The Erasers - Alain Robbe-Grillet

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Alain Robbe-Grillet

The Erasers

TRANSLATED BY

R ICHARD HOWARD

1964Originally published as

Les Gommes

1953



“Time that sees all has found you out

against your will.”

—Sophocles

PROLOGUE



1

n the dimness of the café, the manager i

arranging the tables and chairs, thashtrays, the siphons of soda water; it i

six in the morning.

He has no need to see distinctly, hdoes not even know what he is doing. H

s still asleep. Very ancient laws rul

every detail of his gestures, saved fo



once from the uncertainty of huma

ntentions; each second marks a pur

movement: a side-step, the chair eleve

nches out from the table, three wipes ohe rag, half-turn to the right, two step

forward, each second marks, perfect

even, unblurred. Thirty-one. Thirty-two

Thirty-three. Thirty-four. Thirty-five

Thirty-six. Thirty-seven. Each second i

ts exact place.

Soon unfortunately time will nonger be master. Wrapped in their aur

of doubt and error, this day’s events

however insignificant they may be, wiln a few seconds begin their task

gradually encroaching upon the idea

order, cunningly introducing a

occasional inversion, a discrepancy,



confusion, a warp, in order t

accomplish their work: a day in earl

winter without plan, without direction

ncomprehensible and monstrous. But s still too early, the street door has jus

been unbolted, the only person on th

scene has not yet recovered his ow

existence. It is the moment when th

dozen chairs gently come down from th

mitation marble tables where they hav

spent the night. Nothing else. Aautomaton’s arm puts the setting back i

place.

When everything is ready, the lighgoes on …

A fat man is standing here, the manager



rying to get his bearings among th

ables and chairs. Over the bar, the lon

mirror where a sick image floats, th

manager, greenish, his features blurrediverish and fleshy in his aquarium.

On the other side, behind the mirror

he manager again who dissolves slowln the dawning light from the street. It i

no doubt this silhouette that has just pu

he café in order; now it need onl

disappear. In the mirror flickers threflection of this ghost, already almos

completely decomposed; and beyond

ncreasingly undecided, the waverinrigmarole of shadows: the manager, th

manager, the manager The manager,

mournful nebula, drowned in his halo.



Painfully the manager emerges. H

fishes up again some random snatche

hat are still floating around him. N

need to hurry, there’s not much current a

his hour.

He leans on both arms against thable, body tilted forward, not wid

awake, his eyes staring at something

hat fool Antoine with his Swediscalisthenics every morning. And his pin

ie the other day, yesterday. Today i

Tuesday: Jeannette’s coming later.

Funny little spot; this marble’s n

good, everything stains it. It looks lik

blood. Daniel Dupont last night;

stone’s throw from here. Funny business



a burglar would never have gone into

ighted room on purpose, the man mus

have wanted to kill him. Revenge, o

what? Clumsy in any case. That waesterday. Look for it in the mornin

paper. Oh yes, Jeannette’s coming later

And have her buy…no, tomorrow.

An absent-minded wipe of the rag

as an excuse, over the funny spot. On

way or another vague masses pass, ou

of reach; or else they’re just holes.

Jeannette will have to light the stov

right away; it’s getting cold early thi

ear. The pharmacist says it always doef it rained on July fourteenth; mayb

he’s right. Of course that other foo

Antoine, who’s always right, just had t



prove the opposite. And the pharmacis

was beginning to get mad, four or fiv

glasses of white wine are enough fo

him; but Antoine doesn’t see anythingFortunately, the manager was there. I

was yesterday. Or Sunday? It wa

Sunday; Antoine had his hat; it make

him look sharp, that hat. His hat and hi

pink tie! No, wait, he had his tie o

esterday too. No. Besides, wha

difference can it make?A peevish wipe of the rag onc

again wipes yesterday’s dust off th

able top. The manager straightens up.Against the glass he notices th

reverse of the sign “Furnished Rooms

from which two letters have bee



missing for seventeen years; fo

seventeen years he has been going to pu

hem back. It was already like that i

Pauline’s time; they had said when thefirst came…

Besides, there is only one room t

rent, so in any case it’s ridiculous. Aglance at the clock. Six-thirty. Wake th

man up.

“Get to work, slacker!”This time he has spoken almos

aloud, with a grimace of disgust on hi

ips. The manager is not in a good mood

he has not had enough sleep.

To tell the truth, he’s not often in

good mood.



On the second floor, at the end of

hallway, the manager knocks, waits

few seconds and, since he hears n

answer, knocks again, several times,

ittle louder. On the other side of th

door an alarm clock goes off. His righhand frozen in its gesture, the manage

keeps listening, spitefully waiting t

discover the sleeper’s reactions.

But no one turns off the alarm. Afte

a minute or so it stops of its own accor

with astonishment on a few last abortiv

sounds.

The manager knocks again: stil

nothing. He cracks open the door an

puts his head inside; in the dim mornin



ight he sees the unmade bed, the room i

disorder. He walks in and inspects th

premises: nothing suspicious, only th

empty bed, a double bed, without pillow, with a single depression marke

n the middle of the bolster, the blanket

hrown back toward the foot of the bed

on the dresser, the enamel basin full o

dirty water. All right, the man ha

already left, it’s his business after al

He went out without going through thcafé, he knew there wouldn’t be any ho

coffee yet and after all he didn’t have t

say anything. The manager leaves with

shrug; he does not like people who geup ahead of time.

Downstairs, he finds someon

waiting, an ordinary-looking man, a littl



shabby, not a regular customer. Th

manager goes behind his bar, turns on a

extra lamp and stares at the custome

rudely, ready to spit in his face that it’oo early for coffee. But the other ma

merely asks:

“Monsieur Wallas, please?”“He’s gone,” the manager says

scoring a point all the same.

“When did he leave?” the man asksrather surprised.

“This morning.”

“What time this morning?”

An anxious glance at his watch, the

at the clock.



“I haven’t any idea,” the manage

says.

“You didn’t see him leave?”

“If I had seen him leave, I’d know

when it was.”

A pitying pout emphasizes this eassuccess. The other man thinks for a few

seconds and then says:

“Then you don’t know when he’l

be coming back either?”

The manager does not even answer

He attacks on new grounds:

“What can I serve you?”

“Coffee—black,” the man says.

“No coffee this early,” the manage



says.

Definitely a good victim, a sad littl

spider’s face, perpetually reconstitutin

he tatters of his frayed intelligence

Besides, how could he know that thi

Wallas came last night to this obscur

bar in the Rue des Arpenteurs? It’unnatural.

Having played all his cards for th

moment, the manager is no longenterested in his visitor. He dries hi

bottles with an absent-minde

expression and, since the other man i

not drinking anything, he turns off thwo lamps, one after the other. There’

plenty of daylight now.



The man has gone, mumbling somethin

ncomprehensible. The manager find

himself back among his wreckage, th

spots on the marble, the varnish of thchairs which the dirt makes sticky i

places, the mutilated sign on the glass

But he is the victim of more insisten

specters, spots darker than those of th

wine disturb his vision. He tries to brus

hem away, but it is no use; at every ste

he bumps into another The movement oan arm, the music of idle words, Pauline

sweet Pauline.

Sweet Pauline, who died sstrangely, so long ago. Strangely? Th

manager leans toward the mirror. What’

so strange about it? A spitefu

contraction gradually distorts his face



sn’t death always strange? The grimac

grows worse, freezes in a gargoyle mas

hat stares at itself for a moment more

Then an eye closes, the mouth twistsone side of the face contracts, a stil

more hideous monster appears an

dissolves immediately too, giving wa

o a calm and almost smiling image

Pauline’s eyes.

Strange? Isn’t it the most natura

hing of all? Take this Dupont, how mucstranger it is that he is not dead. Th

manager begins laughing softly, a kind o

voiceless laughter without gaiety, like sleepwalker’s laugh. Around him th

familiar specters imitate him; each ha

ts own grin. They even strain a poin

somewhat, guffaw, nudging one anothe



with their elbows and slapping on

another on the back. How can he mak

hem shut up now? There are a lot o

hem. And they are quite at home.

Motionless in front of the mirror, th

manager watches himself laughing; h

ries as hard as he can not to see thothers that are swarming across th

room, the jubilant troupe, the wild legio

of minor heartaches, the refuse of fift

ears of badly digested existence. Theiracket has become intolerable, th

horrible concert of brays and yelps an

all at once, in the silence that hasuddenly fallen again, a young woman’

clear laugh.

“Go to hell!”



The manager has turned around

wrenched from the nightmare by his ow

cry. No one is there, of course, neithe

Pauline nor the others. He glances witweary eyes around the room that calml

awaits the people who will come, th

chairs where the murderers and thei

victims will sit, the tables where th

communion will be served to them.

***



Here is Antoine; it’s starting well.

“Have you heard the news yet?”

Not even a nod in answer. He is no

an easy customer this morning, th

manager. Let’s give him a try, anyway.

“A man named Albert Dupon

murdered last night, here, right at the en

of the street!”

“Daniel.”

“Daniel what?”



“Daniel Dupont.”

“No, I said it was Albert. Righ

here…”

“First of all, no one was murdered.

“That’s what you say. How do yo

know anyway, without ever leaving youbar?”

“She telephoned from here. The ol

housekeeper who works for them. Thei

ine was out of order. Flesh wound in th

arm.”

(Poor fool who always know

everything.)

“Well, he’s dead anyway! Look a

he paper: he’s dead, I tell you.”



“You have a paper?”

Antoine looks through his overcoa

pockets, then he remembers:

“No, I left it for my wife.”

“All right, never mind, it doesn

matter anyway: his name’s Daniel and hsn’t dead at all.”

Antoine does not look happy. H

stands there wondering what he might d

hat would be more convincing than a

ronic sneer, but the bartender does no

give him time.

“Are you drinking something, ogetting the hell out?”

The dispute is likely to grow

nastier, when the door opens again an



ets in a cheerful, plump, an

gesticulating person, almost in rags.

“Good morning, boys. Say, I have

riddle for you.”

“All right, we know that one,

Antoine says.

“No, boy,” the cheerful man says

undiscouraged, “you don’t know thi

one. No one does. No one, you hear

Bartender, a glass of white wine I”

Judging from the man’s face, hi

riddle must be a really good one. So n

one will miss a word of it, he enunciatet as if he were giving dictation:

“What is the animal that in th

morning…”



But no one is listening to him. H

has already had one too many. He’

funny, of course, but the other two don

have the heart for jokes: what concernhem is a man’s life!



2

The Rue des Arpenteurs is a lon

straight street, bordered on each side bhouses that are already old, whos

nadequately tended two- or three

storied façades suggest the modes

circumstances of the tenants they shelter

aborers, office workers, or merel

fishermen. The shops are not ver

prosperous looking and even the café



are few and far between—not that thes

people are particularly sober, but the

choose to do their drinking elsewhere.

The Café des Allies (Wines &

Liquors. Furnished Rooms) is located a

he end of the street, number 10, only

few houses from the BoulevarCirculaire and the city proper, so that th

proletarian character of the buildings i

ts vicinity is somewhat tempered b

bourgeois features. At the corner of thparkway stands a big stone apartmen

building, well kept up, and opposite, a

number 2, a small two-story privathouse with a narrow strip of garde

around it. The structure does not hav

much style but gives an impression o

comfort, even of a certain luxury; a fenc



and behind it a spindle-tree hedg

clipped to a man’s height complete it

solation.

The Rue des Arpenteurs extend

eastward, interminable and less and les

prepossessing, to quite out-of-the-wa

neighborhoods that are obviously thosof the poor: a checkerboard of mudd

paths between the shacks, rust

corrugated iron, old planks, an

arpaper.

To the west, on the other side of th

parkway and its canal, stretches the cit

proper, the streets somewhat crampebetween the high brick houses, th

public buildings without unnecessar

ornament, the churches stiff, th



shopwindows somber. The whole effec

s solid, occasionally substantial, bu

austere; the cafés close early, th

windows are narrow, the people arserious.

Yet this mournful town is no

monotonous: a complicated network ocanals and ponds brings in from the sea

which is only six kilometers north, th

smell of kelp, the gulls, and even a few

boats of low tonnage, coasters, bargessmall tugs, for which a whole series o

drawbridges and locks opens. Thi

water, this movement keep people’minds open. The freighter whistles reac

hem from the harbor, over the tow dock

and depots, and at high tide bring th

space, the temptation, the consolation o



possibility.

Since their heads are on their shouldersemptation is enough: possibility remain

simply possible, the whistles have lon

blown without hope.

The crews are recruited elsewhere

men around here prefer to go int

business, on land, the most daring amon

hem scarcely venturing farther thahirty miles from the coast to the herrin

fisheries. The rest are content to listen t

he ships and estimate their tonnage

They do not even go to see them, it’s to

far. The Sunday walk stops at th

Boulevard Circulaire: one comes ou

nto the parkway along the Avenu



Christian-Charles, then follows it alon

he canal to the New Dairy or to th

Gutenberg Bridge, rarely below.

Farther south, on Sundays, on

meets, so to speak, only neighborhoo

people. On weekdays, the calm here i

disturbed only by the army of bicycleon their way to work.

At seven in the morning, th

workers have already gone past; thparkway is virtually deserted.

At the edge of the canal, near th

drawbridge at the end of the Rue de

Arpenteurs, there are two men. Th

bridge has just opened to let a trawle

hrough; standing near the winch, a sailo

s about to close it again.



The other man is probably waitin

for him to finish, but he cannot be i

much of a hurry: the footbridge joinin

he two banks a hundred yards to thright would already have allowed him t

continue on his way. He is a short ma

dressed in a long, rather old greenis

coat and a shapeless felt hat. His back i

o the sailor, he is not watching the boat

he is leaning against the iron railing a

he end of the bridge. He is starinstraight down at the canal’s oily water.

This man’s name is Garinati. He i

he one who has just been seen goinnto the Café des Allies to ask for tha

Wallas who was no longer there. He i

also the clumsy murderer of the da

before, who only slightly wounde



Daniel Dupont. His victim’s residence i

hat little house with the fence around

at the corner of the street, just behind hi

back.

The iron fence, the spindle-tree hedge

he gravel path around the house…Hhas no need to turn around to see them

The middle window of the second floo

s the study window. He knows all thaby heart: he studied it enough last week

For nothing, moreover.

Bona was well-informed, as usua

and all Garinati had to do was follow

his orders carefully. Would have had

rather, for everything has just bee

ruined because of Garinati’s blunder



probably no more than scratched

Dupont will soon be able to retur

behind his spindle trees and dive bac

nto his files and index cards among thgreen calf bindings.

The light switch near the door,

porcelain button with a metal plateBona had said to turn off the light; he di

not do this, and everything was ruined

The tiniest flaw…Is it so certain? Th

hallway had remained lighted, of coursebut if the bedroom had been in darkness

Dupont might not have waited to ope

he door wide to turn on the lighMaybe? Find out! Or would he hav

really done it? And the tiniest flaw wa

enough. Maybe.



Garinati had never gone into thi

house before, but Bona’s informatio

was so exact that he could just as wel

have moved around inside it with hieyes closed. At five to seven he ha

reached the house, calmly walking dow

he Rue des Arpenteurs. No one around

He has pushed open the garden gate.

Bona had said: “The buzzer won

work.” Which was true. The bell ha

remained noiseless. Yet that vermorning, when he had passed in front o

he house (“There’s no use you

prowling around there all the time”), hhad surreptitiously pushed open the gate

ust to see, and he had distinctly hear

he bell. No doubt the wire had been cu

during the afternoon.



It was already a mistake to hav

ried the gate in the morning; coming i

his evening, he was afraid for a second

But the silence has reassured him. Hahe ever really had any doubts?

He has carefully closed the gate, bu

without letting the latch catch, anwalked around the house on the righ

side, keeping on the lawn to avoi

making the gravel crunch. In th

darkness, he could just make out thpath, paler between the two flowerbed

and the well-clipped top of the spindl

rees.The study window, the one in th

middle of the second story on the cana

side, is brightly lighted. Dupont is still a



his desk. It’s all just the way Bona sai

t would be.

Leaning against the wall of the shed

at the back of the garden, Garinati waits

his eyes fixed on the window. After

few minutes the bright light is replace

by a fainter glow: Dupont has just turneout the big desk lamp, leaving only on

of the bulbs on in the ceiling fixture. It i

seven o’clock: he is coming downstair

o eat.

The landing, the staircase, the hall.

The dining room is to the left, on th

ground floor. Its shutters are closed. A

he back of the house, the kitchen shutter

are closed too, but a faint light filter

hrough their slats.



Garinati approaches the little glas

door, being careful not to expose himsel

o the light coming from the hallway. A

he same moment the dining room door iclosed again. Dupont already? He ha

come down quickly. Or else the ol

housekeeper? No, she’s coming out o

he kitchen now. So it was Dupont.

The old woman moves off towar

he other end of the hall; but her hand

are empty; he will have to wait longerShe comes back almost at once, leavin

he dining room door open. She goe

back into her kitchen and soon reappearcarrying an enormous tureen in bot

hands, comes back into the dining roo

and this time closes the door behind her

ow is the moment.



Bona said: “You have almost fiv

minutes to get upstairs. The old woma

waits until he has finished his soup.

Probably she is taking orders for the nexday; since she is rather deaf it probabl

akes some time.

Noiselessly, Garinati slips inside“The hinges will creak if you push th

door too far.” Violent desire, suddenly

o try all the same; to push it open a littl

farther, only a little; just to see how fahe can go. A few degrees. Just on

degree, one single degree; a little margi

for error…But the arm stops, sensibleOn the way out, instead.

They are not very careful in thi

house: anyone could come in.



Garinati has closed the door withou

a sound. He walks carefully on the tile

where his crepe soles make an almos

mperceptible hissing noise. On the stepand upstairs there are thick carpet

everywhere, that will be even easier

The hall is lighted; the landing too

upstairs. No more difficulty. Walk up

wait until Dupont comes back, and kil

him.

On the kitchen table there are threhin slices of ham spread out on a whit

plate. A light dinner: fine. Provided h

doesn’t empty the whole tureen. Yoshouldn’t overeat if you want to sleep

without dreaming.



Things take their immutable course. Wit

calculated movements.

The perfectly adjusted machiner

cannot hold the slightest surprise i

store. It is merely a matter of followin

he text, reciting phrase after phrase, an

he words will be fulfilled and Lazaruwill rise from his tomb, wrapped in hi

shroud

He who advances like this, isecrecy, to carry out the order, know

neither fear nor doubt. He no longe

feels the weight of his own body. Hi

footsteps are as silent as a priest’s; theglide over the rugs and tiles, as regular

as impersonal, as definitive.

A straight line is the shortes



distance between two points.

…footsteps so light they leave n

race on the surface of the sea. The stair

n this house have twenty-one steps, th

shortest distance between tw

points…the surface of the sea…

Suddenly the limpid water growcloudy. In this setting determined by law

without an inch of land to the right o

eft, without a second’s hesitationwithout resting, without looking back

he actor suddenly stops, in the middle o

a phrase… He knows it by heart, thi

role he plays every evening; but today hrefuses to go any farther. Around him th

other characters freeze, arm raised o

eg half bent. The measure begun by



the musicians goes on and on H

would have to do something

now, speak any words at all, word

hat would not belong to the libretto

…But, as every evening, the phras

begun concludes in the prescribed form

he arm falls back, the leg completes itstride. In the pit, the orchestra is stil

playing with the same vigor.

The stairs consist of twenty-onwooden steps, then, at the very bottom,

white stone step, noticeably wider tha

he rest and whose rounded outer edg

bears a brass column with complicatedecorations and, as a finial, a jester

head wearing a cap with three bells

Higher up, the heavy, varnished baniste



s supported by turned wooden rail

flaring slightly toward the base. A stri

of gray carpet, with two garnet stripes a

he edges, covers the stairs and extendsacross the hall, to the front door.

The color of this carpet has bee

omitted in Bona’s description, as welas the detail of the brass finial.

Another man, in this same place

weighing each step, would come…Above the sixteenth step, a smal

painting is hanging on the wall, at ey

evel. It is a romantic landscap

representing a stormy night: a flash o

ightning illuminates the ruins of a tower

at its foot two men are lying, asleep

despite the thunder or else struck b



ightning? Perhaps fallen from the top o

he tower. The frame is made of carve

and gilded wood; both painting an

frame seem to be of rather ancient dateBona has not mentioned this painting.

The landing. Door to the right. The studyt is just as Bona has described it, eve

more cramped maybe and mor

crowded: books, books everywherehose lining the walls almost all boun

n green leather, others, paper-backed

piled carefully on the mantel, on a stand

and even on the floor; still others lyincasually on the end of the desk and o

wo leather armchairs. The desk, of dar

oak, long and monumental, virtually fill



he rest of the room. It is completel

covered with files and papers; the bi

desk lamp, set in the middle, is out. A

single bulb is turned on in the ceilinfixture.

Instead of walking straight acros

he small free area of green carpetbetween the door and the desk (the floo

creaks there), Garinati passes behind th

armchair, squeezes between the stan

and a pile of books and reaches the desfrom the other side.

“Standing behind the desk an

holding the back of the desk chair ifront of you with both hands, you wil

ake note of the position of all th

objects and of the door. You have time



Dupont doesn’t come back up befor

seven-thirty. When you are perfectly sur

of everything, you’ll go and turn out th

ceiling light. The switch is against thdoor jamb; you have to push it towar

he wall, if you push it in the othe

direction two more bulbs go on. The

ou’ll come back, still by the same way

and stand behind your chair in exactl

he same position as before; you’ll wait

he loaded revolver in your right handour eyes fixed on the doorway. Whe

Dupont opens it, he will be silhouette

clearly in the opening against the lighte

hallway; invisible in the darkness, you’lake aim easily, resting your left hand o

he back of the chair. You’ll fire thre

imes at his heart, and you’ll leave



without excessive haste; the old woma

will have heard nothing. If you meet he

n the hall, don’t let her get a good loo

at your face; push her aside, but noroughly. There will be no one else in th

house.”

The only distance between twpoints.

A kind of cube, but slightl

misshapen, a shiny block of gray lavawith its faces polished as though b

wear, the edges softened, compact

apparently hard, heavy as gold, lookin

about as big around as a fist; paperweight? It is the only trinket in th

room.

The titles of the books: Labor an



Organization, The Phenomenology o

he Crisis {1929), Contribution to th

Study of Economic Cycles, and the res

n keeping. Not interesting.

Light switch against the door jamb

porcelain and chromium-plated metal

hree positions.He had been writing, four words a

he top of a sheet of blank paper: “whic

can not prevent…” It was just then thahe went downstairs to eat; he must no

have found the word that came next.

Footsteps on the landing. The light

Too late to reach it now. The doo

opening and Dupont’s stupid stare…

Garinati has fired, only one shot



rusting to instinct, at a fragment of a

escaping body.

The tiniest flaw…Maybe. Th

sailor has just finished cranking th

winch; the drawbridge is back in place.

Leaning over the handrail, Garinat

has not moved. He watches the oilwater ripple at his feet in a recess of th

quay; a few pieces of flotsam hav

accumulated here: a piece of tar-stainewood, two old corks, a piece of orang

peel, and smaller fragments, hal

decomposed, difficult to identify.



3

You don’t die so fast from a flesh woun

n the arm. Come off it! The manageshrugs his massive shoulders in a gestur

of denial tempered with indifference

hey can write whatever they want, bu

hey won’t make him believe that, wit

heir stories made up on purpose to foo

people.



“Tuesday, October 27.—A darin

burglar made his way at nightfal

esterday into the residence of M

Daniel Dupont, number 2 Rue deArpenteurs. Caught red-handed by th

owner, the criminal, as he escaped, fire

his revolver several times at M

Dupont…”

The old woman arrived all out o

breath. It was just before eight o’clock

he café was empty. No, the drunk wastill here, half asleep in his corner; ther

was no one left for him to pester with hi

riddles: the others had finally all gonhome to eat. The old woman asked if sh

could use the telephone. Of course sh

could; the manager pointed to where

was, on the wall. She was holding



sheet of paper which she looked at t

dial her number while she went o

alking: there was no way of callin

from her house, something wrong withe phone since Saturday. “Home” wa

he little house at the corner, with

hedge around it. It was hard to say jus

whom she was speaking to. Probably t

him, since the drunk obviously took n

nterest in the matter, but she seemed t

be trying to reach a wider audiencbeyond, like a crowd in a public square

or else trying to affect something deepe

n him than the sense of hearing. Sinc

Saturday, and no one had come to fix et.

“Hello! Doctor Juard, please?”



She was shouting even louder tha

when she was telling her misfortunes.

“The doctor has to come right away

Someone’s hurt. Right away, you hear

Someone’s hurt! Hello! You hear?…”

In any case, she herself did not see

o be hearing very well. Finally shhanded him the extra earphone and h

had to report what the clinic was sayin

o her. Probably deaf. She followed thwords on his lips when he spoke.

“Monsieur Daniel Dupont, two Ru

des Arpenteurs. The doctor knows.”

Her eyes questioned him.

“All right. He’s coming.”

She went on talking as fast as eve



while she paid for the call. She did no

seem hysterical, only a littl

overexcited. When he left the tabl

Monsieur Dupont had found a criminan his study—some people have thei

nerve—in his study which he had jus

eft; where the light had even been lef

on. What did he want, anyway? To stea

books? Her employer had had just tim

enough to dash into the next room wher

his revolver was; his arm had only beegrazed by a bullet. But when he ha

come back into the hallway, the crimina

had already escaped. And she had hear

nothing, seen nothing, that was the worstHow had he even got in? Some peopl

have their nerve. “A daring burgla

made his way…” The phone had no



been working since Saturday. And sh

had taken the trouble to go to the office

so someone would come to take care o

t; of course no one had come. Sundayall right, that was a holiday—and stil

here should have been some kind o

emergency repair service for such cases

Besides, if the repair service was an

good, someone would have come righ

away. As a matter of fact Monsieu

Dupont had waited all Saturdaafternoon for an important call; and h

did not even know if he could receiv

outside calls, since the phone had no

rung since Friday…

***



A plan of general reform of th

elephone and telegraph system. Articl

one: a permanent repair service fo

emergency cases. No. Sole ArticleMonsieur Dupont’s telephone will b

kept perpetually in perfect workin

order. Or more simply: everything wil

always work normally. And Saturda

morning will stay quietly in its place

separated from the following Monda

evening by sixty hours of sixty minuteeach.

