Frantic Page 12

  Ten steps from the car, Fred had to stop. He was shivering with cold, even though he was sweating freely. He pulled Courtois’ raincoat around him. He shuddered, thinking: “I’ve forgotten something … what?” That was it. He ran back to the car, took out the revolver he’d seen yesterday in the glove compartment. With the gun in his hand, he felt as if he could face the whole world. He might twirl the pistol on his forefinger, cowboy style. No games, this is serious. He stopped dead. He heard hurried steps, panting. The blood began to beat in his neck and his mouth went dry. Something, somebody leapt on him. A formless sound came out of its throat. If he’d been able to, be would have screamed.

  “Pedro … Pedro …” the thing moaned.

  He tried to push it away, but it held on to his hand. He struck out with the other hand—it held the gun. He didn’t hear the moaning, and turned to run. A sharp bang. Fred felt something brush his shoulder; a bullet whistle in his ear. Then he lost his head, fired. Once. Twice. The thing, the enemy, crumpled to the ground. He stood there, dazed. Germaine twisted on the ground and whimpered:

  “Pedro … Pedro …”

  “What’s she saying?” Fred wondered.

  The first explosion tore Pedro out of a half-sleep. He sat up. Germaine! When the second came, he was already outside, shouting:

  “Germaine!”

  He strained his ears in the direction of the sound, made out a shadowy, motionless form; but when he ran toward it, the shape—was it Germaine?—turned and tried to escape. Pedro stumbled on his wife’s body and grabbed the shape.

  “Germaine, it’s me, darling, relax …”

  He had to fight. She was probably in the middle of an attack.

  “Give me that gun … give it to me …”

  A deafening clap. At first, he thought she’d slapped him, but then he understood.

  “No, Germaine, no!”

  Again the roar of the gun, quite close. Something burst in Pedro’s brain and his fingers stiffened; his lips could hardly mumble:

  “Give me that …”

  A third shot cut him off. He fell backwards, his throat rattling, his mouth full of blood … Poor Germaine, what have you done? Who’ll take care of you now? The shadow he took for Germaine, bending over him, was sobbing noisily.… My poor darling …

  Julien had discovered a few crumbs of tobacco in his pockets. Patiently, with his fingertips, he collected them and cupped them in his palm. He tore out a page from his appointment book, trying to roll a cigarette. A little thin, perhaps, but better than nothing.

  He lit it with his lighter and hardly had time for one draw. The paper burned in one burst of flame.

  Chapter XV

  The innkeeper’s heart was throbbing like a frog’s gullet. Theresa was waiting for him. With her sexy little face framed by the pillows. She was peering at him, mockingly, through long lashes; he couldn’t figure out what it meant. Her finger crooked, inviting him closer. Charles’ heart skipped three beats in a row, but he obeyed.

  Brusquely, he ripped the blanket off the girl’s body. Damn Mathilde! Why did she always put thirty-six blankets on the guests?

  Theresa’s eyes became more mocking still. She didn’t make a move. Charles sat down on the edge of the bed. She was gorgeous. Hurriedly, brutally, he tore off the second blanket and found a third. She stared laughingly at him; he mashed his hand on her mouth to shut her up. He pointed the thumb of the other hand at the partition; his wife was asleep just behind it. Theresa answered with a gurgle, and then she couldn’t control herself any more; she started tearing the blankets off herself. They were both in a frenzy, the bed began to bounce under them, they got tangled up in the accumulation of blankets, couldn’t get them out of the way, tried to press together in spite of them. The old Adam was alive in them. With a shiver of triumph running over his whole skin, he realized the last veil was about to be torn away. Under it, Theresa’s body. His fingers curled around the last barrier’s embroidered edge; his knuckles cracked; the noise was like a rifle shot. Mathilde called him, her voice far away and near at the same time:

  “Charles! Charles!”

  He shook his head fiercely.

  “Leave me alone!”

  Theresa gave him a grin of derision and said:

  “Well, stupid, how about it?”

