“Not so warm this morning,” he says.
“Yes,” Wallas says, “winter’s coming.”
“It looks as though it were going to snow.”
“It’s still early for that.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised anyway,” the bicyclist says.
Both of them watch the iron edge of the platform, which gradually reaches the level of the street. At the moment it does, the noise suddenly stops; in the silence they hear the electric bell that authorizes them to cross. As he passes through the gate, the bicyclist repeats:
“I wouldn’t be surprised.”
“Maybe you’re right,” Wallas says. “Good luck!”
“Good-bye, Monsieur,” the bicyclist says.
He jumps onto the seat and rides off. Is it really going to snow? It’s still not cold enough, probably; it’s only the sudden change in the weather that is surprising. Wallas, halfway across the bridge, passes the workman in the pea jacket who is about to reopen the barrier.
“Back already, Monsieur?”
“Yes,” Wallas answers. “I had just time enough while the bridge was opening and closing. The prefecture is over there, isn’t it?”
The other man turns back. “Time to do what?” he thinks. He says:
“Yes, that’s right. Take the Rue de Berlin: it’s the shortest way.”
“Thank you, Monsieur.”
“Have a good walk, Monsieur.”
Why isn’t that barrier controlled automatically, from the other end? Wallas realizes, now, that the Rue Janeck is not really straight: actually it curves south by a series of imperceptible angles. On the school sign showing two children carrying schoolbooks over their shoulders and holding hands, he can see the remains of a butterfly pasted on upside down and torn off. After the double door—Girls Boys—the courtyard wall disappears under the Indian chestnut trees, the reddish leaves and the split husks of the nuts; the little boys have carefully gathered the shiny kernels, the source of many games and much commerce. Wallas crosses to look at the names of the streets branching off to the left.
At one intersection Wallas notices opposite him the dyspeptic gentleman he has seen before, crossing the street. He doesn’t look any better after having eaten breakfast; perhaps it is worry and not stomach trouble that gives him that expression. (He looks like Fabius!) He is wearing black: he is going to the post office to send a telegram announcing someone’s death.
“Oh, it’s for sending a telegram. Nothing serious, I hope?”
“A death, Madame.”
The mournful gentleman passes Wallas and turns into the cross street: Rue de Berlin; Wallas walks in step with him.
So earlier this morning he should have kept straight ahead, judging by the direction of this street. The black back advances at the same speed as Wallas and shows him the way.
3
The man in the black overcoat passes on the left sidewalk and turns into a narrow street; consequently Wallas loses sight of him. A pity, for he was a good companion. So he was not going to send a telegram from the post office after all, unless he knows a short cut leading directly to the Avenue Christian-Charles. It doesn’t matter, Wallas prefers to follow the main avenues, particularly since he has no reason to go to that post office.
It would certainly have been easier to tell that woman right away that he wanted to cover the principal streets of the city, which he was visiting for the first time; but then would not some scruple have obliged him to talk about the other trip?—the sunny little streets where he had walked with his mother, the dead end of a canal between the low houses, the hull of the abandoned boat, that relative (his mother’s sister, or half-sister?) they were supposed to meet—it would have looked as though he were hunting down his childhood memories. As for passing himself off as a tourist, aside from the unlikelihood of the excuse at this time of year in a city completely barren of appeal for an art lover, this offered still greater dangers: where would the woman’s questions have led him then, since the post office had been enough to create the telegram, quite naturally, in order to avoid new explanations and out of a desire, too, not to contradict her. By trying to be pleasant and discreet, into what imaginary adventures would he finally be dragged!
“You’re not from around here, Monsieur?”
“No, I’m a detective and I arrived here last night to investigate a political murder.”
That was even less likely than all the rest. “The special agent,” Fabius is always repeating, “should leave as few traces as possible in people’s minds; it is therefore important for him to maintain a behavior as close as possible to the normal in all circumstances.” The caricature, famous in the Bureau of Investigation and in the whole Ministry, represents Fabius disguised as an “idler”: hat pulled down over his eyes, huge dark glasses, and an outrageously false beard hanging to the ground; bent double, this creature prowls “discreetly” through the countryside, among the startled cows and horses.