The old woman would have gon

back at least as far as September if thdrunk had not interrupted, awakened b

her exclamations. He had been starin

hard at her for a few minutes and too

advantage of a moment’s silence to say:



“Say, grandma, do you know what’

he worst thing for a telephon

ineman?”

She turned toward him.

“Listen, boy, there’s nothing for yo

o brag about.”

“No, grandma, that’s not it, I’m no

bragging, not me! I’m asking if you know

what’s the worst thing for a telephon

ineman?”

He expressed himself formally, bu

with some difficulty.

“What’s he saying?”

The manager tapped his forehead i

explanation.



“Oh! That’s it. These are strang

imes we’re living in, all the same. I’

not surprised things go so badl

nowadays, at the telephone offices.”

Meanwhile Jeannette has lighted th

stove and the café has filled up witsmoke. The manager opens the stree

door. It’s cold outside. The sky i

overcast. It looks as though it were goino snow.

He steps out onto the sidewalk an

ooks toward the parkway. The fenc

and the hedge of the corner house are i

sight. At the canal’s edge, at the end o

he bridge, a man is leaning on th

railing, with his back to the street. Wha



s he waiting for? A whale to pass? Al

hat can be seen of him is a long shabb

coat; like the one the man was wearin

his morning. Maybe he’s waiting therfor the other man to come back!

What does this story about th

burglary mean? Was there a morserious wound the old woman did no

know about? Or didn’t she want to sa

so? A burglar! It doesn’t make sense

Besides, what difference can it make thim anyway?

The manager picks up his pape

again:

“…The victim, critically wounde

and taken at once to a nearby clinic, die

here without regaining consciousness



The police are investigating the identit

of the murderer whose traces, up to now

have not been found.

“Daniel Dupont, croix de guerre

chevalier du Mérite, was fifty-tw

ears old. Formerly a professor at th

School of Law, he was also the author omany works on political economy know

for their original views, notabl

concerning the problem of th

organization of production.”

Died without regainin

consciousness. He hadn’t even los

consciousness. Another shrug. Fleswound in the arm. Come off it! You don

die so fast.





4

After a pause, Dupont turns towar

Doctor Juard and asks:

“And what do you think about i

Doctor?”

But the latter shrugs evasively; it i

obvious he does not think anything.

Dupont continues:



“Speaking as a doctor, you don’t se

any disadvantage in this trip? This (h

ndicates his left arm, wrapped in

bandage), this doesn’t bother me when move around, and I won’t be driving th

car. Besides, you won’t have any troubl

with the police: they’ll receive thi

morning—or they may have received

already—the order not to bother abou

me any more, simply to file the deat

certificate you sent them and to let m“body” be taken to the capital an

disposed of there. You’ll just hand ove

o them the bullet you’ve removed. It’

supposed to have hit me in the chestou’ll make up some position that make

t all more or less plausible. They don

need anything else for now, since there’



not supposed to be a real inquest. D

ou have any objections?”

The little doctor makes a vagu

gesture of denial, and it is the thir

person in the room who speaks in hi

place. Sitting at the head of the wounde

man’s bed, on an iron chair, he has kephis overcoat on; he does not seem ver

comfortable.

“Isn’t it…a little…yoknow…romantic? Wouldn’t it be bette

o make…to say…I mean, to make les

of a mystery about it?”

“On the contrary, you see, it’s out o

discretion that we’re obliged to behav

his way.”



“For outsiders, for the public,

understand. The release to the press an

he secret kept even here in the clinic—

fine. But I wonder if the secret is beinkept…actually This room may b

solated…”

“Yes it is,” Dupont interrupts. “I telou I haven’t seen anyone except th

doctor and his wife; and no one els

ever comes to this part of the building.”

The doctor makes a small sign o

acquiescence.

“Of course…Of course,” the blac

overcoat continues, not quite convinced

“But still, with the police, is it reall

worth…worth keeping… observing th

same …”



The wounded man raises himself

ittle in his bed:

“Yes, I’ve already told you! Roy

Dauzet has insisted on it. Outside th

group he can’t count on anything righ

now, not even on his police. Moreove

t’s only a temporary thing: the leader—at least certain ones—will be told

here and elsewhere; but at present yo

can’t really know who’s to be trusted i

his city. Until we hear differently, it’better that I should be dead, fo

everyone.”

“Yes, all right…And old Anna?”

“They told her this morning that

had died during the night, that it was on

of those strange wounds which see



harmless at first but end up being fatal.

hesitated giving her such a shock, but

was better. She would have got her lie

all mixed up if someone had questioneher.”

“But you told the papers: ‘Die

without regaining consciousness.’ ”This time the doctor intervenes:

“No, I didn’t tell them anything o

he kind. It’s an embellishment that mushave been added by some polic

official. Some papers didn’t even prin

t.”

“In any case it’s…yes it seem

roublesome to me. There are one, eve

wo, two people who know you didn



ose consciousness: old Anna and th

man who fired at you.”

“Anna doesn’t read the papers; an

besides she’s leaving the city today to g

o her daughter’s, she’ll be out of th

way of indiscreet questions. As for m

murderer, he only saw me lock myselnto my room; he couldn’t know wher

he hit me. He’ll be all too happy to lear

of my death.”

“Of course, of course…But you sa

ourself that they’re so perfectl

organized, that their informatio

service…”

“Their main advantage is that the

believe in their strength, in their success

We’ll help them believe it this time. An



since the police have been quit

powerless up to now, we’ll do withou

hem, at least temporarily.”

“All right, all right, if you think…”

“Listen, Marchat, I talked to Roy

Dauzet tonight on the phone, for almos

an hour. We’ve weighed our decisioand all its consequences. It’s our bes

chance.”

“Yes…Maybe…And suppose youconversation had been tapped?”

“We’ve taken the necessar

precautions.”“Yes…precautions…of course.”

“Let’s get back to those papers:

absolutely have to take them with m



onight and I obviously can’t go bac

here myself. I’ve sent for you to ask yo

o do this favor for me.”

“Yes, yes…of course…But her

again, you see, it’s really a policeman’

ob. …”

“Not really, not at all! Besides, it’mpossible now. What have you to b

afraid of, anyway? I’m giving you th

keys and you’ll go there quietly thiafternoon, after Anna leaves. All yo

have to do is fill a couple of briefcases

You’ll bring them straight back here. I’l

eave from here around seven, in the caRoy-Dauzet is sending; I’ll be at hi

place before midnight.”

The little doctor stands up an



straightens his white smock.

“You don’t need me now, do you

’m going to see one of my expectan

mothers. I’ll stop by again later.”

The timorous overcoat stands up to

and shakes his hand: “Good-bye

Doctor.”

“My pleasure, Monsieur.”

“Do you trust that man?”

The wounded man glances at hi

arm:“He seems to have done his wor

well.”

“No, I’m not talking about th



operation.”

Dupont makes a broad gesture wit

his good arm:

“What do you want me to tell you

He’s an old friend; besides, you’v

noticed he’s not very talkative!”

“No, not…certainly not ver

alkative.”

“What do you think? That he’s goin

o turn me in? Why? For money? I don

hink he’s stupid enough to get mixed u

n this business more than he has to. Al

he asks is to see me leave as soon apossible.”

“He looks…He doesn’t seem…how

can I put it?…He looks wrong.”



“Don’t exaggerate. He looks like

slightly overworked doc^ tor, that’s all.”

“They say…”

“Of course, they say! Besides, the

say it about every gynecologist in th

country, or just about. And besides, wha

does that have to do with it?”

“Yes…of course.”

A pause.

“Marchat, tell me the truth, yo

really don’t want to go get those papers

do you?”

“Yes I do…oh yes I just think

sn’t…exactly safe.”

“It is for you! That’s just why I’



not asking someone in the group to do it

They don’t have anything against you

You know they don’t kill just anyon

whenever they feel like it. In the lasnine days there’s been a murde

committed regularly, between seven an

eight at night, every day, as if they ha

made this little detail into a rule. I’

esterday’s victim and my case seems t

have been closed. Today they’ve chose

heir new victim, and it’s obviously noou—it probably won’t even be in thi

city. Besides, you’ll be going to m

house in broad daylight, when no on

has anything to fear.”

“Yes, yes…Of course.”

“Will you go?”



“Yes, I’ll go…as a favor to you…i

ou think it’s essential.…I don’t want t

ook like I’m working for your grou

either This is no time to seem to be ooo good terms with you…is it? Don

forget, I’ve never agreed with you o

fundamental issues… I’m not saying thi

n defense of…of these…of this…”

The doctor listens to the regulabreathing. The young woman is sleeping

He will come back in an hour. It is jus

eight. Dupont will not leave the clini

until seven tonight, he said. Why diDupont have to call him in? An

doctor…Bad luck.

Seven tonight. A long day. Why d



people always call him in

for things like this? Refuse? No, he ha

already accepted. He

will do what is asked of him one morime. And then? With

he other one, he had not had any choice

All he needed was

his new problem

The other one. It’s not so easy to ge

away from him. Wait.

Until seven tonight.

Why does Dupont have to get hi

friends mixed up in a mess like this

Marchat decides it’s just nerve; and h

s supposed to seem pleased into th

bargain! What about his wife? Wh

couldn’t she go? He has plenty of time t



meet her; she or anyone else, until seve

onight.

About to leave the little white room

he turns back toward the wounded man:

“And your wife—she knows abou

his?”

“The doctor has informed her of m

death by letter. It was more correct. Yo

know we haven’t met for a long time

She won’t even ask to see ‘my remains.On that score, everything’s going to b

fine.”

Evelyn. What is she doing nowMaybe she will come anyway, why not

A dead man’s not exactly her type

hough. Who else might try? But no on



will know which clinic. They just hav

o say it’s not this one. Until seve

onight.



5

Since they all agree, it’s perfect

Commissioner Laurent closes thdossier and lays it with satisfaction o

he pile to the left. The case is closed

Personally, he has no desire to ge

nvolved with it.

The investigations he has had mad

already have not produced the slightes



result. Many distinct fingerprints left al

over the place, as though intentionally

have been picked up; they must belong t

he murderer, but they do not matcanything registered in the enormou

police file. The other details collecte

have offered no suggestion as to wha

ead to follow. Nothing has been brough

n by the usual informers either. Unde

such conditions, where do you start? It’

highly unlikely that the murderer belongo the criminal circles of the port or th

city: the file is too complete and th

nformers too numerous for a criminal t

be able to escape their networkaltogether.

Laurent knows this from lon

experience. At this hour he woul



normally have heard something already.

What then? A chance beginner? A

amateur? A lunatic? Such cases are s

rare; and besides, amateurs alway

eave traces and can be picked up righ

away. One solution, obviously, would b

hat they were dealing with someoncoming from far away just to commit thi

murder, and then leaving immediatel

after. Yet his work seems a little to

well done not to have required a goodeal of preparation….

After all, if the central service

want to take the whole thing ovehemselves, even to the point of takin

away the victim’s body before a

nquest, it’s all right with him. He i



certainly not going to complain. For him

t’s as if the crime had never happened

After all, if Dupont had committe

suicide it would have come down texactly the same thing. The fingerprint

could be anyone’s, and since no on

alive saw his attacker…

Better still: nothing at all ha

happened! A suicide still leaves behin

a corpse; and now the corpse i

vanishing without a word, and hisuperiors are asking him to keep out o

t. Perfect!

No one has seen anything, hearanything. There is no victim. As for th

murderer, he has fallen from the sky an

must be far away by now, well on hi



way back to wherever he came from.



6

The scattered fragments, the two corks

he little piece of blackened wood: nowhey look like a human face, with the b

of orange peel for the mouth. The oi

slick finishes off a grotesque clown’

face, a Punch-and-Judy doll.

Or else it is some legendary animal

he head, the neck, the breast, the fron



paws, a lion’s body with its long tail

and an eagle’s wings. The creatur

moves greedily toward a shapeless pre

ying a little farther on. The corks anhe piece of wood are still in the sam

place, but the face they formed a momen

ago has completely disappeared. Th

greedy monster too. Nothing remains, o

he canal’s surface, but a vague map o

America; and even that only if charitabl

nterpreted.“And suppose he turns the light o

again before opening the door wide?

Bona, as usual, was not willing to admhe objection. There was nothing t

argue about. Still, it turned out, as

matter of fact, as if Dupont had turne

he light on again: even if Garinati ha



been able to turn out the light in plenty o

ime, suppose Dupont, coming in, ha

urned on the light again before pushin

he door all the way open—it camdown to the same thing. He would hav

been seen in the room with the light on

anyway.

Besides! Bona has made a mistak

n any case: Since he—to whom the job

had been entrusted—had not turned ou

he light.

Forgotten? Or done on purpose? Neithe

one nor the other. He was going to tur

out the light; he was going to do it just a

hat moment. Dupont came back upstair

oo soon. What time was it exactly? H



did not act fast enough, that’s all; and al

hings considered, if he did not hav

ime enough, it was still a mistake i

calculation, a mistake of Bona’s. How ihe going to fix that now?

Dupont was wounded, apparently

But not seriously enough to keep hifrom running away, getting out of danger

Garinati distinctly heard him turning th

key in the lock. There was nothing els

for him to do but leave. The gray carpethe twenty-two steps, the shiny baniste

with its brass finial at the end. Thing

ost a little of their consistency againThe revolver shot made such a funn

noise; unreal; phony. It was the first tim

he had used a silencer. Ping! Like an ai

pistol; not loud enough to scare a fly



And right afterward everything wa

filled with cotton.

Maybe Bona knows already. Fro

he papers? It was too late for th

morning papers; and who would bothe

o report this nonexistent crime

“Attempted murder: a marauder fired silent pistol at a harmless professor

Bona always knows.

Coming home the night beforeGarinati found a note in his chief’

handwriting. “Why didn’t you com

afterward, the way we’d planned? I hav

a job for you: they’re sending a speciaagent. A Monsieur Wallas who’ll take

room in the theater of operations. Yo

should have come this morning



Everything’s going fine. I’ll expect yo

Tuesday morning at ten. J.B.” It was as i

he had already heard about the succes

of the job. The fact is, that he does nomagine that it could have failed. Whe

he has made up his mind abou

something, it can only happen the way h

has planned. “You should have come thi

morning.” No! It’s time for him to com

now.

He has not had much troublcatching up with him, this Wallas, but h

missed him, him too. He’ll find hi

again easily. But for what? To tell hiwhat? Early this morning, methodicall

ooking for him in the neighborhood

Garinati kept feeling he had somethin

urgent to tell him; he no longer know



what it was. As if he had been told t

help him in his task.

All right, first of all he would hav

o decide how he was going to make u

for yesterday’s bad luck. Rendezvous a

en. Bona attached a lot of importance t

he day and the time when Dupont wasupposed to have been killed. Too bad

for once he will have to put up with it

And the others Garinati does not know

he whole organization around Bonaeven above him, that huge machine—is

going to be stopped just because of him

He will explain that it was not his faulthat he did not have time, that it did no

work out the way it had been planned

But nothing is lost: tomorrow, tonigh

maybe, Dupont will be dead.



Yes.

He will go back and wait for hibehind the spindle-tree hedge, in th

study full of books and papers. He wil

go back there freely, clearheaded an

revived, careful, “weighing each of hifootsteps.” On the desk is lying the cub

of stone with its rounded corners, it

faces polished by wear….The ruined tower lit up by th

storm.

Twenty-one wooden steps, onwhite step.

The tiles of the hallway.

Three slices of ham on a plate



hrough the half-open door.

The dining room shutters are closed

he kitchen shutters too, a faint glea

filtering through their slats.

He walks on the lawn to avoi

making the gravel crunch on the path

which he could see because it was palehan the two flower beds on either side

The study window, in the middle of th

second story, is brightly lighted. Dupons still up there.

The buzzer that makes no noise, a

he gate.

Five to seven.

The endless Rue des Arpenteurs

nvaded by the smell of herring an



cabbage soup, from the dark suburbs an

he muddy checkerboard of path

between the miserable shacks.

At nightfall, Garinati has wandere

around, waiting until it’s time, amon

his filthy vegetation of latrines anbarbed wire. He has left Bona’s writte

nstructions, long since learned by heart

n his room.These papers—exact sketches of th

garden and the house, minut

descriptions of the premises, details o

he operations to be performed—thes

papers are not in Bona’s handwriting; h

has written out only certain item

concerning the murder proper. As for th



rest, Garinati does not know who th

author is; who the authors are, rather, fo

several people must have gone into th

house to make the necessarobservations there, discover th

arrangement of furniture, study th

domestic habits, and even the behavio

of each board underfoot. And someon

has silenced the buzzer at the gate durin

he afternoon.

The little glass door has made deep creak. In his rush to escape

Garinati has opened it a little wider tha

he should have.

t still remains to be seen if…



Go back without waiting. The ol

deaf woman is alone now. Walk back up

here and find out for himself. The roo

being in darkness, find out at exactlwhat moment the unexpected hand turn

on the light.

Anyone else, in hiplace…Unexpected. His own hand.

The murderer always returns

And if Bona finds out? He shouldnbe hanging around here either! Bona

Bona…Garinati has straightened up. H

starts across the bridge.

It looks as though it were going t

snow.

Anyone else in his place, weighin



each of his footsteps, would come

clearheaded and free, to carry out hi

ask of ineluctable justice.

The cube of gray lava.

The buzzer silenced.

The street that smells of cabbagsoup.

The muddy paths that disappear, fa

away, among the rusty corrugated iron.

Wallas.

“Special agent…”



CHAPTER ONE



1

Wallas is leaning against the rail, at th

end of the bridge. He is still a younman, tall, calm, with regular features

The clothes he is wearing and his idl

air provide, in passing, a vague subjec

of remark for the last workmen hurryin

oward the harbor: at this time, in thi

place, it does not seem quite natural no

o be wearing work clothes, not to b



riding a bicycle, not to look hurried; n

one goes for a walk on Tuesdays early i

he morning, besides, no one goes for

walk in this neighborhood. Sucndependence of the place and the tim

has something a little shocking about it.

Wallas himself thinks how chilly s and that it would be pleasant to war

himself up by pedaling across th

smooth asphalt, swept on by his ow

momentum; but he stands where he isclinging to the iron railing. The heads

one after the other, turn toward him. H

adjusts his scarf and buttons his overcoacollar. One by one the heads turn awa

and disappear. He has not been able t

get breakfast this morning: no coffe

before eight in that café where he ha



found a room. He glances mechanicall

at his watch and notices that it has no

started again; it stopped last night a

seven-thirty, which has not made thingeasier for his trip or for anything else. I

stops every once in a while, he does no

really know why—sometimes after

shock, not always—and then starts agai

afterward, all by itself, with no mor

reason. Apparently there is nothin

broken inside, it can also run for severaweeks at a stretch. It is unpredictable

which is rather annoying at first, but yo

can get used to it. It must be six-thirt

now. Is the manager thinking about goinup to knock at the door as he promised

Just in case, Wallas has wound th

raveling alarm clock he had taken th



precaution to bring along, but he ha

awakened a little earlier anyway: sinc

he was not sleeping, he might as wel

begin right away. Now he is alone, ahough left behind by the wave o

bicyclists. Before him, vague in th

ellow light, extends the street alon

which he has just walked before turnin

he corner onto the parkway; to the lef

an imposing five-story apartmen

building with a stone facade stands at thcorner, and facing it a brick hous

surrounded by a narrow garden. It wa

here that this Daniel Dupont was kille

esterday by a bullet in the chest. For thime being, Wallas does not know an

more than that.

He arrived late, last night, in thi



city he scarcely knows. He had bee

here once already, but only for a few

hours, when he was a child, and he doe

not have any very precise memory of thplace. One image has remained vivid t

him, the dead end of a canal; against on

of the quays is moored an old wreck of

boat—the hull of a sailboat? A low

stone bridge closes off the cana

Probably that wasn’t exactly right: th

boat could not have passed under thbridge. Wallas continues on his wa

oward the center of the city.

Having crossed the canal, he stops to le

pass a streetcar returning from th

harbor, its new paint gleaming—yellow



and red with a gold coat-of-arms; it i

completely empty: people are going i

he other direction. Having reache

Wallas, who is waiting to cross thstreet, the car stops too, and Wallas find

himself facing the iron step; then h

notices beside him the disk attached to

amppost: “Streetcar Stop” and th

figure 6 indicating the line. After ringin

a bell, the car starts up again slowly, it

machinery groaning. It seems to havfinished its trip. Last night, as he cam

out of the station, the streetcars were s

ammed that he was unable to pay hi

fare before getting off; the conductocould not walk through the car becaus

of the suitcases. The other rider

nformed him, with some difficulty, o



he stop nearest this Rue des Arpenteurs

of whose existence most of them seeme

quite unaware; someone even said that

was not in this direction at all. He had twalk a long time along the badly lighte

parkway, and once he found it, h

noticed this café that was still open

where they gave him a room, not ver

uxurious of course, but good enough. H

was quite lucky actually, because

would not have been easy to find a hoten this deserted neighborhood

“Furnished Rooms” was written i

enamel letters on the window, but th

manager hesitated before answering; hseemed annoyed, or in a bad mood. O

he other side of the embankment Walla

urns into a street paved with wood



which must lead toward the center o

own; “Rue de Brabant” is written on th

blue plaque. Wallas has not had time

before leaving, to get hold of a map ohe city; he plans to do so this mornin

as soon as the stores open, but he i

going to take advantage of this respite h

has before going to the police station

where normal service does not begi

until eight, to try and find his way alon

hrough the labyrinth of streets. This onseems important despite its narrowness

apparently long, it dissolves into th

gray sky in the distance. A real winte

sky; it looks as though it were going tsnow.



On either side stretch rows of what see

o be brick houses, all similarl

constructed, without balconies o

cornices or ornament of any kind. Herhere is only what is strictly necessary

regular walls pierced with rectangula

openings; it does not suggest poverty

only work and economy. For the mos

part, moreover, these are offic

buildings.

Severe façades, rows of small, darred bricks, solid, monotonous, patient:

penny profit made by the “Resinou

Wood Corporation,” a penny earned b“Louis Schwob, Wood Exporter,” b

“Mark and Lengler” or by the “Bore

Corporation.” Wood export, resinou

wood, industrial woods, wood fo



export, export of resinous wood, th

neighborhood is completely devoted t

his commerce; thousands of acres o

pine trees, piled brick by brick, tshelter the big ledgers. All the house

are built the same way: five steps lead t

a varnished door, recessed and wit

black plaques on each side showing th

firm’s name in gold letters; tw

windows to the left, one to the right, an

four stories of similar windows abovePerhaps there are apartments among al

hese offices? They cannot be discerned

n any case, by any outer sign. Th

employees, still not wide awake, whwill be filling the street in an hour wil

have a good deal of difficulty, despit

being used to it, recognizing their doors



or else maybe they enter the first on

hey come to, to export at random th

wood of Louis Schwob or of Mark an

Lengler? The main thing is that they dheir work carefully, so that the littl

bricks go on piling up like figures in th

big ledgers, preparing still another stor

of pennies for the building; a few

hundred tons more of totals and exac

business letters: “Gentlemen, in answe

o yours of the…” ready cash, one pinree for five bricks.

The row is broken only at th

perpendicular, identical crossroadseaving just room enough to slip betwee

he piles of ledgers and addin

machines.



***

But here is the deeper trench which th

water carves through these brick days

along the quay rises the gables’ line o

defense, where the opening

nstinctively grow more myopic and th

ramparts thicker. Down the middle ohis cross street flows a canal

apparently motionless, a straigh

corridor men have left to the origina

basin, for barges loaded with wood thaslowly move down toward the harbor

ast refuge, too, in the suffocation of thi

drained land, for the night, thbottomless water of sleep, the glaucou

water rising from the sea an

contaminated with invisible monsters.



Beyond the channels and dikes, th

ocean releases its hissing whirlpool o

monsters whose coils are here confine

between two reassuring walls. Still yohave to be careful not to lean too fa

over, if you want to avoid inhaling them

…

Soon the series of brick houses begin

again. “Rue Joseph-Janeck.” Actuallhis is the same street that continues o

he other side of the canal: the sam

austerity, the same arrangement o

windows, the same doors, the samplaques of black glass with the sam

gold inscriptions. Silbermann and Son

exporters of pulp wood, capital on



million two hundred thousand; mai

warehouses: four and six Quay Saint

Victor. Along a loading basin, carefull

piled logs behind the row of cranes, thmetal sheds, the smell of machine-oi

and resin. Quai Saint-Victor, that must b

somewhere over there, to the northwest.

After a crossroad, the landscap

changes slightly: the night-bell of

doctor, a few shops, the architecture

ittle less uniform, giving thneighborhood a more livable look. A

street branches off to the right, formin

an angle more acute than the precedinones; maybe he should follow it? It’

better to follow this one to the end, ther

will always be time to turn of

afterward.



A wisp of smoke lingers on th

ground. A shoemaker’s sign; the wor

“Provisions” in yellow letters on

brown background. Although the scenremains deserted, the impression o

humanity gradually increases. At on

ground-floor window, the curtains ar

decorated with a mass-produce

allegorical subject: shepherds finding a

abandoned child, or something of th

kind. A dairy, a grocery store, delicatessen, another grocery; for th

ime being all that can be seen is thei

owered iron shutters, and in the middle

outlined against the gray sheet iron, ace star the size of a dinner plate, lik

he kind children make out of folde

paper. These shops are small but clean



often repainted; almost all are foo

stores: an ocher butcher shop, a blu

dairy, a white fish store. Only thei

colors and the sign on their pedimendistinguishes one from another. Again

open blinds and that cheap net curtain

under a tree two shepherds in classica

costume give ewe’s milk to a tiny nake

baby.