  He started, his eyes opened and he fell back on his pillow, exhausted and frustrated. Mathilde was holding him by the shoulder and shaking him, repeating:

  “Well, stupid, how about it?”

  He swallowed with an effort. He still wasn’t resigned to reality.

  “For Christ’s sake,” he groaned, “what d’you have to …”

  He scrubbed red eyes with a sweating hand, wet dry lips with a thick tongue. Furious, he shouted:

  “What the hell’s going on? Where’s the fire?”

  Mathilde shrugged.

  “He’s back.”

  “Who. Who’s back?”

  “The kid. Julien Courtois, or whatever his name is. Can’t you hear him?”

  He could. Straining his ears, he could hear a motor muttering outside the walls. Now he was really furious.

  “So what? What the hell do I care? You couldn’t let me sleep?”

  Mathilde shook her head wearily.

  “Pay attention for once. Your boy friend drove in like a cannon ball, raced inside here and left his motor running. You follow me?”

  “No.”

  His wife groaned.

  “Pay attention. I’ll bet a night’s sleep he’s come to pick up his little friend … on the quiet. All right? Now do you get it? All right. On the job.”

  Charles heaved a huge sigh. When Mathilde got one of these ideas…. Sadly, he put on his pants.

  Still groggy with sleep, Theresa was getting dressed. She put on her skirt. Fred always watched her dress. Tonight, though, he was staring out the window, peering at the landscape, not even noticing her.

  “Hurry up!” he barked.

  “I’m hurrying, I’m hurrying,” she said, fighting with the clasp on her skirt. “But I don’t understand …”

  “The day you understand, that’ll be the day.”

  He came over to give her a hand, helping her pull on her sweater, without even glancing at her breasts. “What’s the matter with him?” she wondered. And then she remembered last night. “That’s right, we had a fight.” But she wasn’t angry any more.

  “It’s nearly four in the morning!” he said, fuming. “But you don’t worry about that. Only, there’s a hot car on our hands, huh? But that’s not your worry, either. That’s my worry, ’cause I got to do everything, keep everything in my skull, on top of all my other troubles. We’ve got to ditch the car in town before daylight, catch on?”

  She caught on. A bit better than he did.

  “How we going to pay them here?”

  “Not your problem. My problem. All you’ve got to do is get the lead out of your ass.”

  Theresa slipped her bare feet into the flat shoes.

  “I’m ready.”

  Fred grabbed her and pulled her along. The corridor was quiet; good. He pulled her down the stairs. They went down on tiptoe, crossed the lobby, skirting the chairs whose varnish glistened in the dark. Theresa was dry with fear. If the people were awake … another scandal.

  She was about to follow Fred into the garden, when Mathilde’s voice nailed her to the spot.

  “No, my little friends. Not tonight. You’ve got to get up really early to skip out on us. We charge five thousand francs for the week end, if you don’t mind.”

  Theresa was about to admit all. Fred’s hand bore down on her shoulder, forcing her to hold her tongue. He does think of everything, she said to herself.

  “Five thousand francs?” Fred grumbled, in his fake voice.

  Theresa just put her hands together and prayed: God, God, make him have money.

  “… per person!” Charles was on the job.

  Fred wa
s standing in the garden, just outside the door. In the dark, the couple still couldn’t see his face clearly. But they could see his hand reach into his pocket and grope inside it. “He’s mad,” Theresa thought, “he can’t possibly bluff them like that.” She’d steeled herself for catastrophe, so she wasn’t surprised by a miracle. Her lover pulled out a crumpled ten thousand franc note and handed it to her. She passed it on to Mathilde, who leapt on it like a bird on a worm.

  “Room service extra,” she remarked.

  Fred reached into his pocket again and pulled out something: a roll? That big? He turned around so she couldn’t see. He peeled off two thousand francs and sent them along the same chain. He put the rest back in his pocket.

  “See you around,” Mathilde said, nasty to the last.

