Unfortunately, Madame Jean does not remember; she didn’t notice, at the time, that name of Andre WS nor did she recall having ever seen this face—Wallas’ face—with or without glasses.
Mademoiselle Lebermann thinks that he had come already, that he had even come long before, for that very remark she had made about his looking like a doctor must have dated from August, since it was in August that Doctor Gelin had taken on an assistant and she had thought at first that this was…
“Could you say,” the commissioner asks her, “if it was the right lens that was darker, or the left?”
The old maid takes several minutes to answer.
“I think,” she says finally, “that it was on the left side.”
“That’s strange,” Laurent says thoughtfully. “Think carefully; wasn’t it more likely the right eye?”
“Wait a minute, Commissioner, wait a minute: I said ‘on the left side,’ on my left side—for him that meant his right eye.”
“Good, that sounds better,” the commissioner says.
He would like to know, now, if the beige raincoat did not have a rip across the right shoulder last night. The girl didn’t look up when the man turned around, and she hadn’t seen any such rip from the front. Mademoiselle Lebermann, on the other hand, had looked up and watched him as he left: there had been an L-shaped tear across the right shoulder.
Lastly, they are not in agreement as to the contents of the telegrams either: the girl can remember extremely short and commonplace texts—confirmations, counter-orders, meetings—without any detail that suggests the nature of the business referred to; Mademoiselle Lebermann refers to long messages with obscure phrases that must have had a secret meaning.
“Telegrams are always short because of the price,” Juliette Dexter adds, as though she had not heard what her colleague had just declared. “People don’t repeat what the correspondent already knows if they don’t have to.”
Madame Jean has no opinion about what is or is not said in a telegram.
Alone again, Wallas and Laurent add up what they have just learned. The total is soon reached, for they have learned nothing at all. Andre WS never told the post office girl anything that could furnish a lead or suggest his activities; he was not talkative. On the other hand, he does not seem to have been someone from the neighborhood: at least, no one knows him there.
Mademoiselle Lebermann has given her personal opinion at the end of the questioning: a doctor specializing in illegal operations. “There are some funny doctors around here, you know,” she has added knowingly.
There is no reason to reject this hypothesis a priori, but Laurent points out that his own, according to which it is merely the wood export market that is in question, has a better chance of being the right one after all; and besides, it would fit in better with the way the messages happened to be grouped.
Furthermore, it is still not certain that this Andre WS is the person Madame Bax saw from her window at nightfall, in front of the gate of the house in the Rue des Arpenteurs. The rip the drunk described in the back of the raincoat might have served to identify him, but the young post office employee has specified she saw nothing of the kind; now it is impossible, on this point, to take into account the affirmative testimony of the old maid, and the raincoat alone—without the rip—is not proof enough; any more—obviously—than the resemblance to Wallas which, if it were to be taken seriously, would just as well lead to accusing the latter.
Before leaving the commissioner, Wallas also examines a police report, the work of one of the two inspectors who, the evening before, made the first examinations of the dead man’s residence.
“You’ll see,” Laurent remarked as he handed him the slender file of typed pages, “it’s an interesting piece of work. This boy is a little young, of course: you can tell it’s his first crime. For instance, he wrote this memorandum on his own, since our investigation has officially been interrupted. I even think he must have made additional investigations on his own account, after having been told to finish up. The enthusiasm of a neophyte, you understand.”
While Wallas is reading the document, the commissioner makes a few further remarks—apparently ironic ones—as to the young inspector’s conclusions and the naïveté with which he has received the suggestions of people who “obviously were taking him in.”
The text begins as follows: “On Monday, October twenty-sixth, at eight minutes after nine…”
The first pages discuss in detail, but without digressions or commentary, the telephone call from Doctor Juard and the information furnished by the latter as to the professor’s death and the attack itself. Then comes an extremely precise description of the house and its environs: the corner of the Rue des Arpenteurs, the little garden with its hedge of spindle trees and its fence, the two doors to the house—one in front, the other at the rear—the arrangement of the ground-floor rooms, the staircase, the carpet, the study on the second floor; the arrangement of the furniture in this last room is also analyzed in scrupulous detail. Then follow the police observations proper: bloodstains, fingerprints, objects apparently not in their normal place or position…“lastly the fingerprints number 3—right hand—also figure distinctly on a cubical paperweight weighing between seven and eight hundred grams, placed to the left of the manuscript page—about ten centimeters away.”
Aside from these exaggeratedly detailed notations, the memorandum furnishes more or less the substance of the first reports made by the inspectors, to whom Laurent had introduced Wallas this morning. However, two new indications appear in it: the recent damaging of the buzzer system at the gate (which is no news to Wallas) and fresh tracks discovered on the narrow strip of lawn along the west end of the house; the measurements of these footprints are indicated, as well as the average length of the strides.
A little more attention is paid, this time, to the housekeeper’s words. Wallas even recognizes, in the phrases quoted, the old woman’s favorite expressions. In particular, the complete story of the damaged telephone line is given and Madame Smite’s vain efforts to have it repaired.