Wallas continues on his solitary wa

between the drawn shutters, walkin

along the brick walls with the sam

elastic, confident gait. He walks onAround him life has not yet begun. Jus

now, on the parkway, he has passed th

first wave of workmen riding toward th



harbor, but since then he has not me

anyone else: the employees, th

businessmen, the mothers, the childre

on their way to school, are still silennside the closed houses. The bicycle

have vanished and the day which the

had inaugurated has retreated behind

few gestures, like a sleeper who has jus

stretched out his arm to turn off the alar

clock and grants himself a few minute

reprieve before opening his eyes fogood. In a second the eyelids will rise

he city emerging from its false sleep

will catch up at once with the rhythm o

he harbor and, this dissonance resolvedt will again be the same time fo

everyone.

The only pedestrian, Walla



advances through this fragile interva

Just as a man who has stayed up too lat

often no longer knows to which date t

ascribe this dubious time, when hiexistence loses its shape; his brain, tire

out by work and waking, tries in vain t

reconstitute the series of days: he i

supposed to have finished for the nex

day this job begun last night, betwee

esterday and tomorrow there is n

place left for the present. Completelexhausted, he finally throws himsel

down on his bed and falls asleep. Later

when he wakes up, he’ll find himself i

his normal today.) Wallas walks on.



2

Without going out of his way or slowin

down, Wallas walks on. In front of him woman crosses the street. An old ma

drags toward a back door an empt

garbage can that had been standing o

he edge of the sidewalk. Behind

window are stacked three rows o

rectangular platters containing all kind

of marinated anchovies, smoked sprats



rolled and loose herring, salted

seasoned, raw or cooked, smoked, fried

pickled, sliced, and chopped. A littl

farther, a gentleman in a black overcoaand hat comes out of a house and passe

him; middle-aged, comfortable, frequen

stomach trouble; he takes only a few

steps and immediately turns into a

extremely clean-looking café, certainl

more appealing than the one wher

Wallas spent the night. Wallaremembers how hungry he is, but he ha

made up his mind to eat his breakfast i

some large modern restaurant, on one o

hose squares or boulevards that must, aeverywhere else, constitute the heart o

he city.

The next cross streets intersect th



one he is on at a decidedly obtuse angle

and consequently would lead him too fa

back—almost in the direction he i

coming from.

Wallas likes walking. In the cold

early winter air he likes walking straigh

ahead through this unknown city. Hooks around, he listens, he smells th

air; this perpetually renewed contac

affords him a subtle impression o

continuity; he walks on and graduallunrolls the uninterrupted ribbon of hi

own passage, not a series of irrationa

unrelated images, but a smooth banwhere each element immediately take

ts place in the web, even the mos

fortuitous, even those that might at firs

seem absurd or threatening o



anachronistic or deceptive; they all fal

nto place in good order, one beside th

other, and the ribbon extends withou

flaw or excess, in time with the regulaspeed of his footsteps. For it is Walla

who is advancing; it is to his own bod

hat this movement belongs, not to th

backcloth some stagehand might b

unrolling; he can follow in his ow

imbs the play of the joints, th

successive contractions of the musclesand it is he himself who controls th

rhythm and length of his strides: a hal

second for each step, a step and a hal

for each yard, eighty yards a minute. It iof his own free will that he is walkin

oward an inevitable and perfect future

n the past, he has too frequently le



himself be caught in the circles of doub

and impotence, now he is walking; h

has recovered his continuity here.

On the wall of a school courtyard ther

are three yellow posters side by side

hree copies of a political speech printen tiny letters with an enormous headlin

at the top: “Citizens Awake! Citizen

Awake! Citizens Awake!” Wallarecognizes this poster, distribute

hroughout the city and already old, som

kind of trade-union propaganda agains

he trusts, or liberal propaganda againshe tariff rates, the sort of literature n

one ever reads, except, occasionally, a

old gentleman who stops, puts on hi



glasses and carefully reads the whol

ext through, shifts his eyes back an

forth along the lines from the beginnin

all the way to the end, steps back a littlo consider the whole poster with

shrug, puts his glasses back in their cas

and the case in his pocket, then goes o

his way in some perplexity, wondering i

he has not missed the point. Among th

usual words some suspect ter

occasionally stands out like a signal, anhe sentence it illuminates s

equivocally seems for a moment t

conceal many things, or nothing at al

Thirty yards farther on can be seen thback of the plaque warning drivers o

he school crossing.

The street next crosses anothe



canal, wider than the last, along which

ug is slowly approaching, pulling tw

coal barges. A man in a dark blue pe

acket and a visored cap has just closeoff the bridge at the opposite end an

urns toward the free end where Walla

has just started across.

“Hurry up, Monsieur, it’ll b

openingI” the man shouts.

As he passes him, Wallas nods.“Not so warm this morning!”

“Winter’s coming,” the ma

answers.With a low moan the tug salutes

under the cluster of metal beams, Walla

glimpses the trail of dissolving steam



He pushes the gate. An electric bel

ndicates that the workman at the othe

end is about to set the machinery i

motion. At the moment Wallas closes thgate, the roadway behind him come

apart, the platform begins to tip up wit

a noise of motors and gears.

Wallas finally turns into a wide avenu

hat looks much like the BoulevarCirculaire he left at dawn, except for th

canal, which is replaced here by

central sidewalk planted with ver

oung trees; adjoining houses of five osix stories alternate with more modes

structures of almost rural appearanc

and buildings evidently used fo



ndustrial purposes. Wallas is surprise

o find more examples of this suburba

mixture. Since he has crossed the stree

o turn right in this new direction, hreads with even more surprise the word

“Boulevard Circulaire” on the buildin

at the corner. He turns back

disconcerted.

He cannot have been walking in

circle, since he had gone straight ahea

ever since the Rue des Arpenteurs; hhas probably walked too far south an

bypassed a segment of the city. He wil

have to ask his way.People in the street are hurryin

past on their errands, Wallas prefers no

o delay them. He decides on a woma



n an apron who is washing the sidewal

n front of her shop on the other side o

he street. Wallas approaches but he i

not sure how to ask his question: for thmoment he has no precise destination; a

for the police station where he i

supposed to go a little later, he i

reluctant to mention it, less fro

professional discretion than because o

his desire to remain in a convenien

neutrality rather than carelessly inspirinfear or merely curiosity. The same i

rue for the courthouse which, he ha

been told, is opposite the police station

but whose faint artistic renown is noenough to motivate the interest he woul

appear to be taking in it. The woma

straightens up when she sees him besid



her; she stops the movement of he

broom.

“Excuse me, Madame, can you tel

me how to get to the central pos

office?”

After a moment’s reflection, sh

answers:

“The central post office; what d

ou mean, the central post office?”

“I mean the main post office.”

This does not seem to be the righ

question. Maybe there are several mai

post offices and none located in thcenter of town. The woman looks at he

broom and says:

“You’ll find a post office right nea



here, on the parkway.” She points wit

her chin. “People usually go there. Bu

t’s probably closed at this hour.”

So his question meant something

here is only one post office with

elegraph office open all night.

“Yes, that’s just it, there must be post office open for sending telegrams.”

This remark unfortunately seems t

awaken the woman’s interest:

“Oh, it’s for sending a telegram!”

She glances at her broom, whil

Wallas tries to get off with a vagu“yes.”

“Nothing serious, I hope?” th

woman says.



The question has not been asked in

specifically interrogative way, rather a

a polite, slightly dubitative wish; bu

hen she says nothing more and Wallafeels he must answer.

“No, no,” he says, “thanks.”

This is a lie too, since a man hadied during the night. Should he explai

hat it is no one in his family?

“Well,” the woman says, “if you’rnot in a hurry, there’s a post office her

hat’ll be open at eight.”

This is what making up stories getou into. Now to whom would he send

elegram, and what about? How can h

manage to get back where he started



Observing his dissatisfied expression

he woman finally adds:

“There’s a post office on th

Avenue Christian-Charles, but I don

know if it opens before the others

besides, to get there from here…”

She examines him more attentivelnow, as if she were calculating hi

chances of reaching his goal befor

eight; then she glances down at the enof her broom again. One of the bristles

half undone, lets a few sprays of quitc

grass stick out on one side. Finally sh

expresses the result of her scrutiny:

“You’re not from around here

Monsieur?”



“No,” Wallas admits reluctantly

“I’ve been here only a little while. I

ou’ll show me how to get to the cente

of town, I’ll find my way.”

The center? The woman tries t

ocate it in her own mind; she stares a

her broom, then at the pail full of waterShe turns toward the Rue Janeck an

points in the direction Wallas cam

from.

“Just take that street. After the cana

ou turn left on the Rue de Berlin an

ou’ll come to the Place de l

Préfecture. Then you just follow thavenues; it’s straight ahead.”

The prefecture: that’s what h

should have asked for.



“Thank you, Madame.”

“It’s a long walk, you know. You’

be better off taking the streetcar ove

here, you see….”

“No, no, I’ll walk fast; it’ll war

me up! Thank you, Madame.”

“At your service, Monsieur.”

She puts her broom in the pail an

begins scrubbing the sidewalk. Walla

starts walking in the opposite direction.

His reassuring course has been re

established. Now the office workers ar

coming out of their houses, holding thmitation leather briefcases that contai

he three traditional sandwiches for th

noon meal. They glance up toward th



sky as they come out of their doorway

and walk off, winding brown knitte

mufflers around their necks.

Wallas feels the cold on his face

hough the season of cutting frost tha

freezes the face into a painful mask ha

not yet begun, something like a shrinkincan already be felt in the tissues: th

forehead contracts, the hairline draw

closer to the eyebrows, the temples tr

o meet, the brain tends to shrink to a tinbenign mass on the surface of the skin

between the eyes, a little above the nose

Yet the senses are far from beinbenumbed: Wallas remains the attentiv

witness of a spectacle which has los

none of its qualities of order an

permanence; perhaps, on the contrary



he course is growing stricter, graduall

abandoning its ornaments and it

slackness. But perhaps, too, thi

draftsman’s precision is only illusorymerely the result of an empty stomach.

The sound of a Diesel engin

approaches behind Wallas … thvibration finally fills his hea

completely, and soon passes him

railing its cloud of asphyxiating smok

—a heavy long-distance transporvehicle.

A bicyclist who has just got off hi

vehicle is waiting in front of the whit

barrier, at the end of the drawbridge tha

s just being lowered again. Wallas stop



beside him and both men stare at th

under side of the platform which is jus

disappearing. When they again see th

op of the roadway, the man with thbicycle opens the gate and sets his fron

wheel on it. He turns toward Wallas:

“Not so warm this morning,” hsays.

“Yes,” Wallas says, “winter’

coming.”“It looks as though it were going t

snow.”

“It’s still early for that.”“I wouldn’t be surprised anyway,

he bicyclist says.

Both of them watch the iron edge o



he platform, which gradually reache

he level of the street. At the moment

does, the noise suddenly stops; in th

silence they hear the electric bell thaauthorizes them to cross. As he passe

hrough the gate, the bicyclist repeats:

“I wouldn’t be surprised.”“Maybe you’re right,” Wallas says

“Good luck!”

“Good-bye, Monsieur,” the bicyclissays.

He jumps onto the seat and ride

off. Is it really going to snow? It’s stilnot cold enough, probably; it’s only th

sudden change in the weather that i

surprising. Wallas, halfway across th



bridge, passes the workman in the pe

acket who is about to reopen th

barrier.

“Back already, Monsieur?”

“Yes,” Wallas answers. “I had jus

ime enough while the bridge wa

opening and closing. The prefecture iover there, isn’t it?”

The other man turns back. “Time t

do what?” he thinks. He says:

“Yes, that’s right. Take the Rue d

Berlin: it’s the shortest way.”

“Thank you, Monsieur.”

“Have a good walk, Monsieur.”

Why isn’t that barrier controlle



automatically, from the other end

Wallas realizes, now, that the Ru

Janeck is not really straight: actually

curves south by a series omperceptible angles. On the school sig

showing two children carryin

schoolbooks over their shoulders an

holding hands, he can see the remains o

a butterfly pasted on upside down an

orn off. After the double door—Girl

Boys—the courtyard wall disappearunder the Indian chestnut trees, th

reddish leaves and the split husks of th

nuts; the little boys have carefull

gathered the shiny kernels, the source omany games and much commerce

Wallas crosses to look at the names o

he streets branching off to the left.



At one intersection Wallas notice

opposite him the dyspeptic gentleman h

has seen before, crossing the street. H

doesn’t look any better after havin

eaten breakfast; perhaps it is worry an

not stomach trouble that gives him thaexpression. (He looks like Fabius!) H

s wearing black: he is going to the pos

office to send a telegram announcin

someone’s death.

“Oh, it’s for sending a telegram

othing serious, I hope?”

“A death, Madame.”

The mournful gentleman passe

Wallas and turns into the cross street



Rue de Berlin; Wallas walks in step wit

him.

So earlier this morning he shoul

have kept straight ahead, judging by th

direction of this street. The black bac

advances at the same speed as Walla

and shows him the way.



3

The man in the black overcoat passes o

he left sidewalk and turns into a narrowstreet; consequently Wallas loses sight o

him. A pity, for he was a goo

companion. So he was not going to sen

a telegram from the post office after al

unless he knows a short cut leadin

directly to the Avenue Christian-Charles

t doesn’t matter, Wallas prefers t



follow the main avenues, particularl

since he has no reason to go to that pos

office.

It would certainly have been easie

o tell that woman right away that h

wanted to cover the principal streets o

he city, which he was visiting for thfirst time; but then would not som

scruple have obliged him to talk abou

he other trip?—the sunny little street

where he had walked with his motherhe dead end of a canal between the low

houses, the hull of the abandoned boa

hat relative (his mother’s sister, or halfsister?) they were supposed to meet—

would have looked as though he wer

hunting down his childhood memories

As for passing himself off as a tourist



aside from the unlikelihood of the excus

at this time of year in a city completel

barren of appeal for an art lover, thi

offered still greater dangers: wherwould the woman’s questions have le

him then, since the post office had bee

enough to create the telegram, quit

naturally, in order to avoid new

explanations and out of a desire, too, no

o contradict her. By trying to b

pleasant and discreet, into whamaginary adventures would he finall

be dragged!

“You’re not from around hereMonsieur?”

“No, I’m a detective and I arrive

here last night to investigate a politica



murder.”

That was even less likely than al

he rest. “The special agent,” Fabius i

always repeating, “should leave as few

races as possible in people’s minds;

s therefore important for him t

maintain a behavior as close as possiblo the normal in all circumstances.” Th

caricature, famous in the Bureau o

nvestigation and in the whole Ministry

represents Fabius disguised as a“idler”: hat pulled down over his eyes

huge dark glasses, and an outrageousl

false beard hanging to the ground; bendouble, this creature prowls “discreetly

hrough the countryside, among th

startled cows and horses.



This disrespectful image actuall

conceals a sincere admiration on the par

of his collaborators toward their ol

chief. “He’s failed a lot,” his enemiewhisper to you sanctimoniously; bu

hose who work with him every da

know that despite certain inexplicabl

obstinacies, the illustrious Fabiu

remains worthy of his legend. Yet

despite his attachment to somewhat old

fashioned methods, even his adherentreproach him occasionally for a kind o

rresolution, a marked discretion tha

makes him hesitate about accepting eve

he most established facts. Thperspicacity with which he detected th

slightest weak point in a suspiciou

situation, the intensity of impulse tha



carried him to the very threshold of th

enigma, his subsequent indefatigabl

patience in recomposing the threads tha

had been revealed, all this seemed turn at times into the sterile skepticis

of a fanatic. Already people were sayin

hat he mistrusted easy solutions, now

s whispered that he has ceased t

believe in the existence of any solutio

whatever.

In the present case, for instancewhere the purpose is clear enough (t

uncover the leaders of an anarchis

organization), he has shown excessivhesitation from the start, seeming to b

concerned with it only reluctantly. H

has not even bothered to avoid makin

quite preposterous remarks in front o



his subordinates, pretending to conside

he conspiracy either as a series o

coincidences or as a Machiavellia

nvention of the government. One day hremarked quite coolly that such peopl

were philanthropists and were merel

rying to further public welfare!

Wallas does not like such jokes

which serve only to get the Burea

accused of negligence, even o

collusion. Obviously he cannot feeoward Fabius the blind veneration som

of his colleagues show: he did not know

him during the glorious years of strugglagainst the enemy agents during the war

Wallas has worked for the Bureau o

nvestigation only a short time, befor

hat he was in another branch of th



Ministry of the Interior, and it is a

accident that he happens to have this job

Hitherto, his work consisted mostly i

he surveillance of various theosophicasocieties against which Roy-Dauzet, th

minister, had suddenly conceived

resentment; Wallas has spent severa

months attending meetings of th

members, studying their extravagan

brochures, and gaining the confidence o

semi-lunatics; he has just finished hiassignment with a voluminous report o

he activities of these societies, all quit

harmless, as it turns out.

As a matter of fact, the role of thi

marginal police force is generally quit

pacific. Established originally wit

counterespionage as its real purpose



since the armistice it has become a kin

of economic police whose chief functio

s to check the actions of the cartels

Subsequently, each time a financiapolitical, religious or other group ha

seemed to threaten the security of th

state, the Bureau of Investigation ha

aken action and proved itself, on two o

hree occasions, to be of invaluabl

assistance to the government.

This time, something quite differens involved: in nine days, nine violen

deaths have occurred one after another

of which at least six are definitelmurders. Certain resemblances amon

hese various crimes, the nature of th

victims, as well as the threatening letter

received by other members of th



organization to which the nine dead me

may have belonged, clearly show that

s a single case that must be dealt with:

monstrous campaign of intimidation—oeven of total destruction—conducted (b

whom?) against these men whos

political role, though not official, is n

doubt extremely important and who, fo

his reason, benefit…from a…

The Place de la Préfecture is a wid

square bordered on three sides b

buildings with arcades; the fourth side i

occupied by the prefecture, a huge stonbuilding ornamented with scrolls an

scallops, fortunately few in number—i

short, of rather somber ugliness.



In the middle of the square, on

ow pedestal protected by an iron fence

stands a bronze group representing

Greek chariot drawn by two horses, iwhich are standing several individuals

probably symbolic, whose unnatura

positions are out of harmony with th

presumed rapidity of their equipage.

On the other side begins the Avenu

de la Reine, where the skinny elms hav

already lost their leaves. There are verfew people out of doors in thi

neighborhood; the few bundled-u

pedestrians and the black branches of threes give it a precociously wintry look.

The courthouse cannot be far away

for, aside from its suburbs, the city i



certainly not very large. The prefectur

clock showed a little after seven-ten, s

hat Wallas has a good three-quarters o

an hour in which to explore the area.

At the end of the avenue, the gra

water of an old shunting cana

contributes to the frozen calmness of thandscape.

Then comes the Avenue Christian

Charles, a little wider, lined by a fewelegant shops and movie theaters. A

streetcar passes, occasionally indicatin

ts silent approach by two or three quic

rings of its bell.

Wallas notices a signboard showin

a yellowed map of the city, a movabl

pointer in its center. Ignoring this poin



of reference, as well as the little bo

containing the street names on a roll o

paper, he has no difficulty reconstructin

his route: the station, the slightlflattened ring of the Boulevar

Circulaire, the Rue des Arpenteurs, th

Rue de Brabant, the Rue Joseph-Janec

which joins the parkway, the Rue d

Berlin, the prefecture. Now he is goin

o take the Avenue Christian-Charles a

far as the parkway and then, since he haime for it, make a detour to the left, i

order to return along the Canal Louis

and then the narrow canal that follow

his street…the Rue de Copenhague. It ihis latter he has just crossed. When thi

circuit will have been completed

Wallas will have twice crossed the cit



proper from one side to the other, withi

he confines of the Boulevard Circulaire

Beyond, the suburbs extend fo

considerable distances, dense anunattractive to the east and south, bu

aerated, toward the northwest, by th

numerous ponds of the inland waterwa

and toward the southwest by the playin

fields, a woods, and even a municipa

park adorned with a zoo.

There was a shorter way of gettinhere from the end of the Rue Janeck, bu

t was also more complicated, and th

ady with the quitch-grass broom waright to send him back by way of th

prefecture. The black overcoat with th

disturbed face turned here and vanishe

nto this swarm of narrow twistin



alleyways. On the point of walkin

away, Wallas remembers that he still ha

o find the courthouse; he discovers

almost at once, behind the prefecture anconnected with it by a tiny street tha

starts on the square, the Rue de l

Charte. As a matter of fact, the mai

police station is located just opposite

Wallas feels less of a stranger in thi

space thus marked out, he can mov

about in it with less deliberation.Farther down the avenue he passe

n front of the post office. It is closed

On the enormous door, a whitcardboard poster: “The offices are ope

continuously from eight A .M . to seve

P.M.” After having turned toward th

parkway, he soon comes to the cana



which he follows, attracted an

sustained by it, absorbed in th

contemplation of the reflections and th

shadows.

When Wallas enters the Place de l

Préfecture for the second time, the clocndicates five to eight. He has just tim

enough to go into the café at the corne

of the Rue de la Charte to eat somethinquickly. The place is not at all like wha

he was expecting: this part of the countr

does not look as though it cared muc

about mirrors, chromium, and neoighting. Behind its inadequate windows

supplemented by the timid glow of a few

wall brackets, this big café is actuall



rather mournful, with its dark woodwor

and thin banquettes covered in dar

mitation leather. Wallas can just barel

read the newspaper he has asked for. Hquickly glances down the columns:

“Serious traffic accident on th

Delft road.”“The city council will mee

omorrow to elect a new mayor.”

“The medium deceived her clients.”

“Potato production has surpasse

hat of the best years in the past.”

“Death of one of our fellowcitizens. A daring burglar made

his way at nightfall yesterday into th

residence of M. Daniel



Dupont “

t is likely that Laurent, the chiecommissioner, will receive him i

person once he arrives, thanks to Fabius

etter of introduction. Provided he is no

offended by such an intervention: Wallawill have to present matters skillfully

otherwise he risks turning the man int

an enemy or in any case losing hicooperation, which is indispensable. A

a matter of fact, though the local polic

have shown themselves absolutel

neffectual in dealing with the eighpreceding crimes—not having been abl

o find a single lead and even classifyin

wo cases as “death by accident”—



seems difficult to avoid thei

collaboration completely: the

constitute, in spite of everything, the onl

possible source of informatioconcerning the supposed “killers.” Fro

another point of view, it would b

nopportune to let them suppose that th

atter were suspect.

Noticing an open stationery shop

Wallas walks in for no particular reason

A young girl who had been sitting behinhe counter stands up to wait on him.

“Monsieur?”

She has a pretty, slightly sullen fac

and blond hair.

“I’d like a very soft gum eraser, fo



drawing.”

“Certainly, Monsieur.”

She turns back toward the drawerhat line the wall. Her hair, combe

straight up from the back of her neck

makes her look older, seen from behind

She searches through one of the drawerand sets down in front of Wallas

ellow eraser with beveled edges

onger than it is wide, an ordinary articlfor schoolchildren. He asks:

“Haven’t you any supplies just fo

drawing?”

“This is a drawing eraser

Monsieur.”

She encourages him with a half



smile. Wallas picks up the eraser t

examine it more carefully; then he look

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 thoug

o pay special attention to what he igoing to say.

“…was something more crumbly.”

“Really, Monsieur, I can assure yo

his is a very good pencil eraser. All ou

customers are satisfied with it.”

“All right,” Wallas says, “I’ll try itHow much is it?”

He pays and leaves the store. Sh

accompanies him to the door. No, she’



no longer a child: her hips, her slow ga

are almost a woman’s.

Once out in the street, Walla

mechanically fingers the little eraser;

s obvious from the way it feels that it i

no good at all. It would have bee

surprising, really, for it to be otherwisn so modest a shop… That girl wa

nice.…He rubs his thumb across the en

of the eraser. It is not at all what he i

ooking for.



4

By shifting the dossiers on top of hi

desk, Laurent covers up the little piecof eraser. Wallas finishes his remarks:

“In short, you haven’t found much.”

“You might say nothing,” the chie

commissioner answers.

“And what do you intend to d

now?”



“Nothing, since it isn’t my case an

more!”

Commissioner Laurent accompanie

hese words with an ironicall

brokenhearted smile. When hi

nterlocutor says nothing, he continues:

“I was wrong, no doubt, to believmyself in charge of public safety in thi

city. This paper,” he waves a lette

between two fingers, “orders me ispecific terms to let the capital take ove

ast night’s crime. I couldn’t ask fo

anything better. And now the minister

ou say—or in any case a service that idirectly attached to him—sends you her

o continue the investigation, not ‘in m

place’ but ‘with my cooperation.’ Wha



am I supposed to make of that? Excep

hat this cooperation is to be limited t

handing over to you whateve

nformation I possess—which I have jusdone—and therefore to having yo

protected by my men, if necessary.”

With another smile, Laurent adds:“So now it’s up to you to tell m

what you’re going to do, unless o

course that’s a secret.”Entrenched behind the paper

covering his desk, his elbows proppe

on the arms of his chair, th

commissioner rubs his hands together a

he speaks, slowly, almost cautiously

hen he sets them down in front of him o

he scattered sheets of paper, spreadin



his short, fat fingers as far apart a

possible, and waits for the answer

without taking his eyes from his visitor’

face. He is a short, plump man with pink face and a bald skull. His kindl

one is a little forced.

“You say the witnesses,” Wallabegins….

Laurent immediately raises hi

hands to stop him.“There are no witnesses, properl

speaking,” he says, rubbing his righ

palm over his left forefinger; “you ca

scarcely call the doctor who has no

restored the wounded man to life

witness, or the old deaf housekeepe

who has seen nothing whatsoever.”



“It was the doctor who informe

ou?”

