“Jean-Louis, do you have any mussels left?”
“Yes, a dozen.”
“Little ones?”
“No, they only had big ones!”
“That’s why they’re not biting. Just look at the mussels we’re giving them. They’ve never seen anything like it!”
“It’s not a question of mussels, it’s a question of time. Sea bream generally feed at night.”
“But how do you think they can spot mussels at night, dimwit! My grandfather used to fish at any time of the day.”
“Yes, but in those days, there were still fish!”
The waves broke against the seawall of Pointe-Rouge, flopping against the blocks of concrete. Since 7:00 that morning, Maistre and de Palma had been enjoying a day off and were attempting to fish using sugared mussel as bait. The technique was as complicated as it was mysterious, and it required a certain skill. First, the hook was placed in the mussel, which was then held shut with elastic wrapped round a sugar cube … Once in the salt water, the sugar would dissolve allowing the mussel to open gradually. It looked more real than real! It was an infallible method which Maistre had learned from a fisherman in L’Estaque, but he still hadn’t mastered it.
It was nearly noon.
“Have you got any worms, Le Gros?”
“I bought two.”
“Is that all?”
“We said we were going to try with mussels.”
“Give me a worm. They work better than your carry-on.”
De Palma picked up the long worm and slipped it on to a hook with the help of a piece of metal wire as thin as a needle. He was about to cast out when his mobile rang.
“Michel, it’s Maxime. I didn’t want to disturb you, but you’re going to have to come to Saint-Julien, 36 chemin du Vallon. It’s absolute carnage … Jesus … I think it’s the same one as at Cadenet. I’m even sure of it.”
“I’ll be there in an hour.”
In exasperation, de Palma cast out. The lead and the worm whistled in the air, before falling into the water twenty meters away.
“What’s up, Baron?”
“He’s struck again.”
“Who?”
“Our Cadenet customer.”
“The fucker!”
“Quite.”
At 12:30, there were not that many people outside 36 chemin du Vallon: a few pensioners and neighbors who had been passing by. Maxime Vidal had parked the police Mégane right in the middle of the street, with its light still flashing on the roof and the windows wide open.
A young officer standing on the threshold with his arms crossed hailed de Palma with a vague gesture and looked at him glumly. In the salon, Vidal was talking to a young woman from forensics. He was wearing latex gloves and gesticulating as he spoke, trying to appear composed.
“Ah, there you are Michel! Unfortunately, Judge Barbieri has just gone … Come and have a look. But I warn you, it’s not a pretty sight at all.”
They went down a long corridor cluttered with forensic equipment. De Palma kept his eyes down, noticing traces of vomit on the floorboards and on the blue, Oriental wallpaper. When he entered the bedroom, he could smell recent death, the tenacious odor of blood and the stench of spilled intestines. He swallowed back his bile several times, trying to leave his disgust deep down in his guts. Lieutenant Agnès Bernal from forensics came over to him. “Hi, Michel. We’re done here.”
“Hi Agnès.”
“No joke at all … she was hit in the face and then gutted. Her left leg is missing.”
De Palma slowly approached. Intestines were hanging down to the floor, wobbling slightly every time the photographer bumped into the bed. The skull had been completely smashed in, a mush of shards of bone mixed with brains. There was only one eye left in the middle, where the nose should have been. The other had disappeared.
Her left leg had been severed at the knee. The amputation looked almost perfect, but de Palma noticed that the skin tissue was torn. He mentally compared it with the body of Hélène Weill, and saw that the amputation had been carried out using the same kind of knife, with rather a blunt blade.
He examined the hands: the nails were curiously clean, but that of the middle left finger had been reversed. This was not immediately visible, because the nail had been put back into place, then carefully cleaned with a cotton swab: fiber from it remained stuck to a piece of dead skin.
“The work of a madman. Classic. Cold. No traces. No proof. Not the slightest clue … And yet, he must have left something behind … They all do. But what?”
He stayed for a while in the bedroom, trying to understand this killer who had found his way in, presumably while his victim was asleep. He thought hard.
“He knew his victim. There’s no other possibility. He’d known her for at least a few days. Maybe he met her yesterday. But he definitely knew her. He didn’t break in. She was asleep and woke up when he was already on top of her. The body hasn’t been moved. There are very few signs of a struggle. And no bite marks. It’s the same man for sure.”
Vidal broke his train of thought:
“Michel, there are two or three things I have to tell you.”
