Seeking Whom He May Devour

by Fred Vargas

  “A binful of loonies,” he growled.

  “They’re not loonies,” Camille said. “They’re just fearful, and sorrowful, and some of them are tipsy anyway. But I agree that Albert is a nasty piece of work.”

  They walked home under the burning sun.

  “What do you think about it?” asked Camille.

  “About what? About their being sozzled?”

  “No. About the place where the wolf attacked, Guillos. It was marked with an X on the map.”

  Johnstone stopped and looked Camille in the eyes.

  “How could Massart have known?” she said under her breath. “How could he have known in advance?”

  Barking dogs could be heard in the distance. Johnstone stiffened.

  “Gendarmes looking for him,” he said with a grin. “Fat lot of good it’ll do. They won’t find him. Last night at Guillos, tomorrow he’ll be at La Castille. He’s the killer, Camille. He’s doing the killing, with Crassus.”

  Camille made as if to say something, but stopped short. She could not find anything to say in Massart’s defence.

  “With Crassus,” Johnstone continued. “On the run. They’ll slaughter sheep, women, children.”

  “But for heaven’s sake, why?” she whispered.

  “Because he has no hair.”

  Camille looked at him in disbelief.

  “And it’s made him crazy,” Johnstone concluded. “We’re going to the police.”

  “Wait,” said Camille, holding him back by the sleeve.

  “What? You want him to murder more Suzannes?”

  “Let’s wait until tomorrow. To see if they find him. Please.”

  Johnstone nodded and walked on up the street in silence.

  “Augustus has had nothing to eat since Friday,” he said. “I’m going up again. Back tomorrow noon.”

  Next day at noon Massart was still missing. The lunchtime news reported three sheep savaged at La Castille. The wolf was on his way north.

  In Paris, Jean-Baptiste Adamsberg made a note of the news. He had got hold of a Landranger map of the Mercantour, and he pulled it out of the bottom drawer where he kept files on murky muddles and dicey stratagems. He put a red line underneath the name of La Castille on the map. Yesterday he had underlined Guillos. He gazed at the map for a good while with his elbow on the table and his cheek in his hand. Pondering.

  Danglard watched him at it, slightly aghast. He could not understand why Adamsberg had become so interested in the wolf business when he was up to his neck in a complicated manslaughter case in the Latin Quarter (a claim of self-defence which was just a bit too neat to be true) and when a raving madwoman had sworn she would put a bullet in his guts. But that’s the way things were. Danglard had never grasped the peculiar logic that lay behind Adamsberg’s decisions. In his view, of course, it was no logic at all, just an unending kaleidoscope of hunches and surmises which inexplicably gave rise to undeniably first-rate results. That said, Danglard’s nerves could not stand the strain of keeping in step with Adamsberg’s thought processes. For not only were the commissaire’s thoughts of indeterminate substance, hovering between the solid, liquid and gaseous states, but they were forever agglutinating with other thoughts without the slightest rational link. So while Danglard with his well-honed mind sorted sheep from goats, put things in little boxes, found the missing links, and thereby solved problems with method, Adamsberg put one thing with another, or turned them upside down, or scattered what had been brought together and threw it up in the air to see where it would fall. And despite his amazingly slow pace, he would, in the end, extract truth from that chaos. Danglard therefore supposed that Commissaire Adamsberg, like a genius or a mental patient, was endowed with what people call “his own kind of logic”. For years he had been trying to get used to it, but he remained torn between finding Adamsberg’s mind admirable, and finding it exasperating.

  Danglard was indeed a divided man. Adamsberg, on the other hand, had been cast (rather hurriedly, at a guess) from a single mould and from a single, separate and slippery substance, which meant that the real world could never get a grip on him for very long. Strange to say, he was easy to get on with. Except for people who tried to get a grip on him, of course. And there were plenty of those. There always are people who want to get a grip on you.

  Commissaire Adamsberg measured the distance between Guillos and La Castille with index finger and thumb, then pivoted on the latter to see where this nomadic bloodthirsty wolf might strike next in its search for new territory. Danglard watched him working at it for a few minutes. Despite the swirling mists and mirages of his mental landscape, Adamsberg could sometimes be disturbingly precise on technical matters.

