Frantic Page 3

  “Now, Ginou, I can take the time to tell you how much I love you …”

  She trembled, nearly collapsed with joy in the tinny phone-booth of the bar she was calling from. She sniffed hard to prevent herself from bursting into tears.

  “Yes, but just before … before, you wouldn’t even tell me once. You got mad at me.”

  “Before,” he pleaded, “I was in the middle of a letter about this business tonight. And you’d interrupted me; I lost my train of thought. Now it’s different, don’t you see?”

  “Well, do you mean it? Do you really love me?”

  “I’m crazy about you.”

  “Oh darling, darling.… I can’t think of anything else to say, isn’t it awful? When you’re so nice to me and sound like this, I can’t think at all”

  “My love.”

  “What?”

  “I said, my love.”

  “Oh, Julien, come right home!”

  “Give me ten minutes, darling. In ten minutes, I promise I’ll leave and I’ll come straight home. A few papers to arrange …” He smiled as he looked at the draft, the checkbook and the report, pulling them out of his pocket and throwing them onto the desk. “Listen, I’ve got an idea. You know what we’re going to do? We’re going to the country. Want to?”

  She was jumping with impatience.

  “Right now! Right now!”

  He laughed with pleasure.

  “Ten minutes, no more. That’s a promise.”

  “Darling, I just thought of something. At noon, you said you hadn’t a sou. Have you got anything now, for the country, or do you want me to ask Georges?”

  “No, leave your brother out of this. He gets his nose into our business too much as it is. Don’t fret about money. I tell you everything’s different now.”

  “On account of this marvelous deal?”

  “Marvelous. That’s the word. All right, see you soon?”

  She made a quick mental calculation.

  “Ten minutes? No more, no less?”

  “Cross my heart and hope to die.”

  “All right. I’m going to fix you a surprise too.”

  Geneviève hurried out of the café and looked for a cab. None in sight. She decided to walk, and, moving fast, headed towards the center of town.

  Julien was still slumped in his chair, the receiver in his hand. He shook himself, heaved a long sigh. He got up and stretched luxuriously. Over. It really was. Bordgris’ death had spelled finish to an endless nightmare. To shake off the memory of that awful face, that bald head and those glassy eyes, he turned to the papers on his desk. He looked at them with amazement. Suddenly, he laughed, delighted:

  “It’s over!” he shouted. “I’m not afraid any more!”

  His laugh stopped short. Suppose Denise were still next door. One bound took him to the door; he nearly tore it off its hinges. His smile returned at the sight of the empty reception room.

  To work! Hurriedly, he brushed the plaster and dust from his suit. He carefully went over everything he’d done after he woke up with the corpse for company. It made him shiver to think about it. But he had to admire himself. Where had he got the nerve to run out of that gummy little office? And, luckily, not a living soul in the hallway.

  His gloves? There they were. He remembered tearing them off with his teeth while he held the receiver. So, he couldn’t have left a single print behind. In the room where the painters had been working, he’d scuffed over his footprints. It would take a genius to find his among so many others on that floor. Thank God the painters’ union gave its members the long week end. The worst had been that endless trip back, hugging the wall, above thirteen stories of nothingness with the buzzer drilling into his ear and the fear of not answering it in time. If Denise had disobeyed orders, looked in to see what was keeping him from answering…

  He looked at himself in the washroom mirror. His suit was clean. Now he had to move by the numbers. First of all, the gloves. He picked them up with the tips of his desk scissors and set them afire with his lighter. At the window he blew the ashes into the air. There was nothing left of them, they hadn’t existed. Then the papers. The same.

  A quiet knock on the door rooted him to the spot; his mind was spinning, his heart beating in his throat. It could only be Bordgris, come to settle accounts. The knock came again.

  “Come in!”

  It was Albert, the janitor of the building.

  “Sorry, Monsieur Courtois. Just wanted to make sure you were in. Everybody’s left, you know? So I thought I’d better see …”

  “I’m just leaving myself, Albert.”

