The Beast of the Camargue Read Online Free PDF

true that there are not many private detectives in this town, and I’m one of the last policemen able to recite the local mafia’s phone book without getting a number wrong. I’ve taken liberties with official procedures, but the times required it. The old bastards you know aren’t up to date. They are a murder or two in arrears. And that’s what matters! I can tell you quicker than anyone else when someone in the mob catches a cold or steps out of line. It’s a hobby of mine. Some people bet on horses, I keep up with all the files on serious crime. Which means that I’ve got my informers out there and can find out quite a lot.”
    Chandeler coughed slightly and fiddled with the Steinert file. De Palma laid his palm on the lawyer’s desk.
    â€œChandeler, you know that I know a lot about the underworld, but I’ve always stayed as straight as a die. Both feet in the gutter, but straight. I’ll be able to write a book about it when I’m an old bastard too … Just like all the old coppers who think that they’ve served some purpose on earth.”
    â€œI can see that there’s no getting round you …”
    â€œI’m sorry, Monsieur, but policemen like me aren’t there to help men like you …”
    â€œWhat do you mean by that?”
    â€œI don’t like your furniture, or your secretary, or your shoes …”
    Chandeler took the blow manfully. He stayed sitting, completely understanding the barely veiled threat that had just been made.
    â€œI’m sorry, M. de Palma, I thought that we could reach an understanding.Never mind.”
    De Palma stood up and stretched, without taking his eyes off the lawyer.
    â€œIf you should change your mind, de Palma, don’t hesitate to call me, even late in the evening. I suppose you have made a note of my mobile number!”
    When he pushed open the door of the La Rivière bookshop in the middle of Tarascon, he pretended not to notice the bookseller who was smiling broadly at him. She was pretty, with her milk-white teeth and big shy eyes.
    He went over to the Provence section, which took up all the space beside the window and which thus provided a view of the Bar des Amis, on the other side of the rue de la Mairie.
    He took down a huge coffee table book that covered Provence from Paleolithic times to the present, taking in the glory of Rome as well as all its major and minor conflicts, its parades and traditional flim-flam. It contained some beautiful photos: Arlésiennes in their ancient costumes, the fields of lavender around Sénanque Abbey, gypsies on the pilgrimage to Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer, white manes and long bracket-shaped horns in the Camargue half drowned by salty water, rare birds … But no white spoonbills. What a shame.
    Over the road, the owner of the Bar des Amis went out onto the pavement and waved his large hairy arms about as if to chase the unhealthy air of his premises from his tarry lungs.
    The man replaced the book, then looked for another title on the shelves, without taking his eyes off the comings and goings across the street.
    â€œAre you looking for anything in particular, sir?”
    â€œUm, no,” he said, still staring at his objective. “It’s for a present. And I haven’t made up my mind yet.”
    â€œMaybe I could help you?”
    â€œNo, don’t worry. Thanks anyway.”
    The pretty bookseller gave him a thin smile and disappeared among the shelves of paperbacks.
    Then he saw the person he was looking for. Christian Rey wasgoing into the bar. A second man, whom he had never seen before, arrived less than a minute later. He was tall, with a swaying gait and gray hair. He might well be no more than a normal customer.
    â€œCan I take this please?” the man asked the bookseller, handing her
Mémoires et récits
by Frédéric Mistral.
    â€œDo you need it gift-wrapped?”
    â€œNo, no, I’m in a bit of