  Charles thought that was a little unprofessional. He called out to them, as they went down the path:

  “Come again soon. You’re always welcome.”

  The gate slammed and she turned on him.

  “You’re just an old sweetie-pie, aren’t you? One look at a little fanny like that and you go blind; they can take us to the cleaners for all you care.”

  He pulled the money out of her hand and waved it under her nose.

  “What’s your complaint? They paid up, didn’t they? So?”

  She couldn’t think of an answer. He took the offensive.

  “And what the hell are we hanging around in the dark for? Turn on the lights, we got a conspiracy going here, or what?”

  Without waiting, he headed back through the lobby. The lights caught him right in front of the mirror. Quite a sight, in there. A scruffy old man, his pants buttoned wrong, his woolen underwear gaping over a dead-white chest.

  “Pretty,” said Mathilde, snickering.

  “And what about you?” he said. “What’re you, gorgeous? With your fake skip-outs.”

  Mathilde blew out a sigh.

  “Oh, if you could just see yourself …” she said.

  “I am seeing myself,” he said.

  Then he laughed. He gave his wife a hearty clap on the rear, took her by the waist and turned her to the mirror.

  “Cute couple, though, eh?”

  His hand started roaming. Mathilde protested for form’s sake:

  “Come on, now, come on …”

  “You come on,” he said, “The main thing is to know what you’re too old for …”

  “The little kid, for instance?”

  “.… and what you’re still young enough for…”

  “Me, for instance!”

  Slowly, arm in arm, laughing, they went back to their room. The lobby was empty, but still lit. Then Charles reappeared, in long underwear, grumbling:

  “Always me!”

  He turned off the lights and ran back to join his wife.

  On the West highway, headed toward Paris, the red Frégate was making a hundred miles an hour.

  “Please, Fred, not so fast,” Theresa said, “you’re scaring me.”

  “You’d be a lot more scared if they caught us with a hot car,” he said.

  Bending over the wheel, he tried to see through the darkness.

  “Speeding like that’s the best way to be stopped by a motorcycle cop,” she said.

  He didn’t answer, but slowed down slightly. “Did you go see your father?” she asked.

  “The old man? Why? When?”

  “Why … just now, when you went out.”

  “Ah … weren’t you asleep?”

  “He gave you the money to pay the hotel bill?”

  “Him? You’re absolutely out of your …”

  The word never got out. His forehead wrinkled up like an accordion. After a few seconds, he said, nervously:

  “Uh, yes. I saw the old gentleman, told him the whole thing. Gave me ten—I mean fifteen big bills.”

  He wanted to look at her, but kept his eyes on the road, and added:

  “One ten and five ones.”

  Silence fell. It was Theresa who broke it. “Did you tell him about us, too?”

  He twisted on his seat.

  “Boy, what a face on him, waking up in the middle of the night like that. You missed a grand sight. He was so choked up, he just handed me the loot, no argument, no nothing.”

  He couldn’t quite bring it off, his heart wasn’t in it. And Theresa stuck to the point:

  “So he knows now?”

  “Knows what?” he barked.

  “About you and me.”

  He didn’t answer, twisted and turned some more; he couldn’t stand the way she was looking at him; it seemed to strip his soul naked, he was terrified of saying one word too many and spilling the truth, the truth that was already too heavy for him to bear alone…

  “So what the hell will I do with the wagon, huh?”

  They sped into a tunnel; the Saint-Cloud bridge was at the other end. They were getting near Paris.

  “I don’t know,” Theresa said, “I always thought we’d leave it where we found it.”

  Fred nodded, over and over.

  “Not bad … not bad …”

  Something was wrong, she sensed. She moved closer to him. She felt his body trembling. He was grateful to her for bringing him warmth.

  “And don’t cry about the wagon … I’ll buy you another one … you’ll see.”

  So he’d told his father, but he didn’t want to admit it. His crazy pride. She smiled in the dark. But why did he keep shaking like that? Se wanted to ask him, but decided not to. Fred’s shoulders slumped, as if weighed down by fatigue. He seemed to have the hiccoughs. A truck sped past, lighting up the inside of the car. He was crying.

