The Erasers

by Alain Robbe-Grillet

  What kind of spell is it that is forcing him to give explanations wherever he goes today? Is it a particular arrangement of the streets in this city that obliges him to be always asking his way, so that at each reply he finds himself led into new detours? Once before he has wandered among these unexpected bifurcations and blind alleys, where you got lost even more certainly when you happened to walk straight ahead. Only his mother was worried about it. Finally they had reached that dead end of a canal; the low houses, in the sun, reflected their old façades in the green water. That must have been in summer, during the school vacation; they had stopped (on their way to the seashore, farther south, where they went every year) to visit some relative. He thought he remembered that she was annoyed, that there was something about a legacy or something of the kind. But did he ever know just what it was? He does not even remember now if they had ever found the woman, or if they had left empty-handed (they had only a few hours between trains). Besides, are these real memories? That day might have been described to him often: “You remember when we went…”

  No. The dead end of the canal he had seen himself, and the houses reflected in the still water, and the low bridge that closed off the end…and the abandoned hull of the old boat…. But it is possible that this happened on another day, in another place—or even in a dream.

  Here is the Rue Janeck and the wall of the recreation courtyard where the Indian chestnuts are shedding their leaves. “Citizens Awake.” And here is the plaque ordering drivers to slow down.

  At the end of the drawbridge, the workman in the dark blue pea jacket and the visored cap makes a gesture of recognition.

  CHAPTER THREE

  1

  As usual, the big house is silent.

  On the ground floor, the old deaf housekeeper is almost finished preparing dinner. She is wearing felt slippers that muffle the sound of her comings and goings along the hallway between the kitchen and the dining room, where she sets a single, unalterable place at the enormous table.

  It is Monday: Monday’s dinner is never very complicated: a vegetable soup, probably ham, and a cream dessert of some vague flavor—or else caramel rice pudding…

  But Daniel Dupont is not much concerned with gastronomy.

  Sitting at his desk, he is examining his revolver. It must not fall out of order—though it has been so many years since anyone has used it. Dupont handles it carefully; he opens it, takes out the bullets, carefully cleans the mechanism, checks its operation; finally he returns the clip and puts his rag away in a drawer.

  He is a meticulous man who likes every task to be executed correctly. A bullet in the heart is what makes the least mess. If it is fired properly—he has talked it over extensively with Doctor Juard—death is immediate and the loss of blood quite slight. So old Anna will have less trouble getting rid of the stains; for her, that is what matters. He is well aware that she does not like him.

  On the whole, people have not liked him much, Evelyne… But that is not why he is killing himself. It does not matter to him whether people have liked him or not. He is killing himself for nothing—out of exhaustion.

  Dupont takes a few steps on the water-green carpet that muffles every noise. There is not much room to walk in the little study. Books hem him in on all sides: law, social legislation, political economy.…Down below, to the left, at the end of the long shelves, stands the row of books he himself has added to the series. Not much. There were two or three ideas there, even so. Who has understood them? Too bad for them.

  He stops in front of his desk and glances at the letters he has just written: one to Roy-Dauzet, one to Juard…to whom else? One to his wife, maybe? No; and the one he is addressing to the minister has no doubt been mailed the day before….

  He stops in front of the desk and glances one last time at this letter he has just written to Doctor Juard. It is clear and persuasive; it furnishes all the explanations necessary for camouflaging his suicide as a murder.

  At first Dupont had thought of making it look like an accident: “Professor kills himself while cleaning old revolver.” But everybody would have known.

  A crime is less suspicious. And he could count on Juard and Roy-Dauzet to keep his secret. The wood exporters will not have to turn their faces into masks when his name comes up in conversation. As for the doctor, he shouldn’t be surprised after their conversation last week; he had probably understood. He cannot, in any case, refuse to do this favor for a dead friend. What is asked of him is not very complicated: transferring the body to the clinic and immediately informing Roy-Dauzet by telephone; afterward the report to the municipal police and the release to the local papers. A minister’s friendship is very useful at times: there will be neither coroner nor inquest of any kind. And later (who knows?) this complicity may be useful to the doctor as well.

  Everything is in order Dupont need only go down to dinner.

  He must seem in his usual mood, so that old Anna will suspect nothing. He gives orders for the next day; with his habitual precision, he settles several details henceforth without importance. At seven-thirty he goes back upstairs and, without a moment’s hesitation, fires a bullet through his heart.

  Here Laurent stops; there is still something that is not clear: did Dupont die immediately, or not?

  Suppose he merely wounded himself: he still had strength enough to fire a second bullet, since the doctor declares he was able to get down the stairs and walk to the ambulance. And supposing the revolver was out of the question, the professor had other means at his disposal: slitting his wrists, for instance; he was the kind of man to have a razor blade handy in case the revolver failed him. It takes great courage to kill yourself, they say, but such courage is more characteristic of Dupont than this sudden renunciation.

