With that, she left. He heard her go down the hall, but she was soon back armed with cleaning rags, a feather duster and a broom.
"If you are done with your work, please move on and let me do mine."
He sat on the table and watched her in silence. Unconcerned, she took the suitcase and put it back in the bathroom.
"Unless you like dust, you'd better leave."
She took hold of the broom and swept the rug with vigorous strokes, sending up great clouds of dust. Baudruche asked, "You like this kind of dirty work?"
"It's cleaner than yours. I don't go poking into other people's suitcases.' ,
Baudruche was silent. She had struck home. He got off the table and tried to think of something to say. He had to say something; the silence was crushing.
"How did you get in here? The door was locked."
"What are pass keys for?"
Baudruche had had enough. He opened the door and disappeared down the hall. The girl didn't so much as raise her head.
"Baudruche, get a hold of yourself!" he muttered as he went down the stairs. Clearly the girl must be removed, gently but firmly, as long as matters were pending with the owner of the suitcase—the counterfeiter. And he must act quickly, before she saw the man again and could tell him of Baudruche's visit. He opened the Manager's door and sat down.
"Who's that young girl named Posey?"
For a brief second, Mr. Baidroume was surprised, then he understood. "She's a cutie, isn't she?"
"I didn't ask you if she was cute. I can see that for myself. All I want is information. Understand?"
Yes: the Commissioner wanted particulars. "No two ways about it; she is a pearl. Lively and straightforward. Eighteen. Fit for a king."
"You're on the wrong track, Mr. Baidroume. Just tell me how long she's been working for you?"
"Eighteen months."
"Talkative?"
"A little, like all women; but it's not without its charm."
"Parents?"
"No, she's an orphan."
"Lovers?"
"None that I know of."
"Well, you'll have to let her go. Fire her; I'll find her another job—something far away."
So Mr. Baidroume had been right after all.
Baudruche drummed on the table with his fingers. "Call her in right away. Tell her what I just told you, then send her to my office. But do it nicely. Is that clear, Mr. Baidroume?"
"Absolutely, Mr. Commisioner."
Baudruche felt the door open behind him. He recognized the voice as it said, "My key isn't on my hook."
The Manager didn't lack presence of mind. He rose to his feet. "It must have been hung on the wrong hook by mistake. You go up and I'll have it brought to you right away."
Baudruche heard the stranger's footsteps recede down the hall toward the stairs; in another moment, he'd find Posey in his room. All was lost. Baudruche would be exposed, like a rank amateur. After all these years, to have lost his touch . . . .
"Mr. Baidroume, I've changed my mind. Don't do what I just told you."
Baidroume was nonplussed. Was the Commissioner trying to make a fool of him?
Baudruche took the key to number 23 from his pocket and handed it to the Manager.
"I want to be alone for a moment, Mr. Baidroume. I want to make a phone call."
Baidroume left, taking the key with him. Baudruche took the receiver off the hook and dialed.
"I want to speak to Bicard, if he's there. . . . Is that you, Bicard? Come to the Hotel right away, to the Manager's office. I'll explain later. I'm trying to straighten out one of your blunders."
Fifteen minutes later, Bicard was there.
"Would you recognize the man you let through the gates the other day—the one who lives here at the Hotel?"
"As well as you, Mr. Commissioner."
"Well, you won't be forgetting me if you pull any more of these half-assed tricks. Listen to me: I want you to wait by the door of the Hotel. If he goes out, follow him. Is that clear?"
"Yes, Mr. Commissioner."
"There's more. Let him go wherever he wants to in the City. But if he starts to leave the City, grab him. Understand?"
"Yes, Mr. Commissioner."
"O.K. Go stand by the door. And bon appetit! You'll be eating well tonight."
Bicard was about to leave when Baudruche caught his arm.
"I almost forgot. If he's carrying a suitcase or a large package, don't let him leave the Hotel."
