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  “You’re the expert,” he said. “Takes real guts to make a play for the boss.”

  Denise pounded her chest, carefully avoiding permanent damage to her breasts.

  “Me? I made a play for the boss? What’re you dreaming about?”

  He’d managed to get disentangled from his trousers, and laid them, neatly folded, under the mattress.

  “Discovered, my dear, discovered! Not dreamed,” he gloated.

  “Could you give me the subtitles I’m not very clever.”

  “I never trust those who claim they are not clever, for …”

  “Read me the dictionary some other time,” Denise broke in.

  Paul prepared his epigrams in advance, polished and memorized; Denise had a habit of freezing them in the bud. He believed he’d kill her.

  “That’s not what you’ve been telling Juliette!”

  He’d shouted at the top of his lungs. She waved at him to lower his voice, pointing at the walls and at the neighbors beyond, “who don’t have to know you don’t love me.” She won every time.

  “All right,” Paul whispered, “don’t try to tell me you weren’t waving a little thigh, there, at your big handsome sugar daddy, while I was shivering my ears off waiting for you …”

  “Juliette,” Denise murmured.

  She gave it a moment’s thought, then ticketed her girl friend with one word.

  “The bitch.”

  “Bitch or no bitch, you admit it!”

  “The hell I do! It’s a lie. Oh, if you could only see yourself. What a job you could’ve got with the Inquisition.”

  “Ancient Greece is more like your speed. What a courtesan you could’ve …”

  The buzz of the doorbell held them where they were, nose to nose. They exchanged a look.

  “Stay here,” Denise said, putting on her robe, “I’d better see who it could be this late.”

  She shut the bedroom door behind her and ran through her apartment: two rooms, kitchen and a tiny hallway.

  She opened the door … and recognized Madame Courtois with two unknown men. One nudged the other with his elbow, and the second man—regretfully, it seemed—held out an identity card on which she saw only one word: POLICE.

  “What is it?”

  “Just a formality,” Givral said, embarrassed.

  Denise got her presence of mind back.

  “Is something wrong, Madame Courtois?”

  Geneviève opened her mouth to answer, but couldn’t produce a thing. She put a sopping handkerchief to her eyes and dissolved into tears. Georges had a hard time controlling himself.

  “We have reason to believe, Mademoiselle, that you aren’t alone at the moment,” he said.

  “So?” she said coldly. “That’s your business?”

  “You may be sure it’s our business.”

  He motioned Givral to go in. Denise blocked his path.

  “Where are you headed?”

  “Police,” the inspector stuttered.

  “Police, my eye! I wasn’t born yesterday. Got a warrant? No. Even if you had, I could keep you out till morning. That’s the law? That’s the law.”

  Givral turned up his palms at Georges. “I told you, Monsieur Jourlieu.”

  “Are you going to let us, through? Yes or no!”

  “No.”

  Givral played with the button on his coat until it came off. Georges tried to control his anger, his worst adviser. Denise was dominating the situation and liked it. Geneviève sniffled. The girl felt sorry for her.

  “Can you tell me what’s the matter, Madame?”

  “My husband’s disappeared, Denise!”

  The secretary gasped. She put her hand to her mouth, letting go of her robe. It fell open. Georges’ eyes almost fell out of his head. Givral kept to business.

  “That’s just what we came to see you about, Mademoiselle.”

  Denise got her robe back into position.

  “What’ve I got to do with it?”

  “That’s what we’re asking you!” Georges said.

  “Who’s asking who what?” Denise said.

  “You must help us, Mademoiselle,” the detective said. “You’re the last person to have seen him, right?”

  She stepped back to let him into her living room. Givral put a hand on Georges’ arm, barely stopping him from rushing to the bedroom.

  “What time did you leave him, Mademoiselle?”

  “Last night? Around 6:20.”

  “You always that accurate about time?”

  “He told me not to leave before 6:20.”

  His ear glued to the door, Paul was trying to make out words. All he got was vague noises. They got louder. Denise seemed outraged.

  “You’re out of your head! If that’s what you think, you’re just plain nuts!”

