more difficult conditions!

  It would be necessary to attack a criminal who was now alerted, who might perhaps put Castillan on guard in his turn, and whose name Mirande still did not know...

  They were about to arrive at the customs post. Mirande feared delays, the miserable formalities of inspection. He shouted to the driver through the lowered glass: “Don’t stop! Go on! I’ll answer for everything!” And the auto went through like a whirlwind, then to go even more rapidly along deserted streets, without even slowing down at the intersections. What if there were a collision at that frightful speed? Not important. Every spin of the wheel added to the chance of Francette’s salvation.

  Finally, the auto turned into the Rue Demours, swerved, and slowed down. They had arrived.

  “Go collect Doisteau from his home,” Mirande ordered the chauffeur. “I’ll alert him by telephone.”

  It was necessary to wake up the house, bring to the threshold the director, still dazed by sleep, and shake up all those energies in repose. Mirande gave the full measure of his methodical organization. His fever and anguish found a brief distraction therein. Francette was transported again to the operating theater. She was warmed up by radiators, and the instruments were prepared.

  Ten minutes later, Doisteau appeared.

  Francette was lying on the operating table, ready for an attempt by the surgeon, if he judged it useful. The light of two hundred electric bulbs, powerfully focused by reflectors, illuminated her chastely uncovered breast, the milky tint of her skin contrasting violently with the warm patch of her coppery hair and the blood coagulated around her wound. She was resplendent, on her altar of white linen, like one of the expiatory victims of legend that a sacrificial blade had immolated.

  The surgeon examined his patient with minute attention. He lifted her eyelids, consulted her pupils. He stuck his ear to the cardiac region, after having taken ca
re to interpose a sheet. Then he straightened up. A moue expressed his opinion.

  “Well?” interrogated Gabriel, avidly.

  “Little hope,” he confessed. “The blow has struck full in the heart; the pupil’s no longer active. I doubt…and yet...”

  “And yet?”

  “And yet, I thought I perceived a heartbeat…but so weak, so weak...”

  “Oh, attempt the impossible!” the young man begged.

  “I believe you’ve said the word: impossible.”

  And while he put on a long white blouse, and proceeded, in front of a series of taps, with the scrubbing of his arms and hands, Doisteau explained: “My friend, one can’t suture a wound in the heart like any other. One can scarcely ever reanimate an organ so delicate, so compromised!” He shook his head. “Anyway, let’s try!”

  He tried.

  Oh, the valiant attempt, the incomparable audacity!

  Gabriel watched, confounded by a horrible admiration, while the surgeon, seizing his scalpel, began his struggle against death with a long incision. Retreating into a corner, wanting to escape the spectacle but brought back to subject himself to it regardless by the force of his anguish, he saw the terrible mutilation unfold.

  He saw, under the action of the fulgurant instruments, bones that were broken, blood swept away by means of compresses immediately thrown to the floor.

  He saw fingers that plunged into the red hole, lacerating, tearing, twisting, accomplishing as much work as the implements.

  But he saw above all—and with what respect, what fervor, which could have made him fall to his knees!—was that profound, ardent flame, that reflection of interior force, of will, of energy, which magnified the surgeon’s eyes while he deployed his liberating gestures.

  From time to time, a brief order escaped his lips: “Separators... Forceps... Scissors... Wipe...”—orders immediately obeyed by the perfect discipline of his assistants.

  Four ribs had been broken, with a noise of snapping twigs, when he announced: “The pericardium!”

  It was the sheath of the viscera, the scabbard in which the organ was set. Doisteau cleaved through it, expelling a bloody mass—after which all his faculties were focused in the minute examination of the heart that he held in his hand with a religious precaution.