  On the other hand, if he had succeeded in killing himself outright, why should the doctor and the old housekeeper have invented this story: Dupont, wounded, calling for help from the top of the stairs and, though his life till then did not seem to be threatened, his sudden death on reaching the clinic. It might be supposed that Juard preferred this version, so that he would not be censured for having taken away the body: Dupont would have had to be still alive for him to be entitled to move him; and he would have also had to be capable of standing, so that the stretcher-bearers would not be needed; lastly, this brief survival permitted the victim to explain the circumstances of the murder viva voce. It is possible that Dupont himself recommended this precaution in his letter. But what is strange is that this morning the doctor virtually insisted that the wound had seemed insignificant to him at first—this, in spite of everything, makes Dupont’s death a little surprising. As for the housekeeper, she didn’t seem to have imagined even that the victim could have perished. If it is already surprising that Dupont, or Juard, adopted a solution that necessitated taking the old woman into their confidence, it is even more so that the latter played her role so skillfully with the inspectors only a few hours after the tragedy.

  There is, of course, another hypothesis: Dupont might have shot himself the second time once he had reached the clinic—in this way, Madame Smite would have known nothing and her possible testimony would have to be taken into consideration by the doctor in concocting his own. Unfortunately, if it is likely that the doctor agreed to disguise his friend’s suicide, it is scarcely conceivable that he provided him the opportunity to carry it out.

  To recapitulate: it must be taken as certain that Dupont killed himself without the help of either the doctor or the housekeeper; consequently he did it when he was alone—that is: either in his study at seven-thirty, or in his bedroom, while the housekeeper was calling the clinic from the telephone in a nearby café. After the old woman’s return, Dupont remained with someone at all times—the housekeeper first, later the doctor—and either one would have kept him from making a second attempt. He might also have fired a first shot in the study and a second in the bedroom, but this complication would not settle anything, for in any case he didn’t seem serio
usly wounded at the time of the doctor’s arrival. As a matter of fact, it is not plausible to question the housekeeper’s good faith (only the doctor is an accomplice in the distortion of the truth). When he left his house, Dupont wasn’t dead, he could even walk, more or less—the doctor was forced to indicate this, in order not to be contradicted by the housekeeper. All of which, moreover, could be calculated ahead of time: the housekeeper not being in on the secret, it was necessary to avoid having her find the body holding a revolver—which would give her more opportunities to suspect suicide and would also permit her to call in any doctor—or even the police.

  Consequently the solution is as follows: Dupont shoots himself in the chest, knowing the wound to be mortal but giving him time enough to shout that he has been attacked. He takes advantage of the housekeeper’s deafness to get her to admit to a murderer’s hasty flight through the house. Then he waits for his friend the doctor to arrive and explains to the latter what he must do after his death. Juard takes the wounded man away^ and then attempts to save him in spite of himself….

  There is still something that does not fit: if he seemed in such good condition, Dupont could not be so certain that his wound was mortal.

  Which leads back to the hypothesis of the apparent failure followed by a last-minute retreat when faced with death. Dupont aimed badly; he gave himself an apparently harmless wound which nevertheless frightened him enough to make him abandon his plan. He then called for help, but being unwilling to admit the truth, he invented the preposterous story of an attack. As soon as the doctor arrived, Dupont had himself taken to the clinic and operated on, without waiting for a stretcher. But his wound was more serious than was supposed, and an hour later he was dead. Hence not only are the housekeeper’s declarations sincere (she could even have seen some door open that wasn’t supposed to be), but it remains possible that the doctor’s are, too: the gynecologist need not have discovered that the bullet was fired at point-blank range. The minister, who knows the ins and outs of the case because of a letter from Dupont sent just before, has had the inquest stopped and the body removed.

  Commissioner Laurent knows that he will now recapitulate all his hypotheses once again, for it is precisely this last solution he finds the most unsatisfactory. Though at each new attempt since this morning he has come out at the same point, he refuses to accept this conclusion. He would prefer any unlikelihood to that banal reversal generally attributed to the instinct of self-preservation, but which fits in so badly with the professor’s character, the courage he has shown in many circumstances, his behavior at the front during the war, his refusal to compromise in civil life, his unquestioned force of character. He could decide to kill himself; he could have reasons for wanting to disguise this death; but he could not abandon his plan so suddenly, once he had embarked upon it.

  Yet aside from this, there remains only one explanation: murder; and since there is no possible murderer, it is Wallas’ theory that has to be adopted: the phantom “gang” with their mysterious purposes and inscrutable conspiracies… Commissioner Laurent laughs to himself over this, so preposterous does he find the minister’s latest notion. This case is mixed up enough already, without looking for such nonsense to add to it.

  Then too, it is really too absurd to go on wracking his brains over a riddle from which he has been so opportunely excused. Besides, it is time for lunch.

  But the rubicund little man cannot make up his mind to leave his office. He expected to have some word from Wallas during the morning, but he has received neither a second visit nor a phone call. Has the special agent also been assassinated by the gangsters? Vanished for ever, swallowed up by the shadows?

  Actually, he knows nothing about this Wallas, nor about the exact nature of his job. Why, for instance, did he need to visit Laurent before starting his work? The commissioner possesses nothing but the testimony of the doctor and the old housekeeper; the agent sent from the capital could question both of the latter directly. And he had no particular need to ask permission to enter the dead man’s residence—open henceforth to anyone at all, under the protection of a half mad old woman.

