The Cairo Diary (20 page)

They parted beneath the sun's increasingly incandescent eye.

Jeremy stopped for lunch opposite the central railway station, then walked along the railway lines and across them to get back home.

He stepped under the canopy, pleased to find a little shade, and immediately stopped in his tracks, all his senses on the alert.

The nape of his neck started to prickle. As a hunter, he knew how to recognize the confused signs given out by the body and the intuition.

He was in danger.

Imminent danger.

23

Marion reread the last lines in the diary:

I halted in my tracks. That shiver up the back of my neck, that stretching feeling at the base of my ears: I knew how to interpret them. Through hunting African predators on their own terrain, I had developed the kind of intuition that belongs to people who live within striking distance of nature. I knew how to recognize the association of my body with the still-wild part of my mind as the herald of a possible threat. The extreme concentration of my senses had just captured subtle alterations in my environment, and there was a distinct possibility of imminent danger.

The account of this investigation was becoming more and more intriguing, and now it had the added spice of a hint of action. Marion was captivated.

This man Humphreys, the director of the foundation, seemed strange to her. Of course, she had to bear in mind that everything she read passed through the subjective filter of Jeremy Matheson; in the end, her deductions were more than slanted, if not positively determined by the detective's own opinions. Whatever the case, all the murdered children had a direct relationship with the foundation; that wasn't a coincidence but rather a link between the killer and his victims. And that lead had still to be followed.

Suddenly, Marion cast a worried glance at the pages of closely spaced handwriting.

To what extent was all of this true?

How much was invention, and how much reality? Had there even been any child murders in Cairo in 1928?

Marion looked around the living room. If only she had an Internet connection, she could have done a bit of research. She swore.

These monks—when it comes to technology they can't even be bothered to install the basics.…

And she hadn't seen a computer at Béatrice's place either.

Maybe in one of the many rooms at the abbot's residence?

If not, she would have to spend some time in a library that was well provided with old periodicals, and with a little luck she might unearth a few articles mentioning this affair. It was sufficiently sordid to have crossed the Mediterranean and entered French newspapers of the time.… At least, she hoped so.

Periodicals of the time.

She clapped her hands in victory.

There were heaps of them in the library at Avranches—she had seen whole piles of them, sorted them herself, in ecstasies over the outdated charm of the dust-scented covers. It was possible that the answers to her questions could be found among those pages.

She sat up on the sofa.

It was dinnertime, a little late to go and ask someone on the Mount to drive her to Avranches and have the doors of the town hall opened up for her.

She gave a long sigh.

Her curiosity would have to wait until tomorrow.

She had enough to keep her going, she thought, picking up the black book.

Hunger was beginning to bother her, so she decided to make the suspense last and postpone her reading until later. She opened her refrigerator in search of meal ideas and then put on a pan of water to boil. An omelette with potatoes and bacon.

If she didn't want to get fat she would have to watch her food intake more carefully, and ask Brother Damien if he was against the idea of having a jogging partner. Running along the causeway would be energizing to begin with, until she had familiarized herself with the landscape, but then it would become painfully monotonous when she'd learned every square inch of the route by heart. But there was still the splendid view of Mont-Saint-Michel itself.

She would begin the following Monday: It was settled. Another three days of loafing around and then she would start toning up and slimming down her body.

Marion enjoyed her omelette in the muted light of the living room, without music, her only company the sinister melody of the wind sliding over the rooftops.

“And just think: Right now there's probably a poor guy out there, waiting for me to come and place the diary at the foot of the tower,” she murmured between two mouthfuls. “Imbecile…”

She constantly wondered about the nature of the link between her mysterious correspondent and the diary she had appropriated. Was it his? Unlikely. Jeremy Matheson was around thirty in 1928, so he would have been around one hundred today. Difficult.

But possible.

Particularly since there were very few old men on the Mount.

Brother Gilles.

And that man Joe!

They both seemed very old, but whether they were a hundred years old or not.…

And Jeremy was English.

Except that, after seventy years of speaking French, he could have lost his accent.…

No, she was going much too far. The diary's author was rotting in a tomb somewhere in the world. However, someone on the Mount knew about the existence of this black book, and wanted to get it back. Someone who had misappropriated it?

Or simply stored—or hidden—it in the library, so as not to be caught unawares one day with this kind of nosing into his affairs.… Marion didn't know what to think.

She finished her meal with a yogurt and thought about allowing herself a glass of alcohol to round off the evening. From Monday, she would be strict with herself, so she could allow herself this luxury.…

She poured herself some gin and orange juice in a big glass and stretched out on the sofa with the black book under her arm.

Whomever you are, waiting in vain for me out there, I am going to continue this tale without you, and perhaps in a little while … perhaps I'll join you.…

24

Jeremy stood stock-still, alert for the smallest movement around him. A train passed in the distance, the noise masking any other sounds.

He knew that someone had come, or was perhaps still there. Someone had visited his rail car in his absence.

Objects had moved in the progressive, meticulous collection of dust that he had fostered in his jumble of possessions.

Tiny details, yet significant in his eyes. Not a regulation search, just a curious, wandering hand that had traveled across his things.

He approached the door of the rail car and seized a tent pole that was lying there with some other bits and pieces. He slid it down the wall noisily.

The daylight filtered in through the windows, although it was partially absorbed by the velour wall-covering. He climbed the three steps and inspected the main room.

Nobody.

Nothing had moved.

He went to the bathroom and opened the door with the end of the tent pole. Empty.

He went to the bedroom.

Suddenly, the smell of perfume attacked him. Wafting up his nostrils, it slid down his body, gushed up again into his memory and fell upon his heart with the painful caress of a feather whose edge was as sharp as a razor blade.

