Frantic Page 13

  He scrambled back in, pulled the window back to where it had been. He rolled the rope around the hook, feverishly, bent down to open the briefcase and drop it in, closed it. But he stayed bent over, a ferocious stomach cramp was cutting him in two. He clasped his stomach, fought against the urge to cry out.

  A tired step, outside in the hall, brought him up fast. Haggard, motionless, he listened as the steps came nearer. At the last minute, he ran to the door and locked it. And it was the last minute; the steps came to a stop in front of the door.

  He held his breath, plastered to the wall. The doorknob rattled. His pain disappeared. Danger had cured it. The doorknob rattled again, then clicked as it was pushed from the outside. He’d never thought to have the lock changed, it was too weak to stand up against a steady assault. The knob was twisting in every direction, and someone was throwing his weight on the door.

  “Looking for something?” a woman’s voice called out.

  “Tell you the truth, I don’t know …”

  It was Albert! What did he want now? The cleaning woman laughed, currying favor.

  “Ah, you’ve always got something funny to say, Monsieur Albert.”

  “I’m not being funny,” Albert said. “I’m getting old. I’m seeing things. When I came in this morning I could have sworn I saw a tenant’s car. Thought I’d make sure he wasn’t here. You know what I mean? Saw him with my own eyes Saturday night, when he was leaving.”

  “That’s nothing,” the woman said, “he could come in early this morning.”

  “He’s not the type,” the janitor said. “And how the hell would he come in with all the doors locked?”

  They went away. Julien heard their voices dying.

  “Were you looking for me?” the janitor said.

  “Yes, I wanted to know if the painters were through.”

  “Uh-huh. Just needs cleaning up.”

  “Right, then we’ll start there, me and the girls. Must be plenty of dust and rubbish in there.”

  Julien didn’t catch the last words. He rubbed his hands nervously. Good. That took care of the last traces, his scuffed footprints on the dust-covered floor. Heaven was helping him, taking a direct hand. He slapped his hands to his stomach again; the pain was back.

  He dragged himself to his desk. He pulled a tiny bottle out of the drawer, poured out a tablet, put it in his mouth but couldn’t get it down. He went to the washroom for water. The mirror over the sink showed him the face of a gangster, covered with filthy stubble, the eyes sunken, circled. His coat was spotted. He got out his clothes brush and brushed it off. The front would do, but the grease wouldn’t come off the shirt. He took it off, shook it. Dust flew out of” it, like a beaten carpet. He couldn’t be seen anywhere, with his coat in that shape. He put it on a hanger and scribbled a note on the memo pad:

  “Denise, do me a favor and take my coat to the cleaners before I come in …”

  He hesitated. His secretary must be convinced he’d written the note on Saturday night. He added a line.

  “The week end’s supposed to be mild. I can wear my raincoat; it’s in the car.”

  He pinned the note to his coat, picked up the briefcase—there wasn’t the faintest possibility he’d forget it—and left.

  He went toward the elevator. Then changed his mind. Too dangerous. He went to the stairs. Down the stairwell, from above, he could hear steps, voices; the cleaning women were at work in the newly-painted office. He hurried, running down flight after flight on his tiptoes. The women’s voices still floated down; they were shouting over the noise of the vacuum cleaner.

  He’d reached the third floor when a scream echoed through the stairwell. Bordgris! He gripped the railing to keep from panicking.

  The janitor’s voice came up from below.

  “What’s the matter?”

  A woman answered from the thirteenth floor.

  “Come up quick, Monsieur Albert!”

  “What for?”

  “Something terrible’s happened!”

  The vacuum cleaner died. Up above, there were cries, conversations. Down below, Albert was cursing the cleaning women for taking the elevator upstairs. It came down again, with a barely audible purr.

  Julien congratulated himself for not using it. He waited, his stomach screaming with pain, his jaws working.

  The elevator had hardly reached the bottom when it started up again. Albert was going up. The way was clear. He ran for his life.

