Thierry Jonquet - Tarantula

But then time had passed: six months, a year, soon two years—and now it was four years. The matter was surely dead and buried.

Besides, had this fellow known who Eve was, he would not have talked as he had, not have said “your wife.” He thought he and Eve were married. On those occasions when Lafargue went out in public with Eve, people tended to assume that he had taken a young lover. For the last four years he had had no contact at all with his old friends, who attributed this sudden withdrawal to Viviane’s collapse into insanity. Poor Richard, they thought, this second blow was too much: first his wife dies in that plane crash ten years ago, then his daughter ends up in the mental hospital.

The only people Lafargue allowed to see Eve were acquaintances or colleagues from work who saw nothing odd about his appearing now and again at a social function with a woman on his arm. The admiring murmurs elicited on these rare occasions by his “mistress” nevertheless filled Lafargue with a certain, as it were, professional pride.

So this thug could know nothing at all about Vincent. That much was obvious. But then what did he want?

Lafargue was early for the rendezvous with Alex. He paced up and down the sidewalk, jostled by the customers going in and out of the drugstore. He glanced at his watch every twenty seconds or so. At last, Alex came up to him, having first made sure that the surgeon was really on his own.

Richard appraised Alex’s face: it was square and brutish.

“Did you come in your car?”

Richard pointed to the Mercedes, which was parked nearby.

“Let’s go.”

Alex signaled Richard to get behind the wheel and start the engine. He had taken his Colt from his pocket and placed it in his lap. Richard looked at the guy out of the corner of his eye, hoping to detect some weak spot from his demeanor. To begin with, Alex said nothing but “Straight ahead,” “Turn left,” and “Turn right.” The Mercedes left the Opéra district behind and took a meandering route through Paris, from Place de la Concorde to the Seine embankment and then from Place de la Bastille to Place Gambetta. Alex’s eyes were fastened on the rearview mirror, and he didn’t engage Richard in conversation until he was absolutely certain that Lafargue had not alerted the cops.

“You’re a surgeon, right?”

“Yes, I run the reconstructive surgery department at—”

“I know that. You have a clinic in Boulogne as well. Your daughter is in the crazy house in Normandy. You see, I know a lot about you. And your wife. She’s not in bad shape right now—she’s chained to a radiator in a cellar. You’d better listen good, or you’ll never see her again. I saw you the other day on the tube.”

“I gave an interview a month ago.”

“You were going on about how you fix people’s noses, how you can make old women’s wrinkled faces all smooth again, stuff like that.”

Richard understood now. He sighed. This jerk had no interest in Eve; all he was interested in was himself.

“I’m wanted by the police. I did a cop. I’m screwed, unless I get my mug changed. And you are going to change it for me. On the box, you said it didn’t take long. I’m on my own: there’s nobody in this thing with me. I’ve got nothing to lose. If you try and tell the cops, your wife is going to starve to death in that cellar. Don’t try to pull anything—I tell you I’ve got nothing to lose. I’ll take it out of her hide. If you get me busted, I’ll never tell the cops where I’ve put her, and she’ll die of hunger. Not a nice death, either.”

“All right. I agree.”

“Are you sure that—”

“Naturally, you must promise not to harm her.”

“You love her, don’t you?”

Richard’s voice was toneless. He heard himself answer “yes.”

“How do we do it? You take me into your hospital—no, I figure your private clinic would be the best.”

Richard’s hands were clamped to the steering wheel. Somehow he had to talk the guy into going to Le Vésinet. Plainly, he was no mental giant. The naïveté of his plan was proof enough of that. The idea that once under anesthesia he would be utterly at Richard’s mercy had not even crossed his mind! He was an imbecile who really thought that he could pull his scheme off simply because he was holding Eve captive. It was ridiculous! All the same, he had to agree to going to Le Vésinet. At the clinic, Lafargue’s hands would be tied, and the guy’s stupid plan might just succeed, because Richard would never, ever go to the police.

“Listen. We’ll need to save time. Any operation has to be planned way in advance. You have to be examined, as I’m sure you realize.”

“Don’t take me for a fool.”

“No, no, but if you come to the clinic you’ll be asked questions. Surgery has to be scheduled, there’s a procedure that has to be followed…”

“You mean you’re not the big boss?” Alex was taken aback.

“Of course I am. But, I mean, if you are wanted, you surely want to be seen by as few people as possible?”

“Yeah. So?”

“So let’s go to my home. I’ll show you what I can do, design a new nose for you. You also have a double chin, which we can eliminate—all that sort of thing.”

Alex was suspicious, but he went along. He told himself everything was going just fine. The doctor was obviously scared shitless about his woman.

Back at Le Vésinet, Lafargue motioned Alex to a comfortable chair. They were in his study. Richard went through one file of photographs after another until he found pictures of a man not unlike Alex in appearance. With a white marker he carefully erased the nose, then limned a new one in black. Alex watched fascinated. Lafargue moved on to the double chin. Then he rapidly produced a freehand sketch of Alex as he was now, full face and in profile, and another of the Alex that was to be.

“Great! Make me look like that and you won’t have to worry about your wife.”

Then Alex grabbed the first sketch and tore it up.

“You’d better not make an Identi-Kit portrait of me after the operation,” he said anxiously, “and give it to the cops.”

“Don’t be silly. The only thing I care about is getting Eve back.”

“That’s her name, Eve? Anyway, don’t get the idea I don’t have every angle covered.”

Lafargue had no illusions. This joker surely meant to kill him if ever the operation was performed. As for Eve…

“We have no time to lose, you understand. I must examine you before the operation can be done. Down in the cellar I have a small laboratory set up, so we can get started right away.”

Alex frowned.

“You mean here?”

“Well, yes.” Richard smiled. “I frequently work away from the hospital.”

They both stood up, and Richard led the way. The cellar was very large, and there were several doors. Lafargue opened one, switched on the light, and went in. Alex followed, his eyes widening at the sight of the long, fully equipped bench and the glass-fronted cabinet stuffed with surgical instruments. Colt in hand, he went slowly round the mini-operating room that Richard had set up. He stood in front of the table, examined the immense spotlight that presided over it, picked up an anesthesiologist’s mask, touched the carboys.

“What is all this?” he asked in astonishment.

“It’s my laboratory, of course.”

“You don’t operate on people down here, do you?” Alex gestured toward the bench and spotlight. He recognized much of the equipment from the medical television show.

“No, no. But, you know, we have to perform experiments. On animals and so on.”

Richard felt the sweat gathering at his brow, his heart beginning to pound, but strove to betray nothing of the fear that gripped him.