“I’m coming.”
He stared at the scene once more. He would have liked to have said something to the dead woman, but nothing came to mind. He looked at what was left of her belly and pubis and thought to himself that she had been an attractive women, with a soft belly, just as he liked. Then he went into the salon, where Vidal was pacing back and forth.
“Jesus Christ, Michel. I’ve never seen anything like it. How can you possibly stay so long in a room with a thing like that?”
“It’s now or never if you want a chance to understand him. Try to imagine: he arrives in the middle of the night, she hears a noise and wakes up, he grabs her, she scratches him. Look at her nail … Then he hits her, once or twice … No more. That’s enough. Then he cuts her up. He takes his time. After that, he guts her for good measure. He takes away one of her legs … Because he only eats the muscle. Finally, he cleans up anything that might give him away.”
Agnès Bernal intervened:
“She doesn’t seem to have been raped. He didn’t torture her or tie her up. Death occurred last night, at about 1:00 a.m. We’ve been through the place with a fine-tooth comb, but we haven’t found much: a few fibers, footprints on the carpet. The most significant item is a shard of stone in the skull. I think it’s flint.”
“Did you use your lamp?”
“The Polilight? Of course I did.”
“And?”
“And there are traces of footprints all over the place. We’ve probably identified his. I’ll tell you tomorrow once we’ve analyzed everything.”
Vidal glanced at de Palma, who said:
“Well, son, what have you found out since you got here?”
“The victim’s name is Julia Chevallier. She was born on October 20, 1957, in Marseille. She was an English teacher at Lycée Longchamp. That’s all. Apart from that, the door has not been forced, there’s no sign of a break-in, and there aren’t any fingerprints in the bedroom or salon. According to the neighbors, she lived alone and hardly ever went out. The body was discovered at 10:00 this morning by the cleaning lady. She was murdered during the night. Presumably around 1:00. Nobody saw or heard a thing.”
“Which is only normal in this kind of house.”
“And this was found next to the body.”
Vidal handed the Baron a plastic bag containing a sheet of white paper: it was an image of a negative hand, just like the one found beside the body of Hélène Weill. The little and ring fingers had been cut almost in half. Professor Palestro had spoken of a hunting code. “A sign language,” de Palma said to himself. “But why these two fingers? There must be a reason! From the depths of his madness, he’s trying to tell us something.”
De Palma considered that if one of the victim’s hands were missing a finger or two, then that would have provided a rationale for all of this. He was disappointed to see that this was not the case.
“And you’ve been all over the room, Agnès? Including the armrests of the chairs?”
“Why?”
She sensed immediately that her question had not gone down too well. The Baron’s expression became hard and cruel. He raised his voice:
“Because the killer knew his victim. Either he hated her, or he lusted after her, thinking her inaccessible. You see, Agnès—and this applies to you as well, Vidal—he came here and sat down, without his gloves of course, because at that moment he was a friend. He might even have had a drink. So you’re going to collect all the fingerprints from every smooth surface in this entire sodding room. Is that clear? And, Agnès, check out the dishwasher.”
“No problem, Michel.”
“You know, Vidal, the worst thing is that even if we do find a print, it won’t be on our records. But still, during questioning a print is invaluable; it means you don’t have to stay up all night being nice to the fucker so as to make him talk.”
De Palma went out into the garden. It was practically a park, measuring two thousand square meters and surrounded by walls barely higher than he was. It hadn’t been looked after, and tall weeds were beginning to swamp the rose bushes. On the paths, a few flowerpots had been blown over by the mistral. De Palma saw a fifty-year-old woman on the patio and approached her. Her eyes were still red, and her expression still reflected the image left behind by this barbaric murder.
“Who are you, Madame?”
“Inès Santamaria, I’m the cleaning lady. I found the body this morning.”
“At what time?”
“A little after 10:00. I’m always here at 10:00 sharp. I’m never late. My God, how horrible! How …”
She started to cry. “Did you notice anything strange?”
“No, nothing.”
“Was the street door locked?”
“All the doors were locked. As usual. She always locks up before going to bed. Imagine, living all alone in a huge house like that!”
“I see … And what’s that shed over there?”
“It’s a kind of workshop, full of tools. It goes back to the days when her father was still alive.”
