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Bordgris frowned, trying to find the trap. He didn’t get it.

  “That’s right,” he said thoughtfully.

  He swung his chair around to gain time, found himself facing the safe behind him, and absent-mindedly turned the combination. The heavy door opened with a click. Julien immediately caught a glimpse of the army revolver acting as a paperweight on one of the shelves. The loan-shark’s fingers found a bundle of papers tied together with a rubber band. He pulled out the draft.

  Bordgris left the safe open, turned around. The draft lay on the table, his hand lay on the draft, his eyes rested on Julien. He repeated, coldly:

  “That’s right.…” He sighed, as if it hurt him to part with it: “O.K. I’ll give you your paper now, and you’ll trade me a check for five million.”

  Julien put his hand in his pocket.

  “Just a minute,” Bordgris said, menacingly. “I swear to you, if this isn’t covered Monday morning, I’m going to the cops and you’ll be pulled in for kiting checks. You’ve been warned.”

  “You think I’d be dumb enough to give you a rubber check? I know you’d have me jailed without thinking twice, don’t worry about that. Use your head!”

  “I’m trying to,” Bordgris said. “I don’t get it. You’ve got the money in the bank right now?”

  “I never said that.”

  “Oh-ho! Good.”

  “What’s so good? Don’t you want your money?”

  “Sure, sure. Only … I’d have loved to get my hands on EXIM.”

  “What in blazes would you do with it? It’s a trading firm, not a loan office.”

  “I need a new front. It’s heating up here.”

  For a moment, they stared at each other in silence, each wearing a strained smile, each trying to guess how the other was going to try to cheat him next. Bordgris was sweating buckets, crushing his handkerchief between his palms.

  The sight of him revolted Julien. There was only one thing Julien wanted: to drop the whole thing, to submit, anything, so he wouldn’t have to carry out his plan. He was the first to lower his eyes. He mumbled:

  “What sort of pleasure do you get out of ruining people, destroying them?”

  Bordgris was delighted.

  “Business is my business. I don’t chase women.”

  In spite of himself, Julien started to beg:

  “Listen, old man, if you give me just two months more, I promise you I’ll …”

  “Not one goddam day!” Bordgris shouted. “Save your sob stories for the broads who pay your bills. It doesn’t mean a thing here. Sweet talk you can’t put in the bank.”

  Courtois chewed his lip.

  “Since the day I signed that draft …”

  “That’s a year ago” the loan-shark cried with real bitterness. “I already renewed it three times since then, don’t you forget it!”

  “Grabbing off a half million each time, don’t you forget it! Listen, Bordgris, listen to me. Maybe I haven’t been absolutely straight, but I haven’t been dishonest and anyway.…”

  “Anyway, you’ve pulled some juicy ones. You’ve conned your brother-in-law out of God knows how much. So, you’ve already gone this far, what’s one more con to you?”

  Julien, stunned, straightened himself.

  “What … what con?”

  “The check game. Somebody’s going to get stung on that one …”

  “Maybe,” Julien admitted. “All the more reason to avoid it if we can.”

  “We can’t. You can get yourself into all the trouble you want; all I want is my money back.”

  Again he dried his hands on the handkerchief. His laugh grated like a seldom-opened door.

  “Hurry it up. You must have a date tonight.”

  “Tell me, Bordgris, you wouldn’t be jealous, would you?”

  Bordgris started.

  “Jealous? What the hell of? You’re out of your mind.”

  Julien’s eyes lit up. He shook his head.

  “Poor old Bordgris. Always talking about women. And never laying any. You’re impotent, am I right?”

  The loan-shark turned a dirty brown. Julien became panicky for a moment. Then he went on, firmly;

  “For God’s sake, Bordgris, have a decent impulse for once in your life, you won’t regret it …”

  Brodgris’ fist smashed down on the table.

  “That’s enough. If it’s psychoanalysis you’re selling, try next door. If it’s psalm-singing, try the Salvation Army. In here, you pay or you get out. Sign me that check so I can send you to jail.”

  Julien dropped into a chair. He took out his new checkbook, uncapped his pen. His voice was cold now.

