The Specialist

"That woman," said fastidious Dr. Yves Evenou of his unlovely mistress Simone Deschamps one day last week, "horrifies me." The doctor's horror was easy enough for the police to understand, for Simone had just plunged a knife into the breast of his wife Marie-Claire, and Marie was dead. This was the truth but not, it turned out, the whole truth.

Dr. Evenou lived in a fashionable house in suburban Choisy-le-Roi (of which he was once the mayor) and was regarded as a fine obstetrician. But most of his patients in Choisy thought it wiser not to call him to their sickbeds after nightfall: he often showed more than a professional interest in women. His third marriage in 1946 to gentle, adoring Marie-Claire Milhavet seemed an answer to all his problems. Marie-Claire was not only pretty and well-to-do but astonishingly broadminded. Eleven years after their marriage, Dr. Evenou was happily established at the head of a three-story household whose floors, reading from top to bottom, were occupied by 1) his mother, 2) his wife and daughter Franc,oise, and 3) his mistress Simone.

A Helping Hand. Simone, a stocky dressmaker in her late '40s, was as ugly as Marie-Claire was pretty, but she was an obliging sort who was always glad to pitch in and stitch up a dress for Franc,oise, to cook a meal, or to give old mother Evenou a hand with the household chores. Besides, as the doctor himself told a friend, "she may not be beautiful, but she knows how to love." For some months things went along swimmingly. Then, as a man with too much often will. Dr. Evenou grew bored. "My first two wives left me of their own accord." he burst out petulantly to Simone one day over a glass of port, "but this one sticks like mustard plaster."

After a day or two, the subject came up again. "I feel," said Dr. Evenou, "that I should kill her, or maybe that you should do it for me." By the following day, after six more glasses of port, the doctor's mind was made up. "We must kill her," he said. Without a word, Simone Deschamps rose from her chair, went to the local hardware store and bought a Boy Scout knife.

"Everything's All Right." That evening--as the doctor and his mistress later told the story--Marie-Claire Evenou complained of a toothache, and her husband affectionately suggested a sleeping pill to ease the pain. As soon as she was asleep, Dr. Evenou rang the phone in Simone's apartment twice. A moment later, his mistress stood beside him in her stocking feet. Dr. Evenou uncovered his wife's breast. "Strike here!" he said. Simone struck, and Marie-Claire woke in a shock. "Simone," she cried. "No. No." Dr. Evenou held her close in his arms. "There, there," he whispered tenderly. "Everything's all right." Marie-Claire relaxed. As the doctor stood aside, Simone struck once again. The lovers kissed. Then Simone went to the bathroom to wash her hands. And Yves Evenou went to the police station to tell them that his wife had been murdered. "Simone did it," he said. This seemed for the first time to disillusion Simone. "I have lost everything," she cried. "My lover no longer loves me."

As Simone and the doctor languished in separate jails, old Madame Evenou mooned sadly over the fate of her lost daughter-in-law. "I tried," she said regretfully, "I tried to teach her to make appetizing little dishes--that's what attaches one to a man. But she just didn't care about cooking."

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