The Beast of the Camargue by Xavier-Marie Bonnot Read Free Book Online Page B

Mégane appeared, with its headlights off, followed by a 306.
    â€œJust look at them,” Moracchini said, mechanically checking her Manurhin. “Aren’t they just wonderful?”
    â€œThey’re on time, you can say that for them. On the dot of six …”
    â€œYeah,” she said, spitting her chewing gum out of the window.
    A third unmarked car drew up behind the Xsara.
    â€œHow many are we altogether, Anne?”
    â€œEleven …”
    She got out and shook hands with Capitaine Bonniol, of the
Brigade de Recherches et d’Intervention
.
    â€œIt’s there,” she said, pointing at number 32, which was half erased.
    It was a ramshackle maisonette, set back from the rest of the street. A rusty fence, mended with reinforcings for concrete, stood in front of a small garden of irises and scrubby rose bushes. To the left was a prefabricated garage, and at the far end the house itself, with its bedroom under the rafters; one of those prewar shacks put up by Italian laborers in one weekend, using materials nicked from building sites. A first step out of their shanty town.
    Moracchini drew her .357, signaled to the B.R.I. hard cases to hang back and gave four violent kicks that almost demolished the door.
    â€œThis is the police, M. Casetti!” she shouted loud enough to crack her voice. “Open up!”
    More kicks, then she nodded to her teammate.
    â€œThis is the police.” Daniel Romero, in a voice that was almost soft. “Come quietly, M. Casetti.”
    â€œShall we break the door down, Anne?”
    â€œWhy not bring in the anti-terrorist squad and T.V. reporters while you’re at it! Are you joking or what? We’ll do it the old-fashioned way. He’ll come down and open up like a good boy.”
    â€œMy ass he will,” said Bonniol.
    At that moment, a light shone through the bedroom shutters. A shotgun barrel gleamed in the air.
    â€œThis is Capitaine Anne Moracchini, of the
Brigade Criminelle
. I have a judge’s warrant … You know me, Jean-Luc … come on, open up!”
    Events unfolded just as the two had imagined from the start. The door was pulled ajar, a figure appeared and a pair of eyes shone in the half-light. Romero kicked hard at the bottom of the door and Moracchini aimed her revolver at Casetti standing ashen-faced in his underpants.
    â€œNo messing now, Jean-Luc. And no sudden moves. Put your hands where we can see them and turn round.”
    Jean-Luc Casetti, a crook used to the routine, turned and offered his wrists to the police officer. Bonniol turned on the kitchen light, and a greenish glare came down from the neon on the ceiling.
    â€œNot too tight, please,” Casetti begged.
    â€œDon’t worry, Jean-Luc. We’ve been here before!” Moracchini grabbed hold of Casetti and sat him down on the kitchen table.
    â€œWe’ve got a warrant …”
    Casetti shook his head and looked skyward.
    â€œWe’re here because you’re suspected of taking part in a raid on a security van. So, as of now—and it’s ten past six—you’re in police custody. If you want, you can see a lawyer, and also a doctor. How are you, no problems at the moment?”
    â€œNo, I’m fine.”
    Jean-Luc Casetti was short, with bright eyes that darted around in all directions. A gypsy called Bagdad de la Cayolle had fingered him as the gunman in the double murder of the Ferri couple. After two lean years in a post in Nice, the
Criminelle
’s new boss, François Delpiano, had jumped at the chance of solving his first big case in Marseille. But Moracchini was sure that the tip was a phony. Shehad said as much to Delpiano, but he wouldn’t listen. All he had agreed was to bring in Casetti for a hold-up, so as not to put the wind up the people who had taken out the contract on the couple.
    â€œCasetti, the security van raider …”
    â€œPlease Inspector, not in front of the