The grass in front of the shed was trodden down. Inside, some of the gardening tools had been disturbed. De Palma spotted a door at the back. He opened it and noticed that its lock had been forced. It led out on to a path that ran alongside an irrigation canal, just like many others dating from the time when this part of town had been full of market gardens. He went through the door, stared into the canal and tried to put his thoughts into some kind of order.
Vidal interrupted him.
“You were right, Michel, we’ve found something on the left armrest of one of the chairs: a fingerprint which has been half rubbed out, but it might be usable. The ones on the right have been wiped off. It’s obvious. You can still see the trace of a cloth. There are several glasses in the dishwasher. We’re taking them with us. Have you looked at her book shelves? They’re groaning with books about prehistory!”
“We might well be on to something, my friend! Sooner or later, we’ll get him … Compare the fingerprints with those found in Autran’s flat. Have you asked the neighbors if they heard a car, or anything else in the street?”
“I’ve asked the nearest ones. Nothing. Even the next-door neighbor there, I can’t remember his name, he’s a professor of medicine, anyway he told me that he was up all night working on a project and he didn’t hear a thing.”
“Jesus, our customer’s no fool, far from it! He came here on foot, nice and quiet. He came along the canal, then through that door. Then he disappeared the same way. Leaving nothing behind him. Except a fingerprint on a chair, and maybe on a glass, if we’re lucky.”
“He must have made at least one mistake!”
“They all do. They all forget something. It’s not always easy to see, but there’s always something. Their weak point is their arrogance.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because they think they’re smarter than us. I’ll bet he’s had a higher education—you can sense that from the victims he chooses—and it might well have been a degree in prehistory. To gain access and suss out the place, he has to get all matey with his target, chat her up, impress her. Seeing how cultivated the victim was, he would have had to be on a level above her. Bourgeois English teachers don’t invite just anybody into their house. You really have to be someone!”
De Palma began to walk toward the house, then stopped, his eyes fixed on the ground.
“Maxime, can you find out where she went to university? I’ll bet it was Aix.”
He stuffed his hands in the pockets of his jeans and arched his shoulders.
“You see, kid? We’ve already got a profile. You might not think so, but we have. He’s a man in good health, a loner, but quite capable of being attractive and seductive. He’s even-natured, incredibly cool-headed, he never panics. He’s a top-level intellectual with some terrible event in his past, something unbelievable.”
“A rape?”
“No, I know what you’re thinking … a rape which is then repeated in later life. It’s quite often true. That’s what comes to mind. It’s like at the police academy when they tell you all murders have a sexual motive. But this time, my boy, it’s something different, even though I haven’t got the faintest idea what it is. Perhaps frustration, which makes him be murderously covetous and jealous. We do know that he uses rudimentary weapons, like prehistoric man.”
“So what do we do now?”
“The paperwork, as usual. But first of all, could you do me a favor?”
“What?”
“Try to see where this canal leads to. I’m going to take another look indoors.”
The sun was beginning to set. A golden light was glittering on the pine needles. Vidal felt a slight breeze work its way beneath his jacket. He gathered his thoughts, went through the shed door and followed the canal.
He did not observe anything unusual, except that some of the tall grasses had been trodden down. He found no footprints or traces of blood. After a while, the canal disappeared into a tunnel, which was far too low for an adult man to enter, whatever his build. Vidal looked around and soon spotted the path taken by the killer. The grass had been flattened leading up to a wall which was about one meter fifty high. He followed the tracks, gripped the top of the wall with both hands, and with one leap was on top of it.
To his astonishment, he saw that he was overlooking the little cemetery that surrounded the church of Saint-Julien.
“So, what are your conclusions, de Palma?”
His lower lip damp and pendulous, Commissaire Paulin had adopted his dark and terrible look. His expressionless, beady eyes were staring at his paperweight, a kind of upward-pointing doornail which his wife, who owed a gallery in Le Panier, had found in a Paris junk shop. This genuine piece of abstract art, cast in bronze, was the only hint of the unusual in the otherwise frigid room. Ever since he had first come into his superior’s office to discuss ongoing cases, de Palma had been trying to decide what this strange object might represent. In vain.
The Baron glanced at Vidal, who was trying to look confident as he sat in his chair.
“I don’t have much to tell you, apart from the fact that it was a particularly violent murder. Skull crushed, intestines removed, amputation of one of the lower limbs with a knife or similar implement. For the moment, we don’t have the slightest clue, except for the painted hand we found near the body.”