How would the man react to Posey's story? No doubt he'd try to escape and alert his accomplices. There he was: the guilty man was passing the glass door, seemingly unconcerned, a smile on his lips. He was heading for the restaurant across from the Manager's office.
What if Baudruche were to leave now? Out of the question. He would be noticed going through the lobby. This time the man would be sure to recognize him.
The man was sitting at one of the nearer tables, and from the look of his appetite, Baudruche began to wonder if Posey had told him of his visit. The meal seemed endless. Baudruche was growing faint with hunger at the sight of all those people eating. At last, the man got up, passed the office and headed for the revolving door.
Baudruche saw Bicard follow the stranger; at last he was free to leave his cage. It was past two o'clock! His hunger had been feeding on his ill humor. He crossed the lobby and took a table off to one side, facing the last guests.
"Let me see the menu."
The staff rushed to his side and Baudruche ordered. Everything he wanted was gone; the Manager came to apologize. The chef was called up from the kitchen and read off a list of dishes not on the menu which he would be pleased to prepare. Baudruche shook his head at each suggestion; the Manager looked on with a glassy eye. Baudruche finally gave up in sheer exhaustion and left the satisfaction of his needs to the combined efforts of the chef and Mr. Baidroume. They succeeded, but Baudruche was careful not to let them know. He criticized the cooking, the wine, the poor service. . . . The game calmed his bad humor along with his appetite.
Baudruche was on the rampage in Leponte's office. A fine mess! Hadn't he warned him this would happen with his policies of appeasement? This time, at high noon, in the very same spot, not one but three workers had been assaulted by rats!
"But, Mr. Commissioner, you're looking only on the dark side. Everything went very pleasantly. The three men—Wiesel was one of them—were on their way to the Social Progress Café when the scene took place; this time the rat had four of five friends with him. They chatted amiably with our men, and our men gave them some of their food of their own free will. There's a fine spirit among our workers, Mr. Commissioner!"
"I'm afraid we don't see eye to eye on the meaning of the word 'spirit,' Mr. Leponte. Who were the two men with 'Wiesel?"
"Dupont, a good, quiet man, and Gonzales, a stubborn fanatic who almost wrecked the whole thing. He's free to look for another job beginning tonight."
"I want to see Gonzales."
"I'm not sure he's still here, Mr. Commissioner. He may have left already."
"You will find him for me. Now about the Factory: let's have the lesson for today. Then condense it and I'll have Miss Niquel type it up."
Leponte had been waiting for this moment. He rose to his feet and took a piece of paper from his desk.
"You don't need to bother, Mr. Commissioner. I was prepared for you this time. Here's the resume, all ready for you. I know how precious your time is and I hate to see you waste it."
Baudruche bit his lips. The bastard had him this time! But he'd get back at him sooner or later. Now he had to see Gonzales. He walked to the door with a forced smile.
Evening was falling and the birds were gathering in the trees. They were screeching louder than ever; it was hard on the nerves.
"Just what I need, these damn swallows!"
He opened his door, his face so contorted that Miss Bourrot thought he was sick.
Before he could speak, Miss Bourrot announced, "You have a
long message from the Prefect marked confidential."
"Which you've read, of course."
She blushed.
"Yes, Mr. Commissioner. I knew I shouldn't have . . ."
"It's quite all right. I have no secrets."
He took the message and read it through quickly. It was four pages long—and filled with advice, remonstrances, appeals to his wisdom, appeals to his conscience. It all came down to one thing: leave the rats alone!
He crumpled the pages and threw them in the wastebasket.
"He gives me a pain in the ass!"
Miss Bourrot lowered her head. She wished she hadn't heard.
Baudruche relaxed and began: " 'Mr. Prefect . . .' "
Suddenly Miss Bourrot sat up.
"Mr. Commissioner, I forgot . . . Bicard is outside and refuses to go until he's seen you."
Baudruche exploded.
"Am I to have no peace today!"
Bicard came in, wreathed in smiles.