“Yes, Doctor Juard telephoned th

police last night around nine o’clock; th

nspector who received the informatio

wrote down what he said—you’ve jus

ooked at the record—and then he calleme at home. I had an immediat

examination of the premises made

Upstairs, the inspectors picked up fou

sets of fresh fingerprints: those of thhousekeeper, then three other

apparently made by men’s hands. If it’

rue that no outsider has come upstairfor several days, these last could be (h

counts on his fingers) first of all, thos

of the doctor, faint and few, on the stai

banister and in Dupont’s bedroom



second, those of Dupont himself, whic

can be found all over the house; third

hose of the murderer, quite numerou

and very clear, on the banister, on thdoorknob of the study, and on certai

articles of furniture in this study—

mainly the back of the desk chair. Th

house has two entrances; the doctor’

right thumbprint has been found on th

front doorbell, and the hypothetica

murderer’s on the knob of the back doorYou see that I’m giving you all th

details. Lastly, the housekeeper declare

hat the doctor came in through the fron

door and that she found the back dooopen when she went upstairs to answe

he wounded man’s call—even thoug

she had closed it a few moments before



f you want me to, I can have Docto

Juard’s fingerprints taken, just to b

sure….”

“You can also get the dead man’

prints, I suppose?”

“I could, if I had the body at m

disposal,” Laurent answers sweetly.

Seeing Wallas’ questioning look, h

asks:

“Haven’t you heard? The body wa

aken away from me at the same time a

he control of the investigation. I though

t was sent to the same organization thasent you here.”

Wallas is obviously amazed. Coul

other services be concerned with thi



case? This is a supposition Lauren

receives with obvious satisfaction. H

waits, his hands lying flat on his desk

his kindly expression is tinged witcompassion. Without insisting on thi

point, Wallas continues:

“You were saying that Dupont, aftebeing wounded, had called to the ol

housekeeper from upstairs; for the latte

o have heard him, deaf as she is, Dupon

would have had to shout quite loudlyYet the doctor describes him as greatl

weakened by his wound, almos

unconscious.”“Yes, I know; there seems to be

contradiction here; but he might have ha

strength enough to go get his revolve



and call for help, and then have lost a lo

of blood while waiting for th

ambulance: there was a relatively larg

bloodstain on the bedspread. In ancase, he wasn’t unconscious when th

doctor got there, since Dupont told hi

he hadn’t seen his attacker’s face

There’s a mistake in the accoun

published by the papers: it was onl

after the operation that the wounded ma

didn’t recover consciousness. Moreoverou’ll obviously have to go see thi

doctor. You should also ask for detail

from the housekeeper, Madame…(h

consults a sheet from the dossierMadame Smite; her explanations ar

somewhat confused: she told us, i

particular, some elaborate story about



broken telephone that seems to hav

nothing to do with the case—at least a

first glance. The inspectors haven

made a point of it, preferring to wauntil she calms down; they haven’t eve

old her her employer was dead.”

The two men do not speak for moment. It is the commissioner wh

resumes, delicately rubbing his joint

with his thumb.

“He may perfectly well hav

committed suicide, you know. He ha

shot himself with the revolver once—o

several times—without managing tfinish himself off; then he has change

his mind, as so often happens, and calle

for help, trying to disguise hi



unsuccessful attempt as an attack. O

else—and this would be more in accor

with what we know about his characte

—he has prepared this setting iadvance, and managed to give himself

mortal wound that allowed him a few

minutes’ survival in order to have tim

o bequeath the myth of his murder to th

public. It’s very difficult, you’ll say, t

calculate the consequences of a pisto

shot so exactly; he may have fired second shot while the housekeeper wa

going for the doctor. He was a strang

man, from many points of view.”

“It must be possible to verify thes

hypotheses from the position of th

bullets,” Wallas remarks.



“Yes, sometimes it’s possible. An

we would have examined the bullets an

he revolver of the supposed victim. Al

have here is the death certificate thdoctor sent this morning; it’s the onl

hing we can be sure of, for the tim

being. The suspect fingerprints ca

belong to anyone who came during th

day without the housekeeper’s knowin

t; as for the back door she mentioned t

he inspector, the wind might havopened it.”

“You really think Dupont committe

suicide?”“I don’t think anything. I find it’s no

mpossible, according to the facts I have

This death certificate, which is drawn u



quite correctly, by the way, gives n

ndication as to the kind of wound tha

caused death; and the informatio

furnished last night by the doctor and thhousekeeper is all too vague in thi

regard, as you’ve seen. Before anythin

else, you’ll have to clear up these few

details. If necessary, you could even ge

he additional details that might interes

ou from the coroner in the capital.

Wallas says:“Your help would certainly hav

made my job easier.”

“But you can count on meMonsieur. As soon as you have someon

o arrest I’ll send you two or three goo

men. I’ll be eager to get your telephon



call; just ask for one-twenty-fou

—twenty-four, it’s a direct line.”

The smile on the chubby face widens

The little hands spread out on the desk

palms smooth, fingers wide. Walla

writes: “C. Laurent, 124-24.” A direcine to what?

Wallas again considers the isolatio

of his situation. The last bicyclists ridoff in a group toward their work

standing alone, leaning on a railing, h

abandons this support as well and begin

walking through the empty streets in th

direction he has decided on. Apparentl

no one is interested in what he is doing

he doors remain closed, no face appear



n the windows to watch him pass. Ye

his presence on these premises i

necessary: no one else is concerned wit

his murder. It’s his own case; they havsent him to solve it.

The commissioner, like th

workmen earlier this morning, stares ahim with astonishment—hostilit

perhaps—and turns his head away: hi

role is already over; he has no access

on the other side of the brick walls, the realm in which this story i

happening; the sole purpose of hi

speeches is to make Wallas feel thvirtual impossibility of entering it. Bu

Wallas is confident. Though at firs

glance the difficulty is even greater fo

himself—a stranger in this city, an



knowing neither its secrets nor its shor

cuts—he is sure he has not been asked t

come here for nothing: once the wea

spot is found, he will unhesitatingladvance toward his goal.

He asks, just to make sure:

“What would you have done, if yo

had gone on with the investigatio

ourself?”

“It’s not in my line,” th

commissioner answers, “which is wh

hey took it away from me.”“Then what is the responsibility o

he police, in your opinion?”

Laurent rubs his hands a little faster



“We keep criminals within certai

imits more or less fixed by the law.”

“And?”

“This one is beyond us, he doesn

belong to the category of ordinar

malefactors. I know every criminal i

his city: they’re all listed in my files; arrest them when they forget th

conventions society imposes on them. I

one of them had killed Dupont to rob hior even to be paid by a political party

do you think we would still b

wondering, more than twelve hours afte

he murder, whether it wasn’t a suicidafter all? This district isn’t very big, an

nformers are legion here. We don

always manage to prevent crime



sometimes the criminal even manages t

escape, but there’s never been a cas

where we haven’t found his tracks

whereas this time we’re left with a lot ounidentified fingerprints and some draft

hat open doors. Our informers are n

help here. If we’re dealing, as you think

with a terrorist organization, they’v

been very careful to keep from bein

contaminated; in this sense, their hand

are clean, cleaner than those of a polichat maintains such close relations wit

he men they’re watching. Here, betwee

he policeman and the criminal, you fin

every grade of intermediary. Our wholsystem is based on them. Unfortunatel

he shot that killed Daniel Dupont cam

from another world!”



“But you know there’s no such thin

as a perfect crime; we must look for th

flaw that has to exist somewhere.”

“Where are you going to look

Make no mistake about it, Monsieur: thi

s the work of specialists, they’v

obviously left few things to chance; buwhat makes the few clues we hav

useless is our inability to test the

against anything else.”

“This case is already the ninth,

Wallas says.

“Yes, but you’ll agree that only th

political opinions of the victims and th

hour of their deaths have allowed us t

connect them. Besides, I’m not s

convinced as you that such coincidence



correspond to anything real. And eve

supposing they do, we’re not muc

further: what use would it be to me, fo

nstance, if a second murder just aanonymous were committed in this cit

onight? As for the central services, the

don’t have any more opportunities than

do to get results: they have the same file

and the same methods. They’ve taken th

body away from me, and it’s all th

easier for me to abandon it to them sincou tell me they have eight more the

don’t know what to do with. Before you

visit, I already had the impression tha

he case didn’t have anything to do withe police, and your presence her

makes me sure of it.”



Despite his interlocutor’s eviden

prejudice, Wallas insists: the victim’

relatives and friends could b

questioned. But Laurent has no hopes ofinding out anything useful from thi

quarter either:

“It appears that Dupont led aextremely solitary life, shut up with hi

books and his old housekeeper. H

seldom went out and received only rar

visits. Did he have any friends? As forelatives, there seem to be none, excep

for his wife “

Wallas shows his surprise:

“He had a wife? Where was she a

he time of the crime?”



“I don’t know. Dupont was marrie

only a few years; his wife was muc

ounger than he and probably couldn

endure his hermit’s life. They separateright away. But they still saw each othe

now and then, apparently; by all mean

ask her what she was doing last night a

seven-thirty.”

“You’re not saying that seriously?”

“Certainly I am. Why not? She knewhe house and her ex-husband’s habit

well; so she had more opportunities tha

anyone else to commit this murde

discreetly. And since she was entitled texpect a considerable inheritance fro

him, she’s one of the few people I know

of who could have any interest in seein



him dead.”

“Then why didn’t you mention he

o me?”

“You told me that he was the victi

of a political assassination!”

“She could have played her part it anyway.”

“Of course. Why not?”

Commissioner Laurent has resumehis jocular tone. He says with a half

smile:

“Maybe it’s the housekeeper whkilled him and made up all the rest wit

he help of Doctor Juard, whos

reputation—let me tell you in passing—

s not so good.”



“That seems rather unlikely,

Wallas observes.

“Even altogether unlikely, but yo

know that never kept anyone from bein

a suspect.”

Wallas feels that this irony is in ba

aste. Furthermore, he realizes he wilnot learn much from this official, jealou

of his authority but determined to d

nothing. Isn’t Laurent really trying twash his hands of the whole affair? O

else would he like to discourage hi

rivals in order to make his ow

nvestigation? Wallas stands up to sagood-bye; he will visit this doctor first

Laurent shows him where he is to b

found:



“The Juard Clinic, eleven Rue d

Corinthe. It’s on the other side of th

prefecture, not far from here.”

“I thought,” Wallas says, “that th

newspaper said ‘a nearby clinic’?”

Laurent makes a cynical gesture:

“Oh, you know the papers! Besides

t’s not so far from the Rue de

Arpenteurs.”

Wallas writes down the address i

his notebook.

“There is even one paper,” th

commissioner adds, “that mixed up thfirst names and announced the death o

Albert Dupont, one of the biggest woo

exporters in the city. He must have bee



quite surprised to read his obituary thi

morning!”

Laurent has stood up too. He wink

as he says:

“After all, I haven’t seen the body

maybe it is Albert Du-pont’s.”

This idea amuses him enormously

his overfed body shakes from fits o

aughter. Wallas smiles politely. Th

chief commissioner catches his breatand holds out his hand amiably.

“If I hear anything new,” he says

“I’ll let you know. What hotel are yostaying at?”

“I’ve taken a room in a café, Ru

des Arpenteurs, a few steps away fro



he house itself.”

“You have! Who told you abou

hat?”

“No one; I found it by chance. It’

number ten.”

“Is there a telephone?”“Yes, I think so.”

“Well, I’ll find it in the book if

have anything to tell you.”

Without waiting. Laurent begin

eafing quickly through the phone book

icking his index finger.“Arpenteurs, here we are. Numbe

en: Café des Allies?”

“Yes, that’s the one.”



“Telephone: two-zero-two-zero

hree. But it’s not a hotel.”

“No,” Wallas says, “they only ren

out a few rooms.”

Laurent goes to a shelf and picks ou

a ledger. After a moment of fruitles

search, he asks:

“That’s strange, they’re no

registered; are there many rooms?”

“No, I don’t think so,” Walla

answers. “You see, your facts aren’t s

exact after all!”

A broad smile lights up the chiecommissioner’s face.

“On the contrary, you have t

admire our resources,” he says. “Th



first person to sleep in this café comes t

ell me about it himself, without eve

giving the landlord a chance!”

“Why the first person? Suppose th

murderer had slept there last night, wha

would you know about it?”

“The landlord would havregistered him and reported to me, a

he’ll do for you—he has until noon.”

“And if he doesn’t?” Wallas asks.

“Well, in that case, we would hav

o admire your perspicacity in havin

found the only clandestine roominhouse in town so quickly. It would eve

be bad for you in the long run; you’d b

he first serious suspect I’ve found



recently arrived in town, living twent

ards from the scene of the crime, an

completely unknown to the police!”

“But I only arrived last night, a

eleven!” Wallas protests.

“If you weren’t registered, wha

proof would there be?”

“At the time the crime wa

committed, I was a hundred kilometer

from here; that can be verified.”

“Of course! Don’t good murderer

always have an alibi?”

Laurent sits down again behind hidesk and considers Wallas with

smiling expression. Then he suddenl

asks:



“Do you have a revolver?”

“Yes,” Wallas answers. “This time

ook one, on the advice of my chief.”

“What for?”

“You never know.”

“Right, you never know. Would yoshow it to me please?”

Wallas hands him the gun, a 7.6

millimeter automatic revolver, common model. Laurent examines

carefully, after having removed the clip

Finally, without looking at Wallas, h

says in the tone of an obvious comment:

“One bullet’s missing.”

He hands the weapon back to it



owner. Then, very quickly, he clasps hi

hands, separates the palms thoug

keeping the fingers interlaced, brings hi

wrists together again and rubs hihumbs against each other. The hand

separate and stretch; each doubles ove

with a faint clapping sound, opens onc

more and finally comes to rest on th

desk, lying flat, the fingers spread apar

at regular intervals.

“Yes, I know,” Wallas answers.

In making room for his ledgers, th

commissioner has shifted the dossier

hat cover his desk, thereby causing thpiece of grayish eraser to reappear, a

nk eraser probably, whose poor qualit

s betrayed by several worn, slightl



shiny places.



5

Once the door is closed, th

commissioner walks slowly back to hichair. He rubs his hands wit

satisfaction. So it is Roy-Dauzet wh

has had the body taken away! This kin

of conspiracy story is worthy of the ol

unatic’s grotesque imagination. An

now he is sending his clan of secre

agents and detectives all over th



country—even the great Fabius and hi

consorts.

Political crime? That, of course

would explain the complete failure o

his own investigation—in any case it i

a good excuse—but Laurent greatl

distrusts the minister’s tendency thysterical storytelling, so that he i

delighted to see others besides himsel

set foot on this dangerous path. He ha

no difficulty imagining the mess thewill be getting into: it is apparent, t

begin with, that the confidential agen

sent to the scene of the crime hadnheard of the hasty transfer of the body t

he capital—his surprise was not mad

up. He seems full of good will, thi

Wallas; but what could he do with it



Besides, just what is his job anyway

He has not been very talkative; wha

does he really know about thes

“terrorists”? Nothing probably; and witgood reason! Or has he been give

orders to keep quiet? Maybe Fabius

who is the best sleuth in Europe, prove

o him that Laurent himself was in th

gang’s pay? You have to expect anythin

from these geniuses.

First of all, they operate as if theichief concern is to see the police sto

heir investigations (that was what the

were most anxious about, they eveordered him to abandon the hous

without so much as sealing it o

stationing a man there, even though th

old servant who is still there alone doe



not seem to have all her wits about her

and then they pretend to come and as

his advice. Well, they will have t

continue to get along without him.

Before sitting down, th

commissioner straightens up his desk

ittle; he puts back the phone bookreplaces the loose sheets in the dossiers

The one marked “Dupont” joins the left

hand pile, that of closed cases. Lauren

rubs his hands again and repeats thimself: “Perfect!”

***

But a little later, when Laurent i

finishing his mail, the man on dut

announces Doctor Juard. What does thi

one want now! Can’t they leave him i



peace about this case he’s not eve

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 th

death of this unfortunate Dupont. I’Doctor Juard.”

“Of course, Doctor, but we’v

already worked together once, if mmemory doesn’t deceive me?”

“Oh, ‘worked’!” the little docto

says modestly. “My cooperation was snsignificant. I didn’t think you woul

even remember it.”

“We’ve all done what we could



Doctor,” the commissioner says.

After a slight pause, the docto

continues, as though reluctantly:

“I sent you a death certificate, but

hought you might want to see m

anyway. …”

He stops. Laurent watches hi

calmly, his hands lying on the des

which he absent-mindedly taps with on

finger.

“Of course, Doctor, I’m glad yo

did,” he says at last.

This is a purely formaencouragement. Doctor Juard i

beginning to regret having rushed here s

soon, instead of waiting until the polic



sent for him. He wipes his glasses t

gain time, and continues with a sigh:

“All the same, I don’t know what

could tell you about this strange crime.”

If he has nothing to say, why has h

come? He has preferred to come of hi

own accord rather than seem to be afraiof questioning. He thought we wer

going to ask him specific details—fo

which he has prepared himself—annow we’re letting him get out of it b

himself, as if he were the one in th

wrong.

“Why ‘strange’?” the commissione

asks.

He doesn’t think it’s strange. It’s th



doctor he thinks strange, sitting ther

stringing out his empty phrases instea

of simply saying what he knows. Wha

he knows about what? He hasn’t beecalled to give evidence. He has bee

particularly afraid that the police woul

come and rummage through his clinic

hat’s why he’s here.

“I mean: out of the ordinary; ther

aren’t murders in our city very often

And it’s extremely rare that a burglamaking his way into an inhabited hous

should be so upset at the sight of th

owner that he feels it necessary to shoohim.”

Another thing that has kept him fro

staying home is his need to find ou



exactly what the others know and don

know.

“You say ‘a burglar’?” Laurent ask

n surprise; “did he take anything?”

“Not that I know of.”

“If he didn’t steal anything, he’s noa burglar.”

“You’re playing with words

Monsieur,” the little doctor insists: “h

probably had every intention o

stealing.”

“Oh, ‘intention’! You’re moving

ittle too fast.”

Fortunately the commissione

decides to say something and asks:



“It was the housekeeper who calle

ou, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, old Madame Smite.”

“Didn’t you think it was odd tha

she should call in a gynecologist to tak

care of a wounded man?”

“Good lord, Monsieur, I’m

surgeon; I performed many suc

operations during the war. Dupont knew

t: we had been friends since college.”

“Oh, Daniel Dupont was you

friend? I’m sorry, Doctor.”

Juard makes an almost protestingesture:

“Let’s not exaggerate; we knew

each other for a long time, that’s all.”



Laurent continues:

“You went to get the victim b

ourself?”

“Yes, I didn’t want to take a

orderly: I have a very small staff. Poo

Dupont didn’t seem in any danger

Madame Smite and I were able to holhim up, going down the stairs…”

“Then he could still walk? Didn

ou say, last night, that he waunconscious?”

“No, Monsieur, I certainly did not

When I arrived, the wounded man wawaiting for me on his bed; he spoke t

me and because he was so insistent,

agreed to take him without a stretcher, s



as to lose as little time as possible. I

was during the trip in the car that h

suddenly grew weaker. Up till then h

assured me that it was nothing seriousbut at that moment I realized that hi

heart had been touched. I operate

mmediately: the bullet had lodged in th

wall of die ventricle, he could hav

recovered from that. The heart stoppe

when I performed the extraction; all m

efforts to revive him remained useless.”The doctor sighs, with a look o

great exhaustion.

“Perhaps,” the commissioner says“there was some cardiac difficulty t

complicate matters?”

But the practitioner shakes his head



“You can’t be sure: a normal ma

can succumb to a wound of that type too

Actually, it’s a matter of luck.”

“Tell me, Doctor,” Laurent ask

after a moment’s thought, “can yo

suggest at about what distance from th

body the shot was fired?”“Five yards…ten?” Juard say

evasively. “It’s difficult to give an exac

figure.”“In any case,” the commissione

concludes, “for a bullet fired by a ma

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 mor

questions. If he hasn’t telephoned th

police at once, it is because the phone i

Dupont’s house was out of order; an

once he reached the clinic, the wounde

man’s condition gave him nopportunity. It was from a nearby caf

hat Madame Smite had called him. No

he doesn’t know the name of this café

He also confirms the removal of thbody by the police van, and hands th

commissioner, in conclusion, the onl

piece of evidence he has left: a tiny balof tissue paper….

“I’ve brought you the bullet,” h

says.



Laurent thanks him. The polic

magistrate will probably need th

doctor’s testimony.

They separate after a few mor

friendly words.

Laurent stares at the tiny cone of blac

metal, a 7.65 projectile that could just a

well have come from Wallas’ pistol a

from any weapon of the same type. Ionly the cartridge shell had been foun

oo.

This Doctor Juard certainly hasomething suspicious about him. Th

first time Laurent had any dealing wit

him, he could not quite dismiss thi



mpression: the doctor’s embarrasse

phrases, his peculiar explanations, hi

reticence had finally made Lauren

suspect some sort of intrigue. He seenow that this is the man’s norma

behavior. Is it his glasses that give hi

hat shifty look? Or his deferentia

politeness? If Fabius saw him, he woul

unhesitatingly classify him among th

accomplices 1 Hasn’t Laurent himsel

nstinctively tried to unsettle him furtheby disconcerting questions? The poo

wretch didn’t need any such treatmen

hough: the simplest words, in his mouth

assume an equivocal quality.

“. .. My cooperation was s

nsignificant….”



What was surprising if peopl

alked about his professional activities

Perhaps, today, he is also affected by th

death of one of his friends under his owscapel. Heart disease! Why not?

“Chance…”

Chance, for the second time, puthis little doctor in a rather curiou

situation. Laurent will not be completel

satisfied until the capital sends on thcoroner’s conclusions. If Dupont ha

committed suicide, a specialist can tel

hat the shot was fired at close range

Juard has realized this and is trying, ouof friendship, to convince Laurent tha

Dupont was murdered. He has com

here to decide what effect hi



declarations have produced; he is afrai

hat the body—even after the operatio

—might betray the truth. He i

apparently unaware that the police vahas removed it to another destination.

He is a truly loyal friend. Didn’t he

ast night, “out of respect for thdeceased,” request that the press no

make too much fuss over thi

“sensational incident!” Besides, he ha

nothing to fear: the morning papers coulnsert only a last minute brief account; a

for the evening papers, they will hav

plenty of time to receive the group’orders. Although a professor and livin

quietly, Daniel Dupont belonged to tha

section of the industrial and mercantil

bourgeoisie that does not like to see it



ife, or its death, discussed in th

marketplace. Now no newspaper in th

whole country could flatter itself that

was completely independent of thiclass; with all the more reason in thi

provincial city, where their omnipoten

nfluence seemed to have no flaws

Shipowners, paper manufacturers, woo

exporters, spinning-mill owners, all joi

hands to protect identical interests

Dupont—it was true—denounced thweaknesses of their system in his books

but that was more a question of advic

han attack, and even the ones who di

not listen to him respected the professor

Political crime? Did this withdraw

figure exert the occult influence som

attributed to him? Even if it were so, yo



would have to be a Roy-Dauzet t

construct such absurd hypotheses:

murder every day at the same hour…

Luckily, this time he has not confided hihallucinations to the regular police

Laurent still has a bad memory of th

minister’s last whim: large quantities o

arms and munitions were—he claimed—

being landed daily in the harbor o

behalf of some revolutionar

organization; this traffic would have tbe stopped at once and the guilty partie

arrested! For almost three weeks th

police have exhausted themselves: th

depots minutely inspected, the holdsearched from top to bottom, the crate

opened one by one, the bales of cotto

unpacked (then repacked) because thei



weight was over normal. They ha

picked up, as their entire prize, tw

undeclared revolvers and the huntin

rifle an unfortunate passenger haconcealed in a trunk to avoid payin

customs duty. No one took the matte

seriously, and the police, after a few

days, were the laughingstock of th

own. The chief commissioner is no

about to set off on a wild goose chase o

hat sort so quickly.



6

As he left the police station, Wallas wa

once again seized by that impression oempty-headedness which he had earlie

attributed to the cold. He then decide

hat the long walk on an empty stomac

—which too light a breakfast had no

made up for afterward—also contribute

something to this feeling. To be in

position to think to advantage about th



commissioner’s remarks and to put hi

own ideas in order, Wallas has decide

t would be a good idea to eat a heavie

meal. So he has gone into a restaurant hhad noticed an hour before, where he ha

eaten with a good appetite two eggs an

some ham with toast. At the same time

he has had the waitress explain the mos

convenient way to get to the Rue d

Corinthe. Passing once more in front o

he statue that decorates the Place de lPréfecture, he has approached it to read

on the west side of the pedestal, th

nscription carved in the stone: “Th

Chariot of State—V. Daulis, sculptor.”

He has found the clinic easily, bu

Doctor Juard has just left. The receptio

nurse has asked him the purpose of hi



visit; he has answered that he preferre

o speak to the doctor in person; she ha

hen asked him if he wished to spea

with Madame Juard who—she said—was also a doctor and, besides, was i

charge of the clinic. Wallas ha

explained that he had not come fo

medical reasons. This explanation mad

he nurse smile—for no apparent reaso

—but she has asked nothing further. Sh

did not know when the doctor would bback; it would be best to come bac

ater, or telephone. While she closes th

door behind him, she has murmured

oud enough so Wallas could hear her:

“They’re all the same!”

Wallas has returned to the squar



and walked around the prefecture on th

right side, intending to come out onto th

Boulevard Circulaire near the Rue de

Arpenteurs; but he has lost his way in abyrinth of tiny streets where the sudde

urns and detours have forced him t

walk much longer than was necessary

After crossing a canal, he has finall

reached a familiar neighborhood: th

Rue de Brabant and the imitation bric

buildings of the wood exporters. Durinhis entire course his attention has bee

completely absorbed by his concern t

proceed in the right direction; and when

after crossing the parkway, he has founhimself standing in front of the littl

house surrounded by spindle trees, th

atter has suddenly looked sinister t



him, whereas this morning he had bee

struck, on the contrary by its attractiv

appearance. He has tried to dismiss suc

unreasonable ideas, setting them down tfatigue, and he has decided to take th

streetcar to move around the city fro

now on.