  He couldn’t make anything out of Geneviève’s sermon. But he could hear Georges clear as a bell:

  “Well, I’m going to get the facts!”

  “Don’t you dare!” Denise shouted.

  The door banged open. Georges found himself staring at a strange man, bent over double at the keyhole, three-quarters naked. Georges mumbled some inaudible excuse and stood still, his mouth hanging open. If there was one thing Paul hated, it was being made to look ridiculous. Instinctively, he sent his fist flying into the stranger’s face. Georges toppled backwards. Geneviève shrieked. Denise swore. Givral neatly caught Georges in his arms and whispered in his ear:

  “Don’t move. You’ve done enough.”

  Denise let loose.

  “All right? Happy now? Good! Because tomorrow, you won’t be. This doesn’t stop here, let me tell you! I’ll sue! And you, you fake cop, you’ll be hearing from me. I mean, what kind of a circus is this!”

  She calmed down when she came to Geneviève, who was crying harder than ever.

  “Ah, they’re a big help, aren’t they.… Now, everybody out!”

  They were happy to comply. She saw them out in silence and slammed the door on them. For a second, she put her ear to the door to hear the post-mortem outside. The man who’d been hit was blaming Madame Courtois for her “intuition.” Givral was trying to quiet them down and get them out.

  She shrugged her shoulders and went back to the bedroom.

  Paul’s chin was in the air.

  “So I’m not the only one who thinks you’re sleeping with the boss!”

  Hands on her hips, Denise looked at him steadily.

  “Stow it. We’re not going to spend the rest of the night arguing.”

  She pulled off her robe, threw it on the bed, and wrapped her arms around her lover.

  “We’ve lost enough time, Paul!” she said, and didn’t wait for an answer.

  Chapter XIV

  The wind moaned in the chimneys of the inn. It was dark and warm. It rained briefly from time to time. Particles of grey fog drifted across the road.

  Fred pushed back his blanket and twisted his neck, to see if Theresa was asleep. He couldn’t be sure. Her breathing seemed regular enough. He turned his head back into his pillow. It was already soaked with sweat.

  He couldn’t sleep a wink.

  As if life hadn’t been complicated enough, that stupid fight was all they needed. Theresa seemed to have put a padlock on herself ever since; she hadn’t opened her mouth once. A wave of temper broke in him.

  “Hah! Not a man. But it’s me that’s got to decide everything. Do everything. Everything!”

  Drive back to Paris in the small hours of the morning; can’t have the cops picking them up with a stolen car. Pay the hotel bill; how? Find some solution to problem number one: Theresa and the brat. Face down the old man.

  “Still and all, I’m not a man! Crap!”

  The only way to get out of this corner, at least for the time being, was to get his hands on some sort of loot.

  What a bonehead, that Theresa. Run out on her? She deserved it, a hundred times over. Only … he�
��d be alone, then.

  He glanced again at the other side of the bed. Sure, she could breathe easy, now that she’d thrown her little responsibility on his back! Too much. It was too goddam much!

  He let one leg out of the bed, then the other. Barefoot, he went around to the other side and bent over her. Was she sleeping or faking? Theresa’s eyes stayed closed and her breathing stayed free and deep. He went to the window, pulled up the shade, leaned his burning forehead on the glass.

  It was deep night outside. A weak, milky light showed the bony April branches of the trees waving in all directions with the wind. A raindrop, caught in some crack in the bark, shimmered in the moonlight every now and then. He saw the Frégate, in a corner of the courtyard, crouching like a jungle animal ready to spring on the nearest prey.

  Fred shivered. Inside him, sharp and biting, he felt lonely for Theresa. He turned around. She hadn’t moved. It made him furious that she could sleep: “Her, she just snores away, but it’s me that isn’t a man! I’ll show her. Show her.” He began to dress, moving like a sleepwalker. Suddenly, he stopped, his leg in the air and a slipper in his hand. Theresa had sighed and shifted on the bed. Her soft face was in the moonlight for a moment, and then lost in the shadows. Fred put on the slipper and pulled down the window shade.