This disrespectful image actually conceals a sincere admiration on the part of his collaborators toward their old chief. “He’s failed a lot,” his enemies whisper to you sanctimoniously; but those who work with him every day know that despite certain inexplicable obstinacies, the illustrious Fabius remains worthy of his legend. Yet, despite his attachment to somewhat old-fashioned methods, even his adherents reproach him occasionally for a kind of irresolution, a marked discretion that makes him hesitate about accepting even the most established facts. The perspicacity with which he detected the slightest weak point in a suspicious situation, the intensity of impulse that carried him to the very threshold of the enigma, his subsequent indefatigable patience in recomposing the threads that had been revealed, all this seemed to turn at times into the sterile skepticism of a fanatic. Already people were saying that he mistrusted easy solutions, now it is whispered that he has ceased to believe in the existence of any solution whatever.
In the present case, for instance, where the purpose is clear enough (to uncover the leaders of an anarchist organization), he has shown excessive hesitation from the start, seeming to be concerned with it only reluctantly. He has not even bothered to avoid making quite preposterous remarks in front of his subordinates, pretending to consider the conspiracy either as a series of coincidences or as a Machiavellian invention of the government. One day he remarked quite coolly that such people were philanthropists and were merely trying to further public welfare!
Wallas does not like such jokes, which serve only to get the Bureau accused of negligence, even of collusion. Obviously he cannot feel toward Fabius the blind veneration some of his colleagues show: he did not know him during the glorious years of struggle against the enemy agents during the war. Wallas has worked for the Bureau of Investigation only a short time, before that he was in another branch of the Ministry of the Interior, and it is an accident that he happens to have this job. Hitherto, his work consisted mostly in the surveillance of various theosophical societies against which Roy-Dauzet, the minister, had suddenly conceived a resentment; Wallas has spent several months attending meetings of the members, studying their extravagant brochures, and gaining the confidence of semi-lunatics; he has just finished his assignment with a voluminous report on the activities of these societies, all quite harmless, as it turns out.
As a matter of fact, the role of this marginal police force is generally quite pacific. Established originally with counterespionage as its real purpose, since the armistice it has become a kind of economic police whose chief function is to check the actions of the cartels. Subsequently, each time a financial, political, religious or other group has seemed to threaten the security of the state, the Bureau of Investigation has taken action and proved itself, on two or three occasions, to be of invaluable assistance to the government.
This time, something quite different is involved: in nine days, nine violent deaths have occurred one after another, of which at least six are definitely murders. Certain resemblances among these various crimes, the nature of the vic
tims, as well as the threatening letters received by other members of the organization to which the nine dead men may have belonged, clearly show that it is a single case that must be dealt with: a monstrous campaign of intimidation—or even of total destruction—conducted (by whom?) against these men whose political role, though not official, is no doubt extremely important and who, for this reason, benefit…from a…
The Place de la Préfecture is a wide square bordered on three sides by buildings with arcades; the fourth side is occupied by the prefecture, a huge stone building ornamented with scrolls and scallops, fortunately few in number—in short, of rather somber ugliness.
In the middle of the square, on a low pedestal protected by an iron fence, stands a bronze group representing a Greek chariot drawn by two horses, in which are standing several individuals, probably symbolic, whose unnatural positions are out of harmony with the presumed rapidity of their equipage.
On the other side begins the Avenue de la Reine, where the skinny elms have already lost their leaves. There are very few people out of doors in this neighborhood; the few bundled-up pedestrians and the black branches of the trees give it a precociously wintry look.
The courthouse cannot be far away, for, aside from its suburbs, the city is certainly not very large. The prefecture clock showed a little after seven-ten, so that Wallas has a good three-quarters of an hour in which to explore the area.
At the end of the avenue, the gray water of an old shunting canal contributes to the frozen calmness of the landscape.
