Frantic Page 14

  She tore herself away and went to the bed.

  Fred. Pulling the blanket gently back, she brushed his chest with her lips. He didn’t budge. Still barefoot, grinning like a child enjoying forbidden food, she searched under the three sheets in the cupboard for a book: Baudelaire’s poems, Les Fleurs du Mal. If Fred caught her reading that “baby trash,” he’d blow his top.

  Book in hand, she lay down next to Fred, looking satisfied.

  She stayed like that for a moment and then realized the window was open. She shrugged and ran to close it. Fred moved, grumbling:

  “Not finished yet?”

  “Yes, darling. Finished. All finished.”

  She lay down again, propping herself up on her pillow like a new mother waiting for her friends and family to come and visit. Her visitor was death. She opened the book to page 224. She knew it by heart.

  A smile floated across her lips. Two titles faced each other. ‘The Death of the Lovers.’ ‘The Death of the Poor.’ Above, the chapter heading: ‘Death.’

  She opened her mouth to breathe, instinctively, and then laughed to herself: Stupid! She read:

  We’ll have beds full of airy odors,

  Divans, deep as graves are,

  And on the shelves, foreign flowers,

  That opened under lovelier skies.

  Her eyes jumped to the other page:

  It’s an angel, with magnetic hands

  Holding sleep and ecstatic dreams,

  Making beds for the poor and naked …

  “The poor and naked …” she repeated softly.

  Throwing off the sheet, she admired Fred’s body, was surprised to find she was still wearing her slip and pulled it off over her head. She felt very slightly nauseous, and tired …

  “My God, the watch …”

  But the thought slid away. All of that mattered so little in this enormous shadow that was falling over her … The shadow that blacked out all the others … even the shadow of the guillotine.

  The book slid down between Theresa’s knees.

  She drew over to Fred and took him in her arms. Lover and child mingled in her mind. A soft warmth came from his body. Something pure and eternal, beyond desire. Half-unconscious, he muttered; she rocked him, kissed his hair.

  “Sleep, my dearest. Don’t be afraid, mama’s taken care of everything. Nobody’ll know. Nobody’ll know anything … anything …”

  She shouted as loud, as she could: anything! Not a sound came out of her lips, but she didn’t know it any more.

  The hiss of gas filled the room in the morning quiet.

  Chapter XVIII

  His detour took him, as planned, along the quais on the banks of the Seine. Julien stopped, at random, at a spot where, at this hour, the derelicts had already been awakened by the sun and had moved off, but people on more lawful occasions hadn’t arrived yet. No fishermen; no lovers. He ran, unsteadily, to the parapet, and threw the briefcase as far out as he could. It cleared the walk below, hit the water end-on with a reasonably quiet splash and vanished. A glance to the right and left—no one. A glance at the river; no, nothing had floated to the surface, the steel hook was weighing it down. So that was that. The last evidence gone to the bottom. He got back in his car; he was too weak, too taut to feel relief. He drove on, desperately forcing his eyes to focus.

  Later, at the end of the Avenue George V, he passed a red light and braked savagely. The car rocked on its shock absorbers. He felt a pain in his heart.

  A policeman turned to see where the screech of tires came from. Julien bit his lip until blood came. “Come on now,” he told himself, “it’s a test. Don’t worry. Nobody knows anything.”

  The policeman laughed and came toward him. Julien’s chin began to hurt him, it was trembling so.

  “What’s your trouble, Monsieur, not awake yet?”

  “It’s … it’s from getting up so early, eh?”

  “And in a hell of a hurry, too. You didn’t even shave … Well, we haven’t got any laws against that yet.”

  The light changed to green. The man with the cape waved his arm, inviting Julien to carry on. Julien couldn’t coordinate his hands: the gears shuddered.

  “Hey, hey, take it easy,” the officer laughed. “Don’t want to kill the car for one little mistake, do you?”

  “I … I’ve got a train to catch,” Julien said pointlessly, “and so …”

  The cop wasn’t listening. He was looking over the morning headlines at the newsstand nearby. The gearshift straightened itself out and the car jumped forward. It stalled.