  “Something wrong with the wolves, then?” Danglard kicked off.

  “With the wolf, Danglard. He’s all alone, but he’s as dangerous as a pack of ten. An uncatchable man-eater.”

  “Is that any of our business? In any way you care to state?”

  “No, Danglard, it’s none of our business. How could it be?”

  Danglard got up and looked at the map over Adamsberg’s shoulder.

  “All the same,” the commissaire muttered, “it’s going to have to be somebody’s business, sooner or later –”

  “That girl, Sabrina Monge,” Danglard interrupted. “She’s found the underground exit. We’re busted.”

  “I know.”

  “Must head her off before she tops you.”

  “She can’t be stopped. She has to shoot, she has to miss, and then we can pick her up. And get to work properly. Any news of the kid?”

  “We’ve got a lead in Poland. But that could take a long time. She’s got us trapped.”

  “No, she hasn’t. I’m going to disappear, Danglard. That’ll give us time to find the kid before she tries to put a bullet in me.”

  “Disappear where?”

  “You’ll soon find out. Tell me where the mastermind of the Gay-Lussac murder hangs out, if that’s what he really is.”

  “Avignon.”

  “Then that’s where I’ll go. I’m off to Avignon. Nobody needs to know save you, Danglard. I’ve got the green light from the authorities. I need Sabrina off my tail so as to work in peace and quiet.”

  “Makes sense,” said Danglard.

  “Watch out, Danglard. When she realises I’ve gone off screen, she’ll lay traps. And she’s a very clever girl. So not a word to anyone, not even if my own mother were to whine at you on the phone. Mind you, my mother never whines, nor do any of my five sisters. Danglard, you’ll be the only person to have my number.”

  “While you’re gone, sir, should I carry on with the map?” asked Danglard as he pointed to his boss’s desk.

  “No, my friend. Bugger the wolf.”

  XIV

  WHEN JOHNSTONE GOT to the gendarmerie at puygiron he insisted on speaking to the most senior officer present. The conscript on desk duty did not give in straight away.

  “What’s your superior officer?” Johnstone asked.

  “He’s the sort of bloke who’ll have you out on your ear in no time at all if you give him grief.”

  “No, I meant, what rank has he got? What form of address to use, you know, what should I call him?”

  “You should call him ‘Head Deputy’.”

  “Well then, that’s the man I want to see. I want to see the Head Deputy.”

  “And on what account do you wish to see the Head Deputy?”

  “On account of a horror story I have to tell him. Such horror as to make you send me in to see your superior officer as soon as you’ve heard it, and to make your super send me up to his boss as soon as he’s heard it. But I’m a busy man. I’m not going to waste my time telling the story four times over, I’m going straight to see the Head Deputy.”

  The conscript frowned, unsure of his ground.

  “What’s makes this story such a horror, then?”

  “Listen, young man,” said Johnstone. “You know what a werewolf is?”

&nbs
p; The gendarme looked at him. “Of course,” he smirked.

  “Well, you can wipe that grin off your face, because the tale I have to tell is about a werewolf.”

  The conscript hesitated before throwing in the towel.

  “I don’t think I’m qualified to deal with that.”

  “I’m afraid not,” said Johnstone.

  “I’m not even sure that the Head Deputy is qualified to deal with it.”

  “Now look here, young man,” Johnstone replied with false patience. “We’ll find out soon enough what the Head Deputy is and is not qualified to do. The best way to find out is to go see him. Is that clear?”

  The conscript went off and came back five minutes later.

  “The Head Deputy is ready to see you,” he said, pointing the way to a door.

  “You can go in on your own,” Camille said abruptly to Johnstone. “I don’t like grassing on people. I’ll wait for you in reception.”

  “Bloody hell, you’re deserting me so I play the part of the bastard solo, right? You really don’t want to share the part, do you?”

  Camille shrugged.

