Frantic Page 7

“Good night, Geneviève. Try to get some sleep.”

  She stopped him at the door.

  “You’re leaving?”

  He nodded.

  “I’m going home. To bed. I don’t feel too good here.” He pointed to his heart.

  “I thought you wanted to …”

  “Break his neck? Oh, sure, I lost my temper for a minute. But I think I’d rather take care of my health, if you don’t mind.”

  He felt sorry for her, tried to smile.

  “Now don’t look like that; tomorrow, when you wake up, you’ll feel better about things and …”

  He stopped. His sister’s face was livid with rage. She could hardly bring out the words clearly:

  “Never! You hear? Never! If he’d been here by now … but to do this to me! I’ll never forgive him, never! Oh! Don’t leave me now, Georges, don’t leave me alone, please, please! Remember, you promised. You promised father you’d look after me …”

  “But I won’t be leaving you alone …”

  She grabbed his arm, shook it:

  “You don’t believe me, do you? You don’t believe me!”

  “Yes, yes, of course I believe you … you’re going to divorce him. Look, we’ll see my lawyer on Monday, all right?”

  “No! After what he did to you …”

  She stopped, ran to her room, began pulling out the drawers in her little Empire desk, throwing papers in all directions.

  Georges followed her. “What’re you looking for?”

  “His accounts. The real ones. The ones at EXIM are all faked, for the tax people, for you, for all the other friends he’s swindled.”

  Georges stood in the door of her room, worried, frowning. She handed him three large notebooks.

  “There, look these over.”

  He leafed through them; he didn’t seem convinced.

  “Why would he keep records if he was a swindler?”

  She laughed aloud.

  “Ah, poor Georges. You just don’t know. To keep track of himself. He got so mixed up with money coming in and money going out, he couldn’t even remember who it was safe to borrow from! He used to read these to me at night, to make me laugh!”

  Georges’ face dropped. She made an amendment.

  “Oh, not at you. Really not. We never laughed at you; I wouldn’t have allowed it.”

  Then she threw herself in his arms.

  “You know how much I love you, don’t you Georges, how much I need you? Don’t leave me with that crook, please! He’ll kill me one day. I know he’s capable of it….”

  “Come on, come on, don’t lose your head, Ginou.” He stroked her hair, slowly. He was torn between his need for calm and his need to help. Geneviève worried him; he’d never seen her like this, ready to smash everything. He knew she’d regret it later on.

  “Now, listen. Sleep on it, that’s the wise thing. On Monday, we’ll decide. We can’t do a thing until then, anyway. If you’re still sure, we can start proceedings and … here, put these away.” He held out the notebooks, but she wouldn’t take them. “Put ’em away, he mustn’t even know I’ve seen them.”

  Geneviève forced herself to speak in a calm, collected tone:

  “You think it’s just my nerves again. You couldn’t be more wrong. Look. I know what I’m doing, and I know why I’m doing it. I’m not going back on my decision. I’m going to fix it so I can’t go back on it. That’s why I want you to take his accounts. Put them in your safe.”

  “What for?”

  “Evidence. For the divorce court.”

  He touched her cheek.

  “I’m afraid not. Marrying a swindler isn’t grounds for divorce. Not in France. You’ve got to catch him in flagrante. Adultery in action, with witnesses.”

  “All right, we’ll catch him in flagrante.”

  “Whereabouts?”

  She thought for a minute, biting her fingers.

  “He must be in Montmartre. We’ll go there.”

  Georges lifted his hands.

  “We don’t catch him in flagrante. The police have to catch him.”

  “I’ve got an idea. Suppose I tell the police my husband’s missing?”

  Georges wearily let himself down onto the edge of the bed. He pulled Geneviève toward him by the wrist.

  “You’re really serious about this divorce thing?”

  “I really am, Georges.”