  His shoes in his hand, he opened the door, gently.

  Theresa’s eyelids flickered, but he didn’t notice. Once he was in the hall, she sat up, her face worried, holding the blanket to her chest against the chill.

  Outside, Fred got into the car and released the brake.

  The Frégate started to roll down the gravel slope; there was a slow crunching noise. He stopped the car at the iron gate and got out. As he pulled back the heavy grill, it screeched,

  A curtain twitched aside on the first floor.

  Mathilde gasped.

  “Charles! Get up, for God’s sake! Your guests are skipping out!”

  Pulled out of the sleep of the just, the innkeeper ran to the window, looked, and scratched his head.

  “What’s his trouble? Car break down? Why doesn’t he start the damn thing?”

  “So we won’t hear him! Run, Charles, stop him, the little bastard!”

  She shoved him towards the door. He objected.

  “Hold it, huh? Gotta think. Let’s not make trouble for ourselves. Did you see the girl?”

  “She’s in the car, you fool!”

  “Uh-huh, you didn’t see her. First thing, go make sure she isn’t in her room.”

  “You crazy? What for?”

  “They had themselves a fight this afternoon. You know, he went out alone. So maybe he’s going out for a breather again?”

  “At this time of the night? Only you could come up with an idea like that. Anything to get yourself back to bed.”

  “Go on up. You’ll be back before he’s got the gate closed again.”

  She went up the steps four at a time. She barely hesitated at the door of room 8, then slowly turned the knob.

  Theresa watched it revolve. She lay back in bed and closed her eyes, thinking Fred was returning. Mathilde sighed with relief when she saw her and closed the door gently.

  Fred, however, was already at the road; he’d left the gate open.

  Charles was keeping him in sight. He heard his wife come in and barked:

  “Well?”

  “Well … she’s upstairs!”

  He threw his hands in the air and his eyes to the ceiling, then turned around.

  “So! Who’s right tonight?”

  “You are! No argument, you are!”

  Charles gave one last look at Fred. He was at the wheel, with the door open, sitting on one leg, pushing off the ground with the other. Soon he was free-wheeling. Charles lost interest and went back to bed, grumbling.

  “What’s the matter with you? Waking me up right in the middle of a dream …”

  She interrupted.

  “With the little girl taking my place in the feathers, I suppose.”

  He buried himself under the blankets.

  “Can never have an intelligent conversation with you,” he said.

  Julien’s mouth was open, and he was snoring fitfully, screwing his eyelids shut against the blinding light, struggling in a nightmare. He couldn’t move, his head was wedged in the corner of the elevator, his neck on his briefcase. He shouted “no!” and woke up.

  He panted, shook his head sharply, as if to shake out the last images of his dream. He looked like a man on the point of death. His beard was a thick and dirty stubble. His hair was tousled, clotted. His hands were covered with cable-grease which left long trails on his cheeks as he rubbed his face.

  Suddenly, he sat up straight.

  “Light!” he shouted.

  The light had come back on. He jumped to his feet, lost his balance, got it back, and punched the first button on the operating board that came under his hand.

  Nothing happened. He pushed it harder, feverishly, pushed it again … no result. Then he thought to look at the board. He laughed hoarsely. He was pushing the stop button…

  As he took his finger off, the light went out. He screamed:

  “Light, for God’s sake!”

  Was he out of his senses? It must’ve been the night watchman. He’d hear him, look for him, first find Bordgris’ body and then the murderer in the elevator …

  He flattened himself against the wall.

  Far, far away, he could hear steps ringing on the floor of the lobby. “Maybe he didn’t hear me …” He listened, his lips dry and drawn back, his body plastered to the metal wall as if he wanted to sink into it.

  In the silence of the night, with no noise from the street, he could even make out the front door clanging shut. Only then he dared to breathe, an endless sigh that emptied his chest. Slowly, he slid down, drained, shriveled, his body wracked by convulsive sobs.