  “You said just now that you’ve got risks. You’re right, you know. One of these days some poor bastard in my shoes’ll put you under, and it’ll be a blessing for all concerned.”

  Bordgris broke into a high-pitched laugh, choked, ended up with a coughing fit.

  “Don’t break your heart over me. I know how to take care of myself.” He gasped, motioned towards the heavy revolver. “Fair warning to amateurs.”

  A fit of fury gripped Bordgris. He swept up the bundle of papers, waved them in the air.

  “Amateurs! Plenty of those. Loafers! Fakes! You and your kind, all you know how to do is come around and cry poor-mouth when the money runs out.”

  He threw the bundle onto his desk. Julien stifled a nervous yawn.

  “Well?” Bordgris demanded. “Going to cough up?”

  Julien was coldly calm again. He shrugged. The loan-shark’s voice was unbearable, but it did him good to hear it. He needed all the hatred he could work up to do what he had come to do.

  “If that’s the way you want it,” he said, “that’s the way it’s going to be.”

  Bending over the corner of the desk, Julien filled out the check swiftly. Bordgris watched him with complete attention.

  “Listen, friend,” he said, “if this is a bluff, save it. If I protest the draft, you’ve got a couple of months before the case comes up. Give me a bad check and your troubles start right away.”

  Julien tore out the check and handed it to him, saying:

  “Alea jacta est …”

  “Translation?”

  “Cash it Monday morning if you want to.”

  “It’ll be covered?”

  “You’ll see. It’ll be covered.”

  “Who’s giving you the money? Brother-in-law?”

  Julien nodded yes.

  “What a lump! He still trusts you?”

  “Not exactly,” Julien said, now thoroughly at ease. “I’m showing him this draft tonight. So he’ll be sure I’ve paid off the loan. Then he’ll give me a check for the same amount. I put it in my account first thing Monday morning. Now, do you get the connection?”

  Not very convinced, Bordgris grabbed the check and looked it over at arm’s length with his far-sighted eyes. Julien’s eyes turned to the revolver, still on its shelf in the open safe.

  “It might work,” Bordgris said. He sighed with regret.

  With his fingertips, he slid the draft toward his visitor. Courtois took it, folded it, put it in his pocket. He used the movement to steal a look at his watch. Two minutes to six. He began to speak faster.

  “All right, now, Bordgris, I want to make you a proposition that I think you’ll agree is exceptional. If you want in, I’ll give you a piece of EXIM.”

  “Fifty—fifty?”

  He nearly said yes; time was short, and he couldn’t control his nerves much longer. But he had to follow his plan to the end.

  “Hold it!” he cried. The loan-shark would become suspicious if he gave in immediately. “On one condition. Fifty—fifty if we share and share alike on the profits from your little illegal bank, here.”

  “I’m not going to agree just like that. I’ve got to know what you’re offering.”

  “That’s just why I brought you this little report.”

  He pulled o
ut the typescript and showed it to Bordgris.

  “At first sight, it might strike, you as crazy. But don’t laugh. It’s a fantastic deal, I’ve gone into it thoroughly. An oil refinery on the outskirts of Paris.”

  “Are you drunk? You think the big oil companies would let you get away with it?”

  “No. But they’d pay to get me out of their hair. Only, we’d have to get it started so they’d take us seriously. Anyhow, it’s simple. You let me know Monday. Until then, think it over. Here, read all about it.…”

  He came around the desk, putting himself between Bordgris and the safe. With his left hand, he pointed out highlights of the report. Bordgris put on his glasses. Julien explained feverishly:

  “Anybody could have thought of it. But the fact is, the idea’s new. Think of the savings in transportation! In case you’re interested it’ll take ten million to get it off the ground.”

  “You’ve got the money?” Bordgris asked without raising his eyes.

  “Half. You provide the other half. All you have to do is not deposit my check in the bank. That’s your contribution. Mine is the check my brother-in-law’s going to give me; he’s my sleeping partner—fast asleep. Neat enough?”