It is at this moment that he ha

realized that, for almost a half-hour, hi

mind had been exclusively preoccupie

by the nurse’s expression and tonepolite but apparently full of doubl

meanings. She almost looked as thoug

she supposed he wanted a shady docto—for God knows what reason.

***

Wallas follows the hedge, behind th



ron fence, and stops at the gate, wher

he stares for a minute at the front of th

house. There are two windows on th

ground floor, three upstairs, one owhich (on the left) is partly open.

Contrary to his expectation, no bel

sounds when he opens the gate anwalks into the garden. He closes th

gate, follows the gravel path, and walk

up the four steps to the door. He presse

he bell; a distant ring answers. In thcenter of the varnished oak door is

rectangular window protected by a

elaborate grillwork: something likntertwined flower stems, with long

supple leaves…it might also represen

wisps of smoke….



After a few seconds, Wallas ring

again. Since no one comes to open th

door, he glances through the littl

window—but without being able tmake out anything inside. Then he look

up toward the second-story windows

An old woman is leaning just far enoug

out of the left one to catch sight of him.

“Who do you want?” she cries whe

she realizes she has been seen. “N

one’s here. You’d better leave, younman.”

Her tone is suspicious and cold, bu

nevertheless something about it hints ahe possibility of getting around her

Wallas assumes his most agreeabl

manner:



“You’re Madame Smite, aren

ou?”

“What did you say?”

“You’re Madame Smite, aren

ou?” he repeats, somewhat louder.

This time she answers as if she haunderstood long before:

“Yes, of course! What do you wan

Madame Smite fori” And withou

waiting she adds in her shrill voice: “I

t’s for the telephone, I can tell you now

hat you’ve come too late, young man

here’s no one here any more!”“No, Madame, that’s not what it’

about. I’d like to talk to you.”

“I don’t have time to stay and talk



’m packing my things.”

Wallas is shouting now, b

contagion and almost as loudly as th

old woman. He insists:

“Listen, Madame Smite, I only wan

o ask you for a little information.”

The old woman still does not see

o have made up her mind to let him in

He has stepped back so that she can se

him more easily: his respectable clothecertainly count in his favor. And finall

he housekeeper declares, befor

disappearing into the room: “I can

understand a word you’re saying, youn

man. I’ll come down.”

But quite a while passes, an



nothing at all happens. Wallas is on th

point of calling, fearing she has forgotte

all about him, when suddenly th

window in the front door opens withouhis having heard the slightest noise in th

hall, and the old woman’s face presse

up against the grill.

“So you’re here for the telephone

are you?” she shrieks stubbornly (an

ust as loudly, though she is now si

nches from her interlocutor). “Thamakes a week we’ve been waiting fo

ou, young man! You’re not coming fro

an asylum, at least, like the one lasnight?”

Wallas is somewhat baffled.

“Well, I…” he begins, supposin



she’s referring to the clinic, “I stoppe

by there but…”

The old housekeeper interrupts hi

at once, outraged:

“What? Does the company hire onl

unatics? And you’ve probably stoppe

n every café on the way too, before yogot here, haven’t you?”

Wallas remains calm. Laurent ha

suggested that the woman sometimesaid funny things; still, he did not thin

she was this crazy. He will have t

explain the matter to her carefully

articulating each word so she ca

understand what he is saying:

“No, listen, Madame, you’re makin



a mistake “

But Wallas suddenly remembers th

wo cafés he was in this morning—an

he one he has slept in as well; these ar

facts he cannot deny, although he doe

not see why he should be blamed fo

hem. Besides, why should he bothehimself about these grotesqu

accusations?

“It’s a misunderstanding. It’s not thcompany that’s sending me.” (That, a

east, he can state without any ambiguit

whatever.)

“Then what’s this all about, youn

man?” the suspicious face replies.

An interrogation is not going to b



easy under these conditions! Probabl

her employer’s murder has unsettled th

housekeeper’s mind.

“I told you I’m not here for th

elephone,” Wallas repeats, forcin

himself to be patient.

“Well,” she exclaims, “you donhave to shout so loud, you know. I’m no

deaf!” She reads lips, obviously. “And i

ou’re not here for the telephone, there’no use talking.”

Preferring not to bring up th

subject again, Wallas quickly explain

he purpose of his visit. To his grea

surprise, he makes himself understoo

without the slightest difficulty: Madam

Smite agrees to let him come in. Bu



nstead of opening the door, she remain

staring at him, behind the grill that hal

conceals her face. Through the openin

n the window which she is about tclose again, she remarks, finally, with

ouch of reproach (shouldn’t he hav

known about it long since?):

“Not through this door, young man

t’s too hard to open. You can wal

around to the back.”

And the window closes with

click. As he walks down the steps to th

gravel path, Wallas feels her eyes fixe

on him from the darkness of the hall.

evertheless old Anna hurries towar



he kitchen. This gentleman has a nice

ook about him than the two who cam

ast night, with their red faces and thei

big boots. They went all over the placo do their dirty work and did not eve

isten to what they were told. She had t

keep a close watch over them, for fea

hey might take something; their look

did not inspire much confidence. What i

hey were accomplices who had come t

ook for what the thief had not been ablo steal when he ran away? This on

ooks less shrewd—and keeps gettin

mixed up in a lot of nonsense befor

coming to the point—but certainly he ibetter brought up. Monsieur Dupon

always wanted her to let people i

hrough the front door. The locks are to



complicated. Now that he is dead, the

can just as well walk around.

Wallas arrives at the little glass door th

commissioner has mentioned to him. H

knocks on a pane with his forefinge

doubled up. Since the old housekeepehas disappeared again, he tries to tur

he handle; the door is not locked. H

pushes it open, it creaks on its hingesike the door in an abandoned house—

haunted maybe—where each movemen

provokes a flight of owls and bats. Bu

once the door is closed, no rustle owings disturbs the silence. Wallas take

a few hesitant steps; his eyes, growin

used to the dimness, glances around th



woodwork, the complicated moldings

he brass column at the foot of th

staircase, the carpets, everything tha

constituted the ornaments of a bourgeoiresidence early in the century.

Wallas starts, suddenly hearin

Madame Smite’s voice calling him frohe end of the hallway. He turns aroun

and sees the figure silhouetted agains

he glass door. For a second he has th

mpression that he has just been caughn a trap.

t is the kitchen she has asked him t

come into, a lifeless kitchen that look

ike a model: the stove perfectl

polished, the paint spotless, a row o



copper pots fastened to the wall, and s

well-scrubbed no one would dare us

hem. There is no suggestion of the dail

preparation of meals; the few objecthat are not shut away in the cupboard

seem fixed forever ia their places on th

shelves.

The old lady, dressed in black, i

almost elegant despite her felt slippers

besides, this is the only detail tha

ndicates she is at home here and novisiting an empty house. She tells Walla

o sit down opposite her and begin

mmediately:“Well, it’s some story!”

But her loud voice, instead o

sounding distressed, seems to Walla



ike a clumsy exclamation in a play. H

would swear, now, that the row of pot

s painted on the wall in trompe-l’oei

The death of Daniel Dupont is no morhan an abstract event being discussed b

dummies.

“He’s dead, isn’t he?” thhousekeeper shrieks, so loudly tha

Wallas moves his chair back a few

nches. He is already preparing

sentence expressing his condolences, buwithout leaving him time to get it ou

she continues, leaning a little closer t

him: “Well, I’m going to tell you, mboy, I’m going to tell you who kille

him, so listen to me!”

“You know who killed Dupont?



Wallas asks, flabbergasted.

“It’s that Doctor Juard. The on

with the sly face. I went to call hi

myself because—it’s true—I wa

forgetting to tell you: they cut th

elephone wires here. Yes! Since the da

before yesterday…no, even before that’m losing track now. What is

oday…Monday…”

“Tuesday,” Wallas corrects timidly.“What did you say?”

“Today is Tuesday,” Wallas repeats

She moves her lips as she watchehim talk, then squints incredulously. Bu

she continues: you have to make suc

concessions to stubborn children.



“All right, say Tuesday. Well, as

was saying, the telephone hasn’t bee

working since…Sunday, Saturday

Friday…”

“Madame, are you saying it wa

Doctor Juard who murdered Danie

Dupont?” Wallas interrupts.“Of course that’s what I’m saying

oung man! Besides, everyone know

he’s a murderer; go out and ask anyonn the street. Oh, I’m sorry now I eve

istened to Monsieur Dupont; he insiste

on Doctor Juard—he had his notions

ou know, and he never paid anattention to whatever I might think o

hem. Well, people are what they are

’m not going to start speaking ill of hi



now.…I was here, washing the dishe

after dinner, when I heard him call m

from upstairs; when I passed, I notice

he door had been opened—the one youst came in. Monsieur Dupont was o

he landing—and as alive as you or I

ou know—only he had his left ar

against his chest and a little blood on hi

hand. He was holding his revolver in th

other hand. I had a terrible time gettin

rid of the little bloodstains he made omy carpet, and it took me at least tw

hours to clean the bedspread where

found him lying when I came back—

when I came back from telephoning. It’not easy to get off, you know; luckily, h

wasn’t bleeding much. He told me: ‘It’

ust a flesh wound in my arm; don



worry, it’s nothing serious.’ I wanted t

ake care of him myself, but he didn’t le

me, stubborn as he was—I told you—

and I had to go call that miserable doctowho took him away in a car. He didn

even want me to hold him up, comin

down the stairs! But when I got to th

clinic early this morning to take him

change of linen, they suddenly told me h

was dead. ‘Heart failure’ that murdere

old me! And he wasn’t any prouder thahat, no indeed, young man. I didn’t mak

a fuss; still, I’d like to know who kille

him if it wasn’t that Doctor Juard! Fo

once in his life, Monsieur Dupont woulhave done better to listen to me …”

It is almost a note of triumph tha

sounds in the old woman’s voice. Mos



ikely her master kept her from talking

so as not to be deafened by that terribl

voice; now she’s trying to make up for it

Wallas attempts to put some order in thiflood of words. Madame Smite

apparently, has been more disturbed b

he bloodstains she had to wash off tha

by her employer’s wound. She has no

checked whether it was really his ar

hat had been hit: moreover, Dupont ha

not let her get too close a look; and thblood on his hand does not prove much

He was wounded in the chest and did no

want to terrify his housekeeper b

admitting it. In order to deceive her, heven managed to stand up and walk t

he ambulance; it may even have bee

his effort that finished him off. Th



doctor, in any case, should not have le

him do it. Obviously it is the doctor wh

must be questioned.

“Juard Clinic. Gynecology. Maternit

Home.” The nurse who opened the doo

did not even tell him to come in; she wastanding in the opening of the door

ready to close it again: like a guardia

afraid that some stranger would try tforce his way in, but at the same time sh

nsisted on keeping him:

“And what is it you wish

Monsieur?”

“I wanted to speak to the doctor.”

“Madame Juard is in her office—



t’s always Madame Juard who receive

our clients.”

“But I’m not a client. I must see th

doctor in person.”

“Madame Juard is a doctor too

Monsieur. She is in charge of the clinic

so of course she’s in touch with alhe…”

When he finally told her that he ha

no need of the clinic’s services, shstopped talking, as though she had foun

out what she wanted; and she looked a

him with the vaguely superior smile o

someone who knew perfectly well wha

he wanted from the start. Her politenes

assumed a nuance of impertinence:



“No, Monsieur, he didn’t say whe

he was coming back. Don’t you want t

eave your name?”

“It’s no use, my name won’t mea

anything to him.”

He had distinctly heard: “They’r

all the same!”

“…that murderer told me…”

On the hallway carpet downstairs

he old woman shows him the scarcel

perceptible traces of five or six spots o

something. Wallas asks if the inspector

who came the evening before took thvictim’s revolver with them.

“Certainly not!” Madame Smit

exclaims. “You don’t suppose I let thos



wo loot the house? I put it back in hi

drawer. He might have needed it again.”

Wallas would like to see it. Sh

eads him into the bedroom: rather

arge room, of the same impersonal an

old-fashioned comfort as the rest of th

house, stuffed with hangings, curtainsand carpets. A complete silence mus

have reigned in this house, wher

everything is arranged to muffle th

slightest sound. Did Dupont wear feslippers too? How did he manage t

speak to his deaf servant without raisin

his voice? Habit probably. Wallanotices that the bedspread has bee

changed—it could not have been cleane

so perfectly. Everything is as neat an

orderly as if nothing had ever happened



Madame Smite opens the night tabl

drawer and hands Wallas a pistol h

recognizes at first glance: it is the sam

model as his own, a serious weapon foself-defense, not a plaything. He take

out the clip and notices that one bulle

has already been fired.

“Did Monsieur Dupont shoot at th

man running away?” he asks, although h

knows the answer in advance: when Du

pont came back with his revolver, thmurderer had disappeared. Walla

would like to show the gun t

Commissioner Laurent, but thhousekeeper hesitates about letting hi

ake it, then she gives in with a shrug:

“Take it with you, young man. Wha



use is it here now?”

“I’m not asking you for a present

This pistol is a piece of evidence, yo

understand?”

“Take it, I tell you, since you want

so much.”

“And you don’t know if you

employer had used it before, fo

something else?”

“What do you think he would use

for, young man? Monsieur Dupont wa

not a man to shoot off his revolver in th

house to amuse himself. No, thank GodHe had his faults, but…” Wallas puts th

pistol in his overcoat pocket.



The housekeeper leaves her visitor; sh

has nothing else to tell him: her lat

employer’s difficult character, th

strenuous washing of the bloodstains, thcriminal doctor, the continuin

negligence of the telephone company…

She has already repeated all this severa

imes; now she has to finish packing he

suitcases in order not to miss the tw

o’clock train that will take her to he

daughter’s. It is not a very nice time ohe year to be going to the country; stil

she has to hurry. Wallas looks at hi

watch: it still shows seven-thirty. I

Dupont’s bedroom, the bronze clock ohe mantelpiece, between the empt

candlesticks, had also stopped.

Yielding to the special agent’



urging, Madame Smite finally admits tha

she is supposed to give the house keys t

he police; somewhat reluctantly sh

gives him the key to the back door. Hwill close it himself when he leaves

The housekeeper will leave by the fron

door, for she also has the keys for it. A

for the garden gate, the lock has not bee

working for a long time. Wallas remain

alone in the study. Dupont lived in thi

iny room, he left it only to sleep and take his meals, at noon and at seven a

night. Wallas approaches the desk; th

nspectors appear to have left everythin

as it was: on the blotter is lying the sheeof paper on which Dupont had writte

only four words so far: “which can no

prevent…”—”…death…” obviously



That is the word he was looking fo

when he went downstairs to eat.



CHAPTER TWO



1

t is certainly the sound of footsteps

footsteps on the stairs, coming closerSomeone is coming up. Someone i

coming up slowly—no: carefully

perhaps cautiously? Holding on to th

banister, judging from the sound

Someone who becomes breathless fro

a climb which is too stiff for him or wh

s tired from having come a lon



distance. They are a man’s footsteps, bu

deliberate, muffled by the carpet—

which gives them, at moments

something of a timorous or clandestinquality.

But this impression does not last. A

closer range, the footsteps sounspontaneous, uninhibited: the footstep

of a relaxed man peacefully climbing th

stairs.

The last three steps are taken mor

vigorously, probably in haste to reac

he landing. The man is in front of th

door now; he stops a moment to catchis breath…

( … one knock, three short quic

knocks…)



But he does not remain there mor

han a few seconds and begins to clim

he next flight. The steps die awa

oward the top of the building.

It was not Garinati.

It is ten o’clock, though: Garinat

should be coming. He should even havbeen here over a minute ago; he’s lat

already. Those footsteps on the stair

should have been his.He walks upstairs somewhat in tha

way, but he makes even less noise

hough setting his feet down more firmly

step after step without any particula

attention, without the least…

No! It’s impossible to involv



Garinati in this business any longer

after tonight, someone else will have t

replace him at his job. For a few days a

east he will have to be kept under coveand watched; afterward, maybe, h

could be given some new job, but on

without any serious risks.

For several days he has seeme

somewhat tired. He complained o

headaches; and once or twice, he sai

peculiar things. During the last meetinhe even went so far as to be downrigh

difficult: uneasy, hypersensitive

constantly asking about details lonsince settled, and more than once raisin

unreasonable objections and turnin

sullen if they were rejected too quickly.



His work has suffered from it

Daniel Dupont did not die immediatel

—every report confirms this. It does no

matter really, since he died all the samand, what’s more, “without regainin

consciousness”; but from the point o

view of the plan, there is somethin

rregular about it: Dupont did no

actually die at the time his death wa

scheduled for. Without any doubt, it i

Garinati’s exaggerated nervousness thas responsible. Afterward he did no

come to the prescribed meeting place

Finally, this morning, despite the writte

order, he is late. No question about it, hs not the same man any more.



Jean Bonaventure—called “Bona”—i

sitting on a garden chair, in the middle o

an empty room. Beside him, a leathe

briefcase is lying on the floor—a pinfloor distinguished by no particula

quality save an obvious lack of care

The walls, on the other hand, ar

covered with a paper in good condition

f not new: tiny multicolored bouquet

uniformly decorating a pearl-gra

background. The ceiling too haobviously been whitewashed recently; i

he center, a wire hangs down with a

electric light bulb at the end.

A square window without curtain

provides what light there is. Two doors

both wide open, lead into a darker roo

on one side, and on the other into a littl



hall to the entrance door of th

apartment. There is not a stick o

furniture in this room except for tw

wrought-iron chairs painted the usuadark green. Bona is sitting on one; th

other, facing him, about six feet away

remains empty.

Bona is not dressed for sittin

ndoors. His overcoat is tightly buttone

up to the collar, his hands are gloved

and he keeps his hat on.

He is waiting, motionless on thi

uncomfortable chair, bolt upright, hi

hands crossed on his knees, his feeriveted to the floor, betraying n

mpatience. He is looking straight ahea

at the little spots left by the raindrops o



he windowpanes and, beyond, over th

huge blue-glazed window of th

factories on the other side of the street

at the irregular buildings of the suburbsrising in waves toward a grayish horizo

bristling with chimneys and pylons.

Usually this landscape has littlrelief and looks rather unattractive, bu

his morning the grayish yellow sky o

snowy days gives it unaccustome

dimensions. Certain outlines aremphasized, others are blurred; here an

here distances open out, unsuspecte

masses appear; the whole view iorganized into a series of plane

silhouetted against one another, so tha

he depth, suddenly illuminated, seems t

ose its natural look—and perhaps it



reality—as if this over-exactitude wer

possible only in a painting. Distance

are so affected that they becom

virtually unrecognizable, without being possible to say in just what wa

hey are transformed: extended o

elescoped—or both at once—unles

hey have acquired a new quality that ha

more to do with geometry… Sometime

his happens to lost cities, petrified b

some cataclysm for centuries—or onlfor a few seconds before their collapse

a wink of hesitation between life an

what already bears another name: after

before, eternity.

Bona watches. Eyes calm, h

contemplates his work. He is waiting

He has just astounded the city. Danie



Dupont died, yesterday, murdered

Tonight, at the same hour, an identica

crime will echo this scandal, finall

wrenching the police from their routinehe papers from their silence. In a week

he organization has already sow

anxiety in every corner of the country

but the powers that be still pretend t

regard these acts as unconnecte

accidents of no importance. It will tak

his highly unlikely coincidence that ibeing prepared to set off the panic.

Bona cocks his ears. The footstep

have stopped in front of his door.A pause. No one.

Lightly, but distinctly, the agreed

upon signal is given…a faint knock



hree quick, almost imperceptibl

knocks, a faint knock….

“We won’t talk about it any more, now

hat it’s settled.”

But Garinati does not quitunderstand the meaning of these words

he insists: he will begin again, and thi

ime he will not make any mistakes

Finally the admission escapes him: hwill put out the light, if this precaution i

ndispensable, although from anothe

point of view…”

“You didn’t put it out?” Bona asks.

“I couldn’t. Dupont came bac

upstairs too soon. I barely had time t



recognize things around me.”

“But you saw him come down, an

ou went up right after that?”

“I had to wait until the old woma

eft the kitchen too.”

Bona says nothing. Garinati is eveguiltier than he thought. It is fear tha

made him confuse his actions, as it i

making him confuse his words now:

“I went up right away. He probabl

wasn’t hungry. I couldn’t see in the dar

either, could I? But I’ll start over, an

his time…”He stops, seeking encouragemen

from his chief’s stern face. Why ha

Bona suddenly abandoned the friendl



one he had been using the last few days

That stupid detail of the light switch i

only an excuse….

“You should have turned out th

ight,” Bona says.

“I’ll go back, I’ll turn out the light

’ll go tonight.”

“Tonight is someone else’s job.”

“No, it’s my job: it’s my job t

finish the job I started.”

“You don’t know what you’r

saying, Garinati. What are you talkin

about?”

“I’ll go back to the house. Or I’ll g

find him wherever he’s hiding. I’ll fin

him and I’ll kill him.”



Bona stops examining the horizon t

stare at his interlocutor.

“You said you’ll kill Daniel Dupon

now?”

“I swear I will!”

“Don’t swear anything, Garinatit’s too late.”

“It’s never…”

It’s never too late. The failurautomatically goes back to the startin

point for the second try… The hands g

once around the dial and the condemne

man makes his theatrical gestures againpointing to his chest once more: “Ai

for the heart, soldiers!” And again…

“Don’t you read the papers?” Bon



asks.

He leans over to look for somethin

n his briefcase. Garinati takes th

folded newspapers that is handed to hi

and reads the first paragraph his eye

focus on:

“A daring burglar made his way anightfall yesterday…” He reads slowly

carefully; when he reaches the end, h

starts over to be sure he has not misseanything: “A daring burglar…” He look

up at Bona, who is staring over his head

without smiling.

Garinati reads the article throug

once again. He says in a low voice:

“He’s dead. Of course. I had turne



out the light.”

All right, this man is crazy.

“It must be a mistake,” Garinati says. “

only wounded him.”

“He died of it. You’re lucky.”

“Maybe this newspaper’s made

mistake?”

“Don’t worry: I have my ow

nformants. Daniel Dupont is dead—

ittle late, that’s all.”

After a pause, Bona adds lesseverely:

“After all, you did kill him.”



The way you throw a dog a bone.

Garinati tries to make Bona explain

he is not convinced; he wants to tel

about his reservations. But his chie

soon wearies of this weak man’

“probablys” and “maybes”:

“All right, that’s enough. We wonalk about it any more, now that it’

settled.”

“Did you find the man named Wallas?”

“I know where he spent the night.”

“What is he doing this morning?”

“This morning, I had to…”

“You’ve let him get away. And yo



haven’t picked up his trail?”

“I had to come here and…”

“You were late. Anyway you haseveral hours to do it in. Where do yo

expect to find him now? And when?

Garinati does not know what to answe

any more.

Bona stares at him sternly:

“You were supposed to report to m

ast night. Why didn’t I see you?”

He would like to explain his failurehe light, the fact that he did not hav

ime enough. … But Bona does not giv

him a chance; he interrupts him harshly:



“Why didn’t you come?”

That is just what Garinati was goin

o talk about, but how can you mak

someone understand things if he does no

want to listen to you? Still, he will hav

o start with that light, it is the cause o

everything: Dupont turned it on again tosoon and saw him before he could shoot

so that he did not…

“Now about this Wallas they’ve sent us

what’s he done since he’s been here?”

Garinati tells what he knows: throom in the Café des Allies, Rue de

Arpenteurs; his departure very early thi

morning….



“You’ve let him escape. And yo

haven’t picked up his trail?”

Of course that’s unfair: how coul

he know Wallas would be leaving s

early, and it is not easy to find someon

ou have never seen, in a city this size.

Besides, why bother spying on thipoliceman who cannot do anything mor

han anyone else? Wouldn’t it be bette

o get ready for tonight’s job? But Bonseems reserved; he pretends not to hear

Garinati goes on nevertheless: he want

o make up for his mistake, go back t

Daniel Dupont’s house and kill him.

Bona seems surprised. He stop

staring at the horizon to look at hi

nterlocutor. Then he leans over towar



his briefcase, opens it, and takes out

folded newspaper:

“Don’t you read the papers?”

Garinati holds out his hand withou

understanding.

Even his footsteps have changed: the

are slow, almost sluggish; they have los

heir vitality. They gradually fade awa

down the staircase.

Far away, the same bluish-gra

color as the chimneys and the roofs

blending into them despite slighmovements whose direction, moreover

s difficult to determine because of th

distance, two men—chimneysweep



maybe, or roofers—are preparing for th

early approach of winter.

Downstairs the door to the buildin

can be heard closing.



2

The latch clicks as it falls back int

place; at the same time the door has jusslammed against the jamb and vibrate

noisily, producing unexpected echoes i

he frame as well. But no sooner has

started than this tumult suddenly stops; i

he calm of the street a faint whistle ca

hen be heard—something like a jet o

steam, thin and continuous—whic



probably comes from the factorie

opposite, but so dissolved in the air tha

no precise source could accurately b

attributed to it—so faint, in fact, that might be, after all, just a buzzing in th

ears.

Garinati hestitates in front of thdoor he has just shut behind him. H

does not know in which direction h

will follow this street he is standing i

he middle of, where on one side as ohe other… How can Bona be so sure o

Daniel Dupont’s death? There was no

even any question of arguing about itYet the mistake—or the lie—in th

morning papers is easily explained, an

n any of several ways. Besides, no one

n so serious a matter, would be satisfie



with that kind of information, and it i

obvious that Bona either found out fo

himself or used some informant

Garinati, moreover, knows that hivictim did not seem seriously hurt—tha

he had not, in any case, los

consciousness right away, and that it i

unlikely he did so before help arrived

So then? Did the informants make

mistake? Maybe Bona does not alway

pay enough…Garinati raises his hand to his righ

ear which he covers and release

several times; then he does the samhing to the other ear.…His chief’

conviction still bothers him; he himsel

s not absolutely certain he only hit th

professor on the arm; if the professo



was seriously hurt, he might have bee

able to take a few steps to get away

guided by the instinct of self

preservation, and then collapsed later o…

Again Garinati covers his ears t

get rid of that irritating noise. This timhe uses both hands, which he keep

pressed close to each side of his hea

for a minute.