  In this respect, one might say that the minister’s behavior is at the least frivolous: in a criminal case you don’t…But isn’t this offhandedness the best evidence that the case is one of suicide, and that they are well aware of this in the capital? All the same, it may cause them some difficulties later on, with the heirs.

  And Wallas, if this is so—what is he doing here? Is it by an error of transmission in Roy-Dauzet’s orders that the illustrious Fabius has started this counter-investigation? Or does the special agent also know that Dupont committed suicide? His job could be merely to pick up important papers in the house in the Rue des Arpenteurs, and his visit to the police was then only a sign of courtesy. If you can call it courtesy to come and make fun of a high official by telling him old wives’ tales….

  No, that’s not it! It’s obvious that Wallas is sincere: he believes strongly in what he says; as for his unexpected visit, wouldn’t it be one more sign that Laurent is respected in the capital?

  ***

  The chief commissioner has reached this point in his reflections, when he is interrupted by the arrival of a strange character.

  Without any announcement from the officer on duty, without even a knock, the door opens slowly and a head appears in the aperture, glancing around the room with an anxious expression.

  “What is it?” the commissioner asks, ready to throw the intruder out.

  But the latter turns his long face toward Laurent and, placing his index finger vertically across his lips as though to ask for silence, he begins making a series of clownish gestures, both imperative and suppliant. At the same time he enters completely and closes the door behind him with a thousand precautions.

  “Now, Monsieur, what do you want?” the commissioner asks.

  He no longer knows whether to be annoyed, amused, or disturbed. But his loud voice seems to terrify his visitor. In fact, the latter, who is trying to make as little noise as possible, stretches his arm out toward him in a pathetic exhortation to be still, while approaching the desk on tiptoe. Laurent, who has stood up, instinctively steps back toward the wall.

  “Don’t worry,” the stranger murmurs, “and please don’t call any one or you’ll ruin me.”

  He is a man in late middle age, tall and thin, dressed in black. His measured tone and the middle-class dignity of his clothes somewhat reassure the commissioner.

  “To whom have I the honor of speaking, Monsieur?”

  “Marchat, Adolphe Marchat, wood exporter. I apologize for this intrusion, Commissioner, but I have something extremely important to tell you, and since I wanted no one to know I am here, I thought that the gravity of the circumstances would authorize me to…”

  Laurent interrupts him with a gesture that means “In that case, of course!” but he is irritated: he has already noticed that the rotation of the floor men was not efficient between service hours; he must have that taken care of.

  “Sit-down, Monsieur,” he says.

  Returning to his desk and his familiar position, he spreads out his hands on top of the papers.

  The visitor sits down in the chair indicated but, finding it too far away, he remains on the edge of it and leans forward as far as he can, so as to make himself heard without raising his voice.

  “I’m here about the death of poor Dupont.…”

  Laurent is not at all surprised. Without having quite realized it, he was waiting for this sentence. He recognizes it as if he had heard it ahead of time. It is what is coming next that interests him:

  “I was present during our unfortunate friend’s last moments…”

  “Oh, you were Daniel Dupont’s friend…”

  “Let’s not exaggerate, Commissioner; we knew each other for a long time, that’s all. And I find, in fact, that our relations…”

  Marchat stops talking. Then, suddenly making up his mind, he declares in a dramatic to
ne of voice—but still just as softly:

  “Commissioner, I’m supposed to be killed tonight!”

  This time Laurent raises his arms to the ceiling. This was all he needed!

  “What kind of joke is that?”

  “Don’t shout, Commissioner. Do I look like I’m joking?”

  He doesn’t certainly. Laurent drops his hands on the desk.

  “Tonight,” Marchat continues, “I’m supposed to go to a certain place where the murderers will be waiting for me—the ones who shot Dupont yesterday—and then it’ll be my turn …”

  He climbs the stairs—slowly.

  This house has always looked sinister to him. The ceilings that are too high, the dark woodwork, the corners harboring shadows which the electric light never manages to dispel—everything seems to reinforce the anxiety that has seized him since he came in.

  Tonight, Marchat notices details that had never struck him before: creaking doors, disturbing hallways, inexplicable shadows. At the end of the banister grimaces a jester’s head.

  From step to step the ascent grows slower. In front of the little painting of the blasted tower, the condemned man stops. He would like to know, now, what this painting means.

  In a minute it will be too late—for there are only five more steps before he reaches the place where he will die.

  His interlocutor’s lugubrious tone does not impress the commissioner. He asks for details: who is to kill Marchat? Where? Why? And how does he know? Besides, Doctor Juard hasn’t made any reference to his presence in the clinic; why not? Laurent has difficulty concealing his thoughts; he is almost convinced he is dealing with a lunatic who may not even have known the professor and in whom the mere delusion of persecution may have inspired notions so senseless. If he weren’t apprehensive about this lunatic’s possible violence, Laurent would show him the door at once.