  “Fred, what’s the matter?”

  “Nothing … I … I need some sleep, that’s all.”

  Her heart wept out to him; he’d spoken in a trembling, childish voice she’d never heard from him before.

  “You lie down and rest as soon as we get rid of the car.”

  “Where? Where can I go?”

  “To my place,” she said, astonished.

  “Thanks, Theresa. You’re all right. You’re all right …”

  He stopped the car a moment to take her in his arms, hold her tight, mumbling:

  “Don’t leave me.… I need you …”

  “But I need you too, Fred.… I need a man …”

  “A man?” he cried “I’m not a man yet? Didn’t I get you the money?” His voice was breaking.

  “Yes, Fred, yes …”

  That fight last night must have really upset him.

  “Fred, I’m so sorry I said those things.… I didn’t mean them; you know that.”

  He hid his mouth in her shoulder. She could hardly hear him…

  “Never … never push a man too far … never.”

  “No darling.… I’ll never do it again …”

  He stroked her cheek. Something was scratching her. The watch, on his wrist. She was horrified.

  “Fred! You copped your father’s watch! Oh, no!”

  His reaction couldn’t have surprised her more.

  “I shit on the old man! You hear me? And on you, too! Quit asking me dumb questions; I’m fed up with it, you hear me? Fed up!”

  He started the car, roughly, grinding the gears. The car took off like a tornado. She didn’t dare speak. Maybe because she’d already understood and come to a decision without realizing it.

  The Frégate turned into the Avenue de Versailles.

  Chapter XVI

  The bulb lit up. This time, the light exploded in his brain, and Julien Courtois jumped to his feet, blinded, breathless, his elbows over his eyes, completely disabled. The night watchman again? He automatically looked at his watch: 5:30. What did it mean? Alive again after thirty-six hours, he couldn’t believe it just like that, all at once.

  The blood beat in his temples. His thoughts were scraps floating in a fog, but one suddenly came clear: the janitor, or a cleaning woman, would push
a button for the elevator. They’d discover him.… Never!

  Timidly, as if he didn’t want to be caught defying destiny, he pushed the button for “twelve.” Smoothly, noiselessly, matter-of-factly, the elevator rose.

  It stopped. Twelfth floor. He didn’t dare walk out. It was too easy. There must be a trap somewhere. Where? Yes, that was it. No one, but no one must suspect he’d spent thirty-six hours shut up in the same building with a corpse.

  He lifted up the linoleum and checked the screws on the trap door. With his pocketknife he tightened up the work he’d done last night in the dark. The blade broke. The tip flew off somewhere. He lost precious minutes finding it; he dropped it in his pocket. The linoleum back in its place; perfect fit. His fingerprints. He took his handkerchief and rubbed them out on the control board, the floor, the door. With the tip of his foot he pushed the grains of tobacco he’d tried to smoke under the edge of the door into the groove. The cleaners would run over everything with a vacuum cleaner and a wet cloth, but better safe than sorry.

  He beat his overcoat energetically; wouldn’t do to look too dirty if he ran into anyone. Then he strained his ears. There was absolutely no sound. Slowly, careful not to make the bearings squeak, he slid the door open. Nobody outside. He picked up the briefcase. He took a few steps. He was dizzy with freedom. He listened again. Nothing. He ran to his office.

  The window was still half open. Just as he’d left it. He dropped his briefcase to the floor. He opened the window wide and leaned out. The weak morning sunlight seared his eyes. He could barely see the rope, hanging just to the left of him. He grinned weakly. That was that. No one had seen it, no one had come up to take it down, no one knew. He’d won.

  He reached a hand toward it, gripped it, twitched it … nothing happened. Come on. He leaned out further, resting his stomach on the ledge, pulled the rope taut away from the wall, then snapped it hard. The hook came sailing quietly down, he caught it with his other hand before it could bounce on the ledge.