  “Shit, Camille, this isn’t about giving a man away. This is about stopping a lunatic.”

  “I know.”

  “So come in with me.”

  “I can’t. Don’t ask.”

  “You know you’re ratting on Suzanne.”

  “Emotional blackmail won’t work, Lawrence. Go on in on your own. I’ll be waiting.”

  “Do you disapprove of my doing this?”

  “No.”

  “Then you’re a coward.”

  “I am a coward.”

  “Have you always known?”

  “For heaven’s sake! Of course I’ve always known.”

  Johnstone smiled and followed the conscript. Just before Johnstone went in to see the Head Deputy, the conscript tugged at his sleeve and said in a whisper:

  “Seriously, though, is it a real werewolf? A bloke who when you open him up he’s got . . .”

  “Too soon to say,” said Johnstone. “That’s the kind of thing you can only prove at the very end, if you get my meaning.”

  “Receiving you loud and clear, sir.”

  “Glad to know that.”

  The Head Deputy was a well-groomed man with a thin yet flabby face, leaning back in his plastic chair with his hands folded on his stomach and a sardonic curl to his lips. Johnstone recognised the man sitting at a side table with a typewriter – it was Justin Lemirail, the medium gendarme. Johnstone greeted him with a gesture.

  “So we’ve come across a . . . how should I say . . . a lycanthrope, have we?” asked the Head Deputy with a sly grin.

  “Don’t see what’s funny about that,” Johnstone answered gruffly.

  “Now, now,” said the Head Deputy in the sugary tone that people use to mollify half-wits. “Where did you come across your lycanthrope, then?”

  “At Saint-Victor-du-Mont. Five sheep were savaged there last week, on Suzanne Rosselin’s farm. Your assistant was there.”

  The Head Deputy gestured towards the Canadian with an arm movement more likely to be seen at a thé dansant than in the paramilitary police.

  “Family name, given name, ID,” he requested without ceasing to beam.

  “Lawrence Donald Johnstone. Canadian citizen.”

  Johnstone hauled a wodge of papers from his jacket pocket and put them on the table. Passport, visa, residence permit.

  “Are you the scientist who’s working on the Mercantour?”

  Johnstone nodded.

  “I see there are . . . how should I say? . . . extension requests. Run into trouble, have we?”

  “No problems. I’m hanging around, that’s all. Rooting in.”

  “Can you say why?”

  “Wolves, insects, woman.”

  “As good a set of reasons as any.”

  “Guess so,” said Johnstone.

  The Head Deputy signalled to Lemirail to start typing.

  “You know who Suzanne Rosselin is?” asked Johnstone.

  “But of course, M. Johnstone. It’s that poor woman who was killed . . . how should I say? . . . on Sunday.”

  “And you know who Auguste Massart is?”

  “We’ve been looking for M. Massart since yesterday.”

  “Last Wednesday, Suzanne Rosselin accused Massart of being a werewolf.”

  “Any witnesses?”

  “I was.”

  “You and who else?”

  “No-one else.”

  “What a pity. Can you give me a reason why the good lady should have confided in you alone?”

  “Two good reasons. Suzanne believed that anyone from Saint-Victor was by definition an ignorant blockhead.”

  “I can confirm that,” Lemirail interrupted.

  “So in the first place I’m an outsider, and in the second place I know about wolves,” Johnstone concluded.

  “And on what did Mme Rosselin base her . . . how should I say? . . . accusation?”

  “On the fact that Massart has no body hair.”

  The Head Deputy furrowed his brow.

  “Suzanne was murdered,” Johnstone continued, “during the night of Saturday to Sunday. Massart went AWOL on Sunday.”

  The deputy smiled. “Or got lost in the hills,” he said.

  “If Massart had got lost or trapped or whatever,” Johnstone objected, “his mastiff would not have gone missing as well.”

  “The mastiff is surely at his side, guarding his master.”

  “But he’d have been heard. He’d be howling.”

  “Are you insinuating that a lycanthrope named Massart murdered a woman called Rosselin and thereafter . . . how shall I say? . . . ran away?”