  He burst into the street. A few steps from his car, by the corner café, he stopped, terrified. In front of him, on the sidewalk, chalk letters a foot and a half high spelled out:

  GOD IS LOOKING FOR YOU!

  He bent over, trembling to read a smaller message. Under the Salvation Army appeal, some derelict had written:

  I’M IN THE BAR ON THE CORNER.

  Julien couldn’t laugh. His jaw trembling in short tics, he held his breath, going over everything, as he slid behind the wheel.

  Rope? … Briefcase.

  Bordgris? … Suicide.

  Elevator? … No trace.

  Fingerprints? … Wiped out everywhere.

  Overcoat? … Cleaner.

  He shivered in the chilly morning air, reached back for his raincoat and put it on. He started the car.

  With the roar of a plane taking off, he threw the car into first, turned right, then, shaking his head, swerved left again and found himself back in front of the words:

  GOD IS LOOKING FOR YOU!

  Julien shrugged. He had to get away from this cursed building! His foot slammed down on the accelerator. He nearly turned into the street again, but he swerved at the last minute and raced down the Boulevard Haussmann.

  At Richelieu-Druout, he realized he was driving in the wrong direction turned around and drove back more slowly, making a wide detour to miss his building. Fortunately, the streets were still empty at this hour. He gripped the wheel with his hands, to keep them from shaking.

  Chapter XVII

  Jeanne rolled over and picked up the phone on the first ring as if she hadn’t been asleep at all.

  “Hello? … Yes?”

  Her husband, rolling over after her, rubbed his eyes and croaked:

  “Who is it?”

  She shrugged, shook her head: she didn’t know.

  “Who are you calling, Monsieur?”

  Georges leaned over, tore the phone out of her hand and shouted into it:

  “What the hell is this? Waking people up at this hour of the …”

  There was a twittering in the earpiece. Georges’ jaw dropped. Jeanne touched his arm.

  “Bad news?” she asked.

  “Givral?” Georges said into the phone. “What d’you want?”

  “What is it, Georges, bad news? About Julien?”

  He waved at her to be quiet. He was wide awake now, listening.

  “Look, old man,” he said at last, “are you trying to tell me you woke me up out of a sound sleep just to find out if there was anything new at my end?”

  “Certainly,” Givral answered. “Have to keep checking, eh?”

  “They’ve found him!” Jeanne said.

  He put his hand over the mouthpiece and snapped at her:

  “Will you let me listen! No, they didn’t find him. Hello! Can’t you wait till a decent hour to check up?”

  “Well, what can I do, they pulled me out of bed, too.”

  “That’s a hell of a reason … Huh? They pulled you out of bed? What for?”

  “I knew it, I knew it,” Jeanne moaned, “They’ve found him, but they won’t tell you.”

  “What d’you mean, they pulled you out of bed?”

  “Nothing, nothing. It’s about another case, nothing important …”

  Georges turned toward his wife and used his eyes, shoulders and chin to say: There, you see?

  “He’s stringing you along,” she said. “I’m sure he’s calling from the morgue. Ask him, a
sk him.”

  Georges’ face twisted into a knot:

  “For God’s sake, Jeanne, I can’t hear a thing … No, I was talking to my wife. Now, listen, Givral, what’s going on?”

  “Nothing, nothing at all, Monsieur Jourlieu. Just wanted to know if Courtois showed up, that’s all. Oh, Madame Courtois still at your place?”

  “Yes, she’s here … Wait a minute …”

  He pushed Jeanne out of bed.

  “Go see if Geneviève is still in her room. Hurry up.”

  She obeyed, hunting nervously for her slippers and putting on her robe. She met the maid in the hallway.

  “Anything wrong, Madame?”

  “No. Madame Courtois hasn’t left, has she?”

  “I don’t know …”

  Jeanne opened the door. Geneviève was sleeping peacefully with the blankets pulled up to her chin.

  “Disgusting!” Jeanne muttered. “She’s the only one in the house who can sleep.”