“You’re not telling me that you don’t even have an inkling.”
“This time I am. Nothing at all. Except for a piece of flint, half a fingerprint on the armrest of a chair, and the hand … which means that he either knew the victim or had conducted detailed observations of the scene. Anyway, we’ll have to wait for the lab report.”
Paulin turned toward Vidal. “What about you? Nothing?”
“The same as de Palma,” Vidal answered. “It’s obviously the work of a sadist. Apart from that …”
“You’re going to have to find him for me, and fast. I won’t conceal the fact that the press is already sniffing around, asking for explanations. You will accept that the results of the murder squad have not been that good of late. It’s not your fault de Palma, nor yours Vidal, but since little Samir’s death, we haven’t solved a single crime. Not to mention the gangland killings. What about the Autran case?”
“We’re making progress, Commissaire, we’re making progress. Things will no doubt be clearer in a few days.”
“I hope these cases aren’t connected. That really would be the icing on the cake.”
Paulin picked up his paperweight and twisted it around.
“They aren’t, Commissaire, rest assured about that.”
“And why do you say that?”
“Not the same modus operandi.”
“My instinct is to trust you, de Palma. You’re going to work with Vidal on both cases. And I’d like you to take Anne Moracchini along with you. She’s the only person on the squad with any time to spare. The others are all up to their eyes in gangland vendettas. In Paris they want results, so down here we’re having to put all our men on investigations into hoods blowing each other away. So, let’s be clear about this. Try to get something for me in the next ten days.”
“Whatever happens, Commissaire, you shouldn’t tell the press anything for the moment. This kind of killer is always out for publicity. It gives them wings.”
“You think he’ll strike again?”
“I’m sure of it.”
“Why?”
“Because of the way he mutilates and guts his victims … and the hand, of course. We’ve had cases like this in the past. He’s a killer who has a system. When I first joined the murder squad, we had the Ruggero affair, which was pretty similar. Do you remember?”
“I was still in Paris at the time. But you’re right. We’re faced with someone who’s sick.”
“And I hope he’ll get going again as soon as possible. Ruggero waited years before starting once more. It all depends on their relative mental stability.”
“You obviously think it’s linked to the Cadenet murder?”
“Of course I do,” de Palma replied. “But I don’t know much about the Cadenet murder. And the gendarmerie are running that investigation. In other words, the whole situation’s a mess!”
“You’re not going to resurrect the war between the forces again. The gendarmes do very good work, especially their Institut de Recherches Criminelles … Let’s try to proceed amicably. Have you contacted the gendarmerie?”
“Yes, or rather, I was contacted by them.”
“So you know, then.”
“Know what?”
“It’s the main reason I called you in. Because, of course, the two cases are linked. Never mind. I just wanted to tell you that the gendarmerie are making progress, despite everything … They’ve found a witness: a man aged about fifty who was passing that night and saw a woman getting into a gray Mercedes. Unfortunately, he didn’t see the driver’s face. So, I hear you ask, how did he recognize the woman? Well, he also lives in rue Boulegon, like her, and he’d had his eye on her for some time, if you see what I mean.”
“Extremely interesting!” said de Palma, pretending to find the news a real scoop.
“Most interesting of all is that she was being treated by a psychiatrist, who owns, no prizes for guessing …”
“A gray Mercedes,” Vidal answered, for the sake of saying something.
Paulin slumped back in his chair looking pleased with himself.
“A 500 SL,” de Palma added, after a few moments’ silence.
Paulin went extremely red, put down his upturned doornail and stared at him furiously.
“How do you know that, de Palma?”
“A good friend of mine’s a gendarme in Cadenet. I called him just now on the way over here. He filled me in. You know, Commissaire, police infighting isn’t my cup of tea.”
Paulin was lost for words. Vidal laughed silently, keeping his head down so as not to show any disrespect to his superior.
“So, pleased with your little routine, de Palma?”
“Not at all, boss. It’s just professional curiosity. I wanted to compare your version with the one I’d been given. And they’re the same. I’m wary about the gendarmerie. They haven’t always been straight with us, as you know only too well.”
The Baron was furious. The gendarmes had just won the first set. Now he had just annoyed his Commissaire for no reason and he was going to have to make good with a large piece of soft soap.
“And I think you’re absolutely right. We should work in collaboration. But with the gendarmes, that’s not going to be so easy.”
Paulin picked up his doornail again.