When he takes them away, th

whistling noise has stopped. He begin

walking, carefully, as if he were afrai

of making the noise start again by somexcessively lively movement. Mayb

Wallas will give him a clue to the riddle

Doesn’t he have to find him anyway? H



has been ordered to. That’s what he ha

o do.

But where to find him? And how t

recognize him? He does not have an

clues, and the city is a big one

evertheless he decides to head towarhe center of town, which means he ha

o turn around.

After a few steps he again findhimself in front of the building he ha

ust left. He raises his hand to his ea

with irritation: will that damned machin

never stop?



3

Wallas, already half turned around, hear

he latch fall back into place; he lets gof the doorknob and looks up at th

house opposite. He immediatel

recognizes, at a third-story window, tha

same net curtain he has noticed severa

imes during his morning walk. I

probably is not very healthy to make

baby drink from the ewe’s teats tha



way: certainly not very sanitary. Behin

he wide mesh of the netting. Walla

glimpses a movement, discerns a figure

someone is watching him and, realizinhe has been seen, gradually moves int

he dark room to keep out of sight. A few

seconds later there is nothing left, in th

window frame, but the two shepherd

carefully bending over the body of th

newborn baby.

Wallas walks along the garden fencoward the bridge, wondering if, in a

apartment building of that size an

nhabited by middle-class people, oncan calculate that there is always at leas

one tenant watching the street. Fiv

floors, two apartments per floor on th

south side, then, on the main floor…I



order to estimate the probable number o

enants, he glances back; he sees th

embroidered net curtain fall bac

—someone had shoved it aside to watchim more easily. If this person ha

remained watching all day lon

esterday, he could be a useful witness

But who would carry curiosity so far a

o watch the comings and goings of som

hypothetical passer-by after dark? Ther

would have to be some specific reaso—suppose his attention had bee

attracted by a scream, or some unusua

sound…or in any way at all.

***

Fabius, having closed the garden gat

behind him, inspects the premises; but h



does not look as if that is what he i

doing: he is an ordinary insurance agen

eaving his client’s house and looking up

at the sky to the right and to the left tsee from what direction the wind i

coming… Suddenly he notices someon

odd watching him behind the curtains a

a third-story window. He immediatel

ooks away, to avoid arousing an

suspicion that he has noticed, and walk

at an ordinary pace toward the parkwayBut once he has crossed the bridge, h

veers right, taking a winding course tha

brings him back, in about an hour, to th

Boulevard Circulaire; without wastinany time he crosses the canal, taking th

footbridge at this point. Then, furtivel

keeping to the base of the houses, h



returns to his point of departure, in fron

of the apartment building at the corner o

he Rue des Arpenteurs.

He walks into it boldly, through th

door that opens onto the canal side, an

knocks at the concierge’s window. He i

representing a shade and blinestablishment; he’d like to have the lis

of tenants whose windows look south

exposing them to the excessive ravage

of the sun: faded rugs, picturesdraperies, or even worse—everyone ha

heard about those masterpieces tha

suddenly explode with a terrible noisehose ancestral portraits that suddenl

begin to run, creating in the bosom of

family that disturbing impression whos

fatal consequences are dissatisfaction



bad humor, quarrels, sickness, death….

“But winter’s coming now,” th

concierge observes judiciously.

That doesn’t matter: Fabius know

hat perfectly well, but he is preparin

his spring campaign, and, besides, th

winter sun that people worry about leass all the more to be feared I

Wallas smiles at this thought. H

crosses the street and turns into thparkway. In front of the main entrance o

he apartment building, a fat man in

blue apron, his face calm and cheerful

s polishing the brass doorknob—th

concierge probably. He turns his hea

oward Wallas, who nods politely i

reply. With a sly wink, the man says:



“If you’re cold, there’s still the bel

o do!”

Wallas laughs pleasantly:

“I’ll leave you that for tomorrow

he good weather seems to be over.”

“The winter’s coming now,” thconcierge answers.

And he begins polishing vigorously

But Wallas wants to take advantagof the man’s good mood to engage i

conversation:

“By the way, do you take care of thother wing of this building too?”

“Yes, of course! You think I’m no

big enough to take care of two bells?”



“It’s not that, but I thought

recognized the face of an old friend o

my mother’s up there, behind th

window. I’d like to go say hello to her iwas sure I wasn’t mistaken. On th

hird floor, the apartment at the end…”

“Madame Bax?” the concierge asks“Yes, that’s right, Madame Bax! S

t was Madame Bax. Funny how thing

happen: yesterday we were talking adinner and we were just wondering wha

had become of her.”

“But Madame Bax isn’t old “

“No, of course not! She’s not at al

old. I said ‘an old friend’ but I didn

mean her age. I think I’ll go up. Yo



don’t suppose she’s too busy?”

“Madame Bax? She’s always glue

o the window watching the street! No

’m sure she’d be delighted to see you.”

And without a moment’s hesitation

he man opens his door wide, then step

aside with an agreeably ceremoniougesture:

“This way, Prince! It doesn’t matter

he two staircases meet. Number twentyfour, on the third floor.”

Wallas thanks him and walks in. Th

concierge follows him in, closes thdoor and goes into his room. He ha

finished his work. He’ll polish the bel

another day.



Wallas is received by a woman o

uncertain age—perhaps still young, i

fact—who, contrary to what h

suspected, shows no surprise at thi

visit.

He simply tells her, showing her hipolice card, that the necessities of

difficult investigation oblige him t

question, at random, all the people in thneighborhood who might provide an

nformation at all. Without asking hi

any questions, she leads him into a roo

crowded with period furniture anndicates a tapestried chair. She hersel

sits down facing him, but some distanc

away, and waits, her hands clasped



ooking at him earnestly.

Wallas begins speaking: a crime ha

been committed the evening before in th

house opposite.…

Her face carefully composed

Madame Bax indicates a slightl

surprised—and pained—interest.

“You don’t read the newspapers?

Wallas asks.

“No, very rarely.”

In saying this, she gives him a

almost mournful half-smile, as if she di

not often have the daily papers at hedisposal or else did not have time t

read them. Her voice is like her face

gentle and faded. Wallas is an ol



relative come to pay a call, on he

visiting day, after a long absence: he i

elling her about the death of a mutua

friend, whose loss she laments witwell-mannered indifference. It is five i

he afternoon. In a little while she wil

offer him a cup of tea.

“It’s a very sad story,” she says.

Wallas, who is not here to receiv

condolences, puts the question in preciserms: the position of her window migh

have allowed her to see or hea

something.

“No,” she says, “I didn’t notic

anything.”

She is very sorry.



Hadn’t she at least noticed som

prowler, some suspicious-looking type

she could identify: a man in the street

for instance, who might have beepaying abnormal attention to the house?

“Oh, Monsieur, no one ever walk

hrough this street.”Many people walk along th

parkway, yes, at certain times: they wal

fast and disappear at once. No oncomes along this street.

“Still,” Wallas says, “someone ha

o come last night.”

“Last night…” It is obvious she i

searching her memory. “Yesterday wa



Monday?”

“It might just as well have been th

day before too, or even last week

apparently their work was carefull

prepared in advance. Even the telephon

was out of order: it might have been

case of sabotage.”“No,” she says after a moment’

hought, “I didn’t notice anything.”

Last night a man in a raincoat torsomething out at the gate. It was hard t

see because it was getting dark. H

stopped at the end of the spindle-tre

hedge, took out of his pocket a smal

object which might have been pliers or

file, and quickly stuck his arm betwee

he last two bars to reach the top of th



gate inside It only took half a minute: h

pulled his hand out immediately an

went on his way, with the same casua

gait.

Since this lady assures him she know

nothing, Wallas is ready to say goodbye. It would obviously have bee

surprising if she had happened to be a

her window at just the right timeBesides, on thinking it over, did thi

“right time” ever exist? It is rathe

unlikely that the murderers have com

here in broad daylight to plan theiattack so calmly—to inspect th

premises, make a false key, or di

renches in the garden to cut th



elephone lines.

The first thing he has to do is get i

ouch with that Doctor Juard. Afterward

f no clue turns up there and if th

commissioner has not learned anythin

new, the other tenants in the buildin

could be questioned. The slightesopportunity must not be neglected

Meanwhile, he will ask Madame Ba

not to give away the little story he use

as an excuse to the concierge.

To prolong this rest period befor

continuing his wanderings, Wallas ask

wo or three more questions; he suggestdifferent noises that might have caugh

he young woman’s attention

unconsciously; a revolver shot, footstep



running on the gravel, a slamming door

an automobile starting up suddenly…

But she shakes her head and says wit

her strange smile:

“Don’t tell me too many details

ou’ll end up making me think I saw th

whole thing.”Last night a man in a raincoat di

something to the gate and since thi

morning you cannot hear the automatibuzzer when it opens. Yesterday,

man…No doubt she’ll end up telling hi

her secret. Moreover, she does no

exactly know what it is restraining her.

Wallas, who since the start of th

conversation has been wondering how t

ask her politely if she has been watchin



much from her window recently, finall

stands up. “May I?” He walks over t

he window. It was in this room that h

saw the curtain moving. Now hreconstitutes the image which, on th

spot and from such close range, does no

seem the same any more. He raises th

material in order to see more clearly.

From this new angle, the house i

he middle of its meticulous garde

ooks as though it were isolated by thens of an optical instrument. His gaz

shifts to the high chimneys, the slate roo

—which in this part of the countrstrikes a note of preciosity—the bric

front ornamentally framed by two field

stone courses which are also echoed

above the windows, by projectin



intels, the arch over the door and th

four steps of the stoop. From the stree

evel one cannot appreciate so fully th

harmony of the proportions, the rigor—he necessity, one might say—of th

whole structure, whose simplicity i

scarcely disturbed—or on the contrary

accentuated—by the complicate

grillwork of the balconies. Wallas trie

o decipher some pattern in thes

ntertwining curves, when he hears thslightly bored voice behind hi

declaring, as though it were a

nsignificant thing without any relation t

he subject:

“Last night, a man in a raincoat…”



At first, Wallas did not believe in th

ruthfulness of a recollection so belated

Somewhat confused, he turned aroun

oward Madame Bax: her face was stilas calm, with that expression of polit

exhaustion. The conversation continue

n the same mundane tone.

When he expressed a certai

discreet surprise at her repeate

assertions that she had noticed nothing

he young woman replied that onalways hesitates before handing a ma

over to the police, but from the momen

she learned it was a question of murdershe had dismissed her scruples.

There remained the more likel

explanation: Madame Bax concealed



beneath her calm exterior, a little to

much imagination. But she seemed t

divine this impression, and to give mor

weight to her testimony she added that aeast one other person had seen th

malefactor: before the latter had reache

he parkway a man who was obviousl

drunk came out of the little café—abou

wenty yards to the left—and took th

same direction, staggering slightly; h

was singing or talking to himself in oud voice. The malefactor turne

around and the drunk man shoute

something to him, trying to walk faster t

catch up with him; but the other manwithout paying any more attention t

him, went on his way toward the harbor

Unfortunately Madame Bax wa



unable to furnish a more detaile

description: a man in a raincoat with

ight gray hat. As for his imprompt

raveling companion, she thought she hapassed him frequently in th

neighborhood; in her opinion, he wa

probably well known in all the bars i

he vicinity.

Leaving the building by the secon

exit, the one to the Rue des Arpenteurs

Wallas crossed the street to examine thgate: he was able to verify the fact tha

he automatic buzzer had been twisted t

prevent contact when the gate waopened; this job, executed at arm’

ength, seemed to him to have been th

work of uncommon muscular strength.



Looking up, he glimpsed, onc

again, behind the mesh of embroidere

net, the figure of Madame Bax.

“Hello,” Wallas says as he closes th

door behind him.

The manager does not answer.

He is motionless, at his post. Hi

massive body is leaning on his arms

spread wide on the counter where hi

hands grip the edge, as though to keep

he body from springing forward—o

from falling. The neck, already shorvanishes completely between the raise

shoulders; the head hangs, almos

hreatening, the mouth slightly twisted



he gaze blank.

“Cold enough for you thi

morning?” Wallas says—to sa

something.

He walks over to the cast-iron stov

hat looks less disagreeable than thi

mastiff confined, for safety’s sakebehind his bar. He holds out his hand

oward the glowing metal. For th

nformation he needs, he would probabldo better to look elsewhere.

“Hello,” a voice says behind him—

a drunken voice, but full of goo

ntentions.

The room is rather dim and th

wood-burning stove, which draws badl



n cold weather, thickens the air with

bluish haze. Wallas has not noticed th

man before. He is slumped over the rea

able, the only customer in the caféhappy to find someone to talk to at las

He probably knows that other drunkar

Madame Bax referred to as a witness

But now he is staring at Wallas, openin

his mouth and saying with a kind o

hick-tongued resentment:

“Why didn’t you want to talkesterday?”

“Me?” Wallas asks, surprised.

“You think I don’t recognize you?

he man exclaims, his face lighting up

with a cheerful grimace.



He turns around toward the bar an

repeats:

“He thinks I don’t recognize him!”

The manager, his eyes blank, has no

moved.

“You know me?” Wallas asks.“Of course I do, my friend! Eve

hough I didn’t think you

were very polite “ He countcarefully on his fingers “It

was yesterday.”

“No,” Wallas says, “you must bmaking some mistake.”

“He says it was a mistake!” th

drunk shrieks toward the manager. “Me



a mistake!”

And he bursts into the thunderou

aughter.

When he has quieted down a little

Wallas asks—to get into the spirit of th

hing:

“Where was it then? And wha

ime?”

“What time, don’t ask me! I neve

know what time it is

It was still dark. And it was here

going out…here…here … here…”

With each new “here” his voice get

ouder; at the same time, the man make

a series of huge vague gestures towar

he door with his right arm. Then



suddenly calmer, he adds in almost

whisper, and as though to himself:

“Where else would it be?”

Wallas despairs of getting anythin

out of him. Still the pleasant temperatur

of the room keeps him from leaving. H

sits down at the next table.

“At this time yesterday I was over

hundred kilometers from here…”

Slowly the commissioner begin

rubbing his palms together again:

“Of course! Don’t good murderer

always have an alibi?”

A satisfied smile. The two plum

hands come to rest on the

desk, fingers wide apart



“What time was it?” the drunk asks

“When you said.”

“That’s just it, I didn’t say!” thdrunk exclaims triumphantly. “You pa

for the round.”

Funny joke, Wallas thinks. But hdoes not budge. The manager now look

at him reproachfully.

“It’s all a lie,” the drunk conclude

after a pause for laborious reflection. H

examines Wallas and adds scornfully

“You don’t even have a car.”

“I came by train,” Wallas says.

“Oh,” the drunk says.

His good humor has vanished; h



seems worn out by the discussion

evertheless he translates for th

manager, but in a completely gloom

one:

“He says he came by train.”

The manager does not answer. H

has changed position; his head up, hiarms dangling, it is apparent he i

preparing to take some action. As

matter of fact he grasps his rag anwipes it back and forth across the top o

he bar.

“What’s the difference,” the drun

begins with difficulty…“what’s th

difference between a railroad and

bottle of wine?”



He is talking to his glass. Walla

automatically tries to think of th

difference.

“Well?” his neighbor suddenly asks

cheered by the prospect of a victory.

“I don’t know,” Wallas says.

“So there’s no difference for you

You hear that, bartender, he doesn’t se

any difference!”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Yes you did!” the drunk shouts

“The bartender’s here to back me up

You said it. You pay for the round!”

“I’ll pay for the round,” Walla

admits. “Bartender, give us two glasse

of white wine.”



“Two glasses of white wine!

repeats his companion, who ha

recovered his good humor.

“Don’t wear yourself out,” th

manager says. “I’m not deaf.”

The drunk has emptied his glass in on

gulp. Wallas is just starting to drink his

He is surprised to feel so comfortable i

his filthy bar; is it only because it’warm in here? After the sharp air of th

street, a somewhat numbing sense o

well-being penetrates his body. He feel

full of kindness toward this drunke

bum, and even toward the manager wh

scarcely encourages sympathy. As

matter of fact the latter keeps his eyes o



his latest customer; and his expression i

so deliberately suspicious that Walla

ends up, in spite of everything, by bein

somewhat disturbed. He turns bacoward the riddle-lover, but the wine th

atter has just drunk seems to hav

plunged him back into his gloom

houghts. In the hope of cheering him up

Wallas asks:

“Well, what was the difference?”

“The difference?” The drunk seem

completely in the dark this time. “Th

difference between what?”

“You know, between the railroa

and the bottle!”

“Oh…the bottle…” the other ma



says slowly, as if he were coming bac

from a great distance away. “Th

difference.…Well, it’s a big one, th

difference…the railroad! … It’s not aall the same thing.…”

It would certainly have been bette

o question him before giving him moro drink. Mouth open, the man is starin

nto space, one elbow on the tabl

propping up his bloated head. H

stammers incoherent words; then, witan obvious effort to make himself clear

he manages to say, with several halts an

repetitions:“You make me laugh with you

railroad.…If you think I didn

recognize…didn’t recognize…jus



eaving here.…We walked the whol

way together…the whole way. That’

oo easy! It’s not enough to change you

coat…”

After that, the monologue become

more obscure. A word that sounds lik

oundling keeps recurring, without anapparent reason.

Half asleep on his table, h

stammers incomprehensible phrasesbroken by exclamations and attempte

gestures that fall back heavily o

dissolve in the fog of his memories…

n front of him a tall man in a raincoat i

walking along the fence.



“Hey! Aren’t you waiting for me

Hey, you!”

The man is deaf!

“Hey, you! Hey!”

Good, this time he heard.

“Wait up! Hey! I’ve got a riddle foou!”

Pretty rude, that man. Funny how n

one likes riddles.

“Hey, wait up! You’ll see: it’s no

hard!”

Not hard! They never guess them.

“Hey, you!”

“All right, you made me run to catc



up!”

With a sudden movement, the ma

brushes off his arm.

“All right, if you won’t let me tak

our arm…Hey, not so fast! Let me catc

my breath until I can remember m

riddle….”

But the other man turns aroun

hreateningly, and the drunk steps back.

“What’s the animal…”

He chokes when he catches sight o

he man’s furious expression; he i

obviously about to beat the drunk to pulp. The latter retreats, stammerin

some pacifying words; but as soon as th

other man, who decides he produced hi



effect, starts walking again, the drun

begins following, trotting after him an

whining:

“Hey, don’t walk so fast Hey! Wa

up! Hey!”

People stop as they pass, tur

around and step aside to make room fohis surprising couple; a tall, powerfu

man wearing a raincoat too tight for hi

and a pale gray felt hat whose briconceals the upper part of his face i

walking fast, head down, hands in hi

pockets; he walks without rushing an

seems to pay no attention whatever to thcreature—strange as he is—wh

accompanies him, sometimes on hi

right, sometimes on his left, most ofte



behind him, where he makes a series o

unexpected swerves with the sol

purpose, it seems, of keeping up wit

him. He manages to, more or less, but ahe cost of a considerable amount o

gymnastics, covering a course twice o

hree times as long as the one whic

would be necessary, with spurts o

speed and stops so sudden that he look

as if he’s going to fall down at an

moment. Despite these continuadifficulties, he still manages to kee

alking, in fragments, it’s true, but so tha

certain elements remain intelligible

“Hey! Wait up!…ask a riddle…” ansomething that sounds like “foundling.

Obviously he has had too much to drink

He is short and potbellied, wrapped i



odd clothes, mostly in tatters. But fro

ime to time the man walking ahead turn

around without any warning and th

drunk, terrified, steps back to keep out oreach; then as soon as the danger seem

ess, he starts walking again, stubbornl

rying to catch up with his companio

and sometimes even hanging onto hi

arm to hold him back—or else getting

step ahead of him only to find himself

an instant later, trotting along far behin—as if he were trying to make up fo

ost time.

ight has almost fallen now. The ligh

from the rare street lamps and a few

shops does not manage to create anythin



but a dim, fragmentary illumination—

nterrupted by gaps, more or less widel

fringed with vague areas where the min

hesitates to venture.

Still the staggering little ma

persists in his chase, though perhaps h

has undertaken it somewhat at randomand has not even figured out what it

origin is.

Ahead of him, the widenaccessible back has gradually assume

errifying dimensions. The tiny L-shape

rip on the left shoulder of the raincoa

has grown so large that a whole flap ohe garment has been detached and float

n his wake, like a flag, beating furiousl

against his legs. As for the hat, whic



was already drawn exaggeratedly fa

down over the face, it now forms

remendous bell from which escapes

ike the tentacles of some giant octopushe vortex of intertwined ribbons t

which, finally, the rest of the coat ha

been reduced.

The little man, in a supreme effort

manages to grasp one of these arms; h

hangs onto it with all his might

determined not to let go; hard as Wallashakes him, he can no longer disengag

himself. The drunk clings to him with a

energy he seemed quite incapable of; buwhen his head bumps the floor in

convulsion, he suddenly releases hi

grip, his hands open and the body roll

o the ground, limp, inanimate…



The manager does not seem ver

affected by this scene. The drunk ha

probably had such fits before. With

strong grip he picks him up and sets hion his chair, while a wet rag restore

him to consciousness at once. The man i

cured as though by magic; he rubs hi

hand over his face, stares around

smiling, and declares to the manager

who is already back behind his counter:

“He wanted to kill me too!”

Nevertheless, since he does no

seem to be holding this attempted murde

against him, Wallas, who is beginning tbe interested in this character, take

advantage of his mood to ask fo

nformation. The drunk, fortunately, has



much clearer mind than before his fal

he listens carefully and answer

questions readily: yes, he met Walla

esterday at nightfall, leaving this vercafé; he followed him, caught up wit

and accompanied him, despite Wallas

unfriendliness; the latter was wearing

pale gray felt hat slightly too big for hi

and a tight raincoat with a small L

shaped rip on the right shoulder.

“Last night, a man in a raincoat…So this man was the drunken bu

Madame Bax noticed from her window

and the malefactor himself would bnone other than…Wallas cannot hel

smiling at the absurdity of hi

conclusion. If it could only b

determined that the suspect resemble



himself! It is difficult to rely on th

udgment of such a witness.

The latter, in any case, persists i

confusing them, despite Wallas’ new

denials. The other man walked alon

with him long enough—he says—for hi

o recognize him the next day. Accordino the rather vague indications he give

as to their route, it seems that the

followed the Rue de Brabant, then th

Rue Joseph-Janeck for its whole lengtho the parkway, where Wallas

hypothetical double went into a pos

office.Then the drunk came back to drin

at the Café des Allies.



The manager feels the story ha

something funny about it: why doesn

his man want to admit that he was see

he day before? He must have somethino hide… Last night? He’s the one wh

pulled the job. He came out of the littl

house when the drunk surprised him; h

managed to lose him on the other side o

own and then he came back to spend th

night in peace here. Now he would lik

o know what the drunk remembers abouhis escapade. He probably thinks hi

memory is too good, since he has jus

ried to knock him out: bumped hi

head…that’s it. He must be the one whpulled the job.

Unfortunately the hours do no

coincide: when the old housekeeper ra



n to call the ambulance, he was…Stil

he’d better be careful and tell the polic

about this shady customer; after noon

here is the risk of a fine if he is noreported, and if anything happened…

The manager picks up the telephon

book which he leafs through for a lonime, glancing suspiciously over th

counter at the tables. Finally he dials

number.

“Hello, is this the registratio

service?”

At the same time he glare

accusingly at Wallas.

“This is the Café des Allies, te

Rue des Arpenteurs…a lodger t



declare.”

A long silence. The drunk opens hi

mouth wide. From behind the counte

comes the sound of a faucet drippin

regularly into the sink.

“Yes, a room rented by the day.”

“Sometimes.”

“I’ll send the form, but I prefe

being registered as soon as possible…

Especially in dealing with certain kind

of people…”

The offhandedness with which thi

man talks about him in his presence hasomething so shocking about it tha

Wallas is on the point of protesting—

when he hears, once again, the chie



commissioner’s ironic voice:

“If you’re not registered, what proo

s there?”

In short, if he is trying to get him i

rouble, the manager is making

mistake: by neglecting to register him, h

was, on the contrary, permitting Laureno continue his little joke. And with tha

strange man you never know where

oke is going to stop—or where it startsWallas, though deciding that it i

scarcely reasonable to pay attention t

such trifles, feels a kind of contentmen

n finding himself justified on this point.

“Name is Wallas. W-a-double 1-a

s. Wallas. At least that’s what he says.”



The phrase is deliberately insultin

—libelous even—and the way th

manager stares at his customer whil

pronouncing it finally obliges the latteo intervene. He takes out his wallet t

get at his police card, intending to thrus

t under the manager’s nose but he ha

barely started his gesture when h

remembers the photograph attached t

he official card: the photograph of

man obviously older than himself, whosheavy brown mustache makes him loo

ike a music-hall Turk.

Of course this too-noticeabl“identifying mark” was incompatibl

with Fabius’ theories as to the oute

aspect of special agents. Wallas had t

shave off his mustache and his face wa



ransformed, rejuvenated, almos

unrecognizable to a stranger. He still ha

not had time to have his old paper

changed; as for the pink card—thministerial pass—he must, of course

avoid using that.

After having pretended to checsomething on a ticket taken out of hi

wallet at random—the return coupon o

his train ticket—he puts the whole thin

back in his pocket, as naturally apossible. After all, he is not supposed t

hear what is being said on the telephone

Moreover, the manager finds hinsinuations turning against him, and th

questions being asked at the other end o

he wire are already making him lose hi



patience:

“Of course not, I tell you he arrive

ast night!”