  “Think, Ginou; think hard. Because if you are serious, I’ll see to it. Up to now, I’ve always put up with Julien, even helped him, because I wanted you to be happy. If you can tell me honestly that you’re through with him, I’ll get him out of your life.”

  “I am through, Georges. I want you to ruin him. I want you to put him behind bars.”

  “Right you are,” he said, getting up. “Come on.”

  She started to worry.

  “Where to?”

  “That’s a very good idea of yours. You’ll report your husband missing. They’ll look for him; if they find him with a girl, the police testimony might be good enough for in flagrante. Give them the license number, and it shouldn’t be hard to locate him.”

  “What about these?” she said, pointing to the notebooks.

  I’ll file a complaint against him Monday morning.”

  “Right now, Georges. You’re too goodhearted; you’ll feel sorry for him and he doesn’t deserve it.”

  “Could be. But even if I do feel sorry for him, later, once I’ve made up my mind I won’t stop till he’s out of your way. Whether you like it or not, by then. You can still, say no; nothing’s been done yet.”

  He tried to catch her eye, but it slid away.

  “Shall we drop it?” he said.

  This time, she looked at him. There were tears in her eyes. There was confusion, too, and he saw it; his heart squirmed.

  “Shall we talk about it tomorrow?”

  “Then what will you do tonight?”

  “I told you. Go home to bed.”

  “And me?”

  “God! How would I know?”

  That did it…

  “No, Georges; we can’t drop it. Don’t leave me!”

  He stuck the notebooks into his overcoat pocket, and led the way out.

  “We’ll go to the police station. You’ll tell them your husband didn’t come home tonight. You’ll be careful, you’ll tell them about the appointment you made on the phone, but not, absolutely not, about seeing them leave in the car.”

  “Yes, Georges.”

  They left, hand in hand, as they had in the old days, when she walked by her big brother’s side.

  A weak character has its advantages: stubbornness can do the work of will power. Julien had decided to try it after all. He’d go down the cable, hand over hand. It wouldn’t be the first time today. He remembered he’d been good at gym in school. The teacher had made them do rope-climbing, and Julien had led the class.

  Still, when he took off his coat, he was careful to turn his back on the hole gaping under his feet. He took a deep breath, sat down with his legs swinging in the opening, then let himself slide halfway through.

  Now he felt the black nothing below, felt it in a wave of dizziness that slammed down on him. He had to hang on by the elbows until it passed.

  The shaft couldn’t be much wider than the elevator; it ought to be easy to reach the walls. He stretched his legs backward to touch the wall. No. Too far. He chewed his lip. He’d have to let himself further down. Luckily, he still felt in shape. Slowly, his chest, then his head disappeared through the dark hole.

  Hanging by his hands, his fingers clamped on the smooth edge of the opening, he nearly blacked out with fear. It was all over: he lost his grip and, after an endless, endless fall, smashed on the bottom. The nightmare faded, and he was amazed to find he was still there, hanging by ten agonizing fingers, panting with fear—but alive. He had to still the hammer-blows of his heart. He thought about the peaceful, happy life he
was going to make with Geneviève. He didn’t think about Bordgris. Only about freedom … about getting out of this mechanical jail.

  A shudder of energy ran through his muscles. He tried changing his grip. Fine. His body was working perfectly. He kicked out, straight ahead… His feet crashed into the wall so hard he nearly lost his hold. His relief drowned out his fear. It would work! All he had to do was scrape along the four walls with his feet until he found the cables.

  The first try was a failure. The wall was smooth from one corner to the other. He pulled himself up, leaning on his elbows again to catch his breath and execute a quarter turn. Right-hand wall. He let himself down into the dark.

  Soon, a fierce shout tore out of his throat; the tips of his shoes bad touched something. Something that moved. He swung himself like an acrobat on a trapeze. Yes, yes … there were the cables; he was nearly there. Tears began to pour down his face, but he didn’t notice them. His fingers were beginning to turn white, they were carrying his whole weight. He eased out his left leg, and his heart leapt. Something was rubbing against his ankle. The cable at last: He turned his foot, hooked it, slowly began to draw it in. With a jerk, he twisted his body and the cable was around his thigh. Now, there was nothing to it: just let him get his hands on it.

  He’d forgotten his hands…. The left one gave out without warning. His breath had left him. He closed his eyes in the dark. The cable slid off and away.

  Hanging by one hand now, he called to Geneviève for help, almost prayed to her: “I did it for you!” He didn’t dare breathe. He didn’t realize that the hand was moving by itself, moving up, groping above his shoulders, finding the edge of the opening, taking its place again. Then he realized. He was safe. He didn’t move. He couldn’t. His breath came back, short and fast. Its sound echoed from the walls of his little world of terror.

  His brain was numb. Somehow, he managed to pull himself up. When his knees touched the elevator floor, the last of his strength gave out. He collapsed, panting, half-fainting, finished.

  The police station looked like every other police station in Paris—dull and dreary. There were posters, and there were people. The desk man was sleepy, yawning as he took down the report. Geneviève was shaking all over. Georges had to keep helping her.

  “Couois, with an ‘s’ or a ‘y’?” the police clerk asked, rubbing his eyes.

  “o-i-s,” Georges snapped.

  “When was it he phoned you?”

  “What?”

  Geneviève was not at her best. Georges bit his lip.

  “What time did Julien call you?” he said.

  “He … he didn’t call me.”

  The clerk seemed to wake up, and looked at her out of the corner of his eye. Georges shook his head, spoke to her patiently:

  “Look, you told me you talked to him …”

  “Yes. I called him.”

  The clerk went, back to his sheet of paper.

  “At 6:30,” Georges said.

  “You haven’t seen him since?”

  Georges waited for Geneviève to answer. She didn’t. The arm of the law frightened her. Georges answered for her again.

  “No, Monsieur. And he’s not anywhere, not at home, not at his office.… Nowhere.”

  “Must be somewhere,” the clerk said reasonably.

  “When could you tell us …”

  “Oh, only takes a couple of minutes, sometimes call the hospital, the morgue. Matter of luck.”

  Geneviève began to cry softly.

  “I’d appreciate if—if you’d let me know at my home, Monsieur. My sister will be with us … I can’t leave her alone as she is.”

  “Your address?” the clerk sighed. He was so sleepy, he was falling off his chair.

  Julien was getting ready to start all over again. But he didn’t know which wall was the right one. In the dark, he’d lost his sense of direction. All right, he’d go down as often as he had to. His face was pouring sweat.

  Through the opening. On his elbows. On his hands. Back to acrobatics.

  On the second try, he drew the cable in again. And grasped it in his hands. He flexed his leg, pinning the cable to his body. He was trembling. Better give himself a rest.

  He planned fast. Go down, hand over hand, to the basement. Turn on the current. Get the hook down, put it in his briefcase. Don’t forget to clean up the elevator. No traces. And to turn off the current before he left. And what the devil would he tell Geneviève when he got home?

  Cross that bridge when he came to it.

  He took a firm grip on the cable. He was breathing regularly, in and out. In the same rhythm, he took off one hand after the other, getting a grip lower down. Over and over. Over and over. Now he was drunk with the power of man over matter, the marriage of muscle and mind. He was proud, he regretted nothing.

  Suddenly his leg, wrapped around the cable, came up against something. He’d seen it a hundred times, and never remembered it. Now it came back—the picture of a cable curving back under an elevator. Last stop. Everybody out.

  So near the end?

  But how high up was he? He hadn’t bothered to measure off how far he’d come. He could be on the eighth floor or on the first. What if he just dropped?

  His mind wasn’t working. More than anything he wanted to get away. More than life itself. Enough to forget that, stretched out, the cable must be at least twelve stories long. The curve would be at about the sixth …

  If he admitted that, he’d have to give up the idea of escape. Easier … to give up living. He’d convinced himself he was a few feet from the bottom. He wound the cable around his arm a few times. He hung down from it, his legs scrambling, trying to touch solid ground with his feet. Nothing … nothing at all.

