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

nice young man, and his long pointed nose gave him a sad and blasé look, which might have seemed pessimistic or melancholy, but which de Palma judged as revealing an excitable, fiery nature.
    â€œThis is my favorite photo,” she said, placing her open hand on the portrait.
    For the first time, he noticed that she had extremely long fingers, with trimmed nails perfectly lacquered with transparent varnish.
    â€œIt’s absolutely him. That blend of strength and melancholy, and you can see the intelligence in his eyes.”
    â€œIt’s funny, he doesn’t look German at all.”
    â€œ
Provenzale
… How true. He almost looks Provençal.”
    She showed him more photographs of Steinert, posing amid the machinery in a factory in Munich. He was born in 1942 and had inherited a majority holding in Klug-Steinert Metal, one of the largest tool manufacturers in Germany.
    â€œA year ago, my husband handed over most of his responsibilities to his younger brother, Karl Steinert. You can see him here, in this family portrait. He has the same forename as his grandfather, the founder of the company. William had the same name as his great-grandfather …”
    â€œHow old is Karl Steinert?”
    â€œForty-eight.”
    â€œTen years younger than his brother.”
    â€œThat’s right. But the youngest brother is Georg, who was born in 1962. He’s an eternal Bohemian, and revels in it.”
    With an agitated gesture, she turned over the page.
    â€œBetween Karl and Georg there’s Isabella, who’s forty-two. She was artistic when she was young and started out a career as an actress. But now she deals with part of the family business.”
    She gave a scornful look and sat back.
    â€œShe never comes here … I mean, very rarely. She has an office in Paris and looks after the watchmaking business—Klug Steinert also makes mechanisms for brands of luxury watches, like the one you are wearing, M. de Palma.”
    â€œIs Karl married?”
    â€œYes, to the family’s worst enemy. She’s French and comes from an aristocratic family. Her name’s Ann-Sophie de Bingen. Quite a ring to it, no? I find it
wirklich lächerlich
… absolutely ridiculous.”
    â€œWhat, the aristocracy?”
    â€œNo, I mean … never mind, M. de Palma. What about your name …?”
    â€œI’m from an old Italian family. But my grandfather was just a plain seaman in the merchant navy. My father too … And I’m just a plain policeman.”
    â€œI didn’t mean to offend you, I do apologize.”
    A ray of sunshine lit up the room. Through the window, two rows of olive trees were just visible as they disappeared into this fresh stream of light.
    â€œForgive my asking you this, but your accent … I mean, you don’t have a German accent!”
    â€œMy mother’s French, and I’ve spent much of my life in France, in Paris. A good family and a good education …”
    Her fingers were drumming on the table. She opened her cigarette case, took one out and turned it between her thumb and index finger.
    â€œAnd how do you find life in Provence?”
    She lit the cigarette and flexed her mouth, which for the first time made her look unrefined.
    â€œYou can ask me that again some other time.”
    â€œSorry, but I’m a police officer, not a confidant. I’m trying to understand certain things.”
    De Palma stood up abruptly and walked over to the window. The garage door was open, revealing a brand-new black Mercedes, a metallic gray 4×4 B.M.W. and the latest Porsche convertible, also gray. They all had Bouches-du-Rhône number plates.
    â€œIs there a car missing?”
    â€œYes, the one my husband used every day. A Range Rover.”
    â€œDo you know its registration number?”
    â€œIt’s 8526 VM 13.”
    She knew it off by heart, which de Palma found unusual for a woman, especially for a woman of