The Beast of the Camargue by Xavier-Marie Bonnot

the Tarascon theater and adjusted the strap of her sandal.
    From the far end of the street, de Palma was watching her. As she approached him, he observed the mane of disheveled hair that fell over her bare shoulders.
    â€œExcuse me,” she said contritely. “I’m a little bit late.”
    She had changed her clothes, and was now wearing a yellow cotton dress that fluttered over her body. She had also removed her big diamond and now just a fine gold chain hung around her neck while discreet earrings were hidden by her blond hair.
    When she was just a meter away from him, he smelled the perfume that she was wearing on her neck. At that moment, the policeman’s head was about as much in order as a jigsaw violently shaken in its box.
    â€œLet’s go,” she proclaimed, with a hint of anxiety in her voice.
    William Steinert’s office was on the second floor of an old nineteenth-century building. She produced a huge set of keys and, as she went over to the door, he could not help admiring the hem of her dress as it swung against her sumptuous legs.
    The door was reinforced, as were both sides of the walls, enough to keep out the most determined of burglars.
    â€œI think it’s the round key, the yellow one.”
    â€œReally? If you say so.”
    â€œThere’s maybe an alarm. You should be careful.”
    â€œWe’ll see.”
    She eventually found the right key, which was indeed the one that de Palma had suggested.
    â€œIt’s the first time I’ve been here … It’s very upsetting. Please, go in first. I’m feeling rather apprehensive.”
    She pronounced the final word with a slight accent, rolling the “r” and aspirating the “h.” De Palma noticed this tiny detail at once. He stopped on the threshold and groped for the light switch.
    No alarm went off, even though William Steinert had furnished his office with the latest in security equipment. The detective at once deduced that either the industrialist had forgotten to switch it on—which seemed strange for someone who took such precautions—or else somebody had disconnected it and couldn’t put it back into action. Why not Ingrid Steinert herself? But that didn’t square with the emotion that showed in her gaze.
    â€œDoes your husband employ a cleaner, or anyone else who looks after his office for him?”
    â€œI don’t know.”
    â€œYou’ll have to find out.”
    Steinert’s office was in fact a large flat, presumably dating back to the same period as the theater, and it was made up of three huge rooms that communicated directly one into the other, without a corridor. The ceilings were unusually high, with decorative moldings, like Bavarian cream cakes.
    The owner could not have opened the windows for some time: a smell of scented tobacco and accumulated dust filled every nook of the first room, which served as a hall, and was furnished with a coffee-table and four old-fashioned upholstered chairs to take up the space.
    Why this furniture? Was it a waiting-room? Did Steinert receive clients in this office?
    She crossed the room without stopping. She was worried and seemed to be looking for something in particular.
    The second room was very much more spacious. The two high windows and the shutters were closed, and also reinforced. The dying yellow gleam of evening filtered through the blinds. Ingrid turned on the light.
    It was a library, with genuine rococo shelves in massive walnut, each shelf crammed to bursting with books, some displaying their spines, others piled up anyhow. The fine layer of dust that covered them showed that they had not been touched for some time, presumably since Steinert’s disappearance.
    â€œMy husband used to read a lot,” she said with emotion. “My God, all these books …”
    For the first time, de Palma sensed that she felt sad when she thought about her husband.
    He glanced at the spines of the