Then comes the Avenue Christian-Charles, a little wider, lined by a few elegant shops and movie theaters. A streetcar passes, occasionally indicating its silent approach by two or three quick rings of its bell.
Wallas notices a signboard showing a yellowed map of the city, a movable pointer in its center. Ignoring this point of reference, as well as the little box containing the street names on a roll of paper, he has no difficulty reconstructing his route: the station, the slightly flattened ring of the Boulevard Circulaire, the Rue des Arpenteurs, the Rue de Brabant, the Rue Joseph-Janeck which joins the parkway, the Rue de Berlin, the prefecture. Now he is going to take the Avenue Christian-Charles as far as the parkway and then, since he has time for it, make a detour to the left, in order to return along the Canal Louis V and then the narrow canal that follows his street…the Rue de Copenhague. It is this latter he has just crossed. When this circuit will have been completed, Wallas will have twice crossed the city proper from one side to the other, within the confines of the Boulevard Circulaire. Beyond, the suburbs extend for considerable distances, dense and unattractive to the east and south, but aerated, toward the northwest, by the numerous ponds of the inland waterway and toward the southwest by the playing fields, a woods, and even a municipal park adorned with a zoo.
There was a shorter way of getting here from the end of the Rue Janeck, but it was also more complicated, and the lady with the quitch-grass broom was right to send him back by way of the prefecture. The black overcoat with the disturbed face turned here and vanished into this swarm of narrow twisting alleyways. On the point of walking away, Wallas remembers that he still has to find the courthouse; he discovers it almost at once, behind the prefecture and connected with it by a tiny street that starts on the square, the Rue de la Charte. As a matter of fact, the main police station is located just opposite. Wallas feels less of a stranger in this space thus marked out, he can move about in it with less deliberation.
Farther down the avenue he passes in front of the post office. It is closed. On the enormous door, a white cardboard poster: “The offices are open continuously from eight A.M. to seven P.M.” After having turned toward the parkway, he soon comes to the canal which he follows, attracted and sustained by it, absorbed in the contemplation of the reflections and the shadows.
When Wallas enters the Place de la Préfecture for the second time, the clock indicates five to eight. He has just time enough to go into the café at the corner of the Rue de la Charte to eat something quickly. The place is not at all like what he was expecting: this part of the country does not look as though it cared much about mirrors, chromium, and neon lighting. Behind its inadequate windows, supplemented by the timid glow of a few wall brackets, this big café is actually rather mournful, with its dark woodwork and thin banquettes covered in dark imitation leather. Wallas can just barely read the newspaper he has asked for. He quickly glances down the columns:
“Serious traffic accident on the Delft road.”
“The city council will meet tomorrow to elect a new mayor.”
“The medium deceived her clients.”
“Potato production has surpassed that of the best years in the past.”
“Death of one of our fellow citizens. A daring burglar made
his way at nightfall yesterday into the residence of M. Daniel
Dupont “
It is likely that Laurent, the chief commissioner, will receive him in person once he arrives, thanks to Fabius’ letter of introduction. Provided he is not offended by such an intervention: Wallas will have to present matters skillfully; otherwise he risks turning the man into an enemy or in any case losing his cooperation, which is indispensable. As a matter of fact, though the local police have shown themselves absolutely ineffectual in dealing with the eight preceding crimes—not having been able to find a single lead and even classifying two cases as “death by accident”—it seems difficult to avoid their collaboration completely: they constitute, in spite of everything, the only possible source of information concerning the supposed “killers.” From another point of view, it would be inopportune to let them suppose that the latter were suspect.
Noticing an open stationery shop, Wallas walks in for no particular reason. A young girl who had been sitting behind the counter stands up to wait on him.
“Monsieur?”
She has a pretty, slightly sullen face and blond hair.
“I’d like a very soft gum eraser, for drawing.”
“Certainly, Monsieur.”
She turns back toward the drawers that line the wall. Her hair, combed straight up from the back of her neck, makes her look older, seen from behind. She searches through one of the drawers and sets down in front of Wallas a yellow eraser with beveled edges, longer than it is wide, an ordinary article for schoolchildren. He asks:
“Haven’t you any supplies just for drawing?”
“This is a drawing eraser, Monsieur.”
She encourages him with a half-smile. Wallas picks up the eraser to examine it more carefully; then he looks at the young girl, her eyes, her fleshy, half-parted lips. He smiles in his turn.
“What I wanted…”
She tilts her head slightly, as though to pay special attention to what he is going to say.
“…was something more crumbly.”
“Really, Monsieur, I can assure you this is a very good pencil eraser. All our customers are satisfied with it.”
“All right,” Wallas says, “I’ll try it. How much is it?”
He pays and leaves the store. She accompanies him to the door. No, she’s no longer a child: her hips, her slow gait are almost a woman’s.
Once out in the street, Wallas mechanically fingers the little eraser; it is obvious from the way it feels that it is no good at all. It would have been surprising, really, for it to be otherwise in so modest a shop… That girl was nice.…He rubs his thumb across the end of the eraser. It is not at all what he is looking for.
4
By shifting the dossiers on top of his desk, Laurent covers up the little piece of eraser. Wallas finishes his remarks:
“In short, you haven’t found much.”
“You might say nothing,” the chief commissioner answers.
“And what do you intend to do now?”
“Nothing, since it isn’t my case any more!”
Commissioner Laurent accompanies these words with an ironically brokenhearted smile. When his interlocutor says nothing, he continues:
“I was wrong, no doubt, to believe myself in charge of public safety in this city. This paper,” he waves a letter between two fingers, “orders me in specific terms to let the capital take over last night’s crime. I couldn’t ask for anything better. And now the minister, you say—or in any case a service that is directly attached to him—sends you here to continue the investigation, not ‘in my place’ but ‘with my cooperation.’ What am I supposed to make of that? Except that this cooperation is to be limited to handing over to you whatever information I possess—which I have just done—and therefore to having you protected by my men, if necessary.”
With another smile, Laurent adds:
“So now it’s up to you to tell me what you’re going to do, unless of course that’s a secret.”
Entrenched behind the papers covering his desk, his elbows propped on the arms of his chair, the commissioner rubs his hands together as he speaks, slowly, almost cautiously, then he sets them down in front of him on the scattered sheets of paper, spreading his short, fat fingers as far apart as possible, and waits for the answer, without taking his eyes from his visitor’s face. He is a short, plump man with a pink face and a bald skull. His kindly tone is a little forced.
“You say the witnesses,” Wallas begins….
Laurent immediately raises his hands to stop him.
“There are no witnesses, properly speaking,” he says, rubbing his right palm over his left forefinger; “you can scarcely call the doctor who has not restored the wounded man to life a witness, or the old deaf housekeeper who has seen nothing whatsoever.”
“It was the doctor who informed you?”
“Yes, Doctor Juard telephoned the police last night around nine o’clock; the inspector who received the information wrote down what he said—you’ve just looked at the record—and then he called me at home. I had an immediate examination of the premises made. Upstairs, the inspectors picked up four sets of fresh fingerprints: those of the housekeeper, then three others apparently made by men’s hands. If it’s true that no outsider has come upstairs for several days, these last could be (he counts on his fingers) first of all, those of the doctor, faint and few, on the stair banister and in Dupont’s bedroom; second, those of Dupont himself, which can be found all over the house; third, those of the murderer, quite numerous and very clear, on the banister, on the doorknob of the study, and on certain articles of furniture in this study—mainly the back of the desk chair. The house has two entrances; the doctor’s right thumbprint has been found on the front doorbell, and the hypothetical murderer’s on the knob of the back door. You see that I’m giving you all the details. Lastly, the housekeeper declares that the doctor came in through the front door and that she found the back door open when she went upstairs to answer the wounded man’s call—even though she had closed it a few moments before. If you want me to, I can have Doctor Juard’s fingerprints taken, just to be sure….”
The Erasers Page 5