by Paul Halter
‘If you let me have it, Fred, I’ll give you my beaver’s tail in exchange.’
‘I don’t want your beaver’s tail,’ replied Fred, covering his trousers pocket defensively.
‘I’ll give you my bow as well.’
‘You can keep your bow. Even Robin Hood would miss an elephant if he used that rotten old thing.’
Tom, starting to see red, clenched his fists.
‘Okay, I’ll give you my fishing rod.’
‘The new one?’ asked little Fred, raising an eyebrow in disbelief.
‘No, the other one, of course.’
‘It’s still no!’
‘All right, all right, the new one.’
‘It’s too late. You should have said so earlier.’
Tom turned scarlet and, using all the strength of his ten years, slapped little Fred, three years his junior, who ran away crying his heart out.
The incident passed practically unnoticed, the blubbering of the child being swamped by the noises of sirens and horns emanating from the roundabout. Fred left the fairground in a fury, still clutching his precious penknife.
His troubles, however, had not escaped the notice of a figure leaning against a caravan some distance from the crowd, whistling absent-mindedly under its breath. With its hat pulled down over its eyes and its coat collar turned up, it had been watching the roundabouts for some time. A gleam came into the figure’s eyes when it saw little Fred approaching, and when it heard about the boy’s problems, it quickly proposed purchasing the penknife.
‘No, not you as well!’ shouted Fred furiously.
‘Shush, Fred,’ said the figure, lightly placing a gloved finger on his lips. ‘There’s no need to make a noise. Just take a look at this....’
Two banknotes appeared as if by magic.
‘I told you I don’t want any money,’ hissed Fred stubbornly.
The figure smiled, thought for a moment, and said:
‘I’ve got another idea. There’s something much better I can show you.’
‘What?’
‘I can’t show you here.’
‘Is it something you’re carrying with you?’
‘Yes, but I can’t show you here. But if you come with me... let’s say over there, closer to the woods, I can show it to you.’
‘Okay, I can always take a look,’ replied Fred importantly, shrugging his shoulders.
He followed the figure who, once they reached the designated spot, suggested going a few yards further to be sure of absolute calm. Eventually they reached a spot in the woods where the shouts and sounds of the fairground could not be heard.
‘We’ve gone far enough,’ said Fred. ‘Show me what you’ve got or I’m leaving.’
‘Very well,’ replied the figure, on whose features was reflected the distant orange glow of the roundabouts. A shiny object appeared in its gloved hand.
‘Oh!’ murmured little Fred. ‘It’s nice and it’s much bigger than mine.’
‘It’s a good deal, don’t you think?’ said the figure, smiling. ‘Look how sharp the blade is.’
‘I agree. I’ll swap you for mine.’
While the child was taking the knife out of its pocket, the figure looked quickly around....
12
Monday, June 16
‘If you keep moving like that,’ declared David Hale, ‘we’ll never get anything done.’
“It... It’s this crucifix,’ murmured Patricia.
‘This crucifix? Do you mean this épée?’
Patricia, very elegant in the draped sheet which clung to her slender form, kept her eyes on the épée she was holding, not by the handle but by the blade, near the hilt.
‘All right,’ she muttered. ‘It’s an épée, but....’
Intrigued by the paleness of his model, David put down his chisel and went over to her.
‘Why, you’re trembling, Patricia. Your hand is trembling.’
‘It’s because of this crucifix—excuse me, this épée. The way of holding it makes me... And it’s heavy as well.’
‘Frankly,’ said David, looking his model in the eye, ‘I have the impression you’re very tired... Anyone would think you’d been up all hours.’
‘I don’t think I’ve recovered from that evening yet,’ replied Patricia prudently.
Truth be told, she’d hardly slept that night, waiting up for her husband until two o’clock in the morning. Then, after he’d got back and fallen straight to sleep, she’d stayed awake, plagued by a host of questions.
‘Can I put down the... épée?’ she asked timidly.
‘Of course. In any case, we’ve finished for today. And I think we’ll get rid of the épée: firstly because it obviously bothers you, and secondly because it wasn’t a very good idea. I had in mind a depiction of Athena holding up a sword but, on second thoughts, it doesn’t really suit the present case. Which only goes to show that even the greatest artists can be wrong sometimes.’
If David had hoped to elicit a smile from the last remark, he was sadly mistaken. The big blue eyes remained expressionless. Silently, he took the épée from her and put it away with the other artistic accessories. At that moment Patricia resembled more than ever one of the goddesses of Greek antiquity, so far did she seem removed from the world of mortals.
‘Why did you mistake the épée for a crucifix?’ he asked her point blank.
The young woman shivered:
‘I already told you: it was from the way I was supposed to hold it.’
‘You were trembling, as if you were afraid.’
Once again Patricia had the same painful sentiment, that mixture of heavy menace combined with the radiant joie de vivre inspired by the sun’s rays streaming into the artist’s studio. Yes, her hand had trembled, as if she’d been holding a burning object....
‘You had the impression you were holding a crucifix,’ persisted David, ‘yet you were trembling as if....’
