Soft music came from the windows. A piano. It was not a recording, because the playing kept stopping and going back. On the other end of the house were more lighted windows. Alex melted into the wall, seeking to disappear in the ivy that covered the front of the building. Lafargue was leaning on one of the balustrades on the second floor, looking at the sky. Alex held his breath. Several minutes passed like this, until the doctor at last closed the window.
Alex dithered for a long time: should he chance entering the house or not? Yes, he decided, because he needed to reconnoiter, at least a little, so as to know where he was treading when he came back to kidnap the surgeon’s wife.
The house was large, and light was coming from every upstairs window. Lafargue must sleep in a separate room from his wife. That did not surprise Alex: everyone knew that bourgeois married couples don’t always sleep in the same bed!
Clutching the Colt, he climbed the steps and turned the front-door knob. There was no resistance; very gently, he pushed the door inward.
He took one step. There was a large room to his left and another to his right; before him was a staircase. The woman’s bedroom was upstairs to the right.
A bourgeois woman like her didn’t get up early. The bitch would lie in bed every morning. All Alex would have to do was watch for Lafargue to leave and then run up and take her by surprise while she was still asleep.
He closed the door silently behind him, darted just as silently across the grass, scrambled up onto the grotto, and tumbled over the wall. It was perfect. But no! There was a hitch. Okay, the lackey of a chauffeur would leave with his boss. But what if there was a maid? It would be a disaster if he ran into some old biddy there to do the housework!
Alex reached the Paris ring road, still taking care to obey all the rules of the road. It was midnight by the time he got back to his little house in Livry-Gargan.
Early the next morning, he returned to Le Vésinet. On tenterhooks, he watched Lafargue’s house, quite convinced an extra domestic would soon arrive. He had to snatch Lafargue’s wife without witnesses. The surgeon would then surely capitulate when confronted by the choice: give me a new face or I’ll kill your wife. But if someone happened to see the abduction, a domestic of one sort or another, a gardener, anybody at all, they would immediately call the cops, and Alex’s great scheme would be a dead letter.
Alex was lucky. Lafargue did employ a maid. But Lise had gone on vacation two days earlier. Of the five weeks the doctor allowed her in the year, she took three in the summer, when she went to her sister’s in the Morvan, and the rest during the winter.
So the whole morning went by, and still no one had shown up at the Lafargue place. Somewhat reassured, Alex raced back to Paris. It occurred to him that perhaps Lafargue did not go to work every day. If he took a day off during the week, Alex needed to know it right away. He decided he could ask the people in Lafargue’s office at the hospital about this; it would be easy to make up some rigmarole.
The chauffeur was waiting for his boss, as he did every day, on the café terrace across the street from the hospital. Alex, who was dying of thirst, had ordered a draft beer at the bar. As he brought it eagerly to his lips, he saw Roger leap to his feet. Lafargue was standing in the parking lot hailing his driver. The two men conferred briefly, then Roger gave the car keys to the surgeon and walked off muttering to himself in the direction of the nearby metro station. Alex was already at the wheel of his Citroën CX.
Lafargue drove like a man possessed. He did not head toward Boulogne. Alex, in great alarm, saw him veer off toward the ring road and the highway.
The prospect of a long-distance tail did not thrill Alex in the least. Without taking his eyes off Lafargue’s car, he mulled things over…Lafargue has kids, he thought. That was it: they must be on vacation, and he has just received some kind of bad news. Maybe one of them has been taken ill, and he has to go and see them? Otherwise, why should he have left work earlier than usual and sent his flunky home? Could the bastard have a mistress? Yes, more than likely. But would he just suddenly go off and see her in the middle of the day? This was crazy!
Lafargue continued at top speed, weaving between the other cars. Alex kept up with him, sweating with fear at the thought of a spot check by the national security police at a toll booth. But before long the Mercedes was off the turnpike and barreling along a winding country road without significantly slowing down. Alex was almost ready to give up the chase, feeling sure he was about to be spotted. But Lafargue did not so much as glance in his rearview mirror. Viviane was having another of her crises, and, true to his word, the psychiatrist had telephoned. Richard was fully aware of how this visit to his daughter—the second in a single week—was going to affect him. He also knew that this evening, back at Le Vésinet, he would not ask Eve to call Varneroy. After what had happened the last time, that was now impossible. But how, then, was he going to find consolation?
The Mercedes pulled up at the entrance to a château. A discreet sign indicated that it was a mental home. Alex scratched his head in perplexity.
Richard went straight up to Viviane’s room without waiting for the doctor. There the same sight as before awaited him: his daughter in a state of wild agitation, stamping her feet, trying to injure herself. He did not enter the room, but remained with his face pressed against the observation window, sobbing quietly. The psychiatrist, who had been informed of his arrival, came up to find him, then helped him back down to the ground floor, where the two men went into an office for privacy.
“I’ll not come back here again. It’s too hard. I just can’t bear it, you understand.”
“I understand perfectly.”
“Does she need anything? Bedclothes? Anything at all?”