  “I’m insinuating that he killed Suzanne, yes.”

  “And are you proposing we should take hold of this individual and then slice him open from the neck to the . . .”

  “Bugger that,” said Johnstone. “That’s bullshit. This is a serious matter.”

  “That’s better. Now lay out your case and support it with convincing arguments.”

  “I think Suzanne was not killed by a wolf, because Suzanne would never have pushed a wolf into a corner. I think Massart is not lost in the hills but on the run. I think Massart is not a werewolf but a hairless lunatic who kills sheep with his mastiff or with Crassus the Bald.”

  “And who might that be?”

  “Crassus is a very large wolf who’s not been spotted for two years. I think Massart caught him when he was still a cub and tamed him. I think Massart lost control of his bloodlust when the wolves came over into the Mercantour. I think he domesticated the cub and trained it to attack. I think that now he’s murdered a woman, the floodgates are wide open. I think he could kill again, especially women. I think that Crassus is an exceptionally large wolf and very dangerous. I think you must stop combing Mont Vence and hunt for Massart further north, above La Castille, which is where he was last night.”

  Johnstone stopped and took a deep breath. That was a whole lot of speaking. Lemirail was typing away at high speed.

  “To my mind,” said the Head Deputy, “things are not quite so involved. We have enough on our hands dealing with the wolves, M. Johnstone, and we can do without imaginary wolf-tamers into the bargain. Wolves, M. Johnstone, are not liked in these parts. And in these parts, people do not kill sheep.”

  “But Massart kills sheep, at the slaughterhouse.”

  “That is to confuse killing and slaughtering. You don’t believe Suzanne Rosselin died accidentally, but I do. That Rosselin woman was the sort of person who might well provoke a wild animal without thinking of – how shall I say? – the consequences. She was also likely to swallow almost any story doing the rounds. You don’t believe Massart has got lost in the hills, but you don’t know the area, believe you me. In the last fifteen years three experienced hikers have died around here from accidental falls. One of them has never been found. Massart’s shack has been properly searched. We found his
walking boots missing, as well as his stick, his backpack, his rifle, his ammo pouch and his how shall I say hunting jacket. But he did not take a change of clothes or a toilet bag with him. What that means, M. Johnstone, is that the man Massart has not gone AWOL, as you allege, he went for his how shall I say Sunday stroll in the hills. It’s possible he was out hunting.”

  “A man on the run doesn’t always remember to take his toothbrush,” Johnstone said gruffly. “He’s not on an excursion. Did he leave any money in the house?”

  “No.”

  “Why would he have taken all his money with him if he’d gone out hunting?”

  “How do you know there was cash in the house anyway? We have no reason to suppose he took any with him.”

  “And the mastiff?”

  “The mastiff stayed with his master and fell with him into a ravine. Or else the dog fell and the master tried to save him.”

  “Damn it, let’s suppose you’re right,” Johnstone said. “But what about Crassus? How could a wolf like that just disappear at such a young age from the whole Mercantour National Park? He’s never been seen again, anywhere.”

  “Crassus no doubt met his maker and his bones lie gleaming somewhere in the Park forest.”

  “Damn it,” Johnstone said. “Let’s suppose you’re right.”

  “You let your imagination run away with you, M. Johnstone. I don’t know what things are like where you come from, but in this how shall I say country, I have to tell you, there are precisely four causes of criminal violence capable of giving rise to the death of the victim: being betrayed by a spouse, being disappointed by a will, excessive consumption of alcohol, and trouble with the people next door. Wolf-taming and lady-killing are not among them, as you see, M. Johnstone. What exactly do you do for a living, in your own country?”

  “Grizzly bears,” Johnstone said, gritting his teeth. “I study grizzly bears.”

  “You mean you live among these how shall I say bears?”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “A team job, I imagine?”

  “No. Most of the time I’m on my own.”

  The Head Deputy put a look on his face that said “Poor fellow, now I can see why you went off the rails like that.” In fury, Johnstone got Massart’s road map out of his pocket and laid it on the desk.