Patricia let out a nervous laugh:
‘Crosses don’t frighten me! I’m a Christian and I hardly ever miss a Sunday service!’
‘I know. I saw you in church yesterday. But, now I think about it, you were staring at the épée as you were holding it. The hilt and the blade made of metal, with the sunlight reflecting off them: could they have dazzled you? Could the reflections and bright lights have caused you to recall the bombardments which have haunted you since childhood?’
‘It...It’s possible,’ said Patricia with a vacant stare.
‘A crucifix... the lights...the reflections.... ’
‘My God, don’t say that!’ she cried out.
‘Don’t say what?’ asked David gently, moving closer to her.
The young woman was making a visible effort to control her shaking:
‘What... What you just said....’
David, now worried, took her by the arm:
‘Patricia, what’s wrong?’
‘Nothing. I beg of you, nothing! Leave me alone. Stop talking to me about it.’
Patricia had raised her voice and now she pushed the sculptor’s hand away violently, causing a small scratch. David, surprised, seemed petrified. Seeing him like that, with his adolescent face and blond forelock in front of his eyes, she regretted her sudden gesture. She asked him for forgiveness and clumsily took his arm:
‘Excuse me, David, I beg you... My nerves are raw at the moment and, as you say, I lack sleep.’
‘It’s all right. It’s nothing,’ he replied, pushing back the wayward forelock. ‘Let’s have a drink. That’ll buck us up.’
Patricia, still holding David’s arm, looked at his hand.
‘My God!’ she exclaimed, ‘I’ve scratched you. You’re bleeding.’
Three thin red lines could be seen on the back of the sculptor’s right hand, which he wiped with his left hand.
‘It’s nothing,’ he said cheerfully. ‘But... But... Patricia, what’s wrong?’
He just had time to catch her as she fainted.
It was four o�
��clock when Patricia opened her eyes. She was in an armchair next to a large chest, on which was a tray loaded with refreshments. The spacious room was chock full of furniture and wood sculptures, a curious mixture of antique and modern. Just as it was dawning on her that she was still only wearing a sheet, she spotted David, who was smiling at her from a place by the window.
‘I thought you looked very pretty dressed like that, which is why I brought you over here. If you’d been living in ancient times, I feel sure Zeus would have carried you off to Olympus!’
‘To the great displeasure of Hera,’ responded Patricia mechanically.
‘Or Roger, if he could hear me talking like this.’
‘Don’t worry, Roger’s not the jealous type.’
‘That said, if you want to put your civilian clothes back on, they’re where you left them, behind the screen in the studio.’
‘David, will you please tell me what happened?’
‘You just fainted, about a quarter of an hour ago, just after you looked at my hand.’
‘Of course. I remember now. My God, how stupid of me!’
‘A nurse who faints at the sight of blood, yes, that is rather incredible. After all, it can’t have been the first time.’
‘David, I don’t know what came over me... As I said before, it must have been sheer fatigue. Believe me, I’m usually pretty tough in such circumstances. But, tell me, what I did to you wasn’t serious, was it?’
‘You must be joking. You can hardly see it. But I shan’t let you look at it again today. You might have another fit. And then Roger would forbid you to come here. So, what would you like to drink? How about a drop of champagne to revive you?’
‘If you say so. But what were we talking about before it happened?’
‘Only really serious things, like crucifixes and the church,’ replied David, replenishing her glass.
‘Ah, yes. And you told me you’d seen me there yesterday morning.’
‘I got there a bit late and stood in the back.’
‘So you must have heard the reverend’s sermon,’ said Patricia, taking another sip. ‘What did you think of it?’
‘He’s a surprising fellow, particularly if you don’t listen to him very often. But I have to admit that this time he was more impetuous than usual.’
‘He seems ready to lead a veritable crusade against Evil.’
‘You have to admit he knows his subject, as you saw on Saturday evening. But....’
David’s voice trailed off. Lost in thought, he took a sip of brandy.
‘You know, he’s a strange man,’ he continued.
‘You’re talking as if you know something specific about him,’ said Patricia, adjusting her sheet.
‘There’s no fooling you!’ said the artist, with a rueful smile. ‘I wonder, in fact, if the man is as consistent in his acts as he wishes to appear.’
‘You mean... You’re talking about his private life?’
David pushed the troublesome forelock back again.
‘Look, I can only tell you what I know, and I don’t want to leap to any false conclusions. But lately, on several occasions... Not that what he’s doing is a crime... But how many men of the cloth do you know who creep around at dead of night in the gardens of their flock?’
At about the same time, the little fairground started to wake up slowly. The roundabout with the wooden horses sprang to life, to the joyful sounds of a steam organ. There weren’t many customers around and it looked like a normal Monday afternoon. But a keen observer would have noticed that behind the stall-holders’ customary cynical smiles lurked gleams of anxiety. In fact, the news which the police officers had brought in the late morning was far from pleasant. Those same officers who, a few weeks earlier, had come to tell them what had become of the charming little child of the clan who had disappeared. Once again they were forced to submit to painful questioning, but this time it did not concern one of their own.