  “He didn’t quite wake up yet,” the officer told the woman behind the newsstand. She was blowing on her fingers to warm them.

  “Colder than yesterday,” she answered. “I wonder how people can do it.”

  She pointed to the paper on top of the pile… There was a box on the front page: BULLETIN. ‘Two campers slain.’ ‘Killer flees.’

  “Seen that?”

  The cop went “tsk, tsk” with his tongue, shaking his head. The woman said:

  “The ideas they get in their heads … Go camping at this time of year!”

  “Uh. Wasn’t bad yesterday, though. Anyhow, it’s the calendar that’s late, not the campers early.”

  “Mmm. Mmm. Says here the killer’s on the run.”

  The cop reassured her with a white-gloved hand.

  “Don’t worry, he won’t run long. We’ve got eyes in our heads.”

  He strolled back to his post, on the corner of the Place de l’Alma. And there was the red Frégate, stalled at the entrance to the bridge. He heard the accelerator roaring like a bull in pain. He walked over to Julien.

  Julien saw him in his rearview mirror. A shudder ran through him. “Still testing. Pull yourself together. If you pass, you’re saved,” he told himself.

  The officer came up to him.

  “Now, look, don’t do that, you’ll drown your carburetor.”

  Julien obeyed. “He doesn’t know. Nobody knows anything,” he repeated silently.

  “Put her in second,” the cop said. “I’ll give you a push.”

  “Fine … Fine, tell me when to start.…”

  “Let’s go.…”

  About to go to the rear of the car, the policeman frowned, turned to Julien, and said:

  “Say, you’re pretty edgy, aren’t you? That’s the second time you’ve stalled. Got your driver’s license on you?”

  “Of course I have.”

  “Let’s have a look.”

  He seemed suddenly suspicious, serious. Julien tangled himself up in his clothes in his hurry to get his papers out. The officer looked them over with a hard eye. Julien gnawed his fingernails.

  “All right.” He handed them back to him. “Must be the carburetor.”

  Julien didn’t dare breathe.

  “So, let’s go,” the officer said again. “In second, eh, and when I tell you, start.”

  His white traffic-stick under his arm, he bent his weight on the trunk of the car. The wheels turned slowly. The policeman pushed, panted. Towards the middle of the bridge, he shouted:

  “All right, go!”

  The red Frégate hiccoughed and threw out a blast of blue smoke. The officer stood in the middle of the bridge, pulled out his handkerchief to wipe his hands.

  “The carburetor, right?” he shouted.

  But the car kept going at top speed. The policeman put his hands on his hips.

  “You’re welcome, I’m sure,” he said.

  Outside the apartment house on the Rue Molitor, Givral hid himself as well as he could behind a pillar. He was cold and cursed his job. He heard a car coming to a stop, tossed his dead cigarette away. A red Frégate, so it was. He checked the license number and seemed satisfied.

  A man got out of the car in a hurry and passed him, giving him the quick, shocked look reserved for bums who show up in decent neighborhoods. The inspector let him run into the building,
then glanced at the photograph Georges had given him. He stretched out his arms and whistled softly. A man crossed the street, running.

  “That him, chief?” he said. “He’s crazy to come back!”

  “They’re all crazy in this thing, laddie; I don’t get any of it. But now you know what hunches are for.”

  “What d’you mean? You complained loud enough when the commissioner planted you here!”

  “My point exactly. That’s how it is, the job. All right, you stay here. I’m going in.”

  The young detective rubbed his hands, then warmed them under his armpits.

  Julien, exhausted, didn’t seem to be able to open his own door.

  “Excuse me, Monsieur …”

  The newcomer flashed his card discreetly. Julien couldn’t control a gasp of fright. Givral smiled sadly.

  “You’re Monsieur Julien Courtois?”

  “Yes … yes, why?”

  He smiled, too, bravely, in spite of the tic that shook his lips.