  He put a hand on his shoulder.

  “Work’s over, Albert. I’m going.”

  The janitor helped him put on his coat.

  “You know what that means, Albert? D’you feel the same way? When you’re through with the job, you’re free?”

  “Oh, me, it’s different. I feel the job in my legs all week end. You know what I mean? You’re on your feet all day …”

  At the door, Julien remembered something.

  “You first, Albert, I’ll be with you in a minute.…”

  He went back to his desk. He saw his gun, glistening through the crack of the drawer. He put it in his pocket.

  “Carrying your gun, Monsieur Courtois?” the janitor was surprised.

  ‘“What?”

  He whirled around as if he’d been caught killing Bordgris.

  “Uh, yes…. Yes, we’re going out to the country … Never know when you might need one, the way things are nowadays.”

  Managing a smile, he groped behind his back for the briefcase on his desk, picked it up, closed it and left.

  Albert agreed, nodding seriously. Julien, reassured, began to whistle happily.

  “Pretty cheerful!” the janitor said. “Does Sunday do that to you?”

  “I guess so. After all, I’m spending the week end with the most charming woman in the world.”

  The janitor raised his eyebrows, slid the elevator door open, but said nothing. Everybody knew Courtois was a chaser. Julien guessed what he was thinking and smiled. Never, he thought, never in a million years would the old goat suspect I was talking about my wife.

  The elevator door slid shut by itself. Albert pushed the first-floor button with his finger and the elevator got underway.

  “These closed elevators give me the creeps,” Julien complained. “It’s like being in a well. I liked the old system better, you know, the old openwork cages? You could see the floors go by, the stairway…. You could stifle in here.”

  “Modem design, Monsieur Courtois. Anyhow, it’s not a long trip.”

  They stopped. First floor; they walked out into the lobby.

  “Good night, Monsieur Courtois. Have a good week end.”

  “Going to lock up?”

  “Yes, sir. You’re the last. Locking up till Monday.”

  “Well then, you have a good week end too, Albert.”

  “Thank you, Monsieur.”

  He touched his cap; Julien breathed in a great gust of fresh air at the door. Life was wonderful. He didn’t feel a shadow of remorse.

  His car, a red Frégate, was parked at the sidewalk. As he got in, he saw Albert waving his cap: Albert still remembered his Christmas tip. Julien answered with a wave of the hand, and eased himself into the car. A few light taps on the accelerator to wake up the gas, a little turn of the ignition key, then a push on the starter and there it was. Now to let it warm up a bit.

  Ah, was be going to make Geneviève happy from now on. He’d never hurt her, never again. He’d never give her up. A new life. A new love. That’s what he’d tell her when he had her in his arms. He’d whisper in her ear: “I’ve come to understand so much today. If I heaven helped me the way it did, today, it’s because it wants me to bring you happiness.”

  He pictured himself talking to an inspector tor making the rounds of the building. “Bordgris? Bordgris? �
�� I don’t think so.… Ah, yes, wait a minute. Isn’t that the little short one, kind of fat and bald, not very friendly? An ugly customer, if you ask me. Yes, I ran into him a few times on the stairs. Hello, how are you? That sort of thing. A loan-shark, somebody told me. I can’t recall who. No, I never had anything to do with him that way. I don’t think he even knew my name.… The accounts? You’re joking, Inspector, people like that don’t keep accounts … But, please, feel free to look over all my books, my appointment book, anything. You won’t find a trace of this Bordgris anywhere.”

  Julien glanced fondly up at his office. And went white. The rope was hanging there in full view.

  Christ. The rope! The hook!

  He’d been at the window, distributing ashes to the four winds when the janitor had come in. He remembered having gone back to his desk, and then … then, Albert, had asked him about his gun. Julien, scared out of his wits, had turned around, reached behind him for his briefcase, and … He swore.

  The briefcase was empty. He’d grabbed it on his way through the window, but he hadn’t had time to pull the hook in, too. Geneviève, Denise and Albert had helped him forget it.