That scent was so familiar. So sweet and so razor sharp, all at once.

Jeremy let go of his improvised weapon and sat down on the bed.

It was a fruity, almost masculine perfume.

It was the one she wore.

She always placed a drop of it between her breasts before making love.

It was then that Jeremy realized the photo was missing from the bedside table. She had taken it.

His wrist encountered a sharp corner.

A handwritten card.

Your invitation to this evening's celebration at Shepheard's, “A Senegalese Extravaganza.” Fancy dress. Your one and only opportunity to question my husband for your investigation. Enjoy yourself.

Jezebel

She was playing with him. As cruelly as a cat with its mouse, refusing for hours to put it to death, prolonging its death-agonies purely for its own amusement.

*   *   *

Night was falling over the city. On the sharia Ibrahim Pasha, the gaslights grew brighter, casting blue and orange halos over the fronts of the buildings.

The celebrated Shepheard's Hotel was ready for what was to be dubbed “the ball of the decade.” Under the vast entrance canopy, at the top of ten red-carpeted steps, two palm trees guarded the front door. Hosts of candles in lanterns had been added at the last moment to welcome the guests.

Jeremy, who had come there on foot from the railway station, walked past the Albanian porters and up to the lobby entrance. He showed his invitation card to a man in fancy dress, who in return pointed out the main restaurant. Outside the main doors to the large room, a couple were distributing turbans to the male guests and animal-shaped bracelets to the women.

Jeremy declined the head-covering, considering that his safari suit was sufficient to gain him access to this soiree.

The hotel was talked about all over Europe and even in the United States. Once again, Jeremy saw that its reputation was not undeserved.

The walls were covered with long, lush lianas; palm trees stood against the walls like living columns, while enormous fans made the leaves move almost silently. Monstrous masks of mythological creatures appeared here and there under the vegetation, lit from inside by enormous candles. On carved perches, an entire gallery of multicolored birds were hopping around to the accompaniment of the guests' laughter. Jeremy immediately spotted a tiger and further off a lion with its teeth bared. The standard of the taxidermy was admirable. Other large mammals lurked among the foliage, between the round tables. These were covered with brightly colored tablecloths, and on each one stood a massive candelabra, around which a snake coiled, glistening in the light from the flames.

On either side of the main aisle, carefully plaited native huts had been erected, forming a path to the far end of the room, where a scene depicting a temple to the goddess Kali awaited the dancers. The goddess's statue was several yards tall, with candles burning in its eye sockets as it looked down upon the stunned guests. At its feet, a group of Senegalese musicians was playing a monotonous rhythm on percussion instruments.

The drums made the air quiver, and the red lamps trembled in harmony, as though under their spell.

More than a hundred people were gently jostling one another in shimmering costumes, glasses of champagne in their hands. Among them, Jeremy quickly spotted important politicians and industrialists, such as Aboud Pacha, the seventh richest man in the world.

Everyone was celebrating a dazzling victory by the horse belonging to the hotel's director, Charles Behler, in the Allenby Cup, earlier that day. Joy, wonderment, and prestige radiated from every pore.

“I see you found my invitation.” It was Jezebel.

Jeremy turned and saw her, attired in a light dress covered with beads. The fine layer of crepe beneath them was barely sufficient to conceal her breasts. Only Jezebel could allow herself such indecency without provoking a resounding scandal.

“You broke into my home,” said Jeremy by way of greeting.

“There was a time when that didn't worry you.”

The response was sharp. “Once upon a time, yes.”

“Well, well, so the big cat is turning into a viper! If you want to meet my husband, he's over there, with the chief of police…”

She pointed to a table a little to one side. Jeremy's gaze traveled back to the perfect curves of her shoulders, her fragile neck, the veins palpitating with the pressure of her emotions.

Or the lack of them,
he mused.

Her long black hair was now drawn together in a cleverly constructed chignon, decorated with pink and violet flower buds.

“Thank you,” breathed Jeremy.

He turned his back on her and went straight across to the two men.

The police chief recognized him and stood up.

“What a pleasant surprise, Detective! I imagine you're here to mix work and pleasure; marvelous cocktail party, I tell you!”

Jeremy shook his hand and responded with a false smile.

Opposite him, Mr. Keoraz was less warm. In his late forties, with graying hair meticulously parted down the middle, his face wore the stern expression of men who have little imagination. His chin bore the marks of rushed, rough shaves; his lips were slender, hardly there at all, and his nose as sharp and pointed as a mountain ridge.

“Detective,” he greeted him.

“Allow me to introduce Mr. Keoraz,” said the police chief. “Gentlemen, I shall leave you to get to know each other, I must go over and say hello to the maharajahs of Kapurthala and Mysore.”

Jeremy found himself alone with the powerful patron. “In fact, we have already met,” he said. “At the New Year's dinner, a little more than a year ago.”

“I know.” His voice was as sharp as his profile.

“I have a few questions to ask you, and as you are a busy man, I am taking advantage of this fleeting opportunity.”

“You are right to do so. I am an organized man myself; it is the key to all successes.”

At this, Keoraz indicated a sheaf of papers, pinned together. Jeremy strained his neck to see that it was a copy of the report Azim had written that afternoon.

“You—”

Keoraz cut the detective short: “My friend, your superior, was eager to deliver this copy to me right away, it seems, fresh from the progress your investigation has made. For a man like me, it is important to know that the investigation is being conducted swiftly and efficiently. It does after all concern my foundation.”

A demonstration of power, Jeremy realized. Keoraz was displaying his omnipotence, showing that it was pointless to do him harm or try and impose anything on him. He was leading the dance; nobody was going to lead him.