The Cairo Diary (41 page)

“The attics containing old stock in Avranches are not open to the public, and there was little chance of anyone coming to look for a book in the English language around here.… That diary is a private story. It is the intimate history of my family, mine. You shouldn't have read it. In return, I bestowed on myself the right to enter your lodgings in your absence, to search and take it back. Unfortunately, you always had it on your person.”

Taking advantage of the old man's eloquence, Marion gave her curiosity free rein. “Why was the diary in Avranches?”

George frowned. “Through cowardice, I suppose. When I arrived here, around sixty years ago, I chose not to have this diary in my cell, in case someone happened upon it. I hid it among the other works in the library we had here at the abbey, with the English-language books. The fact is, the collection was swiftly transferred to Avranches. I made sure that mine was lost among the rest, in the attics. And I left it there. Unable to destroy it, and not brave enough to carry it with me.”

A little nervously, Marion ran her tongue over her lips. “I don't understand why you kept it. It's a piece of evidence with dangerous implications for your father's memory.”

George gazed admiringly at the placid stretch of water radiating from the foot of the Mount.

“You came here to me after making skillful deductions,” he said. “However, there is an error of interpretation in your logic. And it is a monumental error; I am even surprised that you committed it.”

He turned to face her. “My father was not guilty of any crime. It was not him.”

54

A bat skimmed past Marion's hair. “How can that be?” she demanded, taking no interest in the small mammal.

“Marion … you astonished me that first night when you played the game and swiftly deciphered my Polybus square. I would have thought that the truth would not escape you when you read the diary. Think. There are important clues in what you have read. Who is the real guilty party?”

Marion had absolutely no idea. Everything was so crystal-clear in the diary; why try to cast doubt on it? Was George trying to divert attention so as to save the memory of his father? Marion couldn't believe that; it would have been puerile on the part of George, and she thought too much of him for that.

“I don't know,” she admitted. “Don't be offended, but Francis Keoraz is the obvious culprit.”

“That is what it said. I am asking you what is more sustained, as well as more coherent. My father? No, that has no meaning. Except for Jeremy Matheson's pathological jealousy. Come along, make an effort.”

Marion couldn't work out what he wanted. Nobody else could be guilty, the investigation had been skillfully conducted, and everything could be explained. There was only Francis Keoraz.

“Set aside what is written about my father, can you do that? And now, if you had to accuse one of the protagonists described in this diary, which one would your suspicions most likely fall upon?”

Marion sighed.

Although the wind was weaker on the north side, it was forcing its angry moans between the open arches of the bell tower. Suddenly it fell silent. In this short period of time when the elements spared the Mount, Marion heard the melancholy strings floating up from inside the church.

“Jezebel.”

She had said it without thinking, just because he was insisting on a name.

George looked annoyed. “No, of course not. She could never have done such a thing.… Try harder.”

Tired of playing the game, Marion chose another name from the diary at random. “The doctor … Dr. Cork?”

George made a little sound with his mouth to demonstrate his disappointment, and folded his arms across his chest. “No. And yet you had him right under your nose the whole time you were reading,” he said sharply.

“Azim? No, he died during the investigation.…” She looked for an answer among the stars. Then she stared at her own hands. She hesitated.

George leaned toward her. “Do you have an idea?” he whispered, very close to her face.

“I … I don't think it could be possible.…”

The insects were crowding against the overheated floodlights and burning up in such great numbers, that they gave off an almost caramelized smell.

“But,” he urged her to continue.

“… Jeremy?”

“Why do you say that?”

“I don't know.”

He stood up straight. “I am going to tell you: because sometimes he frightened you a little. He intrigued you, that great
white hunter.
” He laid strong emphasis on the last two words.

“And I am going to tell you,” he went on. “You are completely right.”

Marion raised a hand, palm upwards, in a sign of incomprehension. “You're talking nonsense! Jeremy wrote the diary. He conducted the whole investigation, he has nothing to do with these murders, it's—”

“Jeremy Matheson,” he said, hammering home each syllable. There was a faraway look in his eyes. “He fooled us all.”