After taking the housekeeper’s testimony, the zealous inspector has interviewed the concierge from the apartment house across the street and the manager of a “small café located some twenty yards away, at number 10”—the Café des Allies. The concierge refers to the regular visitors to the house; he himself often sits—particularly in the spring and summer—on his doorstep in the afternoons, just opposite the garden gate; consequently he has been able to observe that very few people visited the victim: the postman, the employee from the public utilities system, occasionally a salesman of Venetian blinds or vacuum cleaners, as well as four or five gentlemen whom it is difficult at first glance to distinguish from salesmen—for they wear the same type of suit and carry the same briefcase—but who are businessmen from the city, professors, doctors, etc. It is apparent that the author only reproduces all these trifling remarks out of a concern for objectivity; and despite the care he takes to present what follows with the same detachment, he obviously regards it as much more important. It concerns a young man, apparently a student, extremely simply dressed, short, even somewhat puny; this boy had apparently come several times during the course of the summer, then after a lacuna of more than a month, three times in a row during the second week in October—the week when it was so warm; since the window of the room where Dupont was sitting was open then, the concierge could hear the tone of the conversation frequently rising during these visits; the last day, the visit ended in a violent quarrel. It was the young man who did most of the shouting, the concierge thinks; this boy seemed very nervous and may have been drinking a little too much—he sometimes went into the Café des Allies when he left the professor’s house. Lastly, the day before the murder, he walked along the canal with a friend—much taller and stronger than himself, and certainly older too. They stopped in front of the little house and the student pointed to one of the rooms on the second floor; he was obviously overexcite
d, he was explaining something to his companion with animation, making threatening gestures.
Although Madame Smite is extremely deaf (and “rather peculiar”) and “seems to be completely ignorant of her employer’s associates,” it is possible that she can give the name of this young man and say what he was doing in the house.
It would be best to question the housekeeper once again; unfortunately she has left the city. In her absence, the inspector has attempted to question the manager of the Café des Allies; he points out, by the way, that “members of this profession are generally quite well informed as to the private life of their customers.” The manager had no desire to talk, and it required all the inspector’s patience and diplomacy to get to the bottom of the affair:
Some twenty years ago, Dupont “had relations regularly” with a woman “in modest circumstances” who, subsequently gave birth to a son. The professor, who had “done everything to keep this regrettable event from occurring” (?) and whom the woman attempted to pressure into an alliance, persisted in his refusal to marry her. Finding no other way to bring to an end the “proceedings of which he was the object” he soon afterward married a young girl of his own circle. But the illegitimate child, having grown up, now returned with the intention of obtaining large sums of money, “which provoked stormy arguments whose echoes were heard by the neighbors.”
In his conclusions, the inspector begins by proving that Daniel Dupont himself has, on a number of points, “distorted the truth.”
“The mere examination of the material evidence,” he writes, “proves, without there being any need to bring in the evidence of the witnesses, that:
“First, there were two aggressors, not just one: the man with the small hands (fingerprints number 3) and small feet (tracks on the lawn) who took such short strides, cannot be the one, necessarily tall and strong, who twisted the wire of the electric buzzer at the garden gate; furthermore, if the first man was obliged to walk on the lawn to avoid making the gravel crunch, it is because there was already someone walking beside him, on the brick rim of the path; had he been alone, he would have chosen this wide rim himself.
“Second, at least one of these two men was familiar with the house and not an anonymous malefactor: it is apparent that he was well acquainted with the premises and the household habits.
“Third, he was certainly recognized by the professor; the latter claimed to have been attacked before even having had time to open the door all the way, thereby explaining that he didn’t see his murderer’s face; actually, he went into the study and spoke to the two men: there was even a struggle between them, as is indicated by the disorder of the room (piles of books knocked over, chair moved, etc.) and the fingerprints (number 3) on the paperweight.
“Fourth, the motive of the crime is not theft: someone who knew the house so well would also know that there was nothing to steal in this room.
“Dupont was unwilling to reveal his murderer, for the latter was too closely involved with him. He even concealed as long as possible the seriousness of his wound, hoping that his friend Doctor Juard would take care of him, and that scandal would be avoided. It is for this reason that the housekeeper believed Dupont had only received a ‘flesh wound in the arm? “
And the whole scene is reconstructed. The young man, after having vainly appealed to his rights, to filial love, to pity, and finally to blackmail, determined, as a last resort to attempt force. Since he is a weakling and afraid of his father, he has sought the services of a friend, stronger and older than himself, whom he will introduce as his attorney but who is actually his thug. They have decided to make their visit on Monday, October 26, at seven-thirty in the evening…
Daniel Dupont reaches the study door, his eyes on the floor, his hand already stretched toward the doorknob that he is preparing to turn, when he is suddenly struck by this thought: “Jean is here waiting for me!” The professor stops and holds his breath. Perhaps Jean has not come alone: didn’t he threaten him, the other day, with bringing his “lawyer” with him? Who knows what today’s children are capable of?
