At last he came back.
‘If you’ll come this way.’
They went along a passage and into a room with a tiled floor and white enameled walls which was cut in two by a huge sheet of glass. The slightest sound echoed and re-echoed. From the ceiling came a crude glare of light. Somehow the place reminded Ravinel of a fish market after hours, when it had been cleaned up. He wouldn’t have been a bit surprised to see a bit of ice or a strand of seaweed that had been overlooked. Through the glass a porter came into view wheeling a stretcher.
‘Come closer. Don’t be afraid.’
Ravinel leaned against the sheet of plate glass. The body glided towards him, and he had the impression he was watching Mireille emerging from the bathtub, her hair plastered down, her wet clothes clinging to her limbs. He smothered a sort of gurgle, his hands spread out on the glass which grew misty from his agitated breathing.
‘Well?’ asked the man in the cap blandly. ‘Is that any use to you?’
No. It wasn’t Mireille. Not that that made it any less dreadful. If anything, more.
‘Recognize her?’
‘No.’
The man made a sign and the porter wheeled the thing away. Ravinel wiped the sweat from his face.
‘It does give you a bit of a shock. The first time. But since it’s not your wife…’
He took Ravinel back to the office and resumed his seat at his desk.
‘I’m sorry… That is… Well, you see what I mean… If anything turns up, we’ll let you know. What’s your address?’
‘Gai Logis. Enghien.’
The pen scratched. The other was still standing motionless by the radiator.
‘But, you know, you really ought to report it to the police.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Oh, that’s what we’re here for.’
And Ravinel found himself outside, his legs weak, his ears humming. The fog was as thick as ever, and he decided to take the Métro. He knew pretty accurately where the entrance to the nearest station was, and, after calculating a moment, set course for it. By this time the traffic had come to a complete standstill, but there were other sounds, some near, some far, and he had the impression of being escorted by invisible presences in a sort of funeral, solemn and secret.
So Mireille wasn’t at the Morgue. What would Lucienne say to that? And the insurance people? Ought he to notify them?… He stopped. The fog was almost choking him. And, standing still, he was aware of the sound of squeaking shoes. He coughed: the squeaking stopped. It was impossible to say from just which direction it had come.
He moved on, and the squeaking shoes moved too. It was clear now where the sound came from—just a few paces behind him.
Hadn’t he known it was a trap? A pretty cunning one too. They had sized him up perfectly and had counted on his coming to the Morgue… No. That was nonsense. They couldn’t possibly have known… And yet…
Ravinel stumbled over the curb. For a second he caught sight of a shadowy figure, but it had instantly disappeared again in the fog. The entrance to the Métro couldn’t be far off now. He broke into a run, almost bumping into people whose faces appeared suddenly, as though by some act of creation, and then melted away into nothingness. The squeaking was still audible. Was the man intending to kill him? Would he suddenly see the gleam of a knife, feel an excruciating pain, then nothing?
But why? Ravinel had no enemies. Unless, of course, you should call Mireille one. And he wasn’t ready to admit that possibility for a minute. How could Mireille…
The Métro. Suddenly everything became visible. He was surrounded by real people now, all of them covered with tiny droplets—on their coats, their hair, their eyebrows. At the bottom of the steps, he waited for the man. And, sure enough, he came into view: first his shoes, then the shabby overcoat, whose pockets were bulging.
When Ravinel reached the platform, the man was still on his heels. Perhaps he was the chap that had whisked away the body and this was the time he had chosen to come forward and dictate his terms.
Ravinel got in right at the head of the train. The other got in too, but two doors farther down. At Ravinel’s elbow a policeman was reading L’Équipe. Perhaps he ought to pluck him by the sleeve and say:
‘Look here! Someone’s following me. I’m in danger.’
The policeman would most likely laugh in his face. If he took it seriously, it might be even worse. He might start asking a lot of questions… Better leave him out of it.
The stations went by with their enormous posters. Should Ravinel try to give his pursuer the slip? No. That demanded altogether too much effort. To begin with he’d have to think hard. Better wait and see. Was life all that wonderful? Was it worth putting up a frantic struggle for?
He got out at the Gare du Nord. There was no need to turn round to make sure: the man was still there all right. The shoes told him that. Funny to wear shoes like that when you’re following someone. But perhaps that was the whole idea: the squeaking was to get him down, break his nerve. Certainly the other didn’t attempt to avoid being seen.
They reached the booking office practically together, and each in turn asked for a ticket to Enghien, third single. It was five past ten by the station clock. A suburban train was waiting and Ravinel chose an empty coach. That would force the chap’s hand. He’d have to come out into the open now. Ravinel took one of the corner seats and threw a newspaper onto the opposite as though to reserve it. The man got in.
‘Is that seat taken?’
‘I’m keeping it for you,’ answered Ravinel firmly.
The man pushed the paper aside, sat down heavily, then leaned forward.
‘Désiré Merlin,’ he said introducing himself, ‘retired detective of the Sûreté.’
‘Retired? Then why…’
Ravinel blurted out the words before he’d had time to think.