“I called Barbieri earlier. He wants us to work together, in tandem with the gendarmes. He too thinks that the cases are connected. I asked him to get the investigation transferred, but he refused, saying that they had already made more progress than we have, and should be arresting someone soon. He doesn’t want to screw it all up.”
“Arrest who? A psychiatrist who picks up his victims in his car in the middle of the street? Don’t make me laugh! I can smell a red herring from a mile off, or else my name’s not de Palma!”
“You never know, de Palma. You never know. Sometimes things aren’t as complicated as we like to believe. Murderers make mistakes too …”
“Not murderers like this one. Or at least, not that sort of mistake.”
Vidal nodded vigorously and looked out of the window. Paulin’s office had a view of the quays. The Danièle-Casanova was just setting off for Corsica, her bridge and fo’c’sle glimmering with a thousand black and turquoise reflections. It was like a fairy-tale vision moving across a sheet of glittering water. In the distance, the lighthouse on the Sainte-Marie strait was emitting its bright red flashes.
“I didn’t hear you, Vidal. What do you think about all this?”
“I think Michel’s right. Things are never easy with the gendarmerie.”
“What else would you suggest?”
“That we should get on with our work independently until the two investigations link up. Let’s wait and see what comes of their arrest. Not much, I should think.”
“I think that’s the wisest course of action.”
De Palma lowered his head and said nothing. It was becoming more and more complicated to be a good policeman.
It was 7:00 p.m. when he pushed open the door of Le Zanzi, followed by Vidal. The bar was almost empty.
“Hi Dédé, a bit dead tonight?”
“As a doornail.”
“What’s going on?”
“There’s a match on.”
Dédé waved his bulky hand over the counter, his palm turned toward the ceiling.
“And what’s up with you two?” he went on. “You look terrible.”
“It’s nothing. Work.”
Two Ricards immediately arrived on the zinc. De Palma swilled his down in one, without any water.
“You haven’t seen Maistre by any chance …”
“No, he hasn’t been in today. Maybe he’ll be along in a minute. This is the time he usually comes.”
“Come off it, he’s got a wife and kids.”
“But the kids are big now!”
“True.”
The Baron’s mobile rang. It was Sylvie Maurel.
“I’ve been trying to get hold of you all day. Can I see you this evening?”
“Of course, where are you?”
“In Marseille, by Fort Saint-Jean, at the marine archaeology laboratory. I’d like to show it to you. What do you think?”
“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. O.K.?”
“I’ll be waiting for you outside the main door, at the foot of the tower. Do you know where I mean?”
“Absolutely. See you there.”
De Palma had completely forgotten about Sylvie Maurel. He had another Ricard, knocked it back in one and turned toward Vidal, who was still staring at the yellow contents of his glass. Dédé had vanished into his kitchen.
“You never told me where that canal leads to.”
“It ends in a tunnel, but you can’t get down it.”
“So?”
“So, I followed his tracks and realized that he must have climbed over a wall … and guess where I ended up?”
“Tell me.”
“In Saint-Julien cemetery.”
“So what do you conclude?”
“I’m too knackered to conclude anything at all. Sorry, Michel.”
“There’s one thing we can be sure of.”
“What’s that?”
“He knows the area intimately.”
“You reckon?”
“Obviously! How else would he know that there’s a canal behind the cemetery which leads to Julia’s house? He must be a local, or something! I tell you, we’re starting to move in on him.”
Vidal grimaced. Dédé returned from his kitchen.
“O.K., kid,” de Palma said, “I’m off now. We’ll talk about it tomorrow. Try to get some sleep. I know it isn’t easy, but do your best.”
“Don’t worry, Michel. I’m starting to get used to it.”
“That’s what they all say. See you around, Dédé.”
He turned on his heel and left Le Zanzi.
“Are you going out later?”
“I have a date with a friend around nine …”
Sylvie Maurel was radiant in a straight, cream-colored shantung skirt, a silk top and a cashmere scarf thrown over her shoulder.
“So you just have time to show me your laboratory and its marvels,” said de Palma.
“Oh, it’s not that impressive. Come and see for yourself. But we’ll have to be quick. The caretaker locks up in an hour.”
He followed Sylvie into the courtyard of Fort Saint-Jean. It was the first time he had been inside the place, and he felt a twitch of emotion. When he was a kid, it had seemed to him that the fort contained profound secrets behind its high wall, buffeted by the sea. Going inside at nightfall only heightened his curiosity.