  All right, let’s not lose our heads. No danger. Mechanically, he stepped on the accelerator. The motor purred softly. It gave him a feeling of lazy comfort. He didn’t feel like going back up at all. By the way …

  His gun, yes.… He took it out of his pocket and shut it in the glove compartment.

  Calmly, he stepped out of the car, carrying his briefcase. The janitor had left the lobby. Never around when you want him. He’d have to do it himself. A good thing the elevator was fast.

  He got into the elevator, pressed the button marked “twelve.” The machine rose smoothly.

  At this moment, Albert, the janitor, reached the main electric switchboard in the sub-basement. He slid his cap back, scratched his head and enjoyed an enormous yawn. Then, his day over, the last tenant out of the building, the week finally come to an end, he pulled the safety switch, cutting the current.

  The elevator jerked to a stop between the tenth and the eleventh floors.

  Chapter IV

  The stop was so sudden Julien found himself sprawled on the floor in total darkness. He’d banged his knee on the steel wall, and the pain nearly took his breath away. He’d dropped his briefcase, somewhere.

  He got up again, grimacing with pain, leaned his back against the wall, rubbed his leg.

  “Albert!” he shouted.

  Nothing happened.

  With his fingertips he found the operating board, and pushed the first button he touched. Then the second, then the third … Nothing.

  Lighting his lighter, he found the emergency button and pressed it. He strained his ear, trying to hear a faraway ring. Nothing.

  Suddenly furious, he kicked the metal wall; the pain in his knee started again. He swore, lost his head, howled:

  “Albert! Answer me, God damn it! Albert!”

  The lighter went out, and Julien found himself surrounded by shapeless night. The building was sunk in complete silence; from time to time, very far away, he could hear the sounds of the street.

  There was life. Nearby. All he had to do was get out of this ridiculous cage. He fought down panic, his lips pressed together, his fists balled up …

  Geneviève had been walking, almost running, for ten minutes. She had to slow down, there was a pain in her side. She was overjoyed by what she’d labelled for her future memories:—”Julien’s return” and by the surprise he was going to get from her coming to meet him.… What if she missed him? The thought brought tears to her eyes. She hurried her steps: “If he loves me, his heart will warn him and he’ll wait. If he’s gone, my life is over.”

  Her own heart nearly skipped a beat: “Don’t leave me, Julien!”

  Her heart.… Her heart, she knew, hurt her every time she thought of Julien or did anything strenuous. She stopped in front of a shop window. A sporting goods store. She hardly noticed the two teen-agers, dressed in the latest Saint-Germain-des-Pres style, who were standing there.

  They were staring at the display, looking beautifully bored. The boy gave Geneviève the once over, with a critic’s eye: a real hausfrau … dressed like a worm … a nut.

  Geneviève walked away.

  The boy turned to his girl friend:

  “All right, you moving, Theresa?”

  He was right in with the fashion of using English first names, but he couldn’t pronounce hers properly: “Siriza,” he said.

  Theresa’s hair, very carefully uncombed, was chewing away at the nape of her neck. A turtle-neck pullover, too big for her, swam around her thin body. The boy, without a topcoat on, was wearing a grey sports jacket with extremely round shoulders, buttoned high; it made a bell bottom around his narrow hips. He kept his hands in the pockets of his black pants, with the Scotch plaid lining, that hugged his calves and ankles.

  The girl answered:

  “Sure, Fred, I’m coming.”

  But she kept looking at the ski boots. With her coarse hair, her small breasts that managed to make their point even under the heavy knit of the sweater, and that simple, short skirt, she was halfway between the innocent and the provocateur. Fred liked that. He especially liked the flat shoes, the loafer kind that made a girl look like the spirit of fireplace and slippers.

  She came away at last. In single file, they went on; no taking of arms, no holding hands.

  At the bookstore display, Fred shrugged his shoulders with contempt:

  “Can you imagine? There are still cornballs writing books.”

