hour to get back.
“They kept you a while,” Camille said.
“Yeah. Wondered why I was fussing over Massart. How did I know he’d run off. Nobody round here gives a damn for that man. Couldn’t tell them about the werewolf.”
“So what did you say?”
“I told them Massart had made a rendezvous with me on Sunday to show me a big paw-print he’d spotted near Mont Vence.”
“Not bad.”
“And there was nobody there in the morning, or in the evening. So I got worried, and went back to see this morning.”
“Sounds logical.”
“In the end, they got worried too. Rang the slaughterhouse at Digne. Nobody’s seen him there either. So they’ve just called in the men from Puygiron and given them instructions to comb the area around the shack. If they haven’t found Massart by two o’clock, they’ll call in the
gendarme
s from Entrevaux as well. I want to eat, Camille. I’m starving. Fold the map away. Did you find anything else?”
“Four more
X
s, very faint. All of them between RN202 and the Mercantour.”
Johnstone raised his head interrogatively.
“They correspond roughly to Andelle and Anélias, east of Saint-Victor, to Guillos, ten kilometres north, and to La Castille, at the very edge of the National Park.”
“Doesn’t fit,” said Johnstone. “Never been a savaging in those farms. You sure of those locations?”
“Pretty much.”
“Doesn’t fit. Must mean something else.” Johnstone pondered. “Maybe that’s where he sets his traps,” he suggested.
“Why mark them on a map?”
“To log catches. To record good poaching grounds.”
Camille nodded in agreement and folded the map away.
“We’ll have lunch at the village café,” she said. “There’s nothing in the larder.”
Johnstone scowled as he looked in the fridge for confirmation.
“You believe me now?” Camille said.
Johnstone was a loner who did not like mixing in public places; he especially disliked eating in cafés in front of other people, amid the clatter of cutlery and the sounds of mastication. Camille liked the noise and whenever she could she dragged Johnstone to the village café, where she went almost daily whenever he disappeared up into the Mercantour hills.
She went up to him and kissed him on the lips.
“Come on,” she said.
Johnstone gave her a hug. Camille would run away if he tried to cut her off from the rest of the world. But that meant making a big sacrifice.
As they were finishing their lunch, Larquet, the roadman’s brother, burst into the café, out of breath and apoplectic. Everyone fell silent. Larquet never set foot in the café as he always took his tiffin in a dixie and ate on the hoof.
“What’s up, old fellow?” said the barkeeper. “You look like you’ve seen the Virgin Mary.”
“I ain’t seen no virgin, you idiot. I saw the vet’s wife coming back up from Saint-André.”
“Not quite the same thing, I grant you,” said the barkeeper.
The vet’s wife was a medical auxiliary and had stuck needles into just about every backside in Saint-Victor and the surrounding area. She was much sought after because she had such a gentle touch that you hardly felt the injection. Others claimed her popularity stemmed from her sleeping with all the not entirely repulsive males whose rumps she perforated. More charitable souls said it was not her fault if she had to give injections in men’s behinds, it could not be much fun to do that for a living and just put yourself in her shoes for a moment.
“And so what?” asked the barkeeper. “Did she tip you in the ditch and have it off with you?”
“You’re a brainless oaf, you are,” Larquet snorted with contempt. “You want to know something, Albert?”
“Tell me, do.”
“She refuses to treat you, and that’s what you can’t stand . So you sling mud at her because that’s the only thing you know how to do.”
“You finished your sermon?” the barkeeper retorted with a flash of anger in his eyes.
Albert had
“They kept you a while,” Camille said.
“Yeah. Wondered why I was fussing over Massart. How did I know he’d run off. Nobody round here gives a damn for that man. Couldn’t tell them about the werewolf.”
“So what did you say?”
“I told them Massart had made a rendezvous with me on Sunday to show me a big paw-print he’d spotted near Mont Vence.”
“Not bad.”
“And there was nobody there in the morning, or in the evening. So I got worried, and went back to see this morning.”
“Sounds logical.”
“In the end, they got worried too. Rang the slaughterhouse at Digne. Nobody’s seen him there either. So they’ve just called in the men from Puygiron and given them instructions to comb the area around the shack. If they haven’t found Massart by two o’clock, they’ll call in the
gendarme
s from Entrevaux as well. I want to eat, Camille. I’m starving. Fold the map away. Did you find anything else?”
“Four more
X
s, very faint. All of them between RN202 and the Mercantour.”
Johnstone raised his head interrogatively.
“They correspond roughly to Andelle and Anélias, east of Saint-Victor, to Guillos, ten kilometres north, and to La Castille, at the very edge of the National Park.”
“Doesn’t fit,” said Johnstone. “Never been a savaging in those farms. You sure of those locations?”
“Pretty much.”
“Doesn’t fit. Must mean something else.” Johnstone pondered. “Maybe that’s where he sets his traps,” he suggested.
“Why mark them on a map?”
“To log catches. To record good poaching grounds.”
Camille nodded in agreement and folded the map away.
“We’ll have lunch at the village café,” she said. “There’s nothing in the larder.”
Johnstone scowled as he looked in the fridge for confirmation.
“You believe me now?” Camille said.
Johnstone was a loner who did not like mixing in public places; he especially disliked eating in cafés in front of other people, amid the clatter of cutlery and the sounds of mastication. Camille liked the noise and whenever she could she dragged Johnstone to the village café, where she went almost daily whenever he disappeared up into the Mercantour hills.
She went up to him and kissed him on the lips.
“Come on,” she said.
Johnstone gave her a hug. Camille would run away if he tried to cut her off from the rest of the world. But that meant making a big sacrifice.
As they were finishing their lunch, Larquet, the roadman’s brother, burst into the café, out of breath and apoplectic. Everyone fell silent. Larquet never set foot in the café as he always took his tiffin in a dixie and ate on the hoof.
“What’s up, old fellow?” said the barkeeper. “You look like you’ve seen the Virgin Mary.”
“I ain’t seen no virgin, you idiot. I saw the vet’s wife coming back up from Saint-André.”
“Not quite the same thing, I grant you,” said the barkeeper.
The vet’s wife was a medical auxiliary and had stuck needles into just about every backside in Saint-Victor and the surrounding area. She was much sought after because she had such a gentle touch that you hardly felt the injection. Others claimed her popularity stemmed from her sleeping with all the not entirely repulsive males whose rumps she perforated. More charitable souls said it was not her fault if she had to give injections in men’s behinds, it could not be much fun to do that for a living and just put yourself in her shoes for a moment.
“And so what?” asked the barkeeper. “Did she tip you in the ditch and have it off with you?”
“You’re a brainless oaf, you are,” Larquet snorted with contempt. “You want to know something, Albert?”
“Tell me, do.”
“She refuses to treat you, and that’s what you can’t stand . So you sling mud at her because that’s the only thing you know how to do.”
“You finished your sermon?” the barkeeper retorted with a flash of anger in his eyes.
Albert had
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