  “Nothing special. Your wife reported you missing Saturday night, so … eh?”

  Julien looked shocked.

  “My wife?”

  He’d forgotten.

  “The poor kid,” he said. “She must’ve been worried. I was away, and …” He stopped. The less he said, the better. Nobody knew anything. “I’ll go apologize right away.”

  He opened the door, took a step inside, turned around and said:

  “Thank …”

  The inspector had quietly put his foot on the doorsill.

  “Your wife isn’t here.”

  “What d’you mean? You out of your mind?”

  “Not me, I’m sorry to say. She’s at her brother’s.”

  “At Georges’? What a fool idea!”

  He shook his head, nervously. His thoughts crisscrossed each other in a meaningless game of tick-tack-toe.

  “So it is,” the inspector said. “Seems she wants a divorce.”

  “But that’s impossible!”

  He rushed inside, crying:

  “Geneviève!”

  “Not here, Monsieur. As I say, she’s gone to her brother’s.”

  Julien had to sit down. No matter what, don’t mention Bordgris. What the hell was this all about? And this idiot who kept on … what’d he say?

  “… by the way, Monsieur Jourlieu’s filing a complaint against you. For fraud.”

  “What?!”

  He jumped up, tore the bedroom door open, ran his hands feverishly through the little desk. Behind him, the same calm voice went on, in a tone of regret:

  “If you’re looking for your accounts, one of my colleagues is taking them over to the Public Prosecutor just about now.”

  Julien didn’t want to turn around again. He had to pull his face together first. Anyway, none of this was really important. Bordgris was important. And death. God almighty! Everything had gone like clockwork! Except the elevator.

  “Your wife spilled the works to her brother. Gave him everything.”

  Julien didn’t move. Not really so bad, all that. Givral kept going.

  “That’s life, what can you do. Everything blows up in your face at once. Your wife leaves you, your brother-in-law calls you a swindler … and then we come along and—and bother you about the Marly thing …”

  “Marly?”

  The inspector cleared his throat.

  “I mean, you’re cooked, Monsieur Courtois.”

  To his surprise, Julien, facing him, felt a certain relief.

  “Tripe. Losing money never killed anybody.”

  He’s got guts, the detective thought. “Would you excuse me?” he said. “Call to make.”

  Givral picked up the phone without waiting for permission, dialed a number. Julien put his thoughts in order. Convince Geneviève. Child’s play. Tiresome, true. Nothing more. Georges wouldn’t file his complaint. The accounts? He’d have to pay up back taxes, that’s all. Meaning Georges would have to pay up. Givral, watching him, saw him smile.

  “Hello? That you, Marcel? Givral. You can relieve Marois; he’s on a plant at the Uma-Standard Building. Uh-huh. Nailed him at home. Sure, the Givral nose never fails. Tell the chief I’m bringing him in. And have ’em pick up the car on the Rue Molitor … that’s it. See you.”

  He hung up.

  “Here we go, Monsieur Courtois.”

  Julien brazened it out.

  “You arresting me? Got a warrant?”

  Givral opened his hands wide.

  “I’m awfully sorry. Didn’t have the time. Whole thing went too fast. Five A.M., if you can imagine, when they found out. At 5:45 they blew me out of bed and I came straight here, didn’t stop at the station.”

  “I’m awfully sorry myself, but I can refuse to go along.”

  “Too true. I’m not even allowed to take you by force.”

  “In that case, I hope you won’t mind …”

  Four steps took him to the door—and he was already running down the stairs. Behind him, Givral came down without hurrying. At the front door, he bumped into someone who said politely:

  “Didn’t you see my friend upstairs?”

  I didn’t have time, I …”

  “You’ll have all the time you need, Monsieur Courtois …” said Givral as he joined them. “After you.”

  He went out. Givral closed the door hard.

  The sound went through Julien like an electric shock. The door was closing on his freedom.

  For days and days, he heard that sound. And saw that closing door.

  In the cab, Givral gave him a morning paper, pointing at a short bulletin: Two campers slain in the woods at Marly. Marly? Marly? Killer flees.