Marion seized the diary she had brought in her coat pocket. The cover creaked at her touch.

“He deceived us all,” lamented George. “And that diary is his greatest success.”

“No,” objected Marion. “He investigated the murders, he—”

“He insisted on conducting the investigation. To ensure that nobody would pick up the trail leading to him. At the risk of shocking you, I shall state that almost everything in the diary is true, the facts and the emotions. Jeremy only doctored certain events, and omitted others. As one may be surprised to read, he took that case very much to heart. And with good reason…”

“What are you saying?”

“After going through his notes, one becomes more intimate with him, and could almost say that one knows him a little. Did he give you the impression that he was somebody extremely compassionate, in particular with the natives? And generous? Is he that by nature? What do you think?”

Marion remained silent, staring at George, trying to work out what he wanted to prove.

“Myself, I would say no,” he continued. “It doesn't feel as though it was in his nature. And yet, in a rather intriguing first passage, he gives money to all the families of the murdered children, the ones he goes to see with Azim. It's an interesting act of kindness and compassion. All the same, it doesn't feel in character for the hunter he is. Could it be that this act constitutes a means of paying his debt, trying to gain forgiveness for murdering the children?”

“George … you…”

He raised a finger to silence her. “Wait until I have finished, please. Remember the day when he and Azim are standing around the body of the murdered child. Jeremy has difficulty containing himself; he doesn't seem to be in his normal state. It isn't the barbarity in itself that disturbs him, he is in fact under the influence of his unhealthy excitement, at the memory of what he has done. In the same way, a few minutes later, he is obliged to drive ‘crazy images' from his mind—images that have nothing to do with an imaginative compassion or a curious gift of insight, but which are quite simply memories of the atrocities he has caused.”

George could hardly get his breath back for what followed. “And when Azim comes to tell him that all the murdered children belong to the same foundation, remember how he admits feeling ill, livid. We are supposed to believe that it is because he feels personally attacked by the killer, since he too frequented the foundation, whereas in fact he realizes that the investigation has just taken a giant step in his direction.”

“That doesn't make sense! So why would he confess to feeling ill at ease?”

“That is precisely Matheson's strength. He hides the absolute minimum. He takes no risks. If Azim for his part had written a private diary or spoken with someone about this conversation between them, testifying to Jeremy's uneasiness, he would have been embarrassed.”

Marion counterattacked. “No, that doesn't stand up. From the start, Jeremy shows his skill in the investigation, he makes discoveries at the scene of the crime, and deductions that are correct. If he was guilty, he would keep quiet!”

“Not Matheson. On the contrary, he establishes his authority over Azim. Whereas the Egyptian detective hasn't advanced in several weeks, he gets things moving in a tenth of the time. This enables him to take command of their partnership easily. And nothing he says compromises him in any way. For already, he knows that he is going to lay the blame on his great rival, my father. He will accumulate evidence accusing Francis Keoraz, redirect leads in his direction, even create them.”

The old man gazed at the bell tower. “There is something even more disturbing,” he declared. “Remember when he's discussing the very first murder with Azim, the one where the vagrant was killed in Shubra? He explains that he questioned everyone, looked for any witnesses, and he also says that it was a day when they were short-staffed, so he had to do everything on his own. Now, he admits several times in his diary that he doesn't speak Arabic. So how did he manage? Must I remind you, as he says himself elsewhere, that it is an extremely poor district? So nobody speaks English.”

“Obviously he didn't bother mentioning that he had a dragoman with him,” stammered Marion, suddenly less gung ho.

