The Beast of the Camargue by Xavier-Marie Bonnot Page B

to anyone. His brothers are worse. Poor old William! And poor old me, I’m all alone now.”
    â€œAll alone?”
    â€œSome things you can’t talk about …”
    â€œWhy are you so sure that he’s dead?”
    Bérard stood up and walked toward his sheep. De Palma followed him.
    â€œEverything to do with La Balme is cursed.”
    â€œWhy do you say that?”
    â€œThere are evil stones, from the old days …”
    â€œEvil stones?”
    â€œGoodbye, Monsieur. My sheep are waiting for me.”
    The old man vanished into the scrub, just as he had arrived, followed by his sheep, with his huge dog bringing up the rear.
    Going back down into the valley, the light changed, becoming grayer and more uniform. The bushes in the rugged rocks looked darker. As he walked, de Palma had the feeling that he could hear a voice. He stopped and listened. It was like a complaint, an ancient vibrato recitation in a language unknown to him, words arising from some mysterious place he could not locate, from behind one of those countless rocks:
    â€œ
… Alabre
De sang uman e de cadabre,
Dins nòsti bos e nòsti vabre
Un moustren, un fléu di diéu, barruolo … Agués pieta!
” *
    Anne Moracchini had taken advantage of the perfect calm that reigned in the offices of the brigade to look through some files. At 6:15 p.m. she called de Palma on his mobile.
    â€œMichel, I’ve got some info about your fellow, William Steinert.”
    â€œGo ahead, but don’t ask me to take notes. I’m driving and it’s starting to pour again. I can’t wait to get back to Marseille.”
    â€œI dropped in on the S.T.I.C., † and they have him on file. Nothing much, just some business about financing a political party …”
    â€œWas he convicted?”
    â€œJust formally questioned, by the boys in Tarascon.”
    â€œWhich party?”
    â€œJacques Chirac’s R.P.R.”
    â€œReally? I would have imagined him more as center left, the champagne socialist type, someone who cares about paupers like you and me.”
    â€œHang on a minute, that doesn’t mean he was
in
the R.P.R. What’s more he’s German. Anyway, it was all based on phone tapping and town hall rumors. The sort of thing that smells decidedly fishy.”
    Suddenly arriving at a roundabout that he had forgotten existed, de Palma had to brake abruptly. To his right, a brand-new sign indicated the Abbaye de Montmajour and Fontvieille. A truck from a cellulose factory on the banks of the Rhône was concealing the exit for Tarascon. He drove all the way round the roundabout, now breathing heavily into his telephone.
    â€œAre you still there Michel?”
    â€œShit, I nearly took the road to Montmajour!”
    â€œIt’s for holidaymakers … So, as I was saying, he was questioned for corruption.”
    â€œO.K., I’m not deaf! So what had our dear William done?”
    â€œNothing at all, apparently, he was completely cleared!”
    â€œHmm. Listen, don’t worry about all that, I’m going to see what I can find out today, and then I’ll let it drop. Maybe he’s the sort of man who vanishes like that, only to reappear a few days later.”
    â€œYou think so?”
    â€œIt’s possible. He might be a billionaire who likes to treat himself to a little adventure from time to time. He could be sunbathing in the Caribbean while I’m getting drenched in Provence.”
    â€œWhatever, Michel, you should still get some rest.”
    â€œYes,
chérie
, I know. What happened with Casetti by the way?”
    â€œHe’s here, in Daniel’s office. We’re waiting for the D.N.A. tests to come back from Nantes. He’ll be home tonight or tomorrow morning. That’s all. See you later, Commandant.”
    The clock-tower of Saint Martha’s church was ringing the angelus when Ingrid Steinert got out of her B.M.W. in front of