  “Why?” Theresa asked timidly. “Isn’t that good?”

  He thumped his thin chest.

  “Wrong question. What’s the point? Here’s what you want to know: you whack out a book. You whack out two, five, ten, a hundred … You’ll never be able to write ’em all. Right?”

  Her head was lowered, she filed the lesson. Fred’s lively eyes lighted on the lady they’d seen in front of the sporting goods store; she was fumbling in her handbag, pulling out a small bottle, pouring a pill into her hand and swallowing it. “Wouldn’t you know it,” he thought. “A junkie. That’s just how I figured her …”

  They passed Geneviève who was only taking her “heart pills.” Completely harmless, and completely without effect. She’d nagged them out of her doctor.

  There, she felt better already.

  She saw the Uma-Standard Building. She walked towards it. In a few more seconds, she’d be there. After all, why shouldn’t Julien be a bit late? Not to wait for her, of course. But because he never hurried when he had a date with her. His wife just didn’t count.

  Meanwhile, Fred and Theresa had turned the corner ahead of Geneviève. A Salvation Army detachment blocked the sidewalk. Two women, the odd uniform-bonnet over their eyes, were singing a hymn; they seemed inspired. You could see their lips moving, but you could hardly hear a sound. A third, bending over and armed with a huge piece of chalk, was drawing letters on the asphalt. Something about God. But her movements raised her skirt so you could see her garters. Fred giggled, nudged Theresa with his elbow.

  She, too, had seen all, but although Fred’s levity shocked her, she snapped her mouth shut before it was fully open. But not soon enough to escape Fred’s watchful eye. He gave her a killing glance:

  “Oh, yes. Some things are sacred. Uh-huh.… Y’know, sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever be able to bring you up out of the bourgeois mud.”

  He leaned on the word “bourgeois,” but kept moving. So did Theresa; she preferred to change the subject. She pointed to a poster on the wall of a café: a woman getting a shower of gold in her lap. “Buy a National Lottery ticket!”

  She asked her escort:

  “Who’s that, the lady there?”

  “Danaë,” he said, with an expression that said: who cares.

  “Danaë? What’s that mean?”

  Fred looked at the poster for a minute:


  “A new way to get laid.”

  They passed the café. Fred stopped before a red Frégate with its door open and its motor running.

  “Boy, this one deserves a lesson. Gets his car going and takes off! Car up for grabs, ladies and gentlemen, step right up!”

  He added, as a joke:

  “Care for a drive?”

  Theresa gasped, but got hold of herself. She didn’t dare show fear, not after the little lecture she’d just had. Fred began to stare at her. She knew the signs. It was worse than if she’d said: I dare you. Cut to the quick, he wanted to prove to her that nothing scared him.

  “Think I wouldn’t?”

  “Of course you would, only … you steal a car, you steal two … you’ll never be able to steal ’em all.”

  His mouth turned into an angry line; he snickered:

  “You don’t talk much, but when you do, you really throw away the cork. Get in.”

  “The owner probably went to get cigarettes at the café …”

  He looked back. There was no one at the counter of the café.

  “Get in!” he repeated.

  Without waiting, so he wouldn’t be able to change his mind, he slid behind the wheel. Theresa went around the car, obediently …

  It was Geneviève’s turn to round the corner. A middle-aged man tipped his cap to her. She nodded mechanically, not recognizing him at first. She caught sight of the red Frégate fifty yards away, and felt completely recovered. Julien had waited for her! Of course! The man who’d tipped his cap was Albert, the janitor. She’d better hurry. Grey smoke came from the car’s exhaust pipe and she saw, through the rear window, the back of her husband’s head: he was leaving.

  “Julien …”

  She was embarrassed at shouting in the middle of the street. She began to run. And then the pulse stopped beating in her temples: a young girl, oddly dressed—hadn’t she seen her before?—had come around the car, was opening the door, was getting inside with all the ease of someone who’d done it often before. Yes, it was the same one … the hem of her skirt hanging unstitched, unbearable …