Cautiously he turns around and tiptoes into the bedroom to get the revolver he has kept, since the war, in the drawer of his night table. But just as he is slipping off the safety catch, he feels a sudden qualm: he is not going to fire at his own son, after all; it’s only to frighten him.
Back in the hallway, the weight of the revolver in his hand seems unrelated to the fear that ran through him a minute earlier; by comparison this sudden fear vanishes altogether: why should his son have come tonight? Moreover, Dupont is not afraid of him. He puts the gun in his pocket. Starting tomorrow, he will have the house doors locked at nightfall.
He turns the doorknob and opens the study door. Jean is there waiting for him.
He is standing between the chair and the desk. He has been reading the papers there. Another man is standing in front of the bookcase, to one side, his hands in his pockets—obviously a bad type.
“Good evening,” Jean says.
His eyes are bright, both arrogant and apprehensive; he must have been drinking again. His mouth grimaces in a parody of a smile.
“What are you doing here?” Dupont asks coldly.
“I came to talk to you,” Jean says. “That’s (gesture of his chin) Maurice…he’s my attorney (another grimace).”
“Good evening,” Maurice says.
“Who let you in?”
“No one,” Jean says. “I know the house.”
Which means: “I’m a member of the family!”
“Well, you can leave the way you came,” the professor says calmly. “It’s just as easy: you know the way.”
“We’re not leaving just yet,” Jean says; “we came to talk-to talk business.”
“We’ve already exhausted the subject, my boy. Now you’re going to leave.”
Dupont walks toward his son with a determined expression; he sees the boy’s eyes fill with fear…fear and hatred …He repeats:
“You’re going to leave.”
Jean picks up the first thing he finds within his reach: the heavy paperweight with sharp edges. He brandishes it, ready to strike. Dupont steps back and puts his hand on his revolver.
But Maurice has seen the gesture and is already in front of Dupont, quicker to take aim himself:
“Let go of that and take your hand out of your pocket.”
After that no one speaks. With his dignity at stake, Dupont feels that he cannot obey this contemptuous treatment in front of his son.
“The police are coming,” he says. “I knew you’d be here waiting for me. Before coming in I telephoned from the bedroom.”
“The cops?” Maurice says. “I don’t hear anything.”
“It won’t be long, don’t worry.”
“We have time enough to get things straight!”
“They’ll be here any minute.”
“The telephone’s been cut for two days,” Jean says.
This time, Dupont’s anger is too much for him. Everything happens in a flash: the professor’s sudden movement to take out his gun, the shot that hits him full in the chest, and the young man’s shrill cry:
“Don’t shoot, Maurice!”
4
But the chief does not seem convinced. He dares not reject his assistant’s hypothesis out of hand, for you never know: suppose that happened to be what happened, what would he look like then? Then too, the obscurities and contradictions of the case have to be interpreted one way or another… What bothers him about this theory is that it involves—accuses, actually—people too highly placed, whom it can only be dangerous to affront—whether they are innocent or guilty. He says:
“We aren’t accustomed here…we aren’t accustomed in the
Executive Information Service to work on suspicions as vague
as that “
He would like to add, by the way, some nasty joke about the Bureau of Investigation, and the “great Fabius,” but he decides to restrain himself: this may not be
the right moment.
In the hope of discouraging his assistant, at least temporarily, from the slippery path onto which the latter wants to lure him, he proposes to send him on an assignment to the scene of the crime: there he could deal with the local police functionaries and with the doctor who has received Professor Dupont’s testimony along with his last breath; he could also discover whether the victim’s residence furnishes any new clue; he could…But the assistant shakes his head. It is quite futile for him to waste his time in that gloomy provincial town, half asleep in the North Sea fog. He would find nothing there, absolutely nothing. It is here, in the capital, that the drama has been acted…that the drama is being acted.
“He thinks I’m afraid,” the chief realizes; but he doesn’t care. He says, quite casually:
“Sometimes you go through hell and high water to find a murderer…”
“…far away,” his assistant continues, “when all you need to do is stretch out your hand.”
“Don’t forget that the crime took place up there, even so…”
“It took place up there the way it could have taken place and, as a matter of fact, as it takes place anywhere, very day, now here, now there. What actually happened in Professor Dupont’s house the evening of October twenty-sixth? A replica, a copy, a simple reproduction of an event whose original and whose key are elsewhere. And tonight, once again, as every evening…”
“That’s still no reason for neglecting whatever clues we could find up there.”
“What would I find up there, if I went? Nothing but reflections, shadows, ghosts. And tonight, once again…”
Tonight a new copy will be discreetly slipped under the door, a correct copy duly signed and notarized, with just what it needs in the way of misspellings and misplaced commas so that the blind, the cowardly, the stone deaf can go on waiting and reassuring each other: “It can’t be really the same thing, can it?”
The Erasers Page 17