The Cairo Diary (21 page)

Behind the millionaire's back, Jeremy spotted Dr. Cork and his white beard; so, he was here too.

He looked down again and saw Keoraz signal to someone to come over. The foundation's director, Humphreys, appeared at his side.

“Good evening, Detective. How have you fared since this morning? Ah, you don't know my assistant, Pierre Berneil!”

The director stepped back to allow room for a shorter man, who walked with a stick. He greeted Jeremy with an unmistakably French accent.

Keoraz took advantage of this to get to his feet, picking up the police report. “I have to go, so much to do.… Detective, come and see me tomorrow evening, at our house in Heliopolis, you know it don't you? I was given to understand that you and my wife were close at one time; she must have spoken to you about it if you have seen each other since then.”

Jeremy nodded silently. There was nothing else he could do; Keoraz was running the game.

“That will give me time to consult this report, and find out where you have got to,” Keoraz said. “Time presses, Detective, and the last thing in the world I want is another murdered child.…”

He nodded nonchalantly to the assembled throng and vanished into the costumed crowd.

*   *   *

Azim stretched out on the camp bed next to his desk. He was exhausted. He lacked the courage needed to carry out the latest tasks he had imposed upon himself. He opened one eye in the direction of the wall clock. In any case, it was too late now.

Have a bit of a rest; that was what he must do. So that he could attack the next day with greater skill.

Four dead children.

He opened his eyelids again. How could he sleep when he knew that children might be dying out there?

He swore in Arabic.

What more could he do? There were already four dead, and …

Very softly, Azim got up.

Thinking hard about it, they believed there were four, but that was since the killings had been close together. Who was to say that the killer hadn't struck earlier? An isolated incident, dealt with swiftly, and with no repercussions.

Azim grabbed his turban, jammed it on his head, and went off toward the stairs. He walked up to the third floor, where the archives were stored. There was nobody there, it was already too late.

“Damn!” he hissed between clenched teeth.

Without knowing precisely what he was looking for, it was impossible to find it in the endless filing system that occupied the fourteen bookcases.

He went back downstairs and stuck his head into several offices, until he unearthed a familiar face.

“Inspector Dodgson! I have a question.”

“Go ahead, my dear fellow.”

“Do you recall any incidents involving the murder of a child? Or of murders committed with great savagery? Ones where the body bore the marks of unbelievable rage?”

Dodgson let go of the pipe he was holding in the corner of his mouth. “Ah. This is about your investigation. The little ones who were broken in two.”

He observed the little Egyptian over the top of his thick brown-rimmed glasses. “Gracious me, no,” he replied. “Not before your own investigation. But I'm not the person you should ask, that's old Nichols—he's the memory of the entire police force. He retired about six months ago, and is waiting to be repatriated without the slightest impatience. Do you want me to call him? I have his number.”

“It is perhaps a little late.”

“Not at all! He goes to bed late, and he'll be pleased that someone's asked for his help. Sit down, old chap, and I'll look up the number.”

In less than three minutes, Nichols was on the other end of the line.

“No? It doesn't mean anything to you either?” repeated Dodgson, a little disappointed. “Ah well, never mind. Take care of yourself, and I'll see you on Sunday for that game of cards.”

He hung up and resumed sucking on his unlit pipe. “Sorry, old chap, no luck this evening. He doesn't remember any child murders as atrocious as these. All the same, how does someone get to be so utterly insane? Snapping a poor kid's spine. I hope you're intending to have him shot, if you catch him!”

Azim patted the inspector's shoulder amicably and went out into the corridor. “Sir?”

Azim saw a woman carrying a portable typewriter. One of the secretaries. This one was working late, he noted. “Can I do something for you, madam?”

“Actually, I am the one who may be able to do something for you. I heard your conversation with the inspector, and I … I remembered a case, less than two months ago.”

Azim leaned against the wall, forgetting decorum.

“It was a murder, in that squalid Shubra district to the north of the city,” she went on. “A man … how can I put it? Snapped in two? I was the one who typed the investigation report to make copies of it, that's how I remember. And it was … appalling. Really. The man had been slaughtered, his limbs shattered, and the vertebral column broken in two.”

She laid a hand on her chest as she strove to get her breath back. “My God, it was incredible. And … even his tongue had been ripped out, the poor man.”

This time Azim saw tears well up in the secretary's eyes. He approached her. “Come, come,” he said clumsily.

“Oh, that's not all. There was an element of real perversion to it, because something else was found on his body, all over the place.”

She stifled a retch. “S-semen. Human, if you see what I mean.”

Azim shivered. This time it was very similar. The same barbarism, the same eagerness to want to shatter the human body. And finally the same act of perverse debauchery: The murderer had spread his semen over his victim.

The secretary had already produced a handkerchief, which she used to dab her moist eyelids. “You should talk to the detective who conducted the investigation, sir. It was Detective Matheson.”

Now, the shiver turned into a cold sweat.

25

Marion opened her eyes quite early on that Friday morning.

She had sat up late with the diary, and yet her desire to go and investigate in Avranches had proved even more pressing than an alarm clock.

At nine o'clock she was in the streets of the village, the black book buried in a pocket of her trench coat. She passed by Béatrice's shop, which was not yet open. Marion rang at the adjacent door and her red-haired friend invited her upstairs.

“You're an early bird! Pour yourself a cup of coffee, I have to dry my hair,” Béatrice called back over her shoulder.

Marion opened cupboards in search of a cup and poured the gasoline-colored liquid into it.

“All I need is a cigarette, and I've got the perfect ‘fresh breath' morning cocktail,” she murmured.

Béatrice reappeared, rubbing her hair. “Insomnia or a compulsive desire to chat?” she asked. “Wait, let me guess! You've exhausted all your copies of
Ici Paris
and you're desperate for gossip, so you said to yourself, ‘my little Béa will sort me out.'”

“Why, has something happened in the village?”

“Stop dreaming. Your presence is already an upheaval in itself. So, is everything okay?”

Marion nodded as she gulped down the coffee.

“I have a favor to ask you,” she said, getting her breath back. “I need you to lend me your car for a few hours.”

“Whenever you like. Except this morning. Grégoire has gone off with it—he's running a few errands for me and the old man.”

“What old man? You mean Joe?”

“Yes, I can see that you've made each other's acquaintance. Greg does his heavy shopping and Joe gives him a little cash as a thank you. So no car this morning. Is it urgent?”

“Not urgent.… It's mainly my impatience.”

Béatrice started plaiting her hair. “Admit it, this is about your famous old book.”

Marion nodded. “I'm getting hooked.”

She almost mentioned the episode the previous evening, the envelope and the mysterious demand, but she refrained. She had promised herself that she would say nothing until she could see things more clearly.

“Well, tell me, what's happening in the book?” Béatrice insisted.

Marion finished her coffee and arched her eyebrows. “I'll tell you everything but I would like to find a driver before lunchtime, so I must run. Thanks for the coffee.”

Marion bounded into the street and the damp coolness of the village instantly assailed her.

She was going to have to turn to the brotherhood.

Exactly what she would rather not have done. If the writer of the letters was one of its members, he would swiftly learn that she had spent part of her Friday in Avranches, in the library archives. She could, of course, wait until the afternoon, when Grégoire would be back.

But her impatience wouldn't hold out until then. She climbed the steps until she was looking down on all the roofs and left the secular path for that of the faith. She entered the abbot's residence and got lost in the labyrinth of narrow corridors and spiral staircases before happening upon the room where the brotherhood ate their meals. There was nobody there.

She heard Brother Serge's sharp voice, echoing from behind a door. “… matters, that's politics. What worries me is what they may have in store for us. I will not allow myself to be ousted for the benefit of these manipulators.”

“Calm yourself, you dramatize everything. There is no question of…”

The second voice was that of Sister Anne; Marion recognized it instantly.

She decided not to interrupt what sounded like an important debate, and turned on her heel. On the ground floor, she spotted the stern profile of Sister Luce, who was hanging laundry in a large room.

“Excuse me,” Marion ventured softly. “I'm not disturbing you, am I?”

Sister Luce's facial features contracted. Marion compared this effect to a spider on its back, which draws its feet up against its abdomen, an unappetizing defense reaction. Then the sister turned to face the intruder.

“What do you want?”

“I'm looking for someone to take me to Avranches.”

“To Avranches? Is that all?”

Marion bit her tongue. She must not respond to provocation.
Let the old bag wear herself out.

“Yes, as far as that,” she replied with a broad smile.

“Go and see Brother Damien. He's most inclined to go traveling by car.”

Brother Wrong Way; him again,
thought Marion.

The old woman grabbed a pair of pajama trousers and hung them on the drying rack.

“Have you any idea where I might find him?” Marion persisted.

If certain members of the religious community welcomed Marion, others saw her as a source of trouble, someone on retreat but a little “special,” imposed upon them and trampling all over their tranquil spirituality.

Sister Luce answered without stopping for breath, “Without a doubt he's at the bottom of the village, at the post office, as we had mail to send out.”

Marion thanked her and wandered around for another five minutes, trying to find the way out, before going all the way back down rue Grande to the post office where she did indeed see Brother Damien. He refused nicely, with that permanent affability that was all his own, for today it was the day of the Passion, devoted to fasting, reflection, prayer, and meditation. Marion insisted, stressing her growing boredom, and promised that he would have all the time he wanted for his spiritual activities, and that they would return before the end of the afternoon. Faced with this suffering soul, he gave in with a sigh.

Once they were inside the Simca, Brother Damien chuckled. “I'm driving you to Avranches, but I don't even know what we're going to do there!”

That was Marion's problem in a nutshell. Not telling him the truth, while gaining access to the library's attics—and then finding some way of getting him out of the way.

“It's to keep me busy,” she said finally.

“So I imagine, but doing what?

Now that she knew he liked running almost every morning, his physique worried her. He had that round, friendly face typical of people who enjoy their food, while his body was that of an athlete; this discordance between his head and the rest of him surprised her. Brother Damien was one of those slightly plump men who had taken up sport intensively, to the point of trading in his flab for muscle, and yet his face had remained the same.

“Tell me, would it bother you if I joined you to go jogging?” she asked, changing the subject.

Brother Damien was surprised. He opened his hands, which were on the steering wheel, and flexed his fingers several times, like a cat enjoying being stroked.

“With me? Er … fine, why not? It's just that I usually run alone.”

“If it bothers you, I won't insist.”

“No, no,” he replied unhurriedly. “All the same, I should tell you that I run a lot, so…”

“I think I understand. I'll accompany you over the first stretch and then leave you to continue at your own speed. It's just that if I'm going to get started I don't want to be all alone at the beginning, it's more motivating for me.”

He moved back and forth on his seat, all the time keeping his eyes on the road. “That's very true, it's better when you're starting out.”

“I'll start on Monday.”

“Er, no, not Monday—it's a day of prayer. And this time, no exceptions. I'll come and collect you on Tuesday morning.”

Marion nodded.

“So, what are we going to do?” he repeated.

“Some research.”

“Excellent! And in the library, too! You know, I love puzzles; I'm an inveterate crossword puzzler—the moment I have any free time, I pit myself against a little grid. Those intellectual games do me a world of good! So, how can I be of use to you?”

Marion wanted to say, “By going and locking yourself away somewhere, far away from me, until this evening,” but restrained herself. She also refrained from admitting to him that she was also a lover of crossword puzzles. She had no desire to spark off an involved conversation about different people's little tricks for completing their puzzles.