"I've got it, Mr. Commissioner. I've got the lowdown."
"What is it?"
"The man went to the ramparts. Once there, he talked to the soldier, and the soldier answered."
"That's all?"
"Yes, Mr. Commissioner."
"He's done that before. I didn't need you to tell me."
"It's not my fault he didn't go someplace different. I didn't let him out of my sight. I didn't even stop for lunch."
"You think I had lunch? Get out of here. If you keep on like this, you'll end up at the Factory. Where were we, Miss Bourrot?
"Mr. Prefect, may I stress the seriousness of the new incident which occurred in the same place as yesterday. This is no longer a question of an isolated, spontaneous incident, but of a concerted action against three of our workers by a band of five or six rats who, employing violence, robbed them of their lunch-boxes.
"One of the three, a man named Gonzales, bravely tried to defend himself and his lunch box. Unfortunately, he was prevented by one Wiesel, the hapless victim of yesterday's incident, and a third man named Dupont, a bloodless individual with no will to fight. They both insisted that Gonzales give his lunch box to the rats and accept compensation.
"I feel no hesitation in blaming the outcome of the painful incident on Mr. Leponte's attitude, on the press censorship exerted by the Prefecture, and in general, on the pressure exerted over the past few years on the City's state of mind. In my opinion, it is of prime importance that we avoid any repetition of similar incidents, despite the humanitarian reasons that impelled you to write the confidential note I recently had the honor of receiving.
"No candidate has offered himself for the post of City Librarian.
"The birds are in a turmoil. They fly over the City in huge flocks and cry without letup. Their screeching should be stopped before it plays havoc with the City's nerves. Reason dictates that we rescind the prohibition against the feeding of the birds.
"Finish up with the weather report—no change, of course—and the sentry's report."
Baudruche was late getting home. He wasn't hungry. The Hotel lunch, the wine, the brandy . . . He wasn't over it yet. And there was something else: someone at the Factory about five feet five with nice eyes and dark brown hair.
"You're not eating anything, Robert. . . ."
5
B A U D R U C H E was as prompt as usual for his rendezvous with Labrique. When they reached the top of the steps, he tapped the architect on the shoulder.
"The Prefect doesn't seem very interested in your ants. He sent me a note."
"The worthy man does me honor."
"He asked me to remind you that you're paid by the City to concern yourself with architecture, not zoology."
"I expected no less. A reflection based on common sense, which couldn't be more wrong. What does he say about the rats?"
"He counsels patience, justice and understanding."
"A City goes to hell on that kind of advice. Don't you think we should get rid of him?"
"Shut up, Labrique. There are people coming."
They watched the soldier until they were alone again. Then Labrique led his friend to where they had seen the columns of ants the previous day. He leaned over the wall. "Do you see what I see?"
Baudruche put on his glasses: the gray area had grown considerably. He could make out several columns climbing slowly but surely, all at the same pace.
"Baudruche, we've got to stop them!"
The Commissioner looked helpless. "What do you want me to do? If I tell my men to go out there and get rid of your beasts, I'm not at all sure they'll obey me; and if they do, I'll get hell from the Prefect."
"My dear Commissioner, it might be worth it."
"It's clear you are not in my shoes, Hector."
"I made certain I never would be, Robert."
"You weren't man enough, Labrique."
No, he certainly wasn't man enough. Baudruche looked at his friend's tall, skinny body, his slight stoop, the graying hair. Labrique gave the impression of never wanting to get involved, of trying to get through life without ever bothering or being bothered by anyone. Had he been in Baudruche's shoes, he would have let everything go hang. Although Baudruche felt deep affection for Labrique, it was mingled with not a little contempt.
Baudruche knew he had his own faults but he, at least, was involved. He had never retreated from his responsibilities. Had he not had many solid qualities to compensate for his few minor faults, he would never have risen so high so fast. After all, wasn't he the number two man in the City, just under the Prefect? Of course luck had played its part. When he was young, the job of High Commissioner hadn't been all that important. But little by little, the seemingly permanent centers of power had been whittled down, some even disappearing altogether—like the army which, to the Prefect's great relief, had vanished years ago.
