Thierry Jonquet - Tarantula

Alex nodded in bemusement. Of course, he told himself, everyone knew that doctors were always experimenting on monkeys and stuff like that.

“But then, what I think is, I won’t have to go to the clinic. You could just operate on me here, couldn’t you? You’ve got everything you need right here, don’t you?”

Lafargue’s hands were trembling. He thrust them into his pockets.

“Come on! You got a problem with that?”

“No, not really. I may require a few items.”

“How long will I have to stay in bed after the op?”

“Oh, not long at all. You are young and strong—and we are not talking about a particularly traumatizing procedure.”

“Can the bandages come off quickly?”

“Oh, no. They’ll have to stay on for about a week.”

Alex paced around the room, thinking it over, fingering the equipment.

“If you do it here, is it dangerous?”

Lafargue spread his arms: no, there was, as a matter of fact, no danger at all.

“You’ll be all on your own? No nurse?”

“Oh, there’s no need for that. I can handle everything. I just have to take my time.”

Alex burst out laughing and clapped the doctor heartily on the back.

“You know what we’ll do then? I’ll move in here, and you’ll do the job as soon as you can. What about tomorrow?”

“Yes, all right, tomorrow if you wish. But, while you are, um, convalescing, who will take care of Eve?”

“Don’t get hot and bothered. She’s in good hands.”

“But I thought you were alone?”

“Well, no, not exactly. Don’t bother about it—nobody is going to hurt her. You do the op tomorrow. We both stay here for a week. You can call your chauffeur and tell him not to come. We’ll go together and get the stuff you need. You’ll have to take time off from the hospital. Come on, let’s go.”

They went up to the ground floor. Alex got Richard to call Roger at his house. When Lafargue got off the phone, Alex pointed the way upstairs and steered him into Eve’s flat.

“She’s not right, your wife, is she? Why do you lock her up?”

“She… Well, she has odd attitudes.”

“Like your daughter?”

“In a way, sometimes.”

Alex drew the three bolts and bade Lafargue goodnight. After inspecting the other bedroom, he took a stroll round the grounds. This “Eve” must be beginning to find the time long out there in Livry-Gargan. But everything was going great. In ten days, once his bandages were off, he would kill Lafargue, and goodnight one and all. Wouldn’t Eve be dead in ten days’ time? But who cared?

The next morning, Alex woke Richard early. He found him lying fully clothed on the bed. Alex made breakfast, and they ate together.

“We’re going to your clinic to get the things you need. Can you operate on me this afternoon?”

“No, you have to be examined, have a blood test.”

“Oh, yeah. Urine test and all that.”

“When I have the results, we can proceed. Tomorrow morning, all being well.”

Alex was satisfied. The doc seemed straight. It was Alex who took the wheel of the Mercedes for the trip to Boulogne. He let Lafargue off outside the clinic.

“Don’t be long. I’ve got my eye on you.”

“Never fear. I’ll just be a minute.”

Richard went into his office. His secretary was surprised to see him so early. He asked her to let the hospital know that he would not be there for morning consultations. He delved in a drawer and chose two bottles of medicine at random. Then, after a moment’s reflection, he went and got a box of scalpels, which he thought would impress Alex and strengthen his belief that he was genuinely part of the process.

Sure enough, once Lafargue was back in the car, Alex studied the labels on the bottles, opened the case containing the blades, and then put everything away carefully in the glove compartment. On arriving at Le Vésinet, they went straight down to the laboratory. Lafargue drew blood from the felon, crouched over a microscope, vaguely examined the slide using any old reagents, and then took Alex’s medical history.

“Good. We won’t have to wait until tomorrow. You are in excellent health. You’ll rest all day. No food at lunchtime. And then, this evening, I’ll operate on you.”

He went over to Alex and felt his nose, then his neck. From his pocket, Alex produced the sketch of his new face and unfolded it.

“Just like this?”

“Yes, just like that.”

On Lafargue’s bed, with Lafargue safely locked in the wife’s rooms, Alex lounged for several hours. He would have liked a drink, but that was not allowed. About six o’clock, he went to get the surgeon. He was tense: the idea of being on an operating table had always frightened him. Richard reassured him and got him to undress. Reluctantly, Alex parted with his Colt.

“Don’t forget your wife, Doc,” muttered Alex as he lay down.

Richard turned the large spotlight on. Its white light was dazzling. Alex blinked. After a moment, Lafargue appeared at his side in white coat and surgical mask. Alex smiled with relief.

“Are we ready?” asked Lafargue.

“Ready. And no tricks—or you’ll never see your wife again.”

Richard went and closed the door of the operating room, took a syringe, and came back over to Alex.

“This injection will make you relax. Then, in about fifteen minutes, I’m going to put you to sleep.”

“Yeah. But no tricks!”

The tip of the needle slid delicately into a vein. Alex saw the surgeon above him, smiling.

“I said no tricks, okay?”

Suddenly, he was asleep. In his last second of consciousness, Alex sensed that something was not quite right.

Richard tore off the mask, extinguished the spotlight, and hoisted the inert Alex onto his shoulder. Opening the door to the operating room, he went out into the passage and staggered under the weight to another cellar door.

After turning the key in the lock, he carried Alex over to the moss-covered wall. The sofa and armchairs were still in place, along with various belongings of Vincent’s. He chained Alex to the wall, tightening the shackles by a few links. He went back to the operating room for a needle and catheter, which he attached to a vein in Alex’s forearm; he knew that once Alex woke up he would still be able, chained as he was, to wriggle enough to prevent him from administering another shot. Lafargue was quite sure that this guy, desperate and wanted by the police, would find the strength to resist “classic” forms of torture, at least for a time. And time was something Richard did not have. For now, he waited.

Tossing his scrubs on the floor, he went upstairs for a bottle of scotch and a glass. Then he came back down and settled into an armchair facing Alex. He had administered a low dose of the anesthetic, and his prisoner was bound to awake before long.

Alex was slow to come around. Lafargue waited, watching his reactions. He got up and slapped him hard to hasten the return of consciousness.

Alex saw his chains, the cellar cluttered with furniture, the weird trompe-l’oeil windows, sea, and mountains. He sniggered. It was all over. He wouldn’t ever say where that bitch was. Not even if he was tortured. Death didn’t matter to him now.

The doctor watched him from the armchair, sipping from a glass. It was whisky—the bottle was by him on the floor. The bastard! He had made a complete fool of him; he’d been laughing at him all along. But you had to say it—he was quite a guy, he had never lost his cool—a real con artist. And, yes, Alex had to admit it, he himself was truly pathetic.

“So that’s it, is it? Eve is in a cellar, chained to a radiator. Alone.”

“She’s going to croak. You’ll never find out where she is.” Alex was jabbering.