‘Yes,’ said Merlin, ‘retired, and I must apologize for having followed you.’
He had very pale blue eyes, shrewd ones, which contrasted with his baggy face. He looked quite good-natured now as he sat with his elbows on his fat knees, a watch chain stretching across his waistcoat. He glanced round him, then began:
‘It was by the merest chance that I overheard your conversation at the Morgue. What you said made me think I might be useful to you. I’ve plenty of time on my hands and twenty-five years of experience behind me. I can recall dozens of cases similar to yours. A woman disappears. Her husband thinks she must be dead. And then one fine day… Believe me, Monsieur, it’s better to think twice before calling in the police.’
The train started and jogged along slowly through an obliterated landscape whose only features were a few blurred lights. Merlin tapped Ravinel’s knee and in a confidential tone went on:
‘I’m particularly well placed for carrying out certain researches, and I can do so quietly without having to report to anybody. Of course I should do nothing illegal, but there’s no reason to think…’
Quietly? Ravinel thought of the squeaking shoes and smiled inwardly. He was regaining confidence. This ex-detective had a pleasant face. Why shouldn’t he be useful? He must know his way about. In all sorts of queer places too, like the Institut Médico-Légal. His pension couldn’t amount to very much, and he was probably only too glad to stumble on a man who’d lost his wife. Perhaps he’d be able to find her.
‘You’re right—you could be useful to me. I’m a traveling salesman. I’m on the road all the week, generally getting home on a Saturday morning. And the day before yesterday, when I got there I found the house empty. I waited two days, and then this morning—’
‘Allow me to ask you a few questions,’ whispered Merlin after once more glancing round to make sure they couldn’t be overheard. ‘How long have you been married?’
‘Five years. And I can assure you that my wife has always been a most devoted—’
But Merlin held up his hand. ‘We’ll come to that later. Any children?’
‘No.’
‘They’re both dead. In any case I don’t see how—’
‘Never mind about that. I know the ropes. Your wife’s parents?’
‘They’re both dead too. She’s got a married brother in Paris—that’s all.’
‘I see… A young woman alone a good deal… Any trouble with her health?’
‘None whatever. She had typhoid three years ago. Apart from that she’s always been in excellent health. Better than mine.’
‘At the Morgue you mentioned certain escapades as a child. Have you ever noticed any sign of—’
‘Insanity? Not the slightest. Mireille’s always had her head screwed on the right way. A bit excitable at times perhaps, a bit irritable, but no more than other people.’
‘Has she got any weapon with her?’
‘No. Though there was a revolver she could have taken.’
‘Did she take much money?’
‘None at all. That is, apparently. For she didn’t even take her bag.’
‘How much is there in it?’
‘Just a few thousand-franc notes and some change. We never have much lying about.’
‘Was she—I mean is she economical?’
‘Yes. Fairly.’
‘She might have been putting money by without your knowing it, and have accumulated quite a lot. I remember a case some years ago…’
Ravinel listened politely. He looked through the window, streaked with droplets. The fog was clearing in places. Had he been right to engage this man? He really couldn’t tell. From Lucienne’s point of view he probably had. But from Mireille’s?… There he was again! Another of those preposterous thoughts. And yet… Would Mireille resent having a private detective on her heels?
The latter was wistfully relating his experience. Ravinel with an effort stopped thinking about Mireille or the future. Things must take their course. So long as he didn’t have to decide…
He started. Merlin had asked him a question.
‘What?’
‘I asked if you were quite sure your wife had no papers with her.’
‘Quite. If she left her bag behind…’
The train jolted, then slowed down.
‘This is Enghien,’ said Ravinel.
Merlin stood up and fumbled for his ticket.
‘Naturally, the most obvious explanation is that your wife’s run away. If she had committed suicide, the body would certainly have been found by this time. After two days…’
That wasn’t very helpful. There certainly was a body and it had to be found. Only, Ravinel couldn’t very well tell him so.
And the nightmare began all over again. Ravinel would have liked to ask the fat man for his papers. But of course he’d be ready for that. He wouldn’t be taken unawares. On the other hand, why shouldn’t he be genuine? Wasn’t it quite natural for a retired policeman to want to earn a bit to supplement his pension? In any case it was too late. Merlin was on the platform waiting for him. There was no escape.
‘The house is only a few minutes’ walk,’ said Ravinel with a sigh.
They set off through the fog, the shoes squeaking more exasperatingly than ever. Ravinel had to make a supreme effort not to lose his nerve. For this was the trap all right. And he had stepped right into it. This Merlin…
‘Are you really a—’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Nothing… Here, this is my street. The house is at the far end.’
‘Can’t think how you can recognize the place in this fog.’
‘I’m so used to it. I’d find my way home with my eyes shut.’
‘Perhaps you’ll find something in your mailbox,’ said Merlin as they reached the gate.
He looked to see, and Ravinel took the opportunity to get indoors first, so as to remove the letter from the table and the knife which was still sticking in the door. Merlin followed.
‘A nice little house you’ve got, I must say,’ he commented. ‘Just the sort of place I used to dream of having myself.’
