to streamline activity within his company. In pursuit of this goal—and at the urging of Arnaud Méneste, the former owner of the factory that his plant is replacing—he is trying out the practice of having a “storyteller” read aloud during the workday. He followed along with the whole of the first reading, astonished to find himself taken in by the nonsense. The name of the author, a writer of serial novels from the previous century, already escapes him; in any case, the workers appeared to be enthralled, but did not raise their eyes from their work. The initial figures are clear: far from slowing production, the reading sped it up. Even bathroom breaks decreased.
This thought brings the manager’s gaze back to his iPad. Stroking several icons with his finger, he brings wide shots from the surveillance cameras up on the screen, then zooms in on the assembly lines to wait for closing time. The stations are set up in long parallel rows separated by clean, gleaming aisles. Yellow lines on the ground indicate the paths reserved for forklifts, reminding the employees not to let their stools or trays cross this strict boundary. A hundred workers sit per row, heads lowered under the harsh brightness of the fluorescents; almond-green gowns, latex gloves, caps, and breathing masks: a long line of surgeons bent over the golden innards that are their destiny. Monsieur Wang is only interested in the women. He doesn’t know all of their names, but he uses nicknames to distinguish among them: the white-haired slut, the weasel, the fatty with the mustache, smirk, gloomy, loon, nympho, Charlotte . . . The beautiful, the sweet Charlotte Dufrène. He lingers on the oval of her face, examines her big green eyes under thick eyebrows. Milky-white skin, lips the color of a swollen vulva, messy hair escaping from her bouffant cap. Every fifteen minutes, she glances lovingly at the man seated to her right. Fabrice Petitbout. This lapdog, with his pale mop of hair, needs no nickname. The eyes of a husky, the goatee of a sickly ginger. He has a tongue piercing, a black titanium barbell that makes him lisp on the rare occasions when he speaks. Those two have managed to get places next to each other on the line; they must have messed around a bit, but they’ve never fucked—Monsieur Wang would bet his life on it.
Bell. Production halts. Not all of the workers react the same way. Some spring up immediately, others—the majority—remain seated for a few seconds, their eyes closed, their chins lowered, as if meditating; a few stretch their muscles, their elbows bent back behind their heads.
Monsieur Wang touches his iPad, and it displays the women’s restrooms. He installed these cameras himself. Sophisticated equipment. Locker rooms, showers, toilets, nothing escapes him: there is even a sensor that opens a video feed on his screen every time someone turns the lock on a stall. The same equipment exists in the men’s room, but he has only looked at it once, when Jaffar stuck it to the white-haired slut during a break.
Here come the women, chattering away as they enter the locker room. Wang has turned off the sound, but he knows he will be able to hear everything on the recordings. He has amassed dozens of hours of this over the last six months on a hard drive in a safe in his office; more than enough for his simple, professional pleasures. They start undressing in front of the narrow lockers that line the walls. Not at all like a striptease, since there is no trace of seduction here. This is the weary disrobing of young girls who have woken too late. The manager, for his part, sees nothing but panties rolling down thighs, an abundance of breasts, buttocks, pelvises, moist variations of liberated flesh under the fluorescent lighting. All of it excites him, even the lumps of fat that deform their hips and the magnifying effect of the flab on their rumps and knees. And finally—Charlotte. He expands the window to see her better. No one wriggles out of a slip the way she does, a trout freeing itself from a net. Her bosom bulges out, protruding and convex; seeing her squirm without losing her shape, he is sure that she would feel firm under his hands. Charlotte enters a shower stall between two white-tiled walls. She scrubs her hair, head thrown back, washes it, massages it. Flecks of suds fall on her breasts, hang from the fuzz on her crotch. To rinse, she turns around and bends down, presenting a breathtaking view of a worker’s backside. She turns again, washes between her legs, knees bent.
Wang-li Wong has pulled out his penis; having jerked at himself for a few seconds, he discharges onto the screen of his tablet.
Standing motionless by the door to his office, in his blind spot, the Director of Human Resources has not missed a single moment of the scene. A strange smile spreads across her face; it would be impossible to say whether it is one of complicity or scorn. Louise Le Galle silently retreats and disappears.
“Pigeon shit,” said Holmes, attempting to scrape some dried droppings from his shoulder.
“Seagull, actually,” corrected Canterel, while Miss Sherrington placed his container of opium in front of him.
“A pipe made of stingray and shark vertebrae,” rhapsodized Holmes, his eyes shining. “And, if I’m not mistaken, a Yixing terracotta bowl? You don’t deny yourself anything, my dear fellow!”
Canterel remained focused on the wad of chandoo speared on a long needle that he was heating over a lamp.
“Where is she?”
“Well, where do you think she is? In Scotland, of course, at Eilean Donan Castle. She’s waiting for us there.”
“And the feet?”
“The coroner is a good friend of hers, we will be at our leisure to examine them.”
“Which means that you have not yet seen them?”
“Correct. I didn’t want to skew your first impression . . .”
“And, if I may,” said Grimod, “there is a train to Paris in two hours.”
“We can do better than that,” replied Canterel, exhaling the smoke that he had been holding in his lungs for several seconds. “Do you know how to drive?”
“Yes,” said Grimod.
“Very good. You will be able to relieve Miss Sherrington at the wheel.”
He turned to the housekeeper, raising an inquisitive eyebrow.
“It’s all ready,” she said. “The luggage is in the car. We can leave whenever you wish.”
“I’m very lucky to have you with me, Miss Sherrington. You are an extraordinary woman.”
“Thank you, Monsieur. I shall remind you of that on occasion.”
What Martial Canterel called his “car” looked nothing like an automobile. It was a Cottin & Desgouttes coach, its motor modified by the brilliant Devonshire mechanic Harold Bates. When he bought it, Canterel had had its interior refurbished in a way that gave it the comfort of a small apartment in the style of Haussmann. Inside was a lounge hung with silk damask, a breccia fireplace with a brass fireback, Venetian mirrors, five medallion chairs of solid cherrywood—one of which turned toward the wheel to function as the driver’s seat—wide bay windows with embroidered tulle curtains, a functioning kitchen, perfectly soundproof toilets, a bathroom with portholes, a tiled Roman tub, a red copper water heater, and a mirrored scale; additionally, two bedrooms with foldaway double beds—which served as stylish work desks during the day—and a private space that allowed the driver to make use of the same commodities. From the outside, the vehicle had the appearance of a hearse fit for a circus giant, all the while giving an impression of luxury and power. Luxury, thanks to the Coromandel screens—signed