So many things had collapsed around him that Baudruche had reached his position by default. Since he was never afraid of taking risks, he had been put in charge, first of the police, then of the City's administration, and given a wide range of activities and responsibilities that no one else wanted. If the Prefect hadn't been there, he could have had the City.
But he stood up for the Prefect. Not for his person, but for the institution. Ever since he was born, the City had been governed by a Prefect. His portrait was everywhere: in the classroom, in his father's house, in all the public buildings. They prayed for him in church on Sunday. They swore by him. No, he could not imagine the City without a Prefect, any more than he could see himself in the Prefect's shoes.
Baudruche, a Prefect? He started to laugh at the thought of his portrait hanging in every corner of the City. No, Mr. High Commissioner was quite enough. From earliest youth, it had been his secret ambition. He never mentioned it for fear people would laugh. He'd been teased enough when he started up the ladder of success.
But everybody who had made fun of him was in his pocket now. They bowed low, and were corrected when they used the old familiarities. They were to address him as Mr. Commissioner without swallowing a single syllable. He'd been strict all right. Everybody was pretty much dependent on him, including Labrique—who would do well to take his job more seriously.
"Are you dreaming, old man?"
He jumped. It was Labrique, interrupting his reflections in a most unsuitable manner.
"What are you thinking about?"
"Me. My career. My job. It's a tough one, you know."
Labrique gave him a dig in the ribs.
"You bore me. You adore your job, and you know it."
Baudruche left him hurriedly. He was anxious to get back to his investigation of the counterfeit money.
The Commissioner walked to the Central Bank and saw its director.
"It's a very serious matter that brings me here, Mr. Blank-man."
"Mr. Commissioner, I don't imagine you would do us the honor of a visit in order to make some change.
Baudruche took out his wallet, extracted the bill he'd taken
from the suitcase and handed it to Mr. Blankman. The bank official examined it carefully, looked surprised, then reached for a magnifying glass.
"So?" Baudruche asked with impatience.
"I'm afraid to tell you . . . . I might be wrong. . . ."
He picked up the telephone.
"Will you please ask Mr. "Waters to come to my office?"
Mr. Waters arrived and examined the bill in turn.
"What do you think, Mr. Waters?"
"I don't know, Mr. Blankman. I think we should ask Mr. Pressman."
"Who is Pressman?"
"Our head engraver."
Pressman went straight to Blankman's desk without acknowledging Baudruche's presence. He wiped his glasses on a corner of his gray smock and bent over the bill.
"What do you think?" Blankman and Waters asked in unison.
Pressman thought some time before answering. "It's one of them, all right. I didn't know they still existed. It's real."
"What do you mean, 'real'?" Baudruche asked heatedly.
Pressman removed his glasses to see him better.
"Mr. Commissioner! If you're the one who made this, may I offer my warmest congratulations."
"No jokes, please. What is this bill?"
"These men will explain it to you. They know what it's all about."
Blankman took the bill from Pressman and placed it in front of Baudruche: "Mr. High Commissioner, as Mr. Press-man just said, what we have here is a real bank note. . . ."
"What do you mean, a real bank note? What about ours?"
"Mr. Commissioner, we are forced to admit that ours are counterfeit. They are all we've been able to print for a long time. No one will ever notice unless a real bill like this one is placed in circulation."
Baudruche felt a quiver run down his spine. Blankman continued, "May I ask where this came from, and if there are any more like it?"
"I cannot answer the first question. To the second, yes, there are more."
"Many?"
"Thousands upon thousands. . . ."
"Mr. Commissioner, may I suggest that it is of utmost importance that these bank notes not circulate in the City."
"What would happen if they did?"
"There would be a large-scale panic."
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