“Yes, only last night! You’ll have t

ask him about the night before that.”

“In any case, I would have notifieou!”

The drunk would like to add

word; he half stands up from his chair:

“And then he tried to kill me

…Hey! You better tell them he tried t

kill me too!”

But the manager does not bother t

answer. He hangs up the receiver an

goes back behind his bar, to rummag

hrough a drawer full of papers. He i



ooking for his police forms, but it ha

been too long since he has needed the

and he has difficulty finding them again

When he finally gets hold of an old anflyspecked form, Wallas will have to fil

t out, show his carte d’identité, explai

his transformation. Then he will be abl

o leave—to inquire at the police statio

f a man in a raincoat was seen las

night…

The drunk will go back to sleep ihis chair, the manager will wipe off th

ables and start washing the glasses i

he sink. This time, he will turn off thfaucet more carefully, and the littl

drops that strike the surface of the wate

with metronomic regularity will stop.



The scene will be over.

His heavy body resting on hi

widespread arms, his hands gripping th

edge of the bar, his head hangin

forward, his mouth somewhat twisted

he manager will go on staring int

space.



5

n the murky water of the aquarium

furtive shadows pass—an undulatiowhose vague existence dissolves of it

own accord…and afterward it i

questionable whether there had bee

anything to begin with. But the dar

patch reappears and makes two or thre

circles in broad daylight, soon comin

back to melt, behind a curtain of algae



deep in the protoplasmic depths. A las

eddy, quickly dying away, makes th

mass tremble for a second. Agai

everything is calm.…Until, suddenly, new form emerges and presses its drea

face against the glass…Pauline, swee

Pauline … and no sooner does it appea

han it vanishes in its turn, to make wa

for other specters and phantoms. Th

drunk is making up a riddle. A man wit

hin lips, in an overcoat buttoned up this neck is waiting on his chair in th

middle of an empty room. Hi

motionless face, his gloved hand

clasped on his knees, betray nmpatience. He has plenty of time

othing can keep his plan from bein

carried out. He is preparing to receive



visit—not the one from a disturbed

evasive person without any strength o

character—but a visit, on the contrary

from someone who can be counted on: s to this person that tonight’s execution

he second, will be entrusted. In the firs

murder, he had been kept in th

background, but his work was flawless

while Garinati, for whom everything ha

been so meticulously prepared, had no

even been capable of turning out thight. \nd now, this morning, he had le

his man get away:

“What time this morning?”“I don’t have any idea,” the manage

says.

“You didn’t see him leave?”



“If I had seen him leave, I’d know

what time it was!”

Leaning on his bar, the manage

wonders if he should tell Wallas abou

his visit. No. They’ll have to manage b

hemselves: no one told him to sa

anything.Besides, Wallas has already left th

ittle café to return to the scene…



6

Once again Wallas is walking toward th

bridge. Ahead of him, under a snowsky, extends the Rue de Brabant—and it

grim housefronts. The employees ar

now all at work, in front of their ledger

and their adding machines: the figure

form columns, the tree trunks are pile

on the docks; mechanical arms maneuve

he controls of the cranes, th



windlasses, the keys of the addin

machines, without wasting a second

without a slip, without an error; th

wood export business is in full swing.

The street is as deserted and silen

as it was the first time. Only a few car

parked in front of the doors, under thblack plaques with their gold letters

estify to the activity now reignin

behind these brick walls. The othe

modifications—if there are any—armperceptible: there is no change in th

varnished wood doors, recessed abov

heir five steps, nor in the curtainleswindows—two to the left, one to th

right, and, above, four floors of identica

rectangular openings. There is not muc

daylight for working in these office



where the electric lights—for econom

—have not been turned on—and the nea

sighted faces lean their bespectacle

eyes toward the big ledgers. Wallafeels overcome by a great weariness.

But having crossed the canal that dividehe Boulevard Circulaire, he stops to le

a streetcar pass.

Ahead of him, the plaque indicatinhe number of the line shows the numbe

6 in yellow on a vermilion disk. The car

ts new paint shiny, looks exactly like th

one that had appeared this morning in th

same spot. And like this morning,

comes to a stop in front of Wallas.



The latter, who was not lookin

forward to the long, tiresome walk alon

he Rue de Brabant and the Rue Janeck

climbs up the iron step and goes to sidown inside: this streetcar can only tak

him closer to his goal. With a ring of it

bell the car starts up, its machiner

groaning. Wallas watches the house

along the canals edge slide by.

But once the conductor has passe

hrough, Wallas realizes his mistake: thnumber 6 line does not continue alon

he parkway as he had thought; instead

urns off at the first stop and heads southhrough the suburbs. And since no lin

follows this unfrequented portion of th

parkway that leads to the other end of li

Rue Janeck—where the post offic



mentioned by the drunk must be—Walla

remains rather confused. It is th

conductor who explains matters to him

showing him a plan of the transportationetwork throughout the city: instead o

heading directly for this post office

Wallas will first stop at Doctor Juard’

clinic—which is preferable from ever

point of view. Line number 4, which thi

one crosses at the next stop, will tak

him there.He thanks the conductor, pays hi

fare, and gets off.

Around him, the scene is still thsame: the parkway, the canal, th

rregular buildings.



“Then she told him that since that wa

how things were, he might as wel

eaveI”

“And he left?”

“No, he didn’t. He wanted to know

f it was all true, what she had just tol

him. At first he said it was silly, that hdidn’t believe her and that they’d se

about it; but when he realized that th

others were going to come back, he waafraid it would turn against him and h

remembered he had things to do. Thing

o do! We know what kind of things. S

ou know what she said? ‘Don’t do tomany things,’ she said, ‘or you’ll wea

ourself out!’”

“Oh…what did that mean?”



“Oh, you know, that meant that h

might still run into him: she meant th

car and everything else.”

“No!”

Wallas is sitting facing the front o

he car, next to the window; there is a

empty seat to his right. The two voice—woman’s voices, with uneducate

ntonations—come from the seats behin

him.“She wished him ‘Good luck!

when he left.”

“And did he run into him?”“No one knows yet. Anyway, if h

met him, there must have been

rumpus!”



“I’ll say.”

“Well, we’ll find out tomorrow,

hope.”

Neither woman seems to have an

special interest in the outcome of thi

matter. The people in question ar

neither relatives nor friends. It is eveapparent that the existence of the tw

women is unrelated to this kind o

story…but such people enjoy discussinhe glorious events in the lives of grea

criminals and kings. Unless it is simply

story in the serial published by som

paper.

The streetcar, after following

winding route along the sombe

buildings, reaches the central part of th



city whose relative prosperity Walla

has already noticed. He recognizes th

Rue de Berlin, in passing, that leads t

he prefecture. He turns around towarhe ticket taker, who is supposed to tel

him when it is time to get off.

The first thing he notices is a brighred sign with a huge red arrow over th

words:

For drawin

For

school

For th

office

VICTOR HUGO STATIONERY SHOP



2, Rue Victor Hugo

(One Hundred Yards to Your Left)

Quality Supplies

This detour takes him away from th

clinic; but since he is not in an

particular hurry, he turns in the directiondicated by the arrow. After havin

urned—following the instructions of

second sign—he discovers a sho

whose ultra-modern exterior anelaborate advertising indicate a recen

opening. Its elegance and its great siz

are surprising, moreover, in this smal

rather isolated street which is located

nevertheless, not far from the mai

boulevards. The shopfront—plastic an

aluminum—is brand new and if the left



hand window contains only a rathe

ordinary display of pens, note paper, an

school notebooks, the one on the right i

designed to attract the attention opedestrians: it represents an “artist

drawing “from nature.” A dummy

dressed in a paint-spotted smock an

whose face is hidden under a hug

“bohemian” beard, is hard at work i

front of his easel; stepping back slightl

o see both his work and the model at thsame time, he is putting the finishin

ouches on a carefully drawn landscap

—which must actually be a copy o

some master. It is a hill with the ruins oa Greek temple among cypress trees; i

he foreground, fragments of columns li

scattered here and there; in the distance



n the valley, appears a whole city wit

ts triumphal arches and palace

—rendered, despite the distance and th

accumulation of buildings, with scrupulous concern for detail. But i

front of the man, instead of the Gree

countryside, stands instead of the settin

a huge photographic reproduction of

modern city intersection. The nature o

his image and its skillful arrangemen

give the panorama a reality all the morstriking in that it is the negation of th

drawing supposed to represent it; an

suddenly Wallas recognizes the place

hat house surrounded by huge apartmenbuildings, that iron fence, that spindle

ree hedge, is the corner of the Rue de

Arpenteurs. Obviously.



Wallas walks in.

“Well,” he exclaims, “you certainl

have a strange window!”

“It’s interesting, isn’t it?”

The young woman greets him with

ow, throaty laugh.“It certainly is strange,” Walla

admits.

“Did you recognize it? Those arhe ruins of Thebes.”

“The photograph is particularl

surprising. Don’t you think so?”“Oh yes. It’s a very fine photo.”

Her expression actually indicate

hat she sees nothing remarkable about it



But Wallas would like to know more:

“Yes, indeed,” he says, “you can tel

t’s the work of an expert.”

“Yes, of course. I had th

enlargement made by a laboratory tha

specializes in such things.”

“And the shot had to be extremel

clear too.”

“Yes, probably.”

Already the saleswoman is lookin

at him with a professionally friendl

expression of interrogation. “Can I help

ou?”

“I’d like an eraser,” Wallas says.

“Yes. What kind of eraser?”



That’s just the whole point, an

Wallas once again begins describin

what he is looking for: a soft, crumbl

gum eraser that friction does not twisbut reduces to dust; an eraser that cut

easily and whose cut surface is shin

and smooth, like mother-of-pearl. He ha

seen one such, a few months ago, at

friend’s but the friend could not tell hi

where it came from. He thought he coul

find himself one of the same kinwithout difficulty, but he’s bee

searching in vain ever since. It looke

ike a yellowish cube, about an inch o

wo long, with the corners slightlrounded—maybe by use. Th

manufacturer’s brand was printed on on

side, but was too worn to be legible an



more: only two of the middle letter

were still clear: “di”; there must hav

been at least two letters before an

perhaps two or three others after.

The young woman tries to complet

he name, but without success. Sh

shows him, with mountindiscouragement, all the erasers in th

shop—and she has, in fact, a splendi

stock—whose respective merits sh

warmly extols. But they are all either tosoft or too hard: “breadcrumb” erasers

as easily kneaded as modeling clay, o

else dry and grayish substances whicabrade the paper—good at best fo

getting rid of ink blots; the rest ar

pencil erasers of the usual kind, more o

ess elongated rectangles of more or les



white rubber.

Wallas hesitates to return to th

subject that is plaguing him: he migh

seem to have come in for the sol

purpose of obtaining God knows wha

nformation about the photograph of th

house, without even being willing tspend the money for a little eraser—

preferring to turn the whole shop upsid

down over an imaginary objec

attributed to a legendary brand whosname he could not even remember—an

with good reason! His strategy woul

soon appear for the foolish thing it wassince by giving only the middle syllabl

of this name he kept his victim fro

questioning the existence of the brand.



He is therefore going to be obliged

once again, to buy an eraser he will no

know what to do with, since it is not

apparently, the one he is looking for ansince he does not need any other—

despite certain resemblances—than tha

one.

“I’ll take this one,” he says. “It ma

do the trick.”

“You’ll see, it’s a good one. All oucustomers are satisfied with it.”

What’s the use of explainin

further? Now he must bring th

conversation back to…But the farc

goes so fast that he scarcely has time t

hink: “How much do I owe you?” th

bill taken out of his wallet, the chang



ringing on the marble… The ruins o

Thebes…Wallas asks:

“Do you sell reproductions o

pictures?”

“No, for the time being I have onl

post cards.” She points to two revolvin

stands. “If you’d like to look: there are few museum paintings; all the rest ar

views of the city and its environs. But i

ou’re interested, there are a few that ook myself. Here, I made this one fro

he shot we were talking about jus

now.”

She takes out a glossy-print pos

card and hands it to him. It is the one tha

was used for the window. Besides,

shows in the foreground the pavin



stones that form the edge of the quay an

he end of the railing at the end of th

ittle drawbridge. Wallas assumes a

admiring tone:

“It’s a pretty little house, isn’t it?”

“Yes it is, if you like it,” sh

answers with a laugh.

And he leaves the shop, taking th

post card with him—whose acquisitio

was inevitable after all his praises whehe first came in—and the little erase

which has already joined the on

purchased this morning—as useless a

he first.

Wallas is in a hurry; it must be almos



noon. He still has time to speak t

Doctor Juard before lunch. He will hav

o bear left to reach the Rue de Corinthe

but the first street he come to on that sideads only to a cross street where h

might lose his way; he prefers to go o

o the next main intersection. After hi

visit to the clinic, he will look for tha

post office at the end of the Rue Janeck

he might walk there, for it cannot be ver

far away. Above all, find out the exacime.

A policeman is on duty in th

middle of the street, probably to controraffic in front of a school (otherwise

here are not enough cars to justify hi

presence at this unimportant crossing)

Wallas turns back and walks over t



him. The policeman salutes.

“Can you tell me what time it is

please?” Wallas asks.

“Twelve-fifteen,” the man answer

without hesitating.

He has probably just looked at hiwatch.

“Is the Rue Joseph-Janeck far fro

here?”

“That depends on what number yo

want.”

“I want to go to the end, near thBoulevard Circulaire.”

“Then it’s easy: you go straigh

ahead to the first intersection and tur



right, and then just afterward you tur

eft; after that it’s straight ahead. It won

ake you long.”

“There’s a post office there, isn

here?”

“Yes…On the parkway at the corne

of the Rue Jonas. But you don’t need tgo that far to find a post office…”

“No, I know, but…I have to go t

hat one…for the poste restante.”

“Well, the first right, the first lef

and then straight ahead. You can’t mis

t.”Wallas thanks him and continues o

his way, but once he reaches th

ntersection and is about to turn left—



oward the clinic—he realizes that

having omitted to inform the policema

of this detail, the latter will suppose h

s taking the wrong turn despite his cleaand repeated explanations. Wallas turn

back to see if he is being watched: th

man is making wide gestures with hi

arm to remind him that he should turn t

he right first. If he goes in the othe

direction now, he will look like

unatic, an idiot, or a practical jokerMaybe the policeman will run after hi

o set him right. As for going back t

reassure the policeman, that would b

really ridiculous. Wallas has alreadbegun walking toward the right.

Since he is so near this post office

wouldn’t it be better to go straight there



Besides, it is after noon and Docto

Juard is eating his lunch; while the pos

office does not close and he will not b

disturbing anyone.

Before getting out of sight, h

glimpses the policeman making a gestur

of approval—to reassure him: he igoing the right way.

It’s silly to put a traffic policema

n a place like that, where there is nraffic to control. At this hour, th

schoolchildren have already gone hom

for lunch. Is there even a school there?

As the policeman had said, Walla

mmediately reaches anothe



ntersection. If he turned right into th

Rue Bernadotte, it would take hi

straight back and allow him to reach th

Rue de Corinthe, after a slight detourbut now he can not be any closer to th

clinic than to the post office, an

besides, he does not know th

neighborhood well enough: he might fin

himself face to face with that policema

again. His invention of the post

restante was not very satisfactory: if hhad had mail sent to him there, he woul

have known the address, instead o

knowing its location only approximately

What kind of spell is it that i

forcing him to give explanation

wherever he goes today? Is it

particular arrangement of the streets i



his city that obliges him to be alway

asking his way, so that at each reply h

finds himself led into new detours? Onc

before he has wandered among thesunexpected bifurcations and blind alleys

where you got lost even more certainl

when you happened to walk straigh

ahead. Only his mother was worrie

about it. Finally they had reached tha

dead end of a canal; the low houses, i

he sun, reflected their old façades in thgreen water. That must have been i

summer, during the school vacation; the

had stopped (on their way to th

seashore, farther south, where they wenevery year) to visit some relative. H

hought he remembered that she wa

annoyed, that there was something abou



a legacy or something of the kind. Bu

did he ever know just what it was? H

does not even remember now if they ha

ever found the woman, or if they had lefempty-handed (they had only a few hour

between trains). Besides, are these rea

memories? That day might have bee

described to him often: “You remembe

when we went…”

No. The dead end of the canal h

had seen himself, and the housereflected in the still water, and the low

bridge that closed off the end…and th

abandoned hull of the old boat…. But s possible that this happened on anothe

day, in another place—or even in

dream.



Here is the Rue Janeck and the wal

of the recreation courtyard where th

ndian chestnuts are shedding thei

eaves. “Citizens Awake.” And here ihe plaque ordering drivers to slow

down.

At the end of the drawbridge, thworkman in the dark blue pea jacket an

he visored cap makes a gesture o

recognition.



CHAPTER THREE



1

As usual, the big house is silent.

On the ground floor, the old dea

housekeeper is almost finished preparin

dinner. She is wearing felt slippers tha

muffle the sound of her comings angoings along the hallway between th

kitchen and the dining room, where sh

sets a single, unalterable place at th



enormous table.

It is Monday: Monday’s dinner i

never very complicated: a vegetabl

soup, probably ham, and a cream desser

of some vague flavor—or else carame

rice pudding…

But Daniel Dupont is not mucconcerned with gastronomy.

Sitting at his desk, he is examinin

his revolver. It must not fall out of orde—though it has been so many years sinc

anyone has used it. Dupont handles

carefully; he opens it, takes out th

bullets, carefully cleans the mechanism

checks its operation; finally he return

he clip and puts his rag away in

drawer.



He is a meticulous man who like

every task to be executed correctly. A

bullet in the heart is what makes the leas

mess. If it is fired properly—he haalked it over extensively with Docto

Juard—death is immediate and the los

of blood quite slight. So old Anna wil

have less trouble getting rid of the stains

for her, that is what matters. He is wel

aware that she does not like him.

On the whole, people have not likehim much, Evelyne… But that is not wh

he is killing himself. It does not matter t

him whether people have liked him onot. He is killing himself for nothing—

out of exhaustion.

Dupont takes a few steps on th



water-green carpet that muffles ever

noise. There is not much room to walk i

he little study. Books hem him in on al

sides: law, social legislation, politicaeconomy.…Down below, to the left, a

he end of the long shelves, stands th

row of books he himself has added to th

series. Not much. There were two o

hree ideas there, even so. Who ha

understood them? Too bad for them.

He stops in front of his desk anglances at the letters he has just written

one to Roy-Dauzet, one to Juard…t

whom else? One to his wife, maybeo; and the one he is addressing to th

minister has no doubt been mailed th

day before….



He stops in front of the desk an

glances one last time at this letter he ha

ust written to Doctor Juard. It is clea

and persuasive; it furnishes all thexplanations necessary for camouflagin

his suicide as a murder.

At first Dupont had thought omaking it look like an accident

“Professor kills himself while cleanin

old revolver.” But everybody woul

have known.

A crime is less suspicious. And h

could count on Juard and Roy-Dauzet t

keep his secret. The wood exporterwill not have to turn their faces int

masks when his name comes up i

conversation. As for the doctor, h



shouldn’t be surprised after thei

conversation last week; he had probabl

understood. He cannot, in any case

refuse to do this favor for a dead friendWhat is asked of him is not ver

complicated: transferring the body to th

clinic and immediately informing Roy

Dauzet by telephone; afterward th

report to the municipal police and th

release to the local papers. A minister’

friendship is very useful at times: therwill be neither coroner nor inquest o

any kind. And later (who knows?) thi

complicity may be useful to the doctor a

well.

Everything is in order Dupont nee

only go down to dinner.



He must seem in his usual mood, s

hat old Anna will suspect nothing. H

gives orders for the next day; with hi

habitual precision, he settles severadetails henceforth without importance

At seven-thirty he goes back upstair

and, without a moment’s hesitation, fire

a bullet through his heart.

Here Laurent stops; there is stilsomething that is not clear: did Dupon

die immediately, or not?

Suppose he merely wounde

himself: he still had strength enough t

fire a second bullet, since the docto

declares he was able to get down th

stairs and walk to the ambulance. An



supposing the revolver was out of th

question, the professor had other mean

at his disposal: slitting his wrists, fo

nstance; he was the kind of man to hava razor blade handy in case the revolve

failed him. It takes great courage to kil

ourself, they say, but such courage i

more characteristic of Dupont than thi

sudden renunciation.

On the other hand, if he ha

succeeded in killing himself outrightwhy should the doctor and the ol

housekeeper have invented this story

Dupont, wounded, calling for help frohe top of the stairs and, though his lif

ill then did not seem to be threatened

his sudden death on reaching the clinic

t might be supposed that Juard preferre



his version, so that he would not b

censured for having taken away th

body: Dupont would have had to be stil

alive for him to be entitled to move himand he would have also had to b

capable of standing, so that the stretcher

bearers would not be needed; lastly, thi

brief survival permitted the victim t

explain the circumstances of the murde

viva voce. It is possible that Dupon

himself recommended this precaution ihis letter. But what is strange is that thi

morning the doctor virtually insisted tha

he wound had seemed insignificant t

him at first—this, in spite of everythingmakes Dupont’s death a little surprising

As for the housekeeper, she didn’t see

o have imagined even that the victi



could have perished. If it is alread

surprising that Dupont, or Juard, adopte

a solution that necessitated taking the ol

woman into their confidence, it is evemore so that the latter played her role s

skillfully with the inspectors only a few

hours after the tragedy.

There is, of course, anothe

hypothesis: Dupont might have sho

himself the second time once he ha

reached the clinic—in this way, MadamSmite would have known nothing an

her possible testimony would have to b

aken into consideration by the doctor iconcocting his own. Unfortunately, if

s likely that the doctor agreed t

disguise his friend’s suicide, it i

scarcely conceivable that he provide



him the opportunity to carry it out.

To recapitulate: it must be taken a

certain that Dupont killed himsel

without the help of either the doctor o

he housekeeper; consequently he did

when he was alone—that is: either in hi

study at seven-thirty, or in his bedroomwhile the housekeeper was calling th

clinic from the telephone in a nearb

café. After the old woman’s return

Dupont remained with someone at alimes—the housekeeper first, later th

doctor—and either one would have kep

him from making a second attempt. Hmight also have fired a first shot in th

study and a second in the bedroom, bu

his complication would not settl

anything, for in any case he didn’t see



seriously wounded at the time of th

doctor’s arrival. As a matter of fact, it i

not plausible to question th

housekeeper’s good faith (only thdoctor is an accomplice in the distortio

of the truth). When he left his house

Dupont wasn’t dead, he could eve

walk, more or less—the doctor wa

forced to indicate this, in order not to b

contradicted by the housekeeper. All o

which, moreover, could be calculateahead of time: the housekeeper not bein

n on the secret, it was necessary t

avoid having her find the body holding

revolver—which would give her moropportunities to suspect suicide an

would also permit her to call in an

doctor—or even the police.



Consequently the solution is a

follows: Dupont shoots himself in th

chest, knowing the wound to be morta

but giving him time enough to shout thahe has been attacked. He takes advantag

of the housekeeper’s deafness to get he

o admit to a murderer’s hasty fligh

hrough the house. Then he waits for hi

friend the doctor to arrive and explain

o the latter what he must do after hi

death. Juard takes the wounded maaway^ and then attempts to save him i

spite of himself….

There is still something that does not fit

f he seemed in such good condition

Dupont could not be so certain that hi



wound was mortal.

Which leads back to the hypothesi

of the apparent failure followed by

ast-minute retreat when faced wit

death. Dupont aimed badly; he gav

himself an apparently harmless woun

which nevertheless frightened hienough to make him abandon his plan

He then called for help, but bein

unwilling to admit the truth, he invente

he preposterous story of an attack. Asoon as the doctor arrived, Dupont ha

himself taken to the clinic and operate

on, without waiting for a stretcher. Buhis wound was more serious than wa

supposed, and an hour later he wa

dead. Hence not only are th

housekeeper’s declarations sincere (sh



could even have seen some door ope

hat wasn’t supposed to be), but

remains possible that the doctor’s are

oo: the gynecologist need not havdiscovered that the bullet was fired a

point-blank range. The minister, wh

knows the ins and outs of the cas

because of a letter from Dupont sent jus

before, has had the inquest stopped an

he body removed.

Commissioner Laurent knows thahe will now recapitulate all hi

hypotheses once again, for it is precisel

his last solution he finds the mosunsatisfactory. Though at each new

attempt since this morning he has com

out at the same point, he refuses t

accept this conclusion. He would prefe



any unlikelihood to that banal reversa

generally attributed to the instinct o

self-preservation, but which fits in s

badly with the professor’s character, thcourage he has shown in man

circumstances, his behavior at the fron

during the war, his refusal t

compromise in civil life, hi

unquestioned force of character. H

could decide to kill himself; he coul

have reasons for wanting to disguise thideath; but he could not abandon his pla

so suddenly, once he had embarked upo

t.

Yet aside from this, there remains onl

one explanation: murder; and since ther



s no possible murderer, it is Wallas

heory that has to be adopted: th

phantom “gang” with their mysteriou

purposes and inscrutable conspiracies…Commissioner Laurent laughs to himsel

over this, so preposterous does he fin

he minister’s latest notion. This case i

mixed up enough already, withou

ooking for such nonsense to add to it.

Then too, it is really too absurd t

go on wracking his brains over a riddlfrom which he has been so opportunel

excused. Besides, it is time for lunch.

But the rubicund little man cannomake up his mind to leave his office. H

expected to have some word fro

Wallas during the morning, but he ha



received neither a second visit nor

phone call. Has the special agent als

been assassinated by the gangsters

Vanished for ever, swallowed up by thshadows?

Actually, he knows nothing abou

his Wallas, nor about the exact nature ohis job. Why, for instance, did he need t

visit Laurent before starting his work

The commissioner possesses nothing bu

he testimony of the doctor and the olhousekeeper; the agent sent from th

capital could question both of the latte

directly. And he had no particular neeo ask permission to enter the dea

man’s residence—open henceforth t

anyone at all, under the protection of

half mad old woman.