But he was disappointed. The inner courtyard looked abandoned. He had the impression of crossing a narrow stretch of wasteland surrounded by ageless fortifications. Against the black sky, he could make out the shape of a pine tree growing in the wall, between what looked like battlements. It had improvised a place for itself in this hostile universe and, indifferent to its ill fortune, was now rising up toward the sky above the old port.
De Palma stopped for a moment.
“Sylvie, do you know that it’s the first time I’ve been in here? It’s an odd feeling. I was expecting something better. In fact, it smells horrible and it’s ugly.”
“I know, I know … I found it strange the first time too. The local council has been trying to renovate the place for the past twenty years, but I don’t think it’s ever going to happen. There are other priorities in Marseille. The heritage commission we have here is …”
“I quite agree. But this is something else! It reminds me of La Vieille Charité when my father took me there. I must have been seven or eight at the time … it was like a shanty town, right in the middle of Le Panier. There were weeds everywhere, and tramps … But they did renovate it in the end. You just have to be patient.”
De Palma and Sylvie walked up a short slope leading to the terrace which overlooked the courtyard, offering a view of the Palais du Pharo and, further to the right, Château d’If floating in the yellow glow of the floodlights which illuminated it. Sylvie led him toward a row of small, stone buildings with large windows fortified by cast-iron bars. They stopped outside a reinforced door, where she entered her code into the alarm panel.
A long corridor cluttered with amphorae and numbered boxes led to a large room crammed with old, civil-service-style oak cupboards. On a table in the middle, three brand-new computers, on standby, were the sole touch of modernity in this dated universe.
“Here’s where I work,” Sylvie said, gazing around.
“How charming,” de Palma admitted.
“You think so? In winter we freeze to death, and in summer we boil. Anyway … at least we’ve got L’Archéonaute to go out to sea in from time to time.”
“Do you often work here?”
“Practically every day, when I’m not in Aix. Look, this was Christine’s computer.”
“Really?”
“I know what you’re thinking, Monsieur Policeman. But it’s practically empty. It’s new. We only got them in mid-November, and she never used hers.”
De Palma eyed the cupboards.
“Is this where you keep your treasures?”
“Yes. I’ll show you.”
Sylvie opened the double doors of the first cupboard to the left. It contained ten shelves holding small, black plastic boxes. She took down one of them and put it on the table.
“Here’s what we collect … old stones.”
De Palma looked at a collection of flints laid out on yellow ticking.
“They’re small flints found in the La Triperie Cave, at Cape Morgiou. Palestro led the explorations at the time, in the mid ’60s.”
“The La Triperie Cave?”
“It’s not far from Le Guen’s Cave, at the tip of Cape Morgiou, in the middle of the hook … you know, it forms a sort of hook, and there’s a huge, grayish vault beneath the cliff-face.”
“Yes, I know it. But I didn’t know there were caves down there containing prehistoric artifacts.”
“The sites lie about twenty-five meters underwater,” Sylvie explained. “Out of sight of daytrippers.”
She carefully put the box back on the shelf, opened a second cupboard and removed an identical-looking one.
“These come from the Trémies Cave on Cape Cacaù, in the Bay of Cassis. They’re cut flints …”
She took down two more boxes.
“Here we have bones and coals. These remains were preserved in deposits compacted by concretion. They’re from human habitations dating back to Paleolithic times.”
Each item was marked with a number, finely traced in Rotring, and with its place of origin.
“How strange,” he said, to break the silence.
“What?”
“I don’t know … all these little pieces of the past! At the bottom of the sea …”
“Oh, you know, there are quite a few sites in this region, from the Italian border as far as Marseille, and probably further on if we looked … the Coral Cave, the Agaraté Cave, Mérou, Deffend, Pointe Fauconnière … they’re all near Nice. Closer to us we have Trémies Cave, Devenson, Figuier, Sormiou … and, of course, the famous Le Guen Cave.”
“Famous? I don’t think many people in Marseille even remember when it was discovered. The local authorities ought to build a little museum or something.”
“We have to finish excavating it first, and that takes time. But there’s a permanent exhibition at the Musée de l’Histoire.”
Sylvie put her boxes away and opened the third cupboard.
“These are more impressive,” she said, pulling out a box which was wider and deeper than the others. “But don’t tell anyone I showed you this.”
