The First Fingerprint (46 page)

“But I'd forgotten about the Slain Man.” That was all she said.

At 6:00 p.m., the police van took the twins to see the magistrate.

On the floor of Le Guen's Cave, the police found two diving suits and some oxygen cylinders. If Thomas and Christine Autran had managed to kill de Palma and Sylvie Maurel, they would have got away via the underwater entrance. The next day, divers were sent down to explore. They discovered that the gateway had been opened and one of the concrete blocks moved aside.

“I have had to give up everything that I was
.

I have sacrificed my modesty, which was sweeter than anything
,

Modesty which, like the milky

Silvery mist of the moon

Envelops each woman and guards her soul

From the horror of life. Do you understand, my brother?”

Elektra's voice rose from nowhere, a dark melody from the catacombs of his soul. De Palma tried to open his eyes, to move one hand, then the other, but an unknown force was pinning him to his bed, inert.

“I had to sacrifice these sweet frissons for my father
.

When I experienced bodily pleasure

Do you think that its sighs and groans

Did not echo even unto my bed?”

In the distance, a dark sun was rising, mounting rapidly in a red sky. Stone drawings of two Slain Men quivered on the horizon. Geometric shapes were taking on a human appearance: a man and a woman. De Palma recognized them at once: Thomas and Christine Autran, feeling their way toward the unknown meaningless of their madness.

“The dead

are jealous: and as a fiancé

he has sent me hatred with hollow eyes …”

He felt a sharp pain in his belly. Cold steel. Barely audible voices were all around. He did not recognize the one closest to him.

“We brought him out of his coma yesterday morning. You can speak to him, but don't be surprised if he doesn't answer. It's a little early for long speeches.”

The needle emerged from his guts.

“He'll be able to go home soon …”

“Thanks, Doctor …”

It was Marie's voice. He made a superhuman effort to open his eyes. His wife was there in front of him, leaning against a white wall. Beside her were his old father, his mother and Jean-Louis Maistre.

“He's opening his eyes!”

“Are you O.K., Michel?”

An intense pain dug into his forehead. His mouth was leaden and his tongue as hard as wood. The ward consultant came in and asked the visitors to leave.

“Can you hear me, Monsieur de Palma?”

The Baron tried to answer, but not the slightest sound came.

“You have wounds to your shoulder and head. It's been three days now. We've given you sedatives to help you cope with the pain, but you're much better now. I'll give you another jab tonight, then tomorrow I think you'll be alright … You're going to sleep now, O.K.?”

The ceiling of the room started spinning and the medic's face vanished into a blur. In the distance, a wood fire crackled in the darkness of the night. The trembling voice of an old man hammered out metallic sounds, in an unknown, rhythmic chant.

At about the same time, Sylvie emerged from police headquarters after an interview lasting more than two hours. She had refused Vidal's offer to drive her home. The sleeping pills and psychotropic medication which she had been given in large doses had left her in an altered state. She walked slowly across esplanade de la Tourette, thinking about the police officer who destiny had put in her path.

That morning, she had seen a women his age and two old people outside de Palma's hospital room. She had felt ridiculous with her
bouquet of roses and turned on her heel.

Near police headquarters, several sirens wailed in the humid evening air, and a police van set off for Les Baumettes prison. Sylvie listened to their din until they were swallowed by the Vieux-Port tunnel.

She stopped on the square in front of Saint-Laurent church and gazed at vibrant Marseille laid out at her feet, curled up around the Lacydon. To her left was the Greek amphitheater and further on place de Lenche with its dilapidated houses, the ancient agora of the Phocaeans. One world above another.

The blood-red and gold sun sank into the sea beyond the islands, beyond the vast plain of the great hunters, now submerged forever.

My greatest thanks and admiration go to Henri Cosquer, who discovered the extraordinary painted cave which now bears his name and which, after a few changes, acted as the focus of this novel.

Thanks also to Jérôme Harlay, my unpitying editor, and to François Thomazeau who gave me my title.

Thanks to my wife, Eliane, for putting up with me.