“What could she possibly need? You must pull yourself together, Dr. Lafargue. Your daughter is never going to get out of this. Please don’t think me insensitive. You have to face facts. She is going to remain in a vegetative state, interrupted from time to time by crises of the type you have just witnessed. We can give her tranquilizers, knock her out with neuroleptics. But basically we have no serious options, as you well know. Psychiatry is not like surgery. We can’t change appearances. We don’t have the precision ‘therapeutic’ tools that you people have.”
Richard was calming down, recovering his poise little by little and reassuming a distant attitude.
“Yes, yes, I’m sure you’re right.”
“I would like—I want to get your agreement—please give me permission not to telephone you every time Viviane—”
“I agree. Don’t call anymore.”
Richard rose, took his leave of the psychiatrist, and returned to his car. Alex watched him emerge from the château. But this time he didn’t start his own car. The odds were overwhelming that Lafargue was on his way back to his house in Le Vésinet, or to Boulogne, or to the hospital.
Alex went to get lunch in the village. The square was clogged—a traveling fair was setting up its rides. He wondered who it could be living in that rathole with all the crazy people. If it was a kid of Lafargue’s, he must love him a lot to quit work like that and race off to see him.
Filled with a sudden resolve, Alex pushed away a plate still half-covered with greasy fries and asked for his check. He went and bought a large bouquet of flowers and a box of candy, and headed back to the nuthouse.
The receptionist greeted him in the entrance hall.
“Are you here to visit a patient?”
“Hmm, yes.”
“What name, please?”
“Lafargue.”
“Lafargue!”
The receptionist seemed so amazed that Alex felt sure he had blundered. He began to think that Lafargue must have a psychiatric nurse for a lover.
“But…you have never been here before to see Viviane, have you?”
“No, it’s the first time. I’m her cousin.”
The receptionist studied Alex in surprise for a moment, hesitating.
“You won’t
be able to see Viviane today. She isn’t well. Didn’t Dr. Lafargue tell you?”
“No. I was supposed to—my visit was planned a while ago, you see…”
“I really don’t understand this. Viviane’s father was here less than an hour ago.”
“He had no way of reaching me: I’ve been on the road since this morning.”
The receptionist nodded and shrugged her shoulders. She took the flowers and candy and put them on her desk.
“I’ll give her all these later. Today there’s really no point. Follow me, please.”
They took the elevator. Alex padded behind the woman, his arms dangling. At the door to Viviane’s room, the receptionist motioned Alex to look through the observation window. He started at the sight of Viviane crumpled in one corner of the room, staring maliciously at the door.
“I can’t let you go in today. I hope you understand.”
Alex understood. His palms were moist, and he felt nauseous. He kept on looking at the madwoman: he had the feeling he had seen her somewhere before. But that was obviously impossible.
He left the asylum as quickly as he could. Even if Lafargue simply adored this madwoman, Alex could never kidnap her. He might just as well turn himself in to the cops right away! In any case, how could he pull it off? He would have to take the château by siege! How would he even get into her cell? No, it was Lafargue’s wife who would have to be the hostage.
He drove carefully back to the Paris area, and it was already late by the time he reached his hideaway at Livry-Gargan.
The next morning, he resumed his vigil outside the Lafargue place. He was tense, anxious—but not really afraid. All night long he had mulled over his plan, imagining the results of the transformation of his face.
Roger arrived at eight o’clock, alone, on foot, his sports paper tucked under his arm. Alex was parked some fifty yards from the front gate. He knew he would have to wait some more; Lafargue usually aimed to get to the hospital by ten.
About nine-thirty, the Mercedes pulled up to the gate. Roger got out to open it, drove through, then stopped once more to slam it shut. Alex sighed with relief to see Lafargue leaving.
The ideal thing would be to take the bitch by surprise while she was still asleep. There was no time to lose. Alex had seen no other household help over the last few days, but you could never be sure. He started the car and drew up just opposite the Lafargue place. Turning the handle of the gate, he strode through as naturally as you please and set off across the grounds.
He approached the house with one hand in his pocket clasping the butt of the Colt. The shutters of the upstairs rooms on the right were closed, and Alex was surprised to notice for the first time that they were fastened from the outside, as though the windows had been closed up permanently. He was sure, all the same, that he had seen lights on and heard a piano playing behind those shutters.
Alex shrugged and continued reconnoitering. Before long, he had circled the whole place and found himself at the foot of the front steps. He drew a deep breath before opening the front door. The ground floor was just as he had glimpsed it the night before: the large drawing room, the library-office and, between them, the staircase to the next floor. He climbed the stairs, his breath bated and the Colt now out of his pocket.
Someone was humming on the far side of a bolted door—bolted, indeed, three times over. Incredulous, Alex’s first thought was that the surgeon must be mad: why would he lock his wife up like this? But then perhaps she really was a piece of work. Perhaps he was right not to trust her. Ever so carefully, Alex slid back the top bolt. The woman was still humming to herself. The second bolt. Then the third. What if the door was locked with a key, too? His heart beat faster as he turned the knob of the last bolt. But the door slowly opened, with no squeaking of hinges.
The bitch was sitting at a dressing table making herself up. Alex pressed himself against the wall so as not to appear in her mirror. Her back was to him; she was absorbed in her makeup. She was beautiful, her waist was narrow, her buttocks—squashed onto the stool—were muscular. Alex leaned down and laid his Colt on the carpet, then he was upon her, his fist coming down sharply on the exposed nape of her neck.
The blow was an expert one, carefully gauged. In Meaux, at the nightclub where he had worked as a bouncer, mayhem had been frequent. He had learned how to deal swiftly with troublemakers—how to deliver such a sharp blow to the skull that layabouts needed only dragging out and dumping on the sidewalk.
The woman lay inert on the carpet. Alex was trembling. He felt her pulse and got an urge to caress her, but it was hardly the moment for that. He went back downstairs. At the bar he found scotch, grabbed the bottle, and took a long swig.
Leaving the house, he opened the front gates wide and, restraining an impulse to run, went to the Citroën CX and started it up. He drove into the grounds and pulled up at the house, just at the foot of the front steps. Then he ran up to the bedroom. She was still motionless. He bound her carefully with cord brought from the trunk of the CX and gagged her with adhesive tape. Then he wrapped her in a bedspread.
Taking her in his arms, he carried her downstairs and closed her in the trunk. Once more he drank from the whisky bottle, emptying it and tossing it onto the ground. He climbed into the driver’s seat and started the car. Out on the road, an elderly couple were walking a dog, but they paid no attention to Alex.
He made for Paris, crossing the city from west to east on his way back to Livry-Gargan. He stared into the rearview mirror, but no one was following.
Back at his house, he opened the trunk and carried Madame Lafargue, still wrapped in the bedspread, down to the cellar. To be doubly sure, he tied the cord to a motorcycle antitheft device, a thick chain covered in plastic. This he padlocked to a radiator pipe.
He put out the light and left the cellar, returning a little later with a saucepan full of cold water, which he threw over the young woman’s head. She began to wriggle, but her movements were restricted by the cord. She moaned, being unable to cry out. Alex grinned in the darkness. She had never seen his face and would not be able to describe him when he let her go. If he ever let her go…The surgeon, though, would see him, see his face. He might even make an Identi-Kit picture of him once the operation was done. Lafargue would be able to describe Alex’s new face. The face of the self-same Alex who had killed a cop—and kidnapped Lafargue’s own wife! Never mind, thought Alex, the main thing for now is to get this guy to operate on me.
The rest could wait till later. Later, he would certainly have to kill Lafargue and his wife.
He went back up to his bedroom, delighted with the success of the first part of his plan. He would wait till evening, for Lafargue’s return to Le Vésinet, and his shock at finding the bitch gone; then he would pay a call on the surgeon and tell him what the deal was. This was hardball! They were all going to see, all those shits, just what sort of stuff Alex was made of!
He poured himself a glass of wine, smacking his lips after drinking. As for that bitch, he was going to do her in more ways than one. Why not? Business should be mixed with pleasure.
But take it slow. First, take care of Lafargue. He could see about the sex stuff later.
III
The Prey
1
This is horrible! It is all starting again. You don’t understand it—or, rather, you are afraid you understand it all too well. This time, Mygale is going to kill you!
For three days he didn’t say a word to you. He brought your meals up to your room, but wouldn’t even look at you. When he had burst into the studio apartment and put an end to the whipping from the crazed Varneroy, you had been dumbfounded. He was cracking, obviously: never before had he let pity show. Back at Le Vésinet, he had been tender, attentive to your pain. He had put ointment on your wounds, and in amazement you had seen his eyes brimming with tears.
This morning you had heard him leave for the hospital. Then he had come back, leaped at you, and knocked you down. And here you are, a pr
isoner once more, back in the cellar chained up in the dark.
Hell is about to return, just like four years ago, after he caught you in the forest.
He is going to kill you. Mygale has gone mad, far madder than before. Viviane has had another crisis. He has been to see her in Normandy, and he can’t stand it. Pimping you no longer works. What will he think up?
He had changed so much over these last few months. He was far less mean. True, he would still scream into his damned intercom to shake you up, but…
Just as well to die, anyway. You never had the courage to kill yourself. He has eradicated every vestige of revolt in you. Vincent has become his creature. Eve has become his creature. You are nothing, nothing at all.
You used to dream often of escape. But where would you go, the state you were in? Back to your mother, your friends? Alex? Who would even recognize you? Mygale has succeeded: he has bound you to him forever.
You hope that the end will be quick. Let him finish you off, but stop toying with you!
Mygale has tied the rope solidly, and you can’t move. The thing irritates your breasts and binds them tight. They hurt.
Your breasts…
Yes, your breasts. He had worked so hard getting them to sprout. It was not long after the first injections that they had begun to grow. You paid no attention at first, attributing the appearance of masses of fatty tissue to the indolent life you were leading. But at each of his visits Mygale would palpate your chest and nod. The implication was unavoidable. Horrified, you watched your chest swelling, your breasts taking form. Day after day you gauged the growth of your mammaries and clutched your despairingly flaccid penis. You wept over this often. Mygale would reassure you. Everything was going fine. Did you need anything? What could he get you that you did not already have? He was just so nice, so considerate.
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