  “You’re not as stupid as I thought, Courtois.…” There was respect in his voice. Courtois didn’t answer. From the corridor came a swift explosion of laughter and clicking heels. The typists were going home. The loan-shark grumbled:

  “Six o’clock. Every night the same damned show. Try to work in peace.…”

  He turned back to the report. Outside, the noise doubled. The employees who couldn’t wait for the elevator were running down the stairs. Bordgris sucked on a cavity at regular intervals. He brushed his hands over his handkerchief. Julien raised his eyes, praying for an event that was late in coming.

  “At the Porte Saint-Ouen?” Bordgris asked.

  “Just behind the cemetery. We take an option on the property and we tell the papers …”

  He was panting. His right hand slid through the partly open door of the safe and his fingers closed over the revolver.

  “… that we’re going to build a refinery, backed by foreign capital. After that, all we have to do is wait …”

  The veins on his neck were swelling. Overhead a terrific rumble began. Bordgris’ fist struck the table.

  “Typing school’s out. Now you’ll really hear something.”

  Julien wanted desperately to cry. He shouted:

  “The property’s right next to the Nationale, 1600 yards to the cemetery …”

  He held the weapon tight against his leg.

  “What? What?” Bordgris cried through the uproar. “Wait, will you? Can’t hear a thing with these morons. Wait’ll they get past …”

  The thundering herd of typists came down the stairs. They sounded like a cavalry regiment on the march. When the noise reached its peak, Julien Courtois, dreamlike, made the gesture he’d rehearsed a hundred times. He put the gun barrel against the loan-shark’s temple and, in the same fraction of a second, pulled the trigger… The detonation was drowned out by the racket in the hall. Bordgris fell forward, heavily; Julien had to jump to one side to avoid being splashed by the jet of blood that spurted from Bordgris’ head.

  Slowly, the noise went down. Then, silence. The murderer stood where he was, paralyzed. He still didn’t realize that he’d dared. A tear rolled down his closely shaven cheek. He didn’t notice it.

  The revolver fell from his fingers to the rug with a thud. Julien felt a scream rising to his lips, but it didn’t get there.

  A rivulet of blood ran along the desk, then down to the floor, and was already reaching for the gun. Courtois, dazed, watched its progress; he couldn’t move. He knew that if the blood reached the revolver, he’d never be able to get his own fingerprints off it without leaving traces. Traces that would blow the theory of suicide sky high.… He made a towering effort to pull himself together.

  Quickly, he put on his gloves and picked up the gun. He wiped the butt, the barrel, the trigger with loving care, not looking at the body, turning his back on it to pass his handkerchief over the door and shelf of the safe. With his elbow he pushed the heavy door. It shut with a click. He picked up the dead hand—he felt a sudden wave of nausea coming on, but he fought it down—and pressed the fingers into the gun, on the butt and trigger; the hand was still very warm. Then he placed the revolver on the floor. In a few seconds, the blood was reaching for it again; this time it made it.

  He checked everything his bare hands might have touched when he came in—the doorknob, the edge of the desk—and methodically he wiped off the surfaces with his handkerchief. He picked up the checkbook and the report on the imaginary oil refinery on the outskirts of Paris. He put them in his pocket. He tried to avoid a direct look at Bordgris, he knew he must be horrible to see by now. But he couldn’t resist the corpse, his eyes seemed drawn toward it. He’d barely glanced at that terrible face streaming with blood, when he passed out.

  Chapter III

  Denise made an “O” with her mouth for a last dab of lipstick, pressed her lips together, and checked the results. A mascaraed eyelash was stuck to her lower lid. She brushed it upwards a few times with the tip of her little finger.

  6:17. She glanced at the intercom: could she risk it? No use. The boss was crazy about punctuality. He checked all the clocks to the second. He couldn’t be fooled. He’d love to be able to snap at her for calling him three minutes early.

  She picked up her coat and stared at it before she put it on. She needed a new one in the worst way. If Courtois would give her the raise she kept asking for …

  She shook her head, angrily. Every time she got near the subject, Courtois gave her a shocked look and a lecture. “At a time like this? But, my dear Denise, you can’t be serious! With business so bad, and the books barely balancing …”

  Of course, he didn’t stint himself. Not him. The books didn’t seem to bother him at all, when it came to a new car, or five new suits at once, or flower baskets for his wife, or a night on the town with his latest number.

