Thierry Jonquet - Tarantula

Richard was calming down, recovering his poise little by little and reassuming a distant attitude.

“Yes, yes, I’m sure you’re right.”

“I would like—I want to get your agreement—please give me permission not to telephone you every time Viviane—”

“I agree. Don’t call anymore.”

Richard rose, took his leave of the psychiatrist, and returned to his car. Alex watched him emerge from the château. But this time he didn’t start his own car. The odds were overwhelming that Lafargue was on his way back to his house in Le Vésinet, or to Boulogne, or to the hospital.

Alex went to get lunch in the village. The square was clogged—a traveling fair was setting up its rides. He wondered who it could be living in that rathole with all the crazy people. If it was a kid of Lafargue’s, he must love him a lot to quit work like that and race off to see him.

Filled with a sudden resolve, Alex pushed away a plate still half-covered with greasy fries and asked for his check. He went and bought a large bouquet of flowers and a box of candy, and headed back to the nuthouse.

The receptionist greeted him in the entrance hall.

“Are you here to visit a patient?”

“Hmm, yes.”

“What name, please?”

“Lafargue.”

“Lafargue!”

The receptionist seemed so amazed that Alex felt sure he had blundered. He began to think that Lafargue must have a psychiatric nurse for a lover.

“But…you have never been here before to see Viviane, have you?”

“No, it’s the first time. I’m her cousin.”

The receptionist studied Alex in surprise for a moment, hesitating.

“You won’t be able to see Viviane today. She isn’t well. Didn’t Dr. Lafargue tell you?”

“No. I was supposed to—my visit was planned a while ago, you see…”

“I really don’t understand this. Viviane’s father was here less than an hour ago.”

“He had no way of reaching me: I’ve been on the road since this morning.”

The receptionist nodded and shrugged her shoulders. She took the flowers and candy and put them on her desk.

“I’ll give her all these later. Today there’s really no point. Follow me, please.”

They took the elevator. Alex padded behind the woman, his arms dangling. At the door to Viviane’s room, the receptionist motioned Alex to look through the observation window. He started at the sight of Viviane crumpled in one corner of the room, staring maliciously at the door.

“I can’t let you go in today. I hope you understand.”

Alex understood. His palms were moist, and he felt nauseous. He kept on looking at the madwoman: he had the feeling he had seen her somewhere before. But that was obviously impossible.

He left the asylum as quickly as he could. Even if Lafargue simply adored this madwoman, Alex could never kidnap her. He might just as well turn himself in to the cops right away! In any case, how could he pull it off? He would have to take the château by siege! How would he even get into her cell? No, it was Lafargue’s wife who would have to be the hostage.

He drove carefully back to the Paris area, and it was already late by the time he reached his hideaway at Livry-Gargan.

The next morning, he resumed his vigil outside the Lafargue place. He was tense, anxious—but not really afraid. All night long he had mulled over his plan, imagining the results of the transformation of his face.

Roger arrived at eight o’clock, alone, on foot, his sports paper tucked under his arm. Alex was parked some fifty yards from the front gate. He knew he would have to wait some more; Lafargue usually aimed to get to the hospital by ten.

About nine-thirty, the Mercedes pulled up to the gate. Roger got out to open it, drove through, then stopped once more to slam it shut. Alex sighed with relief to see Lafargue leaving.

The ideal thing would be to take the bitch by surprise while she was still asleep. There was no time to lose. Alex had seen no other household help over the last few days, but you could never be sure. He started the car and drew up just opposite the Lafargue place. Turning the handle of the gate, he strode through as naturally as you please and set off across the grounds.

He approached the house with one hand in his pocket clasping the butt of the Colt. The shutters of the upstairs rooms on the right were closed, and Alex was surprised to notice for the first time that they were fastened from the outside, as though the windows had been closed up permanently. He was sure, all the same, that he had seen lights on and heard a piano playing behind those shutters.

Alex shrugged and continued reconnoitering. Before long, he had circled the whole place and found himself at the foot of the front steps. He drew a deep breath before opening the front door. The ground floor was just as he had glimpsed it the night before: the large drawing room, the library-office and, between them, the staircase to the next floor. He climbed the stairs, his breath bated and the Colt now out of his pocket.

Someone was humming on the far side of a bolted door—bolted, indeed, three times over. Incredulous, Alex’s first thought was that the surgeon must be mad: why would he lock his wife up like this? But then perhaps she really was a piece of work. Perhaps he was right not to trust her. Ever so carefully, Alex slid back the top bolt. The woman was still humming to herself. The second bolt. Then the third. What if the door was locked with a key, too? His heart beat faster as he turned the knob of the last bolt. But the door slowly opened, with no squeaking of hinges.

The bitch was sitting at a dressing table making herself up. Alex pressed himself against the wall so as not to appear in her mirror. Her back was to him; she was absorbed in her makeup. She was beautiful, her waist was narrow, her buttocks—squashed onto the stool—were muscular. Alex leaned down and laid his Colt on the carpet, then he was upon her, his fist coming down sharply on the exposed nape of her neck.

The blow was an expert one, carefully gauged. In Meaux, at the nightclub where he had worked as a bouncer, mayhem had been frequent. He had learned how to deal swiftly with troublemakers—how to deliver such a sharp blow to the skull that layabouts needed only dragging out and dumping on the sidewalk.

The woman lay inert on the carpet. Alex was trembling. He felt her pulse and got an urge to caress her, but it was hardly the moment for that. He went back downstairs. At the bar he found scotch, grabbed the bottle, and took a long swig.

Leaving the house, he opened the front gates wide and, restraining an impulse to run, went to the Citroën CX and started it up. He drove into the grounds and pulled up at the house, just at the foot of the front steps. Then he ran up to the bedroom. She was still motionless. He bound her carefully with cord brought from the trunk of the CX and gagged her with adhesive tape. Then he wrapped her in a bedspread.

Taking her in his arms, he carried her downstairs and closed her in the trunk. Once more he drank from the whisky bottle, emptying it and tossing it onto the ground. He climbed into the driver’s seat and started the car. Out on the road, an elderly couple were walking a dog, but they paid no attention to Alex.

He made for Paris, crossing the city from west to east on his way back to Livry-Gargan. He stared into the rearview mirror, but no one was following.

Back at his house, he opened the trunk and carried Madame Lafargue, still wrapped in the bedspread, down to the cellar. To be doubly sure, he tied the cord to a motorcycle antitheft device, a thick chain covered in plastic. This he padlocked to a radiator pipe.

He put out the light and left the cellar, returning a little later with a saucepan full of cold water, which he threw over the young woman’s head. She began to wriggle, but her movements were restricted by the cord. She moaned, being unable to cry out. Alex grinned in the darkness. She had never seen his face and would not be able to describe him when he let her go. If he ever let her go…The surgeon, though, would see him, see his face. He might even make an Identi-Kit picture of him once the operation was done. Lafargue would be able to describe Alex’s new face. The face of the self-same Alex who had killed a cop—and kidnapped Lafargue’s own wife! Never mind, thought Alex, the main thing for now is to get this guy to operate on me.