George shrugged his shoulders and continued: “Jeremy Matheson was not the victim of a perverse child-killer who hated him sufficiently to orchestrate everything in such a way that the crimes would be loosely or closely connected with him. That is a risible argument. Matheson had a connection with each detail of the investigation because he himself was the killer! Listen: He followed Jezebel into the foundation to please her, and it is there that he saw all those children, potential targets. It was he who investigated the first murder at Shubra, and he swiftly found the guilty party, a black giant suffering from noma—that is the probable name of the disease that had transformed him into a … ghoul. Matheson did not track him down in order to arrest him, but to bend him to his will. He knew an archaeologist with whom he often chatted, as he confesses; he must surely have told Matheson about his latest discovery, perhaps even taken him there before Jeremy killed him. Matheson then had a hiding place for his ‘hired monster,' whom he asked to do to the children he would supply what he had done to the vagrant, in exchange for a roof and liquid food. Next, he went off to find children studying at the foundation, children about whom he knew a very great deal after breaking into the establishment's premises and consulting their files. Armed with this precious information, he manipulated the children when they finished class at the foundation, far from witnesses. He promised them money, incredible knowledge—about the legends—or anything that would be attractive to a young kid from those districts. Let us not forget that the children knew him; he had been a reader at the foundation! He would set up a secret meeting, if possible at night, if they were able to leave their homes without being noticed. And we know what happened after that.”

The wind, which had proved timid on the northern side, suddenly gusted, slamming into George Keoraz and battering his cheeks.

“In reality,” he shouted to make himself heard, “I am quite convinced that he spoke Arabic. He had been living in Cairo for nine years, and it was difficult to be a detective in a city like that for almost a decade and not have learned at least a smattering of the language. It's a question of logic. And he had read
One Thousand and One Nights
as the end indicates, when Jezebel comes to his home and sees the book. He tells her that it was his colleague Azim who thought that the killer had used it, without having the nerve to say that he had just bought it and read the whole thing in just a few days. In my opinion he had had it for a very long time. Between his books and his ‘friend' the archaeologist, he had enough sources of information to delve into history for the method of torture inflicted on Azim, not to mention the fact that he was a constant visitor to
qawhas,
where Arabic was spoken and a succession of storytellers recounted ancient legends. Jeremy had come to know Egypt through this mythological culture, and when he saw the deformed black giant, he remembered those tales about ghouls. Was it then that the whole scenario unfolded in his mind? Remembering how Francis Keoraz had charmed Jezebel by telling her the story of
One Thousand and One Nights,
deciding to give free rein to his insane impulses, and falsifying them so that he could one day accuse his great rival? Or was it later, while listening to frightened gossip, that he stage-managed everything? And then attributed this madness to my father, on the pretext that he was a history enthusiast.”

Marion caught him by the wrist. “Tell me, George, have you been dissecting the whole diary like this for the last seventy years?”

He observed her with a sad look on his face. “I didn't even need to read it twice. I knew what I was looking for.”

“But why are you so sure you are right?”

There was a touch of incredulity in his voice as he answered her: “Have you forgotten? I am George Keoraz. I was that abducted child.… And who do you think it was that got onto the train that day, to take me away?”

55

George rubbed his chin and lips with his broad hand. “It was he, Marion. That is why I am categorical. I am not suggesting anything to you. I am stating it as a fact. Jeremy Matheson got on that train. My father had introduced him to me the previous evening, and he was a police officer; that was enough for me to agree to get off with him when he told me my father had sent him to fetch me and take me to meet him somewhere other than had been planned.”

Marion's throat tightened again as she saw tears in the old man's eyes.

“He delivered me into the hands of that creature, so that it would be less alone, so that it could …
play.
And he didn't return until the evening, staying just long enough to torment me himself. What is more, in his diary he is not precise about what he did that day. If you read attentively, you will note that he mentions having investigated Azim's disappearance that morning, and going back home for a shower in the early afternoon. Then he tells us about the end of his day in his office and the discovery of his companion's body. There is not a trace of what he did between his shower and his arrival at the office, a few hours later. And with good reason. He was busy following me when I got on the train, and taking me away to his sordid hiding place. The previous evening he had heard my father talking to me about my piano lessons, about the streetcar…”