  “That was close,” he whispered, just to hear the sound of his own voice. He croaked with laughter, it eased him somehow, it went on for quite a while, he didn’t try to stop it. Then he raised his voice. “I can talk if I want to! I’m all alone, I can do as I damn please!” He was shouting by now.

  He got up, shaking his fist, and suddenly realized he was losing his mind. He hid his face in his hands. He bent his whole will power to the task of staying sane.

  “Come on. Come on, take it easy,” he told himself, “take it easy.”

  He wiped his dripping forehead with his sleeve.

  What time was it? The luminous dial of his wrist watch showed three o’clock. In the morning? In the afternoon? What day? Which night?

  His jaw hurt. He felt weak and stiff. His neck wouldn’t work. He sat down, his legs between his arms, his chin on his knees.

  Alone. Perhaps dead.

  Was this death? To have to stay alone in your hole, to have to hide when another human came by? To have to turn down the chance of leaving your prison for fear of being put in another one?

  He pinched himself. “No, I’m alive. It’s not death.”

  “Then, it’s hell.”

  He let out a deep breath. His bitterness blew out with the used air. He couldn’t blame himself. He began to blame his destiny.

  Destiny? Destiny’s for the defeated. When a man wins, it’s his own doing. When he loses, he’s destiny’s tool.

  A kind of energy came back to him. “I make my own destiny. All I have to do is hold on. That’s the mark of a real man.”

  If he only had a cigarette …

  He fell back to sleep, and back into his nightmare.

  The trailer swayed with the wind, creaking on its axles. Like being at sea, Pedro thought. He sat up on his bed to look out the window towards where he’d last seen his wife. He swore under his breath. He couldn’t leave her alone with her thoughts—not those thoughts. It was stupid. And suppose it rained?

  His legs thrashed, his feet found the slippers and he stepped out. At the edge of the b
ushes, he called out:

  “Germaine!”

  Warding off the branches with one hand, he pushed on. But the brush was so thick that his flashlight couldn’t reach very far. He’d never find her in this darkness. He was getting discouraged. A thorn speared him in the ankle. He fumed. Suddenly, he found himself on the road, ten yards from the trailer.

  “What can you do,” he muttered and stepped in.

  But he couldn’t fall asleep.

  Germaine woke up, shaking and soaking with dew. She had had a dream. It was the same dream and it never changed. Pedro had shut her up in a cage. He was leading the child away as she called to him and stretched her arms through the bars. Her husband laughed. He snapped his fingers and the child disappeared. Then she picked up a gun and … and woke up. Always.

  Usually, as soon as she was conscious, she’d turn to Pedro for help, for protection. Tonight, he wasn’t there.

  She heard the wind whistle and the leaves sigh. Overhead, nature was alive, crackling and rustling in the branches that seemed to be fanning her. The sleeping bag held her in, like a cage. And her pistol was in her hand, next to her heart. A dry, sharp sound quite close by made her almost scream with terror. She slid out of the bag, standing, shivering, her gun held before her.

  “Who’s there?”

  The night kept its secret. She fell back against the trunk of a tree, limp. A leaf tickled her. Her chin was trembling. She was sobbing: “Pedro…”

  Fred stopped the Frégate at the top of the rise. He cracked his knuckles, trying to force the necessary frame of mind—cool and efficient. He wasn’t succeeding.

  Pedro sat up again and lit a cigarette.

  Germaine saw, far away, through the branches, a tiny, swerving light that could have been her husband’s lighter. She began to run in that direction. But the light vanished. She had to go around a bush.

  She kept on running, furious at her own terror, tearing her legs on the brambles.

  “The headlights,” Fred thought. He snapped the switch, turning them on by mistake. He turned them out at once.

  Germaine crashed out onto the highway. It was still wet from the last shower, a gray, glistening scar cutting through the woods. Something moved behind her. She turned, wildly, her finger on the trigger of her gun. She was shaking harder and harder, her anger rising, stiffening her. As in the cage. At the top of the rise, three or four hundred yards away, two eyes lit up and went out immediately. It must be Pedro, guessing where she was, showing her the way. She went toward him.