  She almost slammed the door, noticed the maid watching her, and tried to smile.

  Back in the bedroom, she found her husband still wrangling with the law:

  “Now, wait a minute, Inspector, I don’t quite follow you …”

  Givral went over it again.

  “The notebooks you’re holding—Courtois’ secret accounts, yes?”

  “Yes …”

  “You’re still planning to file a complaint against your brother-in-law, right?”

  “Of course …”

  “Well, you won’t have to bother. One of our men’ll pick them up right away. Dormal. You won’t forget the name? Dormal.”

  “Dormal, yes, but I don’t understand …” He saw Jeanne at the foot of the bed. “Ah, here’s my wife. She can tell us if Madame Courtois is still in her bed.”

  Jeanne shrugged.

  “Sure. Sleeping the sleep of the just.”

  “There, just as I told you, Inspector, she’s asleep. She hasn’t left the apartment at all. Now would you be good enough to explain …”

  “Thank you,” Givral said.

  “Hello? Hello?”

  Georges stared at the receiver, his mouth pried open by surprise.

  “Can you imagine? He hung up.”

  “He’s hiding something,” Jeanne said, getting back into bed.

  “What’s he got to hide? That he found him in the morgue? Then he wouldn’t need the notebooks.”

  “What notebooks?”

  “His accounts. I’m supposed to give them to a detective who’s coming over for them.”

  “Still want to ruin your brother-in-law?”

  Georges threw his hands up again, higher, this time, as if trying for a record.

  “I don’t know, darling; what can I tell you?”

  Jeanne turned away quickly, but kept control of her voice…

  “Anyway,” she said, “if he had found out anything, he wouldn’t be calling you to ask what was new.”

  Georges coughed a few times.

  “Maybe. Let’s get some sleep. It’s still early.”

  He pulled the blanket over his shoulder, turned and turned again, sighing.

  “So why did he call?” Jeanne said.

  “Do I know? He likes to wake people up.”

  “Didn’t he say anything else while I was out of the room?”

  “Nothing new. You know everything I know. Anyhow, I don’t care, as long as they catch up with that little pussy-foot rat.”

  “That’s right. Because it’s all his fault isn’t it? Couldn’t be her fault, your saintly little sister’s, no. She didn’t push him to the wall. She didn’t drive him and nag him for money until he got himself into trouble. But the whole world has to stand on its head on account of that simpering, sniffling little bitch, and Julien, who’s no worse, really, than anyone else, has the police tailing him as though he were a common thief!”

  “That’s just what he is! If you knew how much be took me for …”

  “Ah, please, don’t start that again! When I think that she, his own wife, who claims to love him so, that she gave you his papers without even thinking twice … she’s a disgrace.”

  Georges looked at her amazed.

  “But … what’s she done to you?”

  “Nothing, to me. But to us, to Julien.”

  “The poor kid doesn’t know how to live her life, that’s all.”

  “The poor kid doesn’t know how to live her life, but she knows how to make sure nobody else can live either, unless they all dance to her tune and pay attention to nothing but her; if the whole world falls apart she wants to be absolutely sure it falls around her!”

  He was going to argue the point, but she shut him off sharply:

  “Come on, go to sleep. It’s not worth arguing about.” He let her have the last word. He always did when she had that look and that voice. Back to back, they forced themselves to breathe regularly.

  “You asleep?” he asked softly after a while.

  She didn’t answer, but her eyes were wide open.

  Fred started to snore lightly.

  Theresa, hands behind her head, was staring at the ceiling of her little room. It was peeling in spots. She sighed. She liked this room. Every corner had been furnished with the inventiveness and affection of the poor—even though Fred had teased her about it. Everything was clean, neat, orderly. The day bed against the wall, the kitchenette: a gas ring on a white wooden table, near the doll’s-house sink with its tiny faucet; the window in its tunnel in the slanting roof, and her flowers …

  The shelf used to hold twenty-odd books, but now there were only two fat volumes of the Concise Oxford Dictionary: Fred had decided some time ago to write a comparative study of French and English, but had never got past the title: The Gentleman’s Agreement of Language.

  She wasn’t quite sure why, but Theresa felt she was looking at her room for the last time.

  “He didn’t have time to go to Paris, see his father and come back. He lied to me.”

  And his father certainly wouldn’t have been in the mood to give him a gold wrist watch. It was sitting on the night-table like a pagan idol on its throne.

  One thing struck her. He’d said his father had given him a ten-thousand franc bill and five thousand-franc bills, But the roll he’d held was far bigger.

  Half-sitting up on one elbow, she watched him sleep. He seemed to be in pain, his lips hung open as if to beg for mercy, his eyelids were jammed tight like shutters slammed in anger on reality. She turned around, reached for Fred’s jacket on the chair next to the bed, searched the pockets. A billfold. Fred didn’t own one. A present from his father? After all, why not?”

  She was about to put it back, then stopped.

  An ordinary leather wallet; cellophane pockets in the middle. She recognized the photo in one of them. There you go, as Fred would have said.

  She knew she’d expected it. The man with the trailer and his wife. No surprise. What did surprise her was that she’d known it since they left the hotel.

  “Fred!” she whispered, her voice full of reproach.

  He whimpered in his sleep like a puppy with bad dreams. She put back the billfold and pressed her hands together, trembling. Then, putting her feet over the side of the bed, she slid her hand into his pants pocket and pulled out the money. Dozens of ten-thousand franc notes. She cried, without feeling anything in particular, wiping the tears with the back of her fingers; she was one of those simple people whom tragedy never takes by surprise because “it was too good to last; it was bound to end this way.”

  “What’re you up to?” Fred asked, thick-tongued, without opening his eyes.

  “Nothing, sleep, darling, sleep …”

  He rolled over with his back to her, then started snoring again.

  Theresa picked up the gold watch. A superb Swiss chronometer. On the back, there was a tiny inscription: For Pedro, from his Germaine. Her stomach turned over. She ran to the si
nk to throw up. Nothing came.

  She was in her slip; it was chilly in the early morning air. Still, her body was covered with sweat. She tried to think, her head in her hands. She still had the watch in her hand, the tick tock in her ear was impossible to hear. She saw the roofs around her through the open window. She arched her arm out to throw the watch as far away as possible from the boy she wanted to protect. The watch hit the window sill, bounced and fell straight down to the street.

  Leaning out in the cool air, she could make out nothing on the cobblestones below.

  Quietly, so as not to wake Fred, very calmly, she struck a match and lit the gas. The small blue flames danced in the gray morning light. Theresa picked up a plate. It clinked on a saucer drying next to it. She turned her head. Fred slept on.

  She didn’t know she’d just made a decision.

  In twos and threes, she lit the bills and let them bum on the plate. No regrets about destroying the money she needed so badly. Next, the billfold and everything in it. The leather took a long time to catch fire. The cellophane was more co-operative.

  Plate in hand, she went out into the dark deserted corridor, walked to the bathroom at the landing, closed and latched the door, emptied the ashes into the toilet and pulled the chain. She nearly fainted. Everything was turning around her; she leaned her forehead on the frosted-glass door. She stroked her body, sobbing:

  “Not just now, little sweetheart … It’ll be over soon.”

  Coming back to her room, she rinsed the plate, dried it carefully and put it away. The cold water had chilled her fingers; she warmed them at the gas ring. Through the slip, she again stroked the child yet to be born. She talked to it with tremendous tenderness:

  “I guess you’re not very lucky, are you? But you never would’ve had a daddy of your own, you know.… A big brother, maybe, a little weak in the head …”

  She turned off the flames, but kept her hand on the handle.

  As she looked around her, she knew she’d turned on the gas again as she heard the soft hiss coming out of the burner. Her eyes turned toward the little black holes that were pouring colorless, painless death into the room. Indifferent death. Something tried to come to life in her head and her heart; she could not have said whether it was joy or sadness.