  “Why d’you show me that?”

  The detective didn’t answer and pulled up the window. It slammed. Julien jumped.

  A barred door slammed, too, as it closed on him.

  Do they lock you up on suspicion of fraud? Somebody, somewhere, shouted:

  “The door! There’s a draft!”

  “All right, all right, don’t strain yourself!”

  Somewhere, somebody slammed another door.

  He concentrated everything on keeping cool. “If I keep quiet, they won’t know anything.” If only all those doors didn’t keep slamming.

  At noon, they passed his soup through the bars and the first edition of the evening paper. He very nearly skipped the article that filled up half the front page:

  TWO CAMPERS SLAIN IN MARLY WOODS

  What’re they breaking my arm for with this Marly thing?

  POLICE ARREST KILLER

  Quick work! For once they got off their …

  He unfolded the paper, and a cry died in his throat. He recognized the snapshot of himself, the one Geneviève hated and Georges had kept. He grabbed the bars with his hand and tried to shake them.

  “I’m innocent! Let me out!”

  The guard ran out.

  “Don’t holler like that. You can tell your side of it soon enough. I got nothing to do with it …”

  He fell back on his bunk. The guard left, slamming the corridor door. Julien shivered and burst into tears.

  For hours, he primed himself: Take it easy. Not a word. You’re fundamentally safe. Because it’s a stupid mistake; they’ll all have to admit it sooner or later; meanwhile the Bordgris business will fade away like a letter written in the sand. It’s impossible, because you didn’t budge out of that goddam elevator. Ah, but don’t mention the elevator. Uma-Standard, elevator, Bordgris: taboo.

  Right across from him, there was a sharp bang.

  “Quit slamming those goddam doors!”

  The big Negro in the cell across the way kept right on dancing, beating time with his palms.

  Julien covered his ears.

  The commissioner—or was it the investigating judge?—was a youngish man, cold and meticulous to the eye. He wore a hard collar and starched cuffs. Probably to make an impression on
an old-fashioned boss. Julien felt reasonably calm, and made a small speech.

  “Monsieur, a terrible mistake has been made. A tragic misunderstanding, I might say I’ve been given the newspapers, and you can’t possibly imagine my surprise when I saw I’d been arrested for a ghastly crime, a disgusting crime I couldn’t—you understand?—couldn’t have committed.”

  He fell silent. The man opposite might have been deaf, for all the reaction he showed. He made a tiny sign, and a man got up behind the desk in back, came up, and showed Julien the raincoat.

  “Does this article of clothing belong to you?”

  It was hard-collar speaking.

  “Yes. Why?”

  “Is this the article you wore during the week end just past?”

  He almost said: no! I had my overcoat on. But he was very sure of himself now.

  “That’s correct. I left my overcoat at the office, asked my secretary to take it to the cleaners, because …”

  I couldn’t care less about your overcoat. I asked you if you wore this raincoat during Saturday evening, Sunday and the night of Sunday to Monday.”

  “Yes,” he said, annoyed.

  The official seemed pleased. Julien pricked his ears up. Look out for traps. They’re sharp, here.

  The man returned the raincoat to the desk and came back with a revolver.

  “Do you recognize this weapon?”

  Julien was wary. Now, Bordgris was killed with his own gun, an Italian job, Beretta or something like that. Mine’s from the Manufacture de Saint-Etienne. This looks like it, but I’ve read enough about how the police give you a piece of green cheese and make you think it’s the moon.

  “Well, do you or don’t you recognize this weapon?”

  “Can I hold it?”

  “Go ahead.”

  He took it, weighed it, examined it. Nothing to worry about.

  “It’s mine.”

  “When did you last see it?”

  “Saturday night,” he said, “it was in my pocket … I can’t remember if I kept it on me, or put it in the glove compartment, in the car.”

  He didn’t answer the following questions. His pocket—that is, his overcoat pocket. There was some mixup between the overcoat and the raincoat, and he wanted that cleared up before he answered.