  “But I need a new spring coat!” she whined, tapping her foot on the floor.

  This seemed to touch off the telephone. It rang: she picked it up, annoyed:

  “EXIM, Julien Courtois Exp … Pardon me? Oh! Madame Courtois? Yes, he’s in!”

  It was only 6:19, but she decided to ring him anyway. It was balm to her soul to be able to cheat him by one minute. She pushed the button of the intercom.

  The buzzer rang in Julien’s room. She kept her finger on the button, and leaned on it as if that would make the buzzer ring louder. No answer. She was beside herself. The swine. He wouldn’t answer before the exact minute. She could have strangled him. But she couldn’t help admiring his obstinacy; like most people, she confused stubbornness with character.

  Well.… No luck, it seemed.

  “Hold the line, Madame Courtois. I know he’s there, I didn’t see him leave, I’ve been here all the time. He must be washing up. No, really, Madame …”

  Oh-oh. Past 6:20, and Courtois still did not answer.

  “Hello? Monsieur Courtois? It’s 6:20, Monsieur; Madame Courtois on one.”

  “Thank you, Denise.”

  She hung up slowly. When he’d said that … he’d seemed genuinely worn out. Poor boss. There are some men you’ll forgive anything. Of course, the more you forgive, the more they take advantage of you. Just like Paul.… Paul! He must be going wild, waiting for her at the subway. How could she get out of here? Those two would go on talking forever.

  A ray of light came under the door. Good, he’d turned on the lights. She took her courage in her hands and, knocking, opened the door and put her head around it.

  Slumped behind the desk, pale, panting, her employer was speaking into the phone, so softly she could hardly hear him, like a patient coming out of a serious illness. His briefcase was open on the desk. He had been working. His eyes, however, we
re closed. His face was exhausted, pitifully naked, under the raw electric light. But there was a look of infinite peace on it.

  He kept repeating, over and over:

  “My darling.… If you only knew. My darling.…”

  Denise felt ill at ease. It was as if she’d surprised him in his bath, stripped and defenseless.

  He was listening patiently, tenderly. Denise knocked again on the open door. He immediately opened his eyes and smiled. Embarrassed, she motioned with her arm: could she go? He nodded his head, gently.

  “See you Monday,” she whispered.

  He answered, holding his hand over the mouthpiece:

  “Fine, have a really good week end, Denise.”

  These words and the affection in his voice, touched her more than if he’d given her the raise then and there. She stammered:

  “Oh, thank you. And the same to you, Monsieur.”

  “Ha, me …” Julien’s face relaxed suddenly, the wrinkles on his forehead disappeared: “I’m going to sleep like a brick, all day.” He spoke again into the phone. “Just a second, Ginou, I’m saying goodbye to Denise, she’s just leaving. Yes, we worked straight through, but it’s over.…”

  Denise shut the door, her heart flowing over with devotion.

  Holding the phone, Julien leaned back in his chair. He felt drained, but full of love. He loved Geneviève. She didn’t always realize it, and she had good cause. But what did it matter? Anyway he didn’t always realize it himself. Only, in his case it wasn’t serious. He always knew in advance that he’d come back to his wife, loving her even more than before.

  “Yes, it’s over, my love … finally over.… Oh, I couldn’t explain it. A tiresome business. Dangerous, too. Had to take a risk … a big one. But that’s the way it is. Of course I went ahead. I just thought of you and went straight ahead. You wouldn’t believe what I’d do for you!” His voice was breaking. He wanted to be close to her. “No, darling, I’m not really brave. But I had to take a chance on this, for our sake…. Oh, yes, it went over. A hundred per cent.… But, God, the groundwork.… You: know, I’m rather proud of myself.”

  He began to glow. With the danger gone, the glory began to appear. It wasn’t hard to convince himself he’d been great. And his generosity to himself even made him open-handed toward his wife. Besides, he needed her: