But a little later, when Laurent is finishing his mail, the man on duty announces Doctor Juard. What does this one want now! Can’t they leave him in peace about this case he’s not even supposed to be concerned with?
When he has the doctor shown in, Laurent is struck by his exhausted look.
“Monsieur,” the latter begins, almost in a whisper, “I’m here about the death of this unfortunate Dupont. I’m Doctor Juard.”
“Of course, Doctor, but we’ve already worked together once, if my memory doesn’t deceive me?”
“Oh, ‘worked’!” the little doctor says modestly. “My cooperation was so insignificant. I didn’t think you would even remember it.”
“We’ve all done what we could, Doctor,” the commissioner says.
After a slight pause, the doctor continues, as though reluctantly:
“I sent you a death certificate, but I thought you might want to see me anyway. …”
He stops. Laurent watches him calmly, his hands lying on the desk which he absent-mindedly taps with one finger.
“Of course, Doctor, I’m glad you did,” he says at last.
This is a purely formal encouragement. Doctor Juard is beginning to regret having rushed here so soon, instead of waiting until the police sent for him. He wipes his glasses to gain time, and continues with a sigh:
“All the same, I don’t know what I could tell you about this strange crime.”
If he has nothing to say, why has he come? He has preferred to come of his own accord rather than seem to be afraid of questioning. He thought we were going to ask him specific details—for which he has prepared himself—and now we’re letting him get out of it by himself, as if he were the one in the wrong.
“Why ‘strange’?” the commissioner asks.
He doesn’t think it’s strange. It’s the doctor he thinks strange, sitting there stringing out his empty phrases instead of simply saying what he knows. What he knows about what? He hasn’t been called to give evidence. He has been particularly afraid that the police would come and rummage through his clinic: that’s why he’s here.
“I mean: out of the ordinary; there aren’t murders in our city very often. And it’s extremely rare that a burglar making his way into an inhabited house should be so upset at the sight of the owner that he feels it necessary to shoot him.”
Another thing that has kept him from staying home is his need to find out exactly what the others know and don’t know.
“You say ‘a burglar’?” Laurent asks in surprise; “did he take anything?”
“Not that I know of.”
“If he didn’t steal anything, he’s not a burglar.”
“You’re playing with words, Monsieur,” the little doctor insists: “he probably had every intention of stealing.”
“Oh, ‘intention’! You’re moving a little too fast.”
Fortunately the commissioner decides to say something and asks:
“It was the housekeeper who called you, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, old Madame Smite.”
“Didn’t you think it was odd that she should call in a gynecologist to take care of a wounded man?”
“Good lord, Monsieur, I’m a surgeon; I performed many such operations during the war. Dupont knew it: we had been friends since college.”
“Oh, Daniel Dupont was your friend? I’m sorry, Doctor.”
Juard makes an almost protesting gesture:
“Let’s not exaggerate; we knew each other for a long time, that’s all.”
Laurent continues:
“You went to get the victim by yourself?”
“Yes, I didn’t want to take an orderly: I have a very small staff. Poor Dupont didn’t seem in any danger; Madame Smite and I were able to hold him up, going down the stairs…”
“Then he could still walk? Didn’t you say, last night, that he was unconscious?”
“No, Monsieur, I certainly did not. When I arrived, the wounded man was waiting for me on his bed; he spoke to me and because he was so insistent, I agreed to take him without a stretcher, so as to lose as little time as possible. It was during the trip in the car that he suddenly grew weaker. Up till then he assured me that it was nothing serious, but at that moment I realized that his heart had been touched. I operated immediately: the bullet had lodged in the wall of die ventricle, he could have recovered from that. The heart stopped when I performed the extraction; all my efforts to revive him remained useless.”
The doctor sighs, with a look of great exhaustion.
“Perhaps,” the commissioner says, “there was some cardiac difficulty to complicate matters?”
But the practitioner shakes his head.
“You can’t be sure: a normal man can succumb to a wound of that type too. Actually, it’s a matter of luck.”
“Tell me, Doctor,” Laurent asks after a moment’s thought, “can you suggest at about what distance from the body the shot was fired?”
“Five yards…ten?” Juard says evasively. “It’s difficult to give an exact figure.”
“In any case,” the commissioner concludes, “for a bullet fired by a man running away, it was carefully aimed.”
“Chance…” the doctor says.
“There wasn’t any other wound, was there?”
“No, only the one.”
Doctor Juard answers a few more questions. If he hasn’t telephoned the police at once, it is because the phone in Dupont’s house was out of order; and once he reached the clinic, the wounded man’s condition gave him no opportunity. It was from a nearby café that Madame Smite had called him. No, he doesn’t know the name of this café He also confirms the removal of the body by the police van, and hands the commissioner, in conclusion, the only piece of evidence he has left: a tiny ball of tissue paper….
“I’ve brought you the bullet,” he says.
Laurent thanks him. The police magistrate will probably need the doctor’s testimony.
They separate after a few more friendly words.
Laurent stares at the tiny cone of black metal, a 7.65 projectile that could just as well have come from Wallas’ pistol as from any weapon of the same type. If only the cartridge shell had been found too.
This Doctor Juard certainly has something suspicious about him. The first time Laurent had any dealing with him, he could not quite dismiss this impression: the doctor’s embarrassed phrases, his peculiar explanations, his reticence had finally made Laurent suspect some sort of intrigue. He sees now that this is the man’s normal behavior. Is it his glasses that give him that shifty look? Or his deferential politeness? If Fabius saw him, he would unhesitatingly classify him among the accomplices 1 Hasn’t Laurent himself instinctively tried to unsettle him further by disconcerting questions? The poor wretch didn’t need any such treatment though: the simplest words, in his mouth, assume an equivocal quality.
“. .. My cooperation was so insignificant….”
What was surprising if people talked about his professional activities? Perhaps, today, he is also affected by the death of one of his friends under his own scapel. Heart disease! Why not?
“Chance…”
Chance, for the second time, puts this little doctor in a rather curious situation. Laurent will not be completely satisfied until the capital sends on the coroner’s conclusions. If Dupont has committed suicide, a specialist can tell that the shot was fired at close range: Juard has realized this and is trying, out of friendship, to convince Laurent that Dupont was murdered. He has come here to decide what effect his declarations have produced; he is afraid that the body—even after the operation—might betray the truth. He is apparently unaware that the police van has removed it to another destination.
He is a truly loyal friend. Didn’t he, last night, “out of respect for the deceased,” request that the press not make too much fuss over this “sensational incident!” Besides, he had nothing to fear: the morning papers could insert only a last minute brief account; as for the evening papers, they will h
ave plenty of time to receive the group’s orders. Although a professor and living quietly, Daniel Dupont belonged to that section of the industrial and mercantile bourgeoisie that does not like to see its life, or its death, discussed in the marketplace. Now no newspaper in the whole country could flatter itself that it was completely independent of this class; with all the more reason in this provincial city, where their omnipotent influence seemed to have no flaws. Shipowners, paper manufacturers, wood exporters, spinning-mill owners, all join hands to protect identical interests. Dupont—it was true—denounced the weaknesses of their system in his books, but that was more a question of advice than attack, and even the ones who did not listen to him respected the professor.
Political crime? Did this withdrawn figure exert the occult influence some attributed to him? Even if it were so, you would have to be a Roy-Dauzet to construct such absurd hypotheses: a murder every day at the same hour…. Luckily, this time he has not confided his hallucinations to the regular police. Laurent still has a bad memory of the minister’s last whim: large quantities of arms and munitions were—he claimed—being landed daily in the harbor on behalf of some revolutionary organization; this traffic would have to be stopped at once and the guilty parties arrested! For almost three weeks the police have exhausted themselves: the depots minutely inspected, the holds searched from top to bottom, the crates opened one by one, the bales of cotton unpacked (then repacked) because their weight was over normal. They had picked up, as their entire prize, two undeclared revolvers and the hunting rifle an unfortunate passenger had concealed in a trunk to avoid paying customs duty. No one took the matter seriously, and the police, after a few days, were the laughingstock of the town. The chief commissioner is not about to set off on a wild goose chase of that sort so quickly.
6
As he left the police station, Wallas was once again seized by that impression of empty-headedness which he had earlier attributed to the cold. He then decided that the long walk on an empty stomach—which too light a breakfast had not made up for afterward—also contributed something to this feeling. To be in a position to think to advantage about the commissioner’s remarks and to put his own ideas in order, Wallas has decided it would be a good idea to eat a heavier meal. So he has gone into a restaurant he had noticed an hour before, where he has eaten with a good appetite two eggs and some ham with toast. At the same time, he has had the waitress explain the most convenient way to get to the Rue de Corinthe. Passing once more in front of the statue that decorates the Place de la Préfecture, he has approached it to read, on the west side of the pedestal, the inscription carved in the stone: “The Chariot of State—V. Daulis, sculptor.”
He has found the clinic easily, but Doctor Juard has just left. The reception nurse has asked him the purpose of his visit; he has answered that he preferred to speak to the doctor in person; she has then asked him if he wished to speak with Madame Juard who—she said—was also a doctor and, besides, was in charge of the clinic. Wallas has explained that he had not come for medical reasons. This explanation made the nurse smile—for no apparent reason—but she has asked nothing further. She did not know when the doctor would be back; it would be best to come back later, or telephone. While she closes the door behind him, she has murmured, loud enough so Wallas could hear her:
“They’re all the same!”
Wallas has returned to the square and walked around the prefecture on the right side, intending to come out onto the Boulevard Circulaire near the Rue des Arpenteurs; but he has lost his way in a labyrinth of tiny streets where the sudden turns and detours have forced him to walk much longer than was necessary. After crossing a canal, he has finally reached a familiar neighborhood: the Rue de Brabant and the imitation brick buildings of the wood exporters. During this entire course his attention has been completely absorbed by his concern to proceed in the right direction; and when, after crossing the parkway, he has found himself standing in front of the little house surrounded by spindle trees, the latter has suddenly looked sinister to him, whereas this morning he had been struck, on the contrary by its attractive appearance. He has tried to dismiss such unreasonable ideas, setting them down to fatigue, and he has decided to take the streetcar to move around the city from now on.
It is at this moment that he has realized that, for almost a half-hour, his mind had been exclusively preoccupied by the nurse’s expression and tone: polite but apparently full of double meanings. She almost looked as though she supposed he wanted a shady doctor—for God knows what reason.
***
Wallas follows the hedge, behind the iron fence, and stops at the gate, where he stares for a minute at the front of the house. There are two windows on the ground floor, three upstairs, one of which (on the left) is partly open.
Contrary to his expectation, no bell sounds when he opens the gate and walks into the garden. He closes the gate, follows the gravel path, and walks up the four steps to the door. He presses the bell; a distant ring answers. In the center of the varnished oak door is a rectangular window protected by an elaborate grillwork: something like intertwined flower stems, with long, supple leaves…it might also represent wisps of smoke….
After a few seconds, Wallas rings again. Since no one comes to open the door, he glances through the little window—but without being able to make out anything inside. Then he looks up toward the second-story windows. An old woman is leaning just far enough out of the left one to catch sight of him.
“Who do you want?” she cries when she realizes she has been seen. “No one’s here. You’d better leave, young man.”
Her tone is suspicious and cold, but nevertheless something about it hints at the possibility of getting around her. Wallas assumes his most agreeable manner:
“You’re Madame Smite, aren’t you?”
“What did you say?”
“You’re Madame Smite, aren’t you?” he repeats, somewhat louder.
This time she answers as if she had understood long before:
“Yes, of course! What do you want Madame Smite fori” And without waiting she adds in her shrill voice: “If it’s for the telephone, I can tell you now that you’ve come too late, young man: there’s no one here any more!”
“No, Madame, that’s not what it’s about. I’d like to talk to you.”
“I don’t have time to stay and talk. I’m packing my things.”
Wallas is shouting now, by contagion and almost as loudly as the old woman. He insists:
“Listen, Madame Smite, I only want to ask you for a little information.”
The old woman still does not seem to have made up her mind to let him in. He has stepped back so that she can see him more easily: his respectable clothes certainly count in his favor. And finally the housekeeper declares, before disappearing into the room: “I can’t understand a word you’re saying, young man. I’ll come down.”
But quite a while passes, and nothing at all happens. Wallas is on the point of calling, fearing she has forgotten all about him, when suddenly the window in the front door opens without his having heard the slightest noise in the hall, and the old woman’s face presses up against the grill.
“So you’re here for the telephone, are you?” she shrieks stubbornly (and just as loudly, though she is now six inches from her interlocutor). “That makes a week we’ve been waiting for you, young man! You’re not coming from an asylum, at least, like the one last night?”
Wallas is somewhat baffled.
“Well, I…” he begins, supposing she’s referring to the clinic, “I stopped by there but…”
The old housekeeper interrupts him at once, outraged:
“What? Does the company hire only lunatics? And you’ve probably stopped in every café on the way too, before you got here, haven’t you?”
Wallas remains calm. Laurent has suggested that the woman sometimes said funny things; still, he did not think she was this crazy. He will have to explain the matter to her carefully, articulating each word so she can u
nderstand what he is saying:
“No, listen, Madame, you’re making a mistake “
But Wallas suddenly remembers the two cafés he was in this morning—and the one he has slept in as well; these are facts he cannot deny, although he does not see why he should be blamed for them. Besides, why should he bother himself about these grotesque accusations?
“It’s a misunderstanding. It’s not the company that’s sending me.” (That, at least, he can state without any ambiguity whatever.)
“Then what’s this all about, young man?” the suspicious face replies.
An interrogation is not going to be easy under these conditions! Probably her employer’s murder has unsettled the housekeeper’s mind.
“I told you I’m not here for the telephone,” Wallas repeats, forcing himself to be patient.
“Well,” she exclaims, “you don’t have to shout so loud, you know. I’m not deaf!” She reads lips, obviously. “And if you’re not here for the telephone, there’s no use talking.”
Preferring not to bring up the subject again, Wallas quickly explains the purpose of his visit. To his great surprise, he makes himself understood without the slightest difficulty: Madame Smite agrees to let him come in. But instead of opening the door, she remains staring at him, behind the grill that half conceals her face. Through the opening in the window which she is about to close again, she remarks, finally, with a touch of reproach (shouldn’t he have known about it long since?):
“Not through this door, young man. It’s too hard to open. You can walk around to the back.”
And the window closes with a click. As he walks down the steps to the gravel path, Wallas feels her eyes fixed on him from the darkness of the hall.
Nevertheless old Anna hurries toward the kitchen. This gentleman has a nicer look about him than the two who came last night, with their red faces and their big boots. They went all over the place to do their dirty work and did not even listen to what they were told. She had to keep a close watch over them, for fear they might take something; their looks did not inspire much confidence. What if they were accomplices who had come to look for what the thief had not been able to steal when he ran away? This one looks less shrewd—and keeps getting mixed up in a lot of nonsense before coming to the point—but certainly he is better brought up. Monsieur Dupont always wanted her to let people in through the front door. The locks are too complicated. Now that he is dead, they can just as well walk around.
The Erasers Page 7