She put the box down in front of the Baron.
“Do you know where these come from?”
“From Le Guen’s Cave,” he declared.
“How did you guess?”
“It’s my job to, Sylvie!”
The archaeologist picked up a piece of flint and showed it to him.
“It’s a large blade, a sort of knife which must have been used for cutting up meat … When it was found, it was covered with clay and coal dust. I noticed that it had been used, and I’d like to know what for.”
“No, not at all.”
She picked up a second object.
“Here’s another blade. It’s nine centimeters long by fifteen millimeters. Do you see how the left-hand blade looks polished. In fact, it’s been worn down. In my opinion it was used to chop up meat, cutting through flesh and slicing any resistant tissue.”
“But not on men?”
“Maybe! It was a done thing at the time.”
Julia Chevallier’s leg had been amputated at the knee, the skin tissue had not been cut through with a knife, the epidermis and dermis both bore signs of having been torn open. De Palma looked at the blade Sylvie was holding, and thought about the flint shard found in Julia’s skull, and understood that the murderer was not contenting himself with placing negative hands beside his victims. He was using weapons from the depths of time. Sylvie broke his train of thought:
“I’ll show you some photos. They’re more impressive than a few old stones. Sit down at the computer.”
She moved the cursor from window to window before opening a file entitled “Le Guen Photos, MR.”
“Here we are.”
She clicked a few times, and the hard drive started to hum.
“Here’s the most famous hand from the discovery. Its fingers are intact, and part of the forearm is visible. It’s the first one Le Guen saw. And its certainly the most beautiful.”
From National Geographic to Paris Match, the picture had been on front pages across the world, as well as in all the scientific journals.
“It looks like a woman’s hand.”
“That’s possible. But we’re not really sure … Now I’ll show you the mutilated hands … They’re the ones that pose the most problems, and they’re the source of huge controversy. Look …”
Two hands appeared on the screen, side by side. Both were missing three fingers, the big, ring and little ones.
“These hands were found just above the large flooded shaft, at the far end of the cave.”
She pointed to the mutilations.
“There’s been a lot of debate on this subject. Some people claim that it’s frostbite, others talk of systematic amputations, or else Raynaud’s disease, which is caused by stress and the cold and can lead to necrosis of the body’s extremities … And so on.”
“You don’t agree, Sylvie?”
“No, I don’t. I think these fingers have been bent according to a particular code. A sort of sign language, if you want … Some aborigines still use these kinds of signs when hunting, and also during the handing down of initiation stories. They signal to each other to indicate the presence of this or that game animal.”
De Palma took his eyes off the photo and turned toward Sylvie. She stared back at him for some time, as though guessing each of his thoughts. Close-up, he noticed the tiny emerald specks which stood out against her dark irises, the fineness of her lashes, her discreet eyeliner and mother-of-pearl eyelids. Something deep inside him had just caught fire and he knew that this tiny flame, born in the darkness of his being, would sooner or later become a blaze to consume his entire body.
He turned back toward the photo.
“I’ll show you one more. It’s my favorite. It’s a black left hand, with its little and ring fingers bent over. It looks really beautiful, like a child’s hand.”
“True enough,” de Palma said. “When does it date from?”
“Twenty-seven thousand years ago,” Sylvie replied.
“Twenty-seven thousand years …”
“Oh yes … when Palestro first dated them, the Parisian set at the Musée de l’Homme dragged him through the mud. They said that it was impossible, and some even claimed that they were fakes …”
“I can remember that. In your opinion, why did they think they were fake?”
“They don’t like us, that’s all there is to it.”
Sylvie paused, as though hypnotized by the hand in front of her. After a while, she reemerged from her daydream and looked at de Palma apologetically.
“I wanted to say sorry for last time. I was rather badly behaved.”
“Don’t worry about that, Sylvie.”
De Palma stood up and went back to the box of flints. He took one in his hand and ran the tip of his thumb across the blade.
“Palestro told me about the theft of some prehistoric objects,” he said softly, without taking his eyes off the knife.
Sylvie moved the mouse to one side of the computer and put her hands up to her mouth.
“Goodness, he told you about that?”
“Yes, he told me that some articles were missing. He didn’t want to accuse anyone and he didn’t mention any names.”
“Well, well, well, and I thought Palestro was able to hold his tongue …”
“As I said, he hasn’t pointed to anyone! But it seemed to be weighing on his conscience.”