He rubbed his hands, then removed his hat, revealing an almost bald head and a red line left by the hatband.
‘Will you show me round?’
Ravinel took him into the dining room, after switching off the kitchen light—a matter of habit.
‘Ah! Here’s her handbag.’
Merlin opened it and emptied it onto the table. The usual things—lipstick, powder, a purse, a handkerchief, a half-consumed packet of High-Life cigarettes.
‘No keys?’
Keys? Ravinel hadn’t thought of them.
‘No,’ he said firmly.
And to head the man off further inquiry, he added quickly:
‘Shall we go upstairs?’
They went up to the bedroom. The bed still showed a hollow where Ravinel had slept.
‘Where does that door lead to?’
‘It’s just a cupboard.’
Ravinel opened it and showed the dresses hanging inside.
‘Nothing’s missing except a fur-trimmed coat. But my wife was talking of getting it dyed, and it’s quite possible—’
‘A blue suit. You said at the Morgue…’
‘Yes. That’s gone too.’
‘Shoes?’
‘All the newest pairs are there. As for the old ones, I really couldn’t say how many she had.’
‘And the other room?’
‘My study. Come in. Forgive the mess. Take the armchair there. And while we’re here we might as well have a drop of brandy to warm us up.’
He opened a filing cabinet and took out a bottle that still contained a few tots. But there was only one glass.
‘If you’ll excuse me a moment, I’ll just run down and fetch another.’
On the whole Merlin’s presence was reassuring. The house seemed more homey now. He went downstairs, through the dining room, and into the kitchen. There he stopped dead, peering out of the window, at a shadowy figure by the garden gate.
‘Merlin!’
It must have been a ghoulish cry, for the detective came rushing down, pale in the face.
‘What is it?’
‘Look! There! Mireille!’
TEN
There was no one in the street. Ravinel knew already that Merlin was wasting his time giving chase.
Presently he returned, out of breath. He had been the whole length of the street.
‘Are you really sure?’
No. Ravinel wasn’t sure by any means. He had thought…
What exactly had he thought? He tried hard to recapture the impression, but without success. He needed to sit down in peace and quiet, instead of which here was this man fussing around and firing off questions at him. They muddled him. In any case the house was too small to contain a man like Merlin comfortably.
‘Look here, Ravinel…’
He had decided on his own to drop the Monsieur.
‘…Can you see me?’
He had gone out and was standing outside the gate.
He was obliged to shout to make himself heard. It was ridiculous. Anyone might have thought they were playing hide and seek. ‘I said: can you see me?’
‘No. I can’t see anything.’
‘And if I stand here?’
‘No.’
Merlin came back into the kitchen.
‘I think we must assume that you didn’t see anything at all. After all, you’re not quite yourself. And in this fog anything can look like a person—even the gatepost.’
That was true enough, but Ravinel was certain of one thing: whatever it was, it had moved. He dropped into a chair. Merlin took his place at the window.
‘In any case, if you had seen someone, you couldn’t possibly have recognized who it was. Yet you cried out: “Mireille”…’
The detective turned round, jammed his chin down on his chest, and stared at Ravinel suspiciously.
‘Look here! You’re not leading me a dance, are you?’
‘I swear…’
Why did he always ha
ve to swear to people? It had been the same with Lucienne yesterday. Why were they all so reluctant to take his word?
‘Just think for a moment. If there had really been anyone there, I should have been bound to hear steps. I was at the gate within ten seconds.’
‘I’m not sure that you would. You see you were making such a noise yourself.’
‘So that’s it, is it? It’s my fault!’
Merlin’s breath came fast. His cheeks quivered. He started to roll a cigarette to regain his composure.
‘Besides I stopped at the gate.’
‘What of it?’
‘Well, if I stopped, I wasn’t making a noise, was I? I should have heard steps. Fog doesn’t muffle sounds.’
What was the good of this argument? How could he explain to the detective that Mireille could move about without taking any steps at all? Perhaps she was there all the time, perhaps in the kitchen itself, only waiting for the intruder to go before showing herself.
Of course it was his own fault. The idea of calling in a retired detective of the Sûreté to track down a ghost! It was really a fantastic notion. How could he have seriously hoped for a moment that this Merlin…
‘There are no two ways of looking at it,’ went on the latter. ‘You had a hallucination. In your place I’d go and see a doctor and get the whole thing off my chest—my fears, my suspicions, my visions.’
He licked the gummed edge of the cigarette paper, and his eyes wandered slowly round the room as though he was trying to sense the atmosphere of the house.
‘It couldn’t be much fun for your wife here. Day after day… and then with a husband who—’
He broke off, put his hat on, and slowly buttoned up his overcoat.
‘She’s left you. That’s the long and short of it. And, to be absolutely frank, I can’t see that she’s altogether to blame.’
Ravinel winced. So that’s what people were going to think of him from now on. All because he couldn’t say: ‘She’s dead. I killed her myself.’
Really this was the last straw. He could no longer count on anybody.
‘Then we’ll leave it at that,’ he grunted sulkily. ‘How much do I owe you?’
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