Whatever doubts Roger and Lise might have formed had likewise been dispelled by the invoking of Eve’s supposed “mental illness.” Besides, Richard was affectionate toward the young woman, and over the last year had allowed her out more and more often. On occasion, she even took dinner downstairs. The madwoman spent her days playing the piano and painting, and Lise did the housework in her rooms without thinking twice about it. In fact, everything seemed normal. Eve was continually showered with gifts. One day, Lise had lifted the white cloth covering Eve’s easel, and the sight of Richard portrayed as a transvestite sitting at the bar of a night club merely strengthened her belief that all was decidedly not quite right with her mistress’s head. Monsieur Lafargue was more than decent to put up with her the way he did. Most people would have had her put away. Of course, it wouldn’t look so good, would it, for a big noise like Professor Lafargue to have a wife in the loony bin. Especially when his daughter was already there…
Richard let himself fall back onto the bed. Clutching Eve’s dress, he shook his head in desperation.
The telephone rang. He dashed downstairs and grabbed the receiver.
“Lafargue?” The voice was unfamiliar. “I’ve got your wife.”
“How much do you want? Tell me right now. I’ll pay it.” Lafargue was shouting, but his voice cracked.
“Take it easy. That’s not it. I don’t give a shit about money. At least, we’ll see if you can give me some money, too.”
“For God’s sake, tell me! Is she alive?”
“Of course she is.”
“Don’t you hurt her!”
“Don’t worry. I won’t mess her up.”
“Well, then?”
“I have to see you. Have a little chat.”
Alex told Lafargue to meet him at ten o’clock that night in front of the Opéra Drugstore.
“How will I recognize you?”
“Forget about it. Believe me, I know you. Come on your own. No funny business, either, or she’ll know about it, I guarantee you that.”
Richard agreed. His caller had already hung up.
His reaction echoed Alex’s just a few hours before: he reached for a bottle of scotch and took a long slug straight from it. Then Richard went to the cellar to make sure that nothing had been disturbed down there. The doors were all locked, so all was well from that angle.
Who was this guy? A criminal, obviously. But he wasn’t interested in a ransom, or not for now, anyway. He wanted something else, but what could it be?
The man had said nothing about Eve. In the early days of Vincent’s captivity, Richard had been at pains to conceal every trace of his presence. He had even laid off the predecessors of Lise and Roger, these two having been taken on only once the situation with Eve was somewhat “normalized.” At first, he had been afraid lest the police pick up his trail. That Vincent’s parents had not given up hope in the investigation he knew from the local papers. True, everything had gone smoothly: he had cornered Vincent in the middle of the night and in the middle of nowhere, and he had studiously covered his tracks. But one could never be quite sure. He had, after all, lodged a complaint concerning the attack on Viviane, and the possibility of a connection being made through some fortuitous circumstance could not be dismissed.
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.