By half past four, most of the police had left. In fact, the only ones remaining were the two detectives who had come especially from London: Inspector Archibald Hurst of Scotland Yard and his friend Alan Twist.
The policeman, as always in summer, suffered from the heat, but for some mysterious reason insisted on wearing the same thick blue serge suit he wore all the year round. He was holding his bowler hat in his hand and there was a scowl on his ruddy, perspiring face. He made no attempt to hide his foul mood, exacerbated by the relative gaiety, considering the circumstances, of Dr. Twist who was sporting an impeccable chequered blue tweed suit.
‘And there I was,’ he growled, ‘thinking that this maniac had suddenly turned remorseful and put an end to his grim work. I’ve always had a far too high opinion of my fellow man.’
‘You haven’t had too bad an opinion of yourself, either, Archibald.’
‘Tell me, Twist, do you really think this is a time for jokes? Have you any idea of the mess I’ve got on my hands? The list is getting longer: this is the fourth victim of this maniac in the space of five or six weeks. If we don’t lay hands on our man quickly, heads will start to roll at Scotland Yard, starting with my own!’
‘Don’t you think that’s a rather unfortunate metaphor in the circumstances?’
‘Don’t push me too hard, Twist... I’ve built up a head of steam and I’m ready to explode in any direction.’
‘You should know by now, Archibald, that’s not the way to solve this kind of affair.’
So saying, Dr. Twist stopped abruptly in front of a stall selling barley sugar, which he examined eagerly, but with a critical air.
‘I’ll take those two,’ he told the merchant, picking the two biggest. Turning to his friend, he continued: ‘Clear and concise recapitulation, combined with calm analysis is always the best way. Would you like a sweet, Archibald? No? Very well, I shall have to eat them both myself.’
The inspector, who would at that moment have willingly gulped down a couple of gallons of beer, made a considerable effort not to ram the aforementioned sweets down his friend’s gullet. After two or three angry sniffs, he began:
‘I won’t talk about the first three victims because you know pretty well everything. The fourth was discovered this morning: Fred Hutson, eight years old, who lives right here in Lightwood, the famous “barycentre.” The body was discovered by someone on a morning walk, in the woods you can see over there to the north. His throat was cut, just like the others, and the medical examiner thinks that, just as in the other cases, there’s a lack of blood at the supposed scene of the crime. He can’t be sure in this case, because he thinks the little boy was actually killed where he was found, due to traces of blood on the ground and on the trunk of a nearby tree. But he thinks there wasn’t very much....’
‘What’s he suggesting, then? That the blood was sucked out by a vampire?’ asked Twist.
‘I asked him that, as you would expect. But he told me that drawing conclusions was my business, not his. He hadn’t found any proof of that from the neck of the victim. But he should be able to tell us more after the autopsy.’
‘And the time of the crime?’
‘I was getting there. He’s more precise about that. He places it at ten o’clock last night, Sunday. That sounds about right, because the last time the boy was seen alive was a quarter of an hour beforehand. He was with some boys of his own age and was having an argument with one of them. We need to talk to that one later. But he wasn’t seen in the company of an adult. It’s likely that the murderer was lurking in the area, noticed him and lured him into the woods on some pretext or other. The only lead we have is from two fairground employees who recall seeing a figure leaning against a caravan on the outskirts of the fair whistling to himself. They remember his hat was pulled down over his eyes and they think he might have had red hair and was probably young. It’s not much, but it does corroborate the only witness we have so far.’
‘A young man with red hair living in Lightwood,’ mused Twist. ‘That confirms our initial lead.
’
‘That’s right, Twist. And this time we’re going to pay Roger Sheridan a little visit, even if he isn’t the only one in the region who answers that description.’
‘And what if we were to consult a specialist?’ exclaimed Twist suddenly.
‘A specialist?’ growled Hurst, his rebel forelock once again across his forehead. ‘What specialist?’
‘That one over there. He knows everything and will answer all our questions!’
13
‘There, in that tent!’ said Dr. Twist, indicating a small ribbed edifice covered with an attractive red and white striped canvas. ‘Look at the sign: “The Great Balthazar knows your future and your destiny. Come and ask him, he will answer all your questions.”’
Hurst clenched his fists and let out a deep sigh:
‘It’s closed, Twist. Look more closely at the sign. The Great Balthazar only gives consultations in the evening.’
‘That’s a shame,’ said his friend, looking disappointed.
‘Were you hoping for some help from that charlatan?’
‘No, but I was always fascinated when I was a child.’
‘Well, luckily, you aren’t one anymore. Although... Well, if we’ve nothing better to do here than suck sweets and wait for The Great Balthazar to open his tent, let me suggest a walk in the woods. Maybe The Big Bad Wolf left some clues our men overlooked.’
They needed less than five minutes to reach the spot where the body was found, a clump of trees to the north of the village, separated from the actual woods by a clearing traversed by a major road. Two uniformed officers were still searching the area with a fine-tooth comb. The older of the two came over to meet them.
‘Any news?’ asked Hurst tersely.
‘Nothing much, inspector,’ replied the constable. ‘The usual mixture of fag-ends and paper... except maybe this handkerchief, which is not wet like the other stuff.’