In this respect, one might say tha

he minister’s behavior is at the leas

frivolous: in a criminal case yo

don’t…But isn’t this offhandedness thbest evidence that the case is one o

suicide, and that they are well aware o

his in the capital? All the same, it ma

cause them some difficulties later on

with the heirs.

And Wallas, if this is so—what i

he doing here? Is it by an error oransmission in Roy-Dauzet’s orders tha

he illustrious Fabius has started thi

counter-investigation? Or does thspecial agent also know that Dupon

committed suicide? His job could b

merely to pick up important papers in th

house in the Rue des Arpenteurs, and hi



visit to the police was then only a sign o

courtesy. If you can call it courtesy t

come and make fun of a high official b

elling him old wives’ tales….

No, that’s not it! It’s obvious tha

Wallas is sincere: he believes strongl

n what he says; as for his unexpectevisit, wouldn’t it be one more sign tha

Laurent is respected in the capital?

***The chief commissioner has reached thi

point in his reflections, when he i

nterrupted by the arrival of a strang

character.

Without any announcement from th

officer on duty, without even a knock, th



door opens slowly and a head appears i

he aperture, glancing around the roo

with an anxious expression.

“What is it?” the commissione

asks, ready to throw the intruder out.

But the latter turns his long fac

oward Laurent and, placing his indefinger vertically across his lips a

hough to ask for silence, he begin

making a series of clownish gesturesboth imperative and suppliant. At th

same time he enters completely an

closes the door behind him with

housand precautions.

“Now, Monsieur, what do yo

want?” the commissioner asks.



He no longer knows whether to b

annoyed, amused, or disturbed. But hi

oud voice seems to terrify his visitor. I

fact, the latter, who is trying to make aittle noise as possible, stretches his ar

out toward him in a pathetic exhortatio

o be still, while approaching the des

on tiptoe. Laurent, who has stood up

nstinctively steps back toward the wall

“Don’t worry,” the strange

murmurs, “and please don’t call any onor you’ll ruin me.”

He is a man in late middle age, tal

and thin, dressed in black. His measureone and the middle-class dignity of hi

clothes somewhat reassure th

commissioner.



“To whom have I the honor o

speaking, Monsieur?”

“Marchat, Adolphe Marchat, woo

exporter. I apologize for this intrusion

Commissioner, but I have somethin

extremely important to tell you, an

since I wanted no one to know I am herethought that the gravity of th

circumstances would authorize me to…”

Laurent interrupts him with gesture that means “In that case, o

course!” but he is irritated: he ha

already noticed that the rotation of th

floor men was not efficient betweeservice hours; he must have that take

care of.

“Sit-down, Monsieur,” he says.



Returning to his desk and hi

familiar position, he spreads out hi

hands on top of the papers.

The visitor sits down in the chai

ndicated but, finding it too far away, h

remains on the edge of it and lean

forward as far as he can, so as to makhimself heard without raising his voice.

“I’m here about the death of poo

Dupont.…”Laurent is not at all surprised

Without having quite realized it, he wa

waiting for this sentence. He recognize

t as if he had heard it ahead of time. It i

what is coming next that interests him:

“I was present during ou



unfortunate friend’s last moments…”

“Oh, you were Daniel Dupont’

friend…”

“Let’s not exaggerate

Commissioner; we knew each other for

ong time, that’s all. And I find, in fact

hat our relations…”

Marchat stops talking. Then

suddenly making up his mind, h

declares in a dramatic tone of voice—but still just as softly:

“Commissioner, I’m supposed to b

killed tonight!”This time Laurent raises his arms t

he ceiling. This was all he needed!

“What kind of joke is that?”



“Don’t shout, Commissioner. Do

ook like I’m joking?”

He doesn’t certainly. Laurent drop

his hands on the desk.

“Tonight,” Marchat continues, “I’

supposed to go to a certain place wher

he murderers will be waiting for me—he ones who shot Dupont yesterday—

and then it’ll be my turn …”

He climbs the stairs—slowly.

This house has always looke

sinister to him. The ceilings that are tohigh, the dark woodwork, the corner

harboring shadows which the electri

ight never manages to dispe



—everything seems to reinforce th

anxiety that has seized him since h

came in.

Tonight, Marchat notices details tha

had never struck him before: creakin

doors, disturbing hallways, inexplicabl

shadows. At the end of the banistegrimaces a jester’s head.

From step to step the ascent grow

slower. In front of the little painting ohe blasted tower, the condemned ma

stops. He would like to know, now, wha

his painting means.

In a minute it will be too late—fo

here are only five more steps before h

reaches the place where he will die.



His interlocutor’s lugubrious tone doe

not impress the commissioner. He ask

for details: who is to kill Marchat

Where? Why? And how does he know

Besides, Doctor Juard hasn’t made an

reference to his presence in the clinicwhy not? Laurent has difficult

concealing his thoughts; he is almos

convinced he is dealing with a lunati

who may not even have known thprofessor and in whom the mer

delusion of persecution may hav

nspired notions so senseless. If hweren’t apprehensive about thi

unatic’s possible violence, Lauren

would show him the door at once.



However, Marchat speak

vehemently. What he has to say i

extremely serious. There ar

unfortunately certain things which hcannot reveal, but he begs th

commissioner’s help: he can’t let a

nnocent man be killed in this way

Laurent grows impatient:

“How do you expect me to help yo

f you can’t tell me anything?”

Marchat finally tells how h

happened to be in front of Juard’s clini

n the Rue de Corinthe just when th

doctor was bringing in a wounded manHe came closer out of curiosity an

recognized Daniel Dupont, whom he ha

met, in other circumstances, at the hom



of mutual friends. He offered hi

services to help carry him, for the docto

was alone. If the latter has not mentione

his intervention, it is by Marchat’express request: the latter wa

particularly anxious that his name not b

connected with this crime in any way

evertheless the turn events are takin

obliges him to put himself under polic

protection.

Laurent is astonished: would DoctoJuard have accepted the help of

passer-by, when he had specialize

personnel at his disposal?“No, Commissioner, there was n

one there at that hour.”

“There wasn’t? What time was it?”



Marchat hesitates a few secon

before answering:

“It must have been around eight—

eight-thirty; I couldn’t say exactly.”

It was at nine that Juard telephone

he police to announce Dupont’s death

Laurent asks:

“Wasn’t it probably after nine?”

“No, it wasn’t: by nine poor Dupon

was already dead.”

So Marchat has been to th

operating room. The doctor declared h

needed no assistant for the operationwhose extreme seriousness had, in fact

not yet become apparent to him. Ye

Dupont, fearing the worst, has take



advantage of the few minutes he ha

before he was put under the anesthetic t

reveal the circumstances of the attack

Marchat must have promised not tdivulge them, though he doesn

understand why secrecy must be kep

with regard to the police. In any case, h

doesn’t think he’s breaking his word b

revealing to the chief commissioner th

ask the professor has entrusted him wit

—though nothing, he repeats, woulndicate himself as a candidate for suc

an adventure. He is supposed to go thi

very day to the little house in the Ru

des Arpenteurs and take certain filewhich he will then hand over to

prominent political figure to whom thes

papers are of the greatest importance.



There are two things Lauren

doesn’t understand. Why, first of al

must this operation be kept secret? (Is

on account of the heirs?) And on thother hand, what is so dangerous abou

t? As for the “circumstances of th

attack,” Marchat can rest easy: it is eas

o reconstitute them!

In adding this, the commissioner—

who still suspects suicide—wink

meaningfully at his interlocutor. He is nonger sure what to make of thi

Marchat: according to the details th

atter is furnishing about his friend’death, one must admit that he certainl

was at the clinic last evening; yet the res

of his remarks are so irrational an

confused that it seems difficult t



dismiss the hypothesis of madness, eve

so.

Emboldened by what he interpret

as signs of complicity, the businessma

s now speaking—ambiguously—of th

errorist organization and its oppositio

o a political group that…owhich…Laurent, who finally sees wha

he other man is trying to say, helps hi

out of his difficulty:

“A political group whose member

have systematically been assassinated

one by one, every evening at seven

hirty.”

And Marchat, who has not notice

he ironic smile which has accompanie

his sentence, seems enormousl



relieved by it.

“Aha,” he says, “I suspected yo

knew all about it. That simplifies thing

a lot. Keeping the police in ignorance o

he truth, as Dupont wanted to do, coul

only have unfortunate consequences. N

matter how often I repeated mconviction to him that it was precisel

he police’s business—and not mine!—

here was no way of making him give u

his ridiculous mystery. That’s why started by playing this farce; and sinc

ou answered me in the same tone, w

have had some difficulty putting a stop tt. Now we’ll be able to talk.”

Laurent decides to take him up on i

He is rather curious to see what wil



come out of all this.

“You were saying that Danie

Dupont, before dying, had given you

secret mission which endangered you

ife?”

Marchat opens his eyes wide

“Before dying?” He no longer knowwhat he can say and what he mus

conceal.

“Well,” Laurent insists, “whamakes you think that someone’s lying i

wait for you in that house?”

“The doctor, Commissioner! DoctoJuard! He heard everything!”

Doctor Juard was present whe

Dupont explained the importance of th



files in question and what must be don

with them. Once he understood tha

Marchat was to go for them, he slippe

away on some pretext or other anelephoned the leader of the gang t

warn him. Marchat had taken th

precaution of repeating loudly that h

didn’t belong to the group, but he notice

hat the doctor had not believed a wor

he said; so that the gangsters hav

decided to make the businessman theivictim this very evening. And the polic

simply must stop them, for it is

mistake, a tragic mistake: he has neve

had any relation with the group, he isneven an advocate of their policy, and h

doesn’t want…”

“All right,” Laurent says, “cal



down. Did you hear what the doctor sai

on the telephone?”

“No…I mean: not exactly, but…Jus

from the look on his face, it was easy t

see what he was going to do.”

Obviously this man is every bit a

mad as Roy-Dauzet. But what is thsource of this collective hysteria? As fo

Dupont, it is understandable that he ha

found it convenient to accuse thmysterious anarchists: he would hav

been wiser to have sent his papers of

before killing himself. Still other point

are not extremely clear. Unfortunatelyhere is not much hope of having the

explained by questioning this man.

To get rid of him, the commissione



suggests a good way of escaping hi

murderers: since the latter can strik

only at seven-thirty sharp, he need onl

go for the files at some other time.

The businessman has alread

hought of this, but it is not so easy t

escape an organization this powerful: thmurderers will keep him prisoner an

kill him at the appointed hour; they’r

outside, waiting for him; for the docto

—being ignorant of it—didn’t specifexactly when Marchat would go to th

professor’s house.

“You heard what the doctor said ohe telephone?”

“I didn’t actually hear what he said

except for a word from



time to time But from what I di

hear, I could reconstruct

the whole conversation.”

Laurent is beginning to get tired o

his and makes his visitor increasingl

aware of his fatigue. The latter, for hi

part, grows more and more nervous; aimes, he almost abandons hi

whispering and his discretion:

“ ‘Calm down, calm down!’ It’easy for you to say that, Commissioner

f you had been in my shoes since thi

morning, counting the hours you had lef

o live…”

“Ah,” Laurent says, “why only sinc

his morning?”



It was ‘since last night’ that th

businessman meant. He quickly correct

himself: he hasn’t slept a wink all night.

In that case, the commissione

nforms him, he was making a mistake

He could have slept as soundly as usual

here are no murderers, and there is nconspiracy. Daniel Dupont committe

suicide!

Marchat remains somewhaflabbergasted. But he immediatel

continues:

“No, that’s impossible! I can assur

ou there was no question of suicide.”

“You can? How do you know?”

“He told me himself…”



“He said whatever he wanted t

say…”

“If he had meant to kill himself, h

would have made another attempt.”

“There was no need for that, sinc

he died anyway.”

“Yes…of course.…No, it’s reall

mpossible! I saw Doctor Juard go to th

elephone…”

“Did you hear what the doctor sai

on the telephone?”

“Yes, I did, I heard everything. Yo

can imagine I didn’t miss a word. Thred files, the study cabinet, th

designated victim would walk into th

rap of his own accord…”



“Well then, go there now: it isn’t th

hour of the crime’!I”

“I told you they’re waiting for m

already!”

“Did you hear what the doctor…”

…………



2

The businessman leaves. Now his min

s made up. It is Dupont who was righthe chief commissioner is in th

murderers’ pay. His behavior cannot b

explained in any other way.

He wanted to allay Marchat’s suspicion

by persuading him that there was n

conspiracy at all and that Dupont ha

committed suicide. Suicide! Luckil



Marchat stopped in time before h

spilled everything he knew No, ther

was nothing to fear there: th

commissioner knows perfectly well thaDupont isn’t dead, since Doctor Juard i

keeping them informed. They ar

pretending to believe he is dead t

achieve their purposes in a few days

What they want now is to get Marcha

nto the little house to kill him in plac

of the professor.Well, it’s simple: he will not go t

pick up the files—not at seven-thirty, o

at any other time (for he isn’t stupienough to fall into the commissioner’

rap: the killers, no doubt about it, wil

remain on the alert all afternoon). Eve

Dupont, when he finds out just what th



situation is, will no longer insist. Roy

Dauzet will just have to send anothe

commissioner.

Marchat is not going to be satisfie

with these purely negative measures; th

murderers would have no difficult

finding an opportunity to take revengfor their failure. He must protect himsel

against any new attempt. The best way t

do it is to leave the city as soon a

possible, and to go into hidinsomewhere in the country. It might eve

be wiser to take the first boat and ge

across the ocean altogether.

But Marchat cannot make up his mind

Since early in the day he has wavere



between one plan and the nex

convinced, each time, that the last ide

hat has occurred to him is the best:

Take the police into his confidenc

—or deceive them; escape without dela

—or wait here in the city; inform th

professor of this decision—or sanothing; go get the files right away fro

he house in the Rue des Arpenteurs—o

not go there at all He has, in fact, no

given up all thought of doing this favofor his friend. And he keeps seein

himself in front of the house surrounde

by spindle trees He pushes open thheavy oak door, to which Dupont ha

given him the keys. He climbs the stair

—slowly…



But from step to step he walks mor

and more slowly. He never reaches th

op.

This time, he is certain of what i

waiting for him if he goes all the way t

he study. He won’t go. He will infor

he professor and give him back hikeys.

On the way, however, he ponder

he difficulties of the undertakingDupont—he knows him—will not b

willing to admit his reasons. And i

Doctor Juard, who will certainly liste

at the door, manages to overhear theidiscussion and consequently learns tha

Marchat is not going for the files, th

atter will also lose his last chance o



escaping the murderers; for instead o

waiting for him until seven-thirty in th

rap where he is supposed to appear

hey will shadow him from now on, shat he will not even have the subsequen

freedom to hide or run away.

It would be better to get out of thcountry immediately, while the other

may not have begun watching him.

He climbs the stairs. As usual, thbig house is silent….



3

Before coming to a complete halt, th

drawbridge platform quivers slightlyPaying no attention to this almos

mperceptible movement, the bicyclis

has already passed through the gate t

continue on his way:

“Good morning, Monsieur.”

Jumping on his vehicle, he ha



shouted, “Good morning” instead o

“Good-bye.” They had exchanged two o

hree remarks about the weather, waitin

until passage was re-established.

The drawbridge has a singl

platform; the system’s axis of rotation i

on the other side of the canal. Headraised, they watch the girders and cable

under the platform gradually vanish fro

sight.

Then the free end of the bridge

showing a cross section of the roadway

passes in front of their eyes; and then, al

at once, they see the entire surface osmooth asphalt stretching toward th

other bank between the two sidewalk

with their railings on the outer sides.



Their glances have continued t

move slowly downward, following th

movement of the bridge, until the tw

corner plates of iron—polished by thcar wheels—have come exactl

opposite the other pair on the bank

Suddenly the noise of the motor ha

stopped, and in the silence, the electri

bell has rung, announcing to th

pedestrians that they may cross th

bridge again.“I wouldn’t be surprised!” th

bicyclist has repeated.

“Maybe you’re right I Good luck!”

“Good morning, Monsieur.”

But on the other side of the barrier



t was apparent that everything was no

et over; because of a certain elasticit

n the materials, the platform’s descen

had not stopped when the machinery didt had continued for several seconds

moving a fraction of an inch perhaps

creating a tiny gap in the continuity of th

roadway which brought the metal ri

slightly above its position o

equilibrium; and the oscillations—

growing fainter and fainter, less and lesnoticeable, but whose cessation it wa

difficult to be certain of—consequentl

approximated—by a series o

successive prolongations anregressions on either side of a quit

llusory fixity—a phenomeno

completed, nevertheless, some tim



before.

This time, the bridge is open t

raffic. No barge is seeking passage. Th

workman in the navy blue pea jacket

dle, stares blankly at the sky. H

glances toward the man walking towar

him, recognizes Wallas and nods to himas he might to someone he wa

accustomed to see every day.

On either side of the gap that markhe end of the movable part of th

bridge, the metal corner plates loo

motionless and appear to be on the sam

evel.

At the end of the Rue Joseph-Janeck



Wallas turns right onto the Boulevar

Circulaire. Some twenty yards farthe

on, the Rue Jonas begins, and there is

small post office at the corner.

A neighborhood post office: onl

six windows and three telephone booths

between the main door and the booths: arge ground-glass window, and beneat

t the long, slightly tilted writing des

where people can fill out forms.

At this hour, the room is empty and

on the employees’ side of the counter

only two elderly ladies can be seen

nibbling their sandwiches ovemmaculate napkins. Wallas decides it i

better to wait to begin his investigatio

until the entire staff is present. He wil



come back at one-thirty. In any case, h

will have to eat lunch sooner or later.

He heads toward a NOTICE that look

as if it had been posted recently, and t

ustify his entrance he pretends t

examine it with interest.

It is a series of paragraphannouncing certain modifications mad

by the minister in the organization o

details in the postal system—nothing, ishort, of interest to the public, asid

from a few hypothetical specialists. Fo

an outsider, the precise nature of thes

modifications does not seem clear, shat Wallas finds himself wondering i

here is any real difference between th

new state of affairs and the one tha



existed previously.

As he leaves, he has the impressio

hat the two women are staring at him i

perplexity.

Retracing his steps, Wallas notices, ohe other side of the Rue Janeck, a

automat of modest size but equippe

with the most recent machinery. Th

chromium-plated dispensers are lined ualong the walls; at the rear sits th

cashier from whom the diners obtai

special tokens. The entire length of th

room is occupied by two rows of smal

round plastic tables attached to the floor

Standing in front of these tables, som

fifteen people—continually changing—



are eating with quick, precise gestures

Girls in white laboratory smocks clea

he tables and wipe them off once th

diners leave. On the white walls, a sigreproduced many times:

“Please Hurry. Thank You.”

Wallas examines all the machinesEach of them contains—placed on

series of glass trays, equidistant an

superposed—a column of earthenwarplates with precisely the same culinar

preparation on each one reproduce

down to the last lettuce leaf. When

column is emptied, anonymous hands filup the blanks from behind.

Having reached the last dispenser

Wallas has not yet made up his mind



Besides, his selection is of sligh

mportance, for the various dishes diffe

only by the arrangement of articles o

he plate; the basic element is marinateherring.

Behind this last pane of glass

Wallas glimpses, one on top of the othersix replicas of the followin

composition: on a bed of toast, sprea

with margarine, is arranged a broad file

of herring with silvery-blue skin; to thright, five quarters of tomato, to the left

hree slices of hard-boiled egg; set o

op, at specific points; three blacolives. Each tray also contains a for

and a knife. The circular slices of toas

are certainly made for this purpose.



Wallas drops his token into the slo

and presses a button. With a pleasan

hum of its electric motor, the entir

column of plates begins to descend; ihe empty compartment at the botto

appears, then halts, the plate whos

owner he has become. He removes

and the napkin that accompanies it an

sets them both down on a free table

After having performed the sam

operation to obtain a slice of the samoast, accompanied this time by cheese

and once again for a glass of beer, h

begins to cut up his meal into littl

cubes.

A quarter of tomato that is quit



faultless, cut up by the machine into

perfectly symmetrical fruit.

The peripheral flesh, compact

homogeneous, and a splendid chemica

red, is of an even thickness between

strip of gleaming skin and the hollow

where the yellow, graduated seedappear in a row, kept in place by a thi

ayer of greenish jelly along a swellin

of the heart. This heart, of a slightl

grainy, faint pink, begins—toward thnner hollow—with a cluster of whit

veins, one of which extends toward th

seeds—somewhat uncertainly.Above, a scarcely perceptibl

accident has occurred: a corner of th

skin, stripped back from the flesh for



fraction of an inch, is slightly raised.

At the next table, three men are standinghree railroad workmen. In front of them

he entire table top is covered by si

plates and three glasses of beer.

All three are cutting little cubes ou

of three disks of toast with cheese o

hem. The other three plates each contai

an example of the herring-tomato-hardboiled egg-olives arrangement of whic

Wallas also possesses a replica. Th

hree men, aside from their identica

uniforms, are the same height and ar

equally heavy; they also have more o

ess similar faces.



They eat in silence, with quick

precise gestures.

When they have finished thei

cheese, they each drink half of thei

glass of beer. A short conversatio

begins:

“What time did you say happened?”

“It must have been around eigh

eight-thirty.”

“And there was no one there then

That can’t be—he told me himself…”

“He said what he wanted you tbelieve.”

After having redistributed the plate

on the table, they begin the second dish



But after a moment’s pause, the man wh

has spoken first stops eating to conclude

“It’s as unlikely in the one case a

n the other.”

After this, they stop talking

absorbed by their arduous problem o

cutting.

Wallas feels a disagreeabl

sensation in the region of his stomach

He has eaten too fast. He now forcehimself to continue more slowly. H

must take something hot to drink

otherwise he might have pains in hi

stomach all afternoon. When he leave

his place, he will drink a cup of coffe

somewhere where he can sit down.



When the railroad workmen hav

finished their second plateful of food

he man who has said what time it wa

resumes the discussion:

“In any case, it was last night.”

“It was? How do you know?”

“Don’t you read the papers?”

“Oh, you know, the newspapers!”

This remark is accompanied by cynical gesture. All three have serious

but dispassionate faces; they ar

speaking in neutral, even tones, as if the

were not paying too much attention their words. Probably they are talkin

about something of slight interest—o

about something already repeated ove



and over again.

“And what do you make of th

etter?”

“In my opinion, that letter prove

nothing at all.”

“Then nothing ever proveanything.”

With simultaneous gestures, the

finish their glasses of beer. Then, i

single file, they head for the door

Wallas can still hear:

“Well, we’ll see tomorrow, I hope.”

***

n a café that is the image of the one i



he Rue des Arpenteurs—not very clean

but well heated—Wallas is drinking

cup of coffee.

He is vainly struggling to get rid o

his cottony discomfort that keeps hi

from thinking about his case seriously

He must be catching some kind ogrippe. Though he usually escapes mino

ailments of this kind, it would have to b

oday that he doesn’t feel “up to snuff.

Yet he awoke feeling fine, as usual; was during the morning that a kind o

generalized discomfort graduall

nvaded his system. At first he ascribet to hunger, then to the cold. But, eve

so, he has eaten and warmed himsel

with this coffee without managing t

overcome his torpor.



Yet he needs all his wits about hi

f he wants to come to any conclusion

for up to now, though luck has been wit

him to a certain extent, he hasn’t madmuch progress. Yet it is of the greates

mportance to his future that he giv

evidence at this time of lucidity an

skill.

When he started to work at th

Bureau of Investigation, some month

ago, his chiefs did not conceal from hihat he was being hired on probation

and that the job he would ultimately b

given would depend in particular on thsuccesses he achieved. This crime is th

first important case he has been given

Of course he is not the only man to b

concerned with it: other people, othe



services too, whose very existence h

doesn’t know a thing about, are workin

on the same case; but since he has bee

given his opportunity, he should expenall his zeal upon it.

The first contact with Fabius wa

not very encouraging. Wallas came froanother division of the ministry, wher

he was very well thought of; he had bee

offered this transfer to replace a ma

who had fallen critically ill.

“So you want to work in the Burea

of Investigation…”

Fabius is talking. He examines th

new recruit dubiously, obviousl

apprehensive that he will not be equal t

his job.



“It’s difficult work,” he begins, hi

one severe.

“I know it is, Monsieur,” Walla

answers, “but I’ll do…”

“Difficult and disappointing.”

He speaks slowly and hesitantlywithout letting himself be distracted b

Wallas’ answers, which he seems

moreover, not to hear.

“Come over here, we’ll have

ook.”

Out of his desk drawer, he takes

curious instrument that looks like combination of calipers and a protractor

Wallas approaches and bends his hea

forward, to permit Fabius to take th



customary measurements of his forehead

This is a regulation formality. Walla

knows that; he has already taken his ow

approximate measurements with a tapemeasure: he is slightly over th

compulsory square centimeters.

“One hundred-fourteen… Fortyhree.”

Fabius takes a slip of paper to mak

he calculation.“Now let’s see. One hundred

fourteen multiplied by forty-three. Thre

imes four, twelve; three times one

hree, and one makes four; three time

one, three. Four times four, sixteen; fou

imes one, four and one makes five; fou

imes one, four. Two; six and four, ten



zero; five and three, eight, and on

makes nine; four. Four thousand nin

hundred and two… That’s not so good

oung man.”

Fabius stares at him mournfully

shaking his head.

“But Monsieur,” Wallas protestpolitely, “I made the calculation mysel

and…”

“Four thousand nine hundred anwo. Forty-nine square centimeters o

frontal surface; you have to have at leas

fifty, you know.”

“But Monsieur, I…”

“Well, since you’ve com

recommended, I’m going to hire you—o



probation… Maybe some good har

work will help you gain a few

millimeters. We’ll decide about tha

after your first important case.”

Suