 موضوع: The Metro الجمعة أبريل 19, 2013 4:59 pm | |
| The Metro
The
discovery of a body in the Paris Metro early one morning was not
particularly unusual. That it was headless sent a frisson through the
sixth arrondissement, but the incident went unnoticed outside Paris.
Yet there was clearly something strange about the case. It was hardly as
though the body had been decapitated to frustrate identification, for
it was fully clothed and none of the owner's personal effects had been
removed, save of course for his head. The Paris police soon tied up the
contents of the dead man's wallet with forensic evidence from the body.
Added to that, Madame Charente, the dead man's wife, could positively
identify the body in the most intimate ways. (She had already reported
her husband as missing.)
A few men were despatched to poke around in the warm, dark tunnels on
either side of Odéon station, where the body had been found. Above
ground another search was made, equally fruitlessly, and to Inspector
Dutruelle it looked as though the case would linger on unsolved.
Two weeks later, four kilometres away in the west, a headless body was
found at Courcelles station, again in the tunnel not far from the
platform. As in the earlier case, the cause of death was apparently the
severing of the head, which appeared to have been done with some
precision. Again, the body was fully clothed and easily identified, and
nothing but the head had apparently been removed.
"What can I tell these blessed reporters?" Inspector Dutruelle said as
he handed his wife the two sticks of bread he usually bought on the way
home. "They want answers for everything. And it's not just the papers
now, the politicians are getting worried too. I'm reporting to the Préfet on this one."
"If there were instant answers for everything, mon petit chou,
they'd have no need of you," said Madame Dutruelle. "And where would
they be without you? Who cleared up that terrible Clichy case last year,
and the acid bath at Reuilly Diderot?"
The little inspecteur divisionnaire-chef pulled in his stomach,
puffed out his chest and rose to his full height. A smile spread across
his round face. In his smart dark suit and gold-rimmed glasses you could
have taken him for a provincial bank manager rather than one of Paris's
most successful policemen.
"Just think," he said wryly, "they were actually about to close the file on Dr Gomes before I took charge of the investigation."
"They're fools, all of them."
"All the same, my dear, I don't know where to go on this one. There're
no leads. There's no apparent motive. And it's a bizarre pattern.
Assuming, of course, it is a pattern. We can't be sure of that until
there's been another."
Inspector Dutruelle did not have long to wait for his pattern to emerge.
A telephone call at half past five the next morning dragged him from
his bed.
"It's another one, sir," said the voice at the other end.
"Another what?"
"It's identical. Another headless corpse, just like the others - male, middle-aged, white."
"Where?" asked Inspector Dutruelle fumbling for a cigarette.
"Château Rouge."
"In the Metro?"
"Yes sir, just inside the tunnel. In the anti-suicide well between the tracks."
"Close the line - if you haven't already. I'll be with you soon. And don't move it, d'you hear?"
Inspector Dutruelle replaced the receiver with a sigh as his wife padded into the room.
"I hate these early morning cases," he muttered. He lit his cigarette.
"Have a coffee before you go. Another dead body will keep."
"But we've closed the line. And it's the other side of town, my dear. North Paris."
"All the same."
He sat down heavily and watched his wife sullenly as she made the
coffee. Madame Dutruelle was a simple woman of forty-six whose long,
thin-lipped face was framed by stern grey hair. Her strong, practical
hands were country hands, and she had never got used to city life. She
lived for the day when she and her husband would retire to their home
village in Les Pyrenées. Inspector Dutruelle sighed to himself again.
Poor Agnes. She tried so hard to please him. How could she know that he
longed to be free of her? How could she possibly know of Vololona, the
young Malagasy he had met while on the Clichy case? For him it had been
love at first sight.
"And for me too, my darling," Vololona had been quick to agree, her
large brown eyes welling with tears as they gazed at him through the
smoke of the Chatte et Lapin where she worked, "a veritable coup de foudre."
She spoke French well, with a Malagasy accent and huskiness that left
you with a sense of mystery and promise. Inspector Dutruelle was a happy
man; but he was careful to tell no-one except Monsieur Chébaut, his
closest friend, about the source of his happiness.
"I've never felt like this before, Pierre. I'm captivated by her," he
said one evening when he took Monsieur Chébaut to see Vololona dancing.
It was a rare experience, even for the jaded Monsieur Chébaut. In the
frantic coloured spotlights of the Chatte et Lapin Vololona danced solo
and in her vitality you sensed the wildness of Madagascar. Her black
limbs lashed the air to the music, which was raw and sensual.
"You know, Pierre, in thirty years of marriage I was never unfaithful.
Well, you know that already. There was always my work, and the children,
and I was happy enough at home. It never occured to me to look at
another woman. But something happened when I met Vololona. She showed me
how to live. She showed me what real ecstasy is. Look at her, Pierre.
Isn't she the most exquisite thing you ever saw? And she adores me.
She's crazy about me. But why, I ask you? What can she see in me - three
times her age, pot-bellied, bald . . . married?"
Inspector Dutruelle leaned back in his chair and swung around to look at
the other customers applauding Vololona from the shadows. He smiled
proudly to himself. He knew exactly what was on their minds. Life was
strange, he thought, and you could never tell. Some of them were young
men, tall and handsome and virile, yet none of them knew Vololona as he
knew her.
Monsieur Chébaut finished his whisky.
"I can see," he said, "that a man in your position might have certain
attractions for an immigrant without papers working in one of the more
dangerous quarters of Paris." Monsieur Chébaut was a lawyer.
"You're a cynic, Pierre."
"And after thirty years in the force you're not?"
"Personally, I believe her when she says she loves me. I just don't know why. Another whisky?"
"Well, one thing's for sure, Régis, it can't go on like that. One way or
another things'll come to a head. But I must agree, she's exquisite all
right. Like an exquisite Venus fly-trap. And at the germane moment, you
know, those soft, succulent petals will close around you like a vice."
The normally placid Inspector was piqued by his friend's unreasonable attitude.
"How can you say that?" he snapped. "When you haven't even spoken to her."
"But all women are the same, Régis. Don't you know that? You should be a
lawyer, then you'd know it. They can't help it, they're built that way.
Believe me, it can't go on without something happening."
Inspector Dutruelle glowered at his old schoolfriend and said nothing.
Monsieur Chébaut could see he had touched a raw nerve. He grinned
amicably and leaned across to slap his friend playfully on the shoulder.
"Look Régis, all I'm saying is, be careful, you haven't got my experience."
Of course, that was true. When it came to women few men had Monsieur
Chébaut's experience. Or his luck, for that matter. He was one of those
people who go through life insulated from difficulties. He crossed roads
without looking. He did not hurry for trains. He never reconciled bank
accounts. Tall, slim, with boyish good looks and thick, black, wavy
hair, he was the antithesis of Inspector Dutruelle.
"Look, you've got two women involved, Régis," Monsieur Chébaut
continued, "and women aren't like us. Agnes isn't stupid. She must know
something's going on."
"She hasn't said anything," said the Inspector brusquely. He lit another Gauloise.
"Of course she hasn't. She's cleverer than you are. She intends to keep you."
"Mind you," said Inspector Dutruelle grudgingly, "she has had some odd
dreams recently - so she says. About me and another woman. But anyway,
she just laughs and says she can't believe it."
"But Régis, you must know that what we say and what we think are seldom the same."
"Sometimes I wonder if I ought to tell her something, if only out of decency."
Monsieur Chébaut nearly choked on the fresh whisky he had just put to his lips.
"No," he cried with a passion that surprised the Inspector, "never, you must never tell her. Écoute
Régis, even if she did mention it, you must deny everything. Even if
she caught the two of you in the act, you must deny it. You can only
tell a woman there's another when you've definitively made up your mind
to leave her, and even then it may not be safe."
"So much for logic."
"It's no use looking for logic in women, Régis. I told you, they're not
like men. In fact, I've come to the conclusion that they're not even the
same species as men. Men and women aren't like dog and bitch, they're
more like dog and cat. C'est bizarre, non? In any case, I do know you can't keep two women on the go without something happening. I don't know what, but something."
Now the European press had picked the story up and the little Inspector
did not know how to deal with the international reporters who hung
around like flies outside the old stone walls of the Préfecture
de police. Their stories focussed on the bizarre nature of the
killings, and the idea that there were three severed heads somewhere in
Paris particularly excited them. They wanted constantly to know more. So
of course did Inspector Dutruelle.
"I assure you, gentlemen," he told a press conference, "we are at least
as anxious as you to recover the missing parts. We are doing everything
possible. You can tell your readers that wherever they are, we'll find
them."
"Can we have photographs of the victims for our readers?" asked one of the foreign reporters.
"So as we know which heads we're looking for," added a journalist from London.
It was a joke that was not shared by the people of Paris. Suddenly the
normally carnival atmosphere of the Metro had evaporated. Buskers no
longer worked the coaches between stations. Puppeteers and jugglers no
longer entertained passengers with impromptu performances. Even the
beggars, who habitually hung around the crowded stations or made
impassioned speeches in the carriages, had gone. And the few passengers
who remained sat more long-faced than ever, or walked more hastily down
the long corridors between platforms.
Inspector Dutruelle despaired of ever clearing the case up. His mind,
already excited over Vololona, was now in a turmoil. Vololona had
suddenly, and tearfully, announced that she was pregnant. Then, having
accepted his financial assistance to terminate the pregnancy - but
refusing his offer to take her to the clinic - she told him one day on
the telephone: "I thought you were going to ask me to marry you."
Inspector Dutruelle was stunned.
"But you know I'm married, ma chérie," he said.
"I thought you'd leave Agnes," she replied. "I wanted to be with you. I
wanted to share everything with you . . . my child . . . my life . . .
my bed." Inspector Dutruelle could hear her sobbing.
"But darling, we can still see each other."
"No, it's too painful. I love you too much."
Inspector Dutruelle could not concentrate on his work at all. Day and
night his thoughts were on Vololona; he longed to be with her. If only
Agnes would leave him. And if only Vololona would be satisfied with what
he gave her already - the dinners, the presents, the apartment. Why did
women have to possess you? It seemed that the more you gave them the
more they took, until there was nothing left to give but yourself.
Perhaps Pierre was right after all, when you thought about it.
The investigation into the Metro murders was proceeding dismally.
Inspector Dutruelle had no suspect, no leads, no motive. His superiors
complained about his lack of progress and the press ridiculed him
without pity. "It appears," commented France-Soir, "that the only
thing Inspector Dutruelle can tell us with certainty is that with each
fresh atrocity the Metro station name grows longer." The detectives
under him could not understand what had happened to their normally
astute Inspector, and they felt leaderless and demoralised. It was left
to the security police of the Metro to point out one rather obvious
fact: that the three stations where bodies had been found had one thing
in common - their lines intersected at Metro Barbes Rochechouart, and it
seemed that something might be learned by taking the Metro between
them.
Inspector Dutruelle did not like public transport, and he especially did
not like the Metro. It was cramped, smelly and claustrophobic at the
best of times, and in the summer it was hot. You stood on the very edge
of the platform just to feel the breeze as the blue and white trains
pulled into the station. It was years since the Inspector had used the
Metro.
"I can't take much more of this, Marc" he said to the young Detective
Constable who was travelling with him, "it's too hot. We'll get off at
the next stop."
"That's Barbes Rochechouart, sir. We can change there."
"No, Marc. We can get out there. Someone else can take a sauna, I've had
enough. Anyway, we need to have a look around." Inspector Dutruelle
wiped his brow. He sounded irritable. "God knows what it's like
normally," he added.
When the train pulled in they took the exit for Boulevard de Rochechouart.
"At least we can get through now," said the Detective Constable as they walked up the passage towards the escalator.
"How d'you mean?" asked Inspector Dutruelle.
"Well, normally this station's packed - beggars, passengers, buskers,
hawkers, plus all their tables and stalls. It's like a damn great fair
and market rolled into one. You can get anything here, from Eiffel
Towers to cabbages and potatoes - not to mention a spot of cannabis or
heroin."
"Oh, yes," said Inspector Dutruelle, vaguely. "I remember." He passed a handkerchief across his brow again.
At the turnstyles a man was handing out publicity cards and he thrust
one into Inspector Dutruelle's hand. Glancing down at it and squinting
in the bright sunlight, the Inspector read aloud: "'Professor Dhiakobli,
Grand Médium Voyant can help you succeed rapidly in all areas of life . . .'"
He broke off in mid-sentence with a snort.
"What a lot of mumbo-jumbo! Headless chickens and voodoo magic."
"It may be mumbo-jumbo to you, sir," said the Detective Constable with a
laugh, "but round here they take that sort of thing seriously. And not
only round here - after all, we use some of these techniques in the
police, don't we?"
"Oh really? Such as?"
"Well, graphology for a start - you can hardly call basing a murder case
on the size of someone's handwriting scientific, can you sir? Or what
about astrology - employing people on the basis of the stars? Or
numerology."
"Yes, Marc," said Inspector Dutruelle, pushing the card into his top
pocket, "maybe you're right, and maybe when you're older you won't be so
sure. Now get on the blower and call the car."
The hot July turned to hotter and more humid August. No more bodies were
found in the sweltering tunnels of the Metro, and the media, bored with
the lack of developments, left Inspector Dutruelle to his original
obscurity. Paris, deserted by its citizens in the yearly exodus to the
coast, was tolerable only to the tourists with backpacks who flocked to
the cheap hotels and began again to crowd the Metro. Then, in September,
the Parisiens came back and life returned to normal.
But Inspector Dutruelle's passion for Vololona did not cool with the
season. Vololona had at last agreed to see him, occasionally; but she
always managed (with tears in her eyes) to deflect his more amorous
advances. For Inspector Dutruelle it was beneath him to observe that he
continued to pay the rent on her apartment, but he was growing
increasingly frustrated. The notion that she had another lover obsessed
him, and in the evenings he took to prowling the broad Boulevard de
Clichy between her apartment and the Chatte et Lapin. Sometimes he would
stand for hours watching her door, as locals strolled past with their
dogs or sat on the benches under the plane trees. Now, denied the one
thing here he wanted, the scene filled him with dismay. Money and music
were in the air. Lovers sipped coffee in the open and watched the whores
in their doorways. Pigeons fluttered as girls in tight mini-skirts
hurried to work. Tourists with their Deutschmarks arrived by the busload
and the touts in dark glasses worked hard to coax them into the
expensive sex shows and neon-lit video clubs. Somewhere deep below ran
the Metro; but Inspector Dutruelle had no more interest in that. His
superiors had given up hope of solving the Metro murders and had moved
him on to other things. Sometimes he would stay all night, leaving to
the tinkle of broken glass as workmen swept up after the night's
revelries. Occasionally he would see Vololona leave her apartment to buy
cigarettes, but he never once saw her on the arm of another man, or saw
a male visitor take the lift to the seventh floor.
One night, late in October, he returned from the Boulevard de Clichy
just after midnight. Madame Dutruelle, having been told that her husband
was working on a case, and perhaps believing it, was already asleep.
Had she been awake she would surely have been surprised to see him throw
his jacket over a chair, for Inspector Dutruelle had always been
meticulous with his clothes, the sort of man who irons his shoelaces.
But the jacket missed and dropped to the floor. Muttering to himself,
the Inspector bent and picked it up, and as he did so something fell
from the top pocket. He gazed at it blankly for a moment. Then he
realised it was the card he had been given at the metro station, a
little the worse for having been once or twice to the cleaners, but
still legible. He picked it up and slowly started to read:
PROFESSOR DHIAKOBLI
Grand Médium Voyant
can help you succeed rapidly in all areas of life: luck, love,
marriage, attraction of clients, examinations, sexual potency. If you
desire to make another love you or if your loved one has left with
another, this is his domain, you will be loved and your partner will
return. Prof. Dhiakobli will come behind you like a dog. He will create
between you a perfect rapport on the basis of love. All problems
resolved, even desperate cases. Every day from 9am to 9pm. Payment after
results.
13b, rue Beldamme, 75018 Paris
staircase B, 6th floor, door on left
Metro: Barbes RochechouartInspector Dutruelle stood in
his socks and braces reading the card over and over again. "All problems
resolved . . ." It was preposterous. And yet, it was tempting. What
harm could there be in a little hocus pocus when everything else had
failed? After all, everyone knew that even the police used clairvoyants
when they were really up against it.
Rue Beldamme was a backstreet of tenement buildings in Paris's eighteenth arrondissement,
an area popular with immigrants from francophone Africa. It lay close
to the busy crossroads straddled by Metro Barbes Rochechouart. Inspector
Dutruelle parked in the next street and walked the rest of the way,
cursing because he had not brought his umbrella. The door to number 13b
was swinging in the wind, its dark paint peeling badly. He stepped
through into a narrow courtyard and found his way to the sixth-floor
door on which a brass plaque read: "Professor Dhiakobli Spécialiste des travaux occultes
Please ring". He stood there, breathing heavily from the stairs, and
before he could press the bell the door opened and a man appeared.
"Please enter, my dear sir," said the man with an elegant wave of the
hand and exaggerated courtesy. "I am Dhiakobli. And I have the honour to
meet . . . ?"
As Inspector Dutruelle had imagined, Professor Dhiakobli was black. He
had a short yet commanding figure, and was dressed in a well tailored
grey suit. A large, silk handkerchief fell from his top pocket.
"For the moment," said Inspector Dutruelle, "my name is hardly important. I've only come in response to your advertisement."
"Monsieur has perhaps some small problem with which I can help? A minor
indiscretion? Please be seated, sir, and let us talk about the matter."
Inspector Dutruelle handed his coat and gloves to the Professor and sat
in the large, well upholstered chair to which he had been directed.
Professor Dhiakobli himself settled behind a large mahogany desk, on top
of which a chihuahua hardly bigger than a mouse was lounging, its wide,
moist eyes gazing disdainfully at the newcomer.
"Ah, I see that Zeus approves of you," said the Professor, stroking the
tiny dog with the tips of his manicured fingers, his own unblinking eyes
also fixed on Inspector Dutruelle. "Poor Zeus, mon petit papillon,
he is devoted to me, but he must remain here whenever I leave France.
And you are fortunate, monsieur. It is only now that I return from Côte
d'Ivoire. It is my country you know, I return there for a few months
each summer. Paris in summer is so disagreeable, don't you agree?"
Professor Dhiakobli glittered with success. The frames of his glasses,
the heavy bracelet on his right wrist and the watch on his left, the
gem-studded rings on his fingers - all were of gold. From his manner and
cultured French accent it was evident that he was an educated man.
Around him the large room was like a shrine. Heavy curtains excluded the
daylight (the only illumination was a small brass desklamp) and the
dark, red walls were festooned with spears, costumes, photographs and
other African memorabilia. There was a sweet smell in the air, and in
one corner of the room the feathers of a ceremonial African headgear lay
draped inappropriately over an enormous American refrigerator. You
could not help being struck by the incongruity of this bizarre scene in
the roughest quarter of Paris.
"As I say," began Inspector Dutruelle, ignoring the Professor's question, "I saw your card and I wondered just how you work."
"And may one enquire as to monsieur's little difficulty?"
Inspector Dutruelle cleared his throat and tried to adopt as nonchalant an air as he could.
"Well," - he coughed again - "first of all, I wondered what sort of things you can help people with."
The Professor's eyebrows rose.
"Anything," he said slowly, his smile revealing a set of large white
teeth that shone brilliantly in the dimness against his black skin. "My
dear sir, anything at all."
"And then, I wondered, how do you operate? That's to say, what exactly do you do . . . and how do you charge?"
"Ah monsieur, let us not talk of money. First I must learn just how I can help you. And for that a consultation is in order."
Inspector Dutruelle shifted in his seat.
"And what would a consultation involve? What does it . . . cost?"
Professor Dhiakobli wrung his hands and shrugged amicably.
"Mon cher monsieur, I do understand how distasteful it is to you
to discuss so vulgar a matter as money. I too recoil at the mere thought
of it. It has been my mission in life to help those who have suffered
misfortune. And if some donate a small token of their gratitude, who am I
to refuse their offering? They pay according to their means, to assist
those who have little to offer. But for a preliminary consultation,
monsieur, a nominal sum, as a mark of good faith, is usually in order.
For a gentleman of your obvious standing, a trifle, a mere two hundred
francs. And let me assure you, monsieur, of my absolute discretion.
Nothing you may choose to tell me will go beyond these walls." He
paused. Then he threw out his hands and added with a grin: "They have
the sanctity of the confessional."
"I'm glad to hear it," said the Inspector.
"But monsieur still has the advantage of me . . ." continued Professor Dhiakobli.
Inspector Dutruelle decided that he had nothing to lose by talking. He
adopted the name of Monsieur Mazodier, a Parisien wine merchant, and
began to tell the Professor of the dilemma that was tearing at his soul.
He told him of the young Malagasy girl he had met while entertaining
clients; of their instant and passionate love for one another; of her
sudden irrational refusal any longer to give herself to him; and of the
wife he now knew he should never have married but whom he had not the
heart to leave. Monsieur Mazodier was at his wits' end and now even his
business was suffering. He feared that if he did not find a resolution
to his problem he might do something that he or others would regret. The
Professor listened intently, asking appropriate questions at
appropriate moments. Finally Inspector Dutruelle said: "Well, Professor
Dhiakobli, I think that's all I can tell you. I don't think I can tell
you any more. From what I have told you, do you believe you can help
me?"
For a long time there was silence. The Professor appeared to be in
another world. He stared at Inspector Dutruelle, but seemed to be
looking through him.
"My dear Monsieur Mazodier," he said at last, very slowly, almost
mechanically, "the story you have told me is most poignant. Each of us
has a hidden corner in his life, a jardin secret. Yet it is rare
indeed for men to come to me with problems such as yours. Perhaps it is
natural that most of my lovelorn clients should be women. At the mercy
of their complex physical structure, is it any wonder that women are
such emotional creatures? I help them find their lost ones, their
partners of many years, to recreate again the rapport of their youth.
You will understand that it is not easy. But this is my work. My
domain."
"So you can't help me?" said Inspector Dutruelle, adding despondently: "Perhaps what I really need is a head-shrink."
The Professor gave a start. Again, for a long time he did not answer. Then his teeth flashed in the dimness.
"Écoutez monsieur, this is my work, my domain," he
repeated. "Certainly I can help you. But you must understand that it
will not be easy. It calls for a special ceremony. In the first place,
you are married, and I shall be required to work my influence on not one
but two women. In the second, we are both men of the world, monsieur,
and you will not be offended if I remark upon the extreme disparity in
your ages. And finally, it is clear to me that this young girl has
chained your heart with her magic. You know, the magic of Madagascar is
very strong. No, monsieur, it will not be easy. Enduring love cannot be
bought with money alone. Sometimes . . ." He hesitated and looked
Inspector Dutruelle straight in the eye, his own eyes suddenly cold and
vacant. "Sometimes," he said, "we must make sacrifices."
"What sort of sacrifices?" asked Inspector Dutruelle dully.
"Oh, my dear sir, you must leave that to me. But one cannot make an
omelette without breaking eggs." His cold eyes remained fixed on the
Inspector and he spoke in a monotone without pausing for breath. "You
must not concern yourself with technicalities, monsieur. Your mind must
be fixed on the future, on the life you have dreamed of. You must
envisage your wife - happy in the arms of another. You must picture the
fragile young child you so yearn for . . . secure in your arms . . .
sharing your life . . . your days . . . your nights. The perfect
solution to all your problems. Is it not worth a considerable sum?"
"It certainly would be worth a lot . . ." Inspector Dutruelle muttered as the Professor's words came to life in his mind.
"Shall we say thirty thousand francs?"
"I'm sorry?" muttered the Inspector.
"Let's say fifteen thousand before and fifteen afterwards," the
Professor went on as though his visitor had not spoken. "Do you see,
monsieur, how confident I am of success?"
Inspector Dutruelle did not reply. He was confused. He had not expected
the Professor to be so blunt, or to propose quite so generous a token.
But it did not seem to matter. After all, what was thirty thousand
francs to achieve what he craved so desperately? And, in any case, at
worst it was only fifteen thousand.
The Professor's eyes were still fixed on Inspector Dutruelle.
"Of course, monsieur, I have faith in your gratitude. I know that you
will not forget, in your delight, that what I have done, I can undo. And
now, monsieur, you must not allow me to detain you further. We have
much work to do. In eight days you will return with photographs and
details of Madame Mazodier and the Malagasy. And with some little
articles of clothing, something close to their thoughts, say a scarf or a
hat. You can arrange this?"
Inspector Dutruelle nodded blankly.
"Excellent, monsieur. I must know them in every detail - if I am to have
a spiritual tête-à-tête with each of them. So, in fifteen days, you
will return for the ceremony. It will take place beyond those curtains,
in the space reserved for the ancestral spirits. Nobody but I and my
assistants may enter there, but nevertheless it is imperative that you
be present on the day. It must be at dawn, and you must come without
fail - the ceremony cannot be deferred. Can you manage six in the
morning, shall we say Monday the sixteenth?"
Inspector Dutruelle did not sleep well on the night of the fifteenth of
December. At four o'clock in the morning he got out of bed. Though his
wife stirred she did not wake. He showered and dressed. His nerves were
on edge as he fiddled around in the kitchen, boiling water for his
coffee. He drank two cups, strong and black, but he looked helplessly at
the croissants he had spread clumsily with jam. He lit a Gauloise and
paced the room. Then he pulled the windows open and leaned on the
railing, finishing his cigarette. Below him the courtyard was dark and
silent, and above him the sky was black. But away in the east, through
the open end of the court, a violet hue was creeping over Paris. He
glanced at his watch. It was a quarter past five and time to fetch the
car. It would seem strange, leaving at that time of the morning without
an official car and driver. He wondered what the concierge would make of
it all - she was bound to be polishing the brasses by the time he
reached the ground floor. He gave a shiver and pushed the windows shut.
Then he put the keys of the Renault in his coat pocket
and checked that he had everything. He looked into the bedroom. Gently,
he drew the duvet back and looked at his wife as she slept, her arms
clasped about her knees. He leaned over and touched his lips to her
cheek. Then he closed the bedroom door silently behind him, switched the
lights off in the living room and kitchen, and opened the front door.
As he did so the telephone rang. It startled him and he cursed aloud. He
closed the front door again and hurried to answer the phone so that his
wife should not wake.
"Inspector Dutruelle?" said the voice at the other end.
"Yes, what is it?"
"Sorry to disturb you at this time of the morning, Monsieur l'Inspecteur. It's the Préfecture."
"Never mind the time," said Inspector Dutruelle with as much irritation
as his whispering voice could convey. "I'm off duty today."
"Well, that's the point, Inspector. The Préfet's ordered us to call you specially. He appreciates you're not on duty, but he wants you anyway."
"It's quite impossible."
"I'm afraid he insists, sir."
"Why?"
"He insists you come on duty immediately, sir. We're sending a car round for you."
"Yes, yes, I understand, but why?"
"It's the Metro again, sir."
"The Metro?"
"Yes, sir. They've found another corpse on the line, decapitated again."
Inspector Dutruelle did not reply. He was cursing to himself. He was cursing the Préfet, the police, this homicidal maniac, his wife. Why today? Why ever today?
"Sir? Hello sir? The car'll be with you in five minutes."
"Yes, all right. I'll be ready in five minutes."
The big black Citroen was soon speeding away from Rue Dauphine and
heading north across Pont Neuf. Inspector Dutruelle looked at the winter
mists rising from the Seine. His dreams, it seemed, were evaporating
just as surely.
"You'd better brief me on this as quick as you can," he said wearily to
the Detective Sergeant he had found waiting for him in the car. "Where
was the body found?"
"Barbes Rochechouart, sir."
A cold shiver passed through the Inspector.
"I presume it's the same as the others?" he asked.
"Well, in as much as there's nothing to go on, it's the same, sir.
Otherwise it couldn't be more different. For a start, we've just heard
they've found two of them now. And this time they're women. One white,
in her forties, and one black. A young black girl - still in her teens,
by the look of things."
But Inspector Dutruelle was not listening. He was staring blankly
through the glass to his right, and as they turned at Place du Châtelet
the empty streets were no more than a cold, grey blur to him. The car
swung onto the broad Boulevard de Sébastopol and accelerated northwards
to cover the three kilometres to Metro Barbes Rochechouart. It was the
route he should have been taking in his own car.
Outside the station, now closed to passengers, people were standing
around under the street lights with their collars up. Inspector
Dutruelle got out of the car. He hesitated. He glanced towards Rue
Beldamme (just a stone's throw away across the bleak Boulevard de
Rochechouart) where the Professor would be waiting for him. He shrugged
and went down the station steps.
Underground, on the number four line, there was an air of gloom. Both
bodies lay where they had been spotted by the first train-drivers
through that morning. Inspector Dutruelle looked impassively at the
first one. It was the body of a middle-aged woman, quite unexceptional,
coarse and wiry, like his wife.
"She's forty-seven, Monsieur l'Inspecteur," said somebody beside him. "French. Name of Madame Catherine Dubur. Not like the other one."
"The other one?" said the Inspector blankly.
"I told you in the car, sir," said the Detective Sergeant at his ear, "there's two of them."
"You'd better show me."
They strolled in their overcoats to the other end of the platform and
went down the little steps that led to the track. A uniformed policeman
pulled back the blanket that covered the second body, which lay on its
back. Inspector Dutruelle stared dispassionately at the stiff, black
limbs that stuck out awkwardly across the railway lines. Suddenly he
shuddered in alarm. Even in the dim lights of the train that was pulled
up beyond you could see the resemblance to Vololona.
"Identity?" he asked. He tried to control his voice.
"We don't know, sir - this is all we found," said a policeman, handing
him a tattered greetings card. Inside, in large, green handwriting, were
the words: "Happy Nineteenth Birthday, from Everyone in Antananarivo."
"D'you think she's Malagasy, sir?" asked the policeman. The Inspector shrugged his shoulders, then held out an open hand.
"Your torch, please," he said.
He played its beam over the body, up and down the long, slender legs,
across the clothes. At least he did not recognise the clothes. Yet the
body's size, its build, its colour, everything pointed to Vololona. He
bent down and flashed the light onto the fingers of the left hand and
laughed weakly to himself as he saw the tawdry rings that glinted back
at him. He stood up in relief. That was certainly not Vololona. Yet it
was uncanny how this body reminded him of her - and the other of Agnes,
for that matter. Even the ages were the same.
He smoked as he stood staring at the headless corpse. He could not
understand. Was the magic of Madagascar really so strong that now he saw
Vololona everywhere? And what of Agnes? How would Professor Dhiakobli
explain that? How could he explain it, when you came to think of it?
When you came to think of it, he had explained very little. He had been
happy enough to take the money, and free enough with his words - all
those grandiose notions of mission and sacrifice and spiritual
tête-à-têtes . . .
Inspector Dutruelle gasped.
"The devil," he muttered to himself. Suddenly he understood everything.
"The what, sir?" said somebody beside him.
"Never mind," he answered quietly, putting his hand to his breast
pocket. His heart had started to pound with a sense of danger and his
head suddenly ached with questions. He took out his cigarette case and
lit another Gauloise. Through its curling blue smoke, back-lit by the
lights of the train, the black limbs were splayed out in a grotesque
dance, while beside him men's voices were thrumming in his ear. Why was
there no time to think, to extricate himself from this nightmare? He
cursed himself. How could he have been so stupid? He cursed his wife and
Vololona. And Professor Dhiakobli. What madness had driven him to this?
Then he cursed himself again, and turned abruptly to one of the men
babbling at his side.
"What time is it?"
"Six-fifteen, sir."
For a moment, he hesitated. Then he called for the Detective Sergeant who was with the photographer at the other body.
"Écoute Guy, when he's got his pictures they can move the bodies and fix things up," he said. "Now get me the Préfet."
The Préfet was beside
himself with rage at this further disturbance to his sleep, and he
exploded with indignation when Inspector Dutruelle offered his
resignation.
"Are you insane, man? You're in the middle of an investigation!"
"The investigation is over, Monsieur le Préfet."
"So, you have the killer at last!"
"In fifteen minutes, monsieur, in fifteen minutes."
"Then why in the name of God are you asking to be relieved from duty?"
"Monsieur le Préfet,
my position is impossible. On this occasion it was I that paid the
killer," he answered calmly as he took another cigarette from his silver
cigarette case.
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