M. Dieudonne nodded his head, deep in thought. He drained his grog, savoring the last drop, then declared:
“Interesting. But how much time had elapsed before your arrival on the scene?”
Commissaire Roux smiled ironically as he answered:
“I understand what’s behind your question. Actually, we got there very quickly. Dr. Loiseau came immediately to find me, leaving Mercier to stay with the victim. It’s the business about the footprints that intrigues you, isn’t it? I can assure you that was where we focused our attention, because Dr. Loiseau had pointed out their curious nature straightaway. It just so happened that among my officers there was a specialist in that area, who knows more than an Apache Indian about the tricks that can be played. None of the sets of tracks had been tampered with. Not those of the ‘beast,’ not Mercier’s, not Dr. Loiseau’s. Nobody had marched backwards, nobody had covered anyone else’s prints with his own. And I repeat, there were no other prints around the house, nor anywhere on the snow-covered surface of the clearing. We also went through Mercier’s house with a fine-toothed comb. Nothing, and — needless to say — no secret passages. Are you beginning to get the picture?”
“It certainly limits the possibilities. What did the medical examiner have to say about the wounds?”
“He was fairly cautious. Wolf’s face and hands had been shredded, not bitten; in fact, there were no marks anywhere that could be said with absolute certainty to be bite marks. It was the work of a wild animal, there’s nothing more to be said. As for the dagger wound in the back, that was without question the work of a human. A precise blow, straight to the heart, causing instantaneous death.”
M. Dieudonne thought for a moment, then pointed to the wolfhound sleeping on the carpet. “When and where did you find him?”
“He reappeared during the morning. We examined him carefully, of course. He seemed to have been in a fight, but there was nothing to show whether it had been with his master or another animal in the area. The problem is there had been another fall of snow since the night, so we couldn’t compare his prints to those leaving the front entrance of the house.”
“But those prints must have been made by the dog, surely?”
“Perhaps. But in that case, what about the murderer? A winged assassin, not subject to the laws of gravity, do you think? Whether it was this beast or some other animal that shredded his master’s body doesn’t affect the problem, as I see it! How could whoever had struck the fatal blow have escaped? By the way, this dog doesn’t strike me as being particularly aggressive… Otherwise, believe me, I wouldn’t be keeping him here.”
There was a silence, broken by M. Dieudonne asking:
“Apart from what you’ve told me, are there any other clues?”
“Clues? No. There was something bizarre, however, although I can’t see what it could have to do with the murder. On the bench in the workshop there were some fresh wood shavings, which apparently had come from a lath that had been removed from the roof, and which we found on one of the shelves, the only bit of freshly cut wood in a place covered with dust and cobwebs.”
“That’s certainly bizarre. But what’s even more bizarre is the conclusion you seem to have drawn from all this. If I’ve understood you correctly, you think M. Wolf’s killer was half-man, half-wolf, in other words a werewolf, which would explain the claw marks and the bites, as well as the dagger and the prints in the snow.”
Jean Roux nodded, somewhat shamefacedly.
“I assume, my dear sir, that you must have good reasons for making such an assumption?”
The commissaire’s face darkened and his voice dropped.
“You’re not from these parts, I take it? You don’t know about the legend that hangs over this village. The werewolf has always haunted this region. A monster, half-man half-wolf, as you say, which has its own particular way of killing its prey: tearing the flesh apart with its fangs before plunging a dagger into the heart. About twenty years ago, nothing had been heard of the werewolf for some time. Then, out of the blue, it struck twice. Old Timothee saw it with his own eyes when it attacked Henri, the little boy he had adopted and who, by some miracle, survived. The old man’s dog, like his master, tried to defend the child against the monster and followed it into the forest, where it was found in agony, its body lacerated by dagger thrusts. Incidentally, the tragedy was seen by another witness, none other than Dr. Loiseau, whose own wife would be a victim of the beast a week later.”
For a few seconds, the only sound to be heard was the crackling of the fire. The two men stared sightlessly at the sleeping wolfhound. The smooth and shiny fur of its flank rose and fell steadily with the rhythm of its breathing.
It was Roux who broke the silence:
“Have you any other explanation to offer, my dear sir?”
The old man avoided the question.
“You told me that M. Mercier and Dr. Loiseau went to M. Wolf’s house because they had reason to be concerned. I don’t really understand that. Admittedly they both heard growls coming from the forest, but that was hardly reason enough for a nocturnal excursion. Especially since the werewolf had not been seen for about twenty years!”
“Obviously,” replied Jean Roux, turning his armchair around. “It wasn’t only the noises which caused them to be concerned about old Wolf. Several days before the tragedy, Mercier and Loiseau had spent the evening with him. Henri was there, too. Yes, the very same Henri who had been attacked by the beast in the past. This kind of get-together was unusual, quite exceptional, in fact, because Wolf had lived practically as a recluse since he had stopped working. I say since that time, because before then he had been a busy bee, dipping into every flower. He was an unrepentant skirt-chaser, to the point that he had no friends left among the males of the village, a state of affairs which had made him bitter and even hateful. Although surprised by the invitation, Mercier and Loiseau accepted, assuming that the hermit’s life was beginning to weigh on him. And that night, the discussion turned to the werewolf.”
Roux stopped and looked his visitor in the eye to get his full attention.
“I imagine you are well aware that the werewolf is a human of normal appearance, male or female, who only turns into a wild beast during certain nights. Are they complete transformations? Are they partial? Are they frequent? Do they only happen at full moon? I’m not going to dwell on the subject, which is in any case very controversial. As is the way to combat them. Only silver bullets that have been blessed and marked with the cross are supposed to be effective. The question of the ‘transmission’ of the evil is of particular importance, in my opinion. Some believe that a simple bite is sufficient to give birth to a new ‘wolf.’ Then there is also the question of what symptoms allow us to identify our werewolf when he is not in a period of transformation. They say that, despite the human appearance, two things can betray him. First, his body will show the marks of any wounds and any scratches sustained during his wild wanderings in the forest. Second, there will be hairs on the palm of his hand. Mercier, Loiseau, and Wolf were discussing the matter when the conversation became quite heated. It was about Henri, in fact, who had actually been bitten by the monster, and who had suffered the consequences. He’s a good and honest lad, but he has the mental age of an eight-year-old. In the village, he is called upon to perform only the most menial tasks, at which he often incurs cuts and scratches. He has no hairs on his palm, but his body and arms are covered in a veritable fleece. It’s not difficult to guess the drift of the discussion: Henri, having been bitten by the monster, must surely run the risk of becoming a werewolf one day. Mercier and Loiseau pressed the point and that, apparently, riled Wolf. He suddenly announced, with a sneer, that the time had come to tell Henri the ‘truth’; and not just Henri but the whole village. What truth was he talking about? The doctor and the ex-policeman failed to get it out of him, but they formed the distinct impression that Wolf was intent on pouring derision on the werewolf legend. They pointed out that his attitude might cause him grief if the werewolf got wind of what he was saying. Whereupon there was a minor incident: Dr. Loiseau made a sudden movement; the dog had an unfortunate reaction and bit him in the ankle. Nothing serious, but afterwards Loiseau had been obliged to walk with a cane for a few days. From that moment, things went from bad to worse, not helped by the amount of alcohol that had been consumed. Mercier and Loiseau left, threatening the old man with another visit from the monster, in view of his cynical disdain. Wolf, sarcastic and sneering, kept repeating that everyone would soon learn the truth.”