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  “Hear my client out to the end …”

  “As you like,” the judge says, exasperated, “but all the evidence that does exist reserves Courtois for the Marly murders!”

  He slams his desk drawer shut in vexation. Julien throws his hands to his ears and begs:

  “No doors! Anything you want, but no doors!”

  The judge gasps with annoyance.

  “Please, please, spare us your amateurish attempts to plead insanity, you’ve had your psychiatric tests and passed them 100%. I bow to your ingenuity in the matter of the elevator, though. Technically, it’s possible; we’ve looked into it. Unfortunately, as a practical thing it’s utterly improbable. Especially in the face of all the testimony.”

  The lawyer leans toward Julien and says softly:

  “This Bordgris, whom you say you killed; he committed suicide, Courtois. I checked the file. If you could just give me one piece of evidence that would put me on the right road …”

  Julien tries to concentrate: he can’t.

  The lawyer addresses the judge:

  “Judge, we mustn’t forget that the final proof of Bordgris’ suicide, the usual last letter, the suicide note—it just doesn’t exist.”

  “Freely granted,” the judge says.

  The defense lawyer gives Julien an encouraging nod. Julien is pleased, too. This mad train is getting back on its rails. Something positive for a change.

  “Freely granted, on one condition. That Courtois gives up the fairy story about the elevator. In that case, I’ll be delighted to admit that Courtois murdered Bordgris, disguised the crime as suicide … that’s it, isn’t it, Courtois?”

  Julien nods vigorously. The judge smiles:

  “… and, his thirst for blood in no way satisfied, went on to Marly as well. If that’s what you want, as far as I’m concerned I’d be more than happy to add the loan-shark murder to your list. We’ll just put it in with the rest of the file.”

  “But the elevator, Judge!” Courtois whines.

  “Ridiculous! Pure imagination. Bordgris died, the autopsy’s established it beyond doubt, between 5:30 and 6:30 P.M. And your secretary, Courtois, formally testifies that you didn’t leave your office during the whole of that hour.”

  “Wait … wait … I’ve got to think.”

  “Certainly,” the judge agrees. “Think away. Maybe you can come up with a better one next time.”

  He stands. And raises his voice.

  “Only there isn’t going to be a next time!”

  The hearing is over. Julien Courtois stands indicted for the Marly murders. Under French law, the presumption of his guilt is formally established. There will be jury trial, to re-examine the evidence (but it will be the same evidence), and a panel of judges to sentence him to the guillotine. Justice will be done.

  Now, in the hearing room, Julien Courtois is suddenly calm, as a man who faces unavoidable catastrophe and at last accepts it. All the doors are really closed now. There’s nothing new to fear. Without a word, without any bravado, he goes over to the door and slams it hard to prove he’s not afraid any more. But he can’t prevent himself from jumping.

  “Judge,” he says in an empty voice. “It’s over. I don’t know myself any more who’s right, you or I. The only thing that matters is there’s no tomorrow for me. It’s sort of reassuring. Like money in the bank, you know? You see—you hope and you hope … and …”

  He smiles sadly.

  “Hope, that’s credit. No hope, that’s cash.”

  At the bottom of the Seine, in the waterlogged briefcase, surrounded by strands of rotting rope, the steel hook has just begun to rust.

  THE END

  of an Original Gold Medal Novel by

  Noël Calef

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