  And it might be there, only a few inches away now! God, what cruelty! He was furious. Suppose he jumped, just to show them? But who was “them”? And then he saw himself, vividly, turning in empty space, spinning like a top, to end up … when?

  With a heave, he got himself seated in the curve of the cable again. Something twitched inside him, a sob or a hiccough. Oh, well, he could always climb up hand over hand again. At the risk of his miserable life.

  Geneviève had run out of courage. She’d run out of tears. She was afraid of Georges, with his frowning face, his hard, steady eyes. Coming out of the station, he took her arm.

  “Let’s go. We’ve lost enough time as it is.”

  “Where are we going now?”

  “You’ll see.”

  He hurried her into the car, and got it started. Georges drove nervously through the night traffic. He hated to put Geneviève through this. But there are times when you have to cut clean; any surgeon will tell you the same. Still, he didn’t dare look at her, for fear she’d find help in his eyes for the change of mind he could feel coming on. God, the silence was unbearable.

  “You’ll stay with us, until the whole thing’s over.”

  “Yes, Georges.”

  He took one hand off the wheel to pat hers.

  “Listen, they might come by later and question you. Don’t mess it up. You remember the information you just gave?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s easy. You don’t know anything. You waited till ten, and you only reported him missing because you were afraid there’d been an accident. Remember, now. Anyway, I’ll be there to help.”

  “Yes, Georges.”

  As long as she wasn’t going to be left alone. The rest of it didn’t matter.

  “You see,” Georges explained, “it’ll make the divorce easier. You didn’t know a thing. You never suspected him of being unfaithful. You’re a poor, trusting wife.”

  “I know, Georges, only …”

  He jerked the wheel.

  “There’s no ‘only’ about it! You’re not going to try to change your mind, are you? Because, if you are, I give you my word, I’ll have nothing more to do with you!”

  “That’s not it.”
>
  “Then, what?”

  “I was just thinking … suppose there really has been an accident.”

  “If there had; they would’ve told you right away, at the station.”

  A motor scooter shot out of the Rue Condorcet: the car swerved to avoid it. There was a steep climb at the Rue des Martyrs, and Georges shifted to second.

  “Jackass,” he mumbled. “Should’ve hit him, serve him right.”

  “Georges, why are we going up to Montmartre?”

  He sighed. The whole thing was getting a bit too rich for him.

  “If I can find him and put the police on to him, we’ll be that much ahead.… You won’t back out, will you?”

  “No, no,” she said thoughtfully.

  At Médrano, they turned left on the boulevard. Geneviève said:

  “You don’t think he might have …”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, don’t start any of that! You had your chance to drop it. It’s too late now. Just let me do my work.”

  The Place Pigalle was swarming with cars and pedestrians. Georges parked in front of the pharmacy and they got out on either side. Geneviève stepped out of the car hurriedly, showing a good deal of her legs. A group of American soldiers appeared out of nowhere, applauded her with a burst of noise, began to surround her. Georges took her by the hand and led her away.

  They were having trouble getting through the crowd—especially since whenever Georges thought he recognized a profile, he took off after it.

  There was a crowd of men around a nightclub entrance, staring at the brightly-lit, life-size portraits of women in full color and nothing else. Georges and Geneviève had to walk in the roadway to get by. A man came toward them, mumbling words they couldn’t make out. Georges didn’t see, him. Geneviève thought he was a beggar and opened her bag. The man was mistaken, too; he thought she’d agreed to buy. To show her what she was getting, he flashed something hidden in his palm. She looked down, innocently enough. A picture. She came quite close to throwing up.

  “Georges!” she screamed.

  The peddler vanished. Georges turned around and grabbed her arm.

  “Can’t leave you alone a single minute. What’s happened now?”

  “There.… That man …”