The Beast of the Camargue

by Xavier-Marie Bonnot

  “They’re magnificent.”

  “Yes they are, aren’t they?”

  “Did the photographer say which day your husband dropped the film off?”

  “The day he disappeared. June 24. I thought that might tell you things.”

  “And you’re quite right. So we’re now sure that he vanished on the 24th. What are these documents?”

  “They’re notes he left in his car. The police didn’t take them away.”

  De Palma read:

  1—La Capelière. At the far end of the large meadow? Turn left then right toward the dead tree in the water. Ten meters to the left. In the coppice.

  2—From the guardian’s hut, toward the marsh.

  “They look like directions, don’t they, Michel?”

  “One of them gives the exact place where he was found.”

  “I hadn’t noticed that.”

  On another piece of paper, which was folded in four, Steinert had written:

  Rush hut number 2, well hidden after the reed bed. A good place for sunrise. Mention it to Christophe.

  “Did your husband often make notes like this?”

  “All the time. His memory wasn’t very good, he was always forgetting things, so he kept notes.”

  “Do you know this Christophe?”

  “It’s Texeira, the director of the reserve. We’ve met once or twice.”

  She put the photographs back into their envelope.

  “There, that’s all I wanted to show you. The rest is just snippets of his existence, nothing of any great interest.”

  “In a life, everything is of interest.”

  She stared at him with a little girl’s eyes.

  “Come on, Michel. Let’s have some of that famous pistou soup. We’ll talk about something cheerful. William wouldn’t have liked us to be sad.”

  19.

  Maistre’s investigations into the career of the SIG had so far not been conclusive, except in discovering that the proper series number had not been recorded on the list of exhibits from the grocery holdup. That was why he’d had trouble locating it. The number recorded by the police differed from that used in court. In the paperwork of criminal justice and the police, the weapon no longer existed. Maistre had never seen such a disappearing act.

  This was also why he had decided to take his time, and avoid arousing colleagues’ suspicions. Because one of them was involved in this story, and sooner or later he knew that he would find him.

  Late in the afternoon, the Baron was driving through the sweltering heat of the Vaccarès reserve. Texeira had called him: the voices had returned.

  Along the banks of the lagoon, there was an overwhelming smell of dead algae and dried-up slime. Every available space along the road was occupied by a mobile home or caravan. Some holidaymakers were Dutch, others were German, with red thighs and faces consumed by the sun.

  He turned onto the road to La Capelière before parking the 205 between two tourist coaches.

  The reed bed was rustling in the furnace. The tips of the reddened canes swayed almost imperceptibly, moved by an invisible breeze.

  Texeira was standing in the middle of a group. He was handing out brochures and visitors’ guides to the reserve. When he looked up, he saw de Palma waving at him.

  “I’m coming, I’m coming …”

  De Palma signaled him to take his time, before retreating from the sun into the ecology museum. Texeira joined him a few minutes later.

  “Good afternoon, M. de Palma. I’m up to my neck right now. But come to my office in five minutes’ time and we can talk.”

  The Baron decided to explore the museum a little. He had a good look at an exhibit showing the composition of the flora in the marshes. He had had no idea that there were so many different species of plants, and especially algae.

  When he had finished, he bought a plan of the reserve, a brochure about the birds of the Camargue and an ordnance survey map of the area.

  Texeira was in his office looking through his binoculars when the Baron appeared in the doorway.

  “We’ve now got all the time we need. I suppose you’re here about the voices.”

  “That’s right.”

  The biologist stowed away the Petri dishes that were scattered over the draining board. Then he placed both his hands on his binoculars.

  “I heard voices. It was past one o’clock. They were coming from the far side of the marsh, from around the old hut. There were voices and footsteps.”

  “And what were they saying, these voices?”

  “It’s very hard to say!”

  “Why?”

  “Because I think it was in Provençal, or something like that.”

  “Provençal?”

  “Yes, they said: La Tarasco, la Tarasco … Lou Castéou. The Tarasque, in other words. That much I understood. And it does sound like Provençal, don’t you think? The rest, I can’t tell you. I just can’t remember.”

  “One voice or several?”

  “I think there were two, because one was high and the other lower.”

  “Did Steinert mention these voices to you?”

  “No, why?”

  “Just asking.”

  Texeira sat down on a swivel-chair. He folded his arms and raised his shoulders.

  “I did say I’d keep you informed. But I don’t see what can be important about all this. There are just some idiots who come here to kick up a din at night. There are so many loonies around these days.”

  “Another thing: why didn’t you tell me right away that you knew Steinert well?”

  “I was cross with myself afterward. I was being selfish. I didn’t want any trouble, that’s all. Anyway, what I know about him is quite irrelevant.”

  The Baron gestured broadly to tell him to stop making excuses.

  “Tell me about him instead. What was he like?”

  Texeira took off his glasses and started to clean the lenses with the lapels of his white coat.

  “He was a very impressive character, even if you didn’t quite know who he was. When he turned up here in the evening, before bivouacking in the marshes, he used to speak about all sorts of things and—how can I put it?—he was radiant. He had a presence, with quite exceptional magnetism. A great, very great man …”

  “You seem to have respected him.”

  “We had the same opinions about ecology, the protection of animals …”

  “Meaning?”

  “He thought, like me, that we can’t ignore the human factor, that ecology is a whole, and that protecting nature also means protecting a region’s cultural and human heritage. I know that he fought hard for that, especially when it came to archaeology. He was always up in arms against this or that mayor of some town in the backwoods of Provence. If wanted to, he had the means to make their lives difficult, but he always preferred to negotiate. He was a good listener. When I spoke to him, he attended to what I said as though he was a student. It was rather impressive when you bear in mind that he was a real capitaine of industry in his country.”

  “Do you know his wife?”

  “No. In fact, he never mentioned her.”

  “But she says that she’s met you!”

  “Honestly, I don’t remember that.”

  “You mentioned his campaigns. Could you tell me anything more about that, or give me some examples?”

  “That will be hard, he was quite discreet about his concrete actions. But I do know that he forced the gendarmes to investigate the world of seasonal workers. There are loads of illegal immigrants around here. It’s a real form of slavery.”

  De Palma leaned against the bookcase, and a dark gleam lit up his face.

  “Did he come here alone?”

  “Yes, always alone. He would park his huge 4×4 beside my car then come up to see me. But he never came here when there was a crowd.”

  “Did you ever wonder why?”

  “I asked him and he told me that he didn’t like the company of tourists. They were what he hated
the most.”

  De Palma went over to the window and looked out at the marshes.

  “M. Texeira, do you still have my phone number?”

  “Yes, of course. It’s in my diary.”

  “If you ever hear these voices again, call me at once.”

  “O.K. As you want. Is it that important?”

  “I don’t know. But I do think that it’s far more important than you imagine.”

  The Baron wiped his forehead with his handkerchief.

  “Are you here every night at that time?”

  “Yes, usually.”

  “And are you asleep then?”

  “I never go to bed before about half-past one or two.”

  “Now, could you show the place where these voices were coming from?”

  “Follow me.”

  On the path that ran beside the reed bed, the earth was as hard as old cement, and covered in cracks despite the recent rain. Texeira strode ahead rapidly. From time to time, he glanced toward the creek.

  “The level is going down,” he said, pointing at the water which was frothing like detergent.

  They entered a clump of ash trees. Texeira turned left, went up some wooden steps that were hidden among the trees and vanished into a hide. Panting, de Palma did likewise.

  “Here we are. The voices came from the far side of the marsh. Over there, in that large reed bed.”

  “What exactly did you hear?”

  “As I told you, two voices, some words in Provençal, and some noises.”

  “What sort of noises?”

  “Splashing, the sound of feet in water …”

  “And then?”

  “That’s all. They sang, then everything stopped.”

  “They sang?”

  Texeira looked annoyed by the officer’s avalanche of questions.

  “Yes, so what?” he said with a sigh.

  “Look, M. Texeira, you hear voices in a place where no one can go, then you tell me that people were singing, and after that, that there were sounds of splashing … and all this subsequent to someone being found dead on your reserve in extremely suspicious circumstances. You also forget to tell me that you knew this person. Do you see now why I’m asking questions?”

  “I’m sorry, M. de Palma, really I am, but I thought these kinds of detail wouldn’t really interest you, and then I didn’t want to have to deal with you.”

  “How can someone get over there?”

  “Actually, I’ve never been there and don’t see how anyone could without getting soaked.”

  “In a boat, perhaps?”

  “We’ll take the reserve’s punt.”

  The marsh was a good hundred meters wide by two hundred long. It lay amid practically virgin territory, which seemed to be returning to life as the sun set.

  At the far side of the pool, an egret took flight, slapping the surface of the water with the tips of its wings.

  Texeira stood up in the flat-bottomed punt and pushed with a long pole, which sank deep into the silt, making wide brown stains in the greenish water.

  In under five minutes, they arrived at the edge of the reed bed. De Palma made to stand up, but Texeira stopped him short.

  “Watch out, there’s quicksand around here. Let’s look for a patch of solid earth then move slowly. If you see any birds on the ground, try not to frighten them. They’ve taken up their quarters for the night.”

  They crept around the reed bed in a northerly direction. Texeira tested the ground on the bank, meter by meter. It was only after a hundred meters that the punt touched bottom.

  Texeira prodded a few more times, then nodded: they were now on a sand bank that emerged from the water in the middle of the reed bed.

  When they leaped over board, de Palma laid his hand on Texeira’s shoulder.

  “Thanks for all this. Now we’ll have to keep our eyes peeled. The slightest thing you find unusual, please show me.”

  “No problem.”

  “I’ll follow in your footsteps. Take your time, because you’ll probably notice things that I wouldn’t. I’m counting on you.”

  Texeira advanced slowly. Soon they were standing in about ten centimeters of water. All around, the Baron observed hordes of creatures that were unknown to him. All around him, the marsh was crawling with life.

  Suddenly, Texeira stopped.

  “There are some footprints here.”

  De Palma walked over and saw on a strip of earth that rose above the water the trace of a footprint: a man’s, with size eight or nine shoes. There was just one, because the person who left it must have walked through the water, just as they were doing now. A footprint made by a sole with crampons, and which was easily recognizable to a knowledgeable eye—Vibram soles.

  “This is a real surprise,” Texeira said. “You can’t come here unless you really know the place well.”

  De Palma regretted not having brought a camera with him. He removed a piece of paper from his pocket and stuck it on a reed stalk. Then he produced his notepad and made a rough sketch showing the direction of the foot: just about due north, according to Texeira’s indications.

  “Let’s go on.”

  “We can’t be that far from the hut.”

  They walked on a few meters further. The reeds grew less dense and opened out onto a second marsh, smaller than the first. In the distance, a reed hut with rather dingy white walls stood on a mound of earth between two poplars.

  “How many huts are there like this one?”

  “Just two.”

  “And have you ever been inside this one?”

  “No, I must admit I haven’t. It’s silly, but that’s the way it is. One of my students went in last year. And he told me that there wasn’t much there. It’s just another hut. Also, it’s not in a very good position for observation. Ever since they’ve dammed the stream you saw earlier, the water has risen here and you can’t get to it by foot.”

  “O.K.,” de Palma said. “Let’s try it anyway.”

  “In that case, we’ll go back to the punt and carry it to here.”

  Half an hour later, de Palma and Texeira set foot on the mound and went over to the hut. They walked all around it before going inside.

  It was an oval room. In the middle stood an old table gnawed by wood lice. There were three chairs with broken straw seats, an ancient haversack and some glasses full of dust.

  De Palma scrutinized every nook and cranny. The only thing of interest that he found were traces of a recent presence. Very recent, judging by the marks that could be seen, especially in the dust on the table.

  The earth floor had been swept, and then the traces of the broom removed. When he bent down, he saw that it had been cleaned recently.

  No more than three or four days ago, he thought.

  Texeira called him from outside.

  “Look.”

  On the bank, the earth had been turned over and the sand below the water plowed up by someone or something.

  “It’s as if a large animal has been blundering around.”

  “Which would explain the sounds of splashing,” Texeira said, pointing at the marks.

  “And you heard that noise the second time?”

  “No, probably because I was further away. Or maybe because I didn’t pay attention.”

  The traces on the bank were also recent. They went down into the water and vanished into the silt. And yet some hollow, wedgeshaped marks could still be seen. The water of the marsh had dug deeper around the marks.

  De Palma noticed that on the bank everything that might have been recognizable had been wiped away. That much was clear.

  A heron landed on a dead tree which was rocking on the gray waters. At that moment, the natural world quivered. On the tips of the reeds, a pink light glittered briefly. The sun was setting, in the distance, on the far bank of the Vaccarès.

  “No, Michel, I can’t answer that! I don’t know if William was a freemason or not. He was very discreet about his private life. And don’t imagine
that I was part of his private life.”

  Mme. Steinert was agitated. Her hair was still damp. She had tied it up over her neck, and secured it with an ebony chopstick.

  After leaving the Vaccarès, de Palma had gone to see her at La Balme. He had warned Maistre that he would be back late that night. Maistre had grumbled, Moracchini had thrown a fit of jealousy, and the Baron had done as he pleased.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you for so little reason. I’ll go.”

  “You’re not disturbing me, Michel. I want you to stay to dinner.”

  “I’m afraid of upsetting you with all my questions.”

  “Not at all. Don’t forget that I was the one who put you in this position.”

  De Palma squirmed in his chair.

  “Have you heard from Chandeler?”

  “No, not since I decided to dispense with his services.”

  “And may I ask why you decided to fire him?”

  “Quite simply because he was too greedy. Too voracious. In fact, he only handled a tiny part of the family’s business.”

  From her frown, de Palma guessed that Chandeler had probably tried his luck with her and had been turned down.

  “Can you tell me more about the Downlands?”

  “We could go for a stroll there.”

  “But it’s nighttime!”

  “Then we’ll go tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “That is, if you agree to sleep over at the farmhouse. There’s plenty of room to spare, you know.”

  All the Baron did in answer was to gaze up at the white dry stone walls pierced by little windows. The house had three floors. On the top one, a few of the windows glowed in the darkness. They must be the servants’ quarters.

  “Did you ever wonder why your husband was so determined to keep this place as it is?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Why he didn’t want to change anything, or hardly anything?”

  The question had caught her unawares. She seemed almost upset, as though he had just made her realize that she had never really worried about her husband’s strange behavior.

  “I don’t know. I think that he was very concerned about authenticity.”

  “There was more to it than that.”

  Her turquoise eyes peered at him cautiously. Then, slowly, she picked up a cigarette, placed it in her lips and flicked open her lighter.