“And with good reason! He wanted to avoid a scandal.”
“That’s what he told me. But I didn’t really believe him … What scandal could there be about two pieces of stone?”
“You’re wrong about that. In scientific circles, it’s not at all done to lose items which have been found during a dig. Even if they’re pieces of secondary importance.”
“I suppose not … any ideas about the thief?”
“No, not at all.”
De Palma approached Sylvie, without taking his eyes off her.
“There was a murder last night, and preliminary evidence suggests that it was committed using flint weapons.”
The Baron’s voice hit Sylvie hard. She shivered.
“For the moment, I have no proof that the killer was in possession of the flints which were stolen from here. But that’s what I think.”
De Palma paused to allow her to speak, but she just stared at him in terror.
“I’m going to ask you one thing, Sylvie. Has anyone other than the staff been in here?” “I … I don’t think so. Really. We know all the people who come here.”
“I’m going to have to question them. All of them.”
A malaise drifted like heavy smoke through the laboratory. Outside, the Danièle-Casanova blew two siren blasts as it passed through the Sainte-Marie strait.
“Could you show me where those flints were kept?”
Sylvie went to the middle cupboard to remove a box, and placed it on the table. De Palma read the labels and observed that an ax head and a large knife blade were indeed missing. He thanked Sylvie and left the laboratory at Fort Saint-Jean.
To avoid the city center and to take a break, de Palma drove toward the coast road. The police radio in his Clio started screaming out code words such as “Pétanque de Solex ….” So he opened the glove compartment and turned it off. The traffic was getting heavier. In Anse des Catalans, the cars were crawling along. “Damn that match,” he muttered between clenched teeth.
All of a sudden he placed his siren on the dashboard, switched it on and swerved to his right with his foot hard down on the accelerator. The front wheels spun before gripping the tarmac. One way or another, the tension which had built up during the day was going to have to be worked off. He sped away with clenched jaws, narrowly avoiding the cars which were trying to get out of his way.
He drove like a madman past the tomb of the unknown soldier and skidded to a halt. A rubbish truck was blocking the road outside the Flots Bleus bar. The Baron reversed, his tires smoking, then drove on to the pavement and continued his journey to nowhere.
A kilometer further on, he slowed as he approached the propeller blade which stood as a monument to repatriated settlers from Algeria. The traffic had thinned out. He forgot about his flat in La Capelette, put away his siren and continued along the coast to the end of Les Goudes, opposite Maire island.
Here was his omphalos, the center of his world.
It was here, in the lapping waves, that he had kissed Marie for the first time, fifteen years ago now, having trodden on her feet all night in a ballroom run by Ange Naldi, an ex-gangster. They had spent the evening dancing the tango and paso doble amongst a group of hoods. They had been the only young people there. The Baron had gone along to kill time, while she was keeping her cousins company. Ange had placed them side by side, just to see what would happen. It had been the most beautiful day of his life.
On the far side of the bay, Marseille the good-time town was dancing in the lazy reflections of the water, while the lights of a huge cargo ship passed out to sea behind the islands. He would have given anything to be one of the crew, to leave the harbor behind and sail away, nose to the wind, into the evening waves. The lamp of the Planier lighthouse swept the moonlit horizon as though to broaden the destinies of those staring at it.
He went back to the little port of Les Goudes and parked his car like a drifter, between two piles of dustbins and some old fishing nets. The calm, smooth sea was giving off a slight aroma of oil, with a hint of nuoc-mom, scents of dried seaweed, a whiff of varnish and paint, all combined with the dominant fragrance of the still-warm water. A few professional fishing boats, which had been tossed about by the sea breezes further out, were now maneuvering themselves, sails struck, among the pleasure boats which had been baked in the sun.
Maistre and de Palma had sworn to buy a fishing boat when they retired. They wanted an old one, made of wood, with a navy blue hull and coral rail, a little roof at the back and a real Beaudoin motor which went “tot tot tot tot …” without ever getting worked up, just enough to keep its tack while catching the silver bass of the coastline in its dragnet. In fact, retirement was not that far away, and the image of their boat was now becoming fixed in the two officers’ minds.
For once, de Palma went home early. When he had closed the door of his flat, images suddenly burst into his mind. He imagined that blood stains were covering his eyes, and that the smell of Julia’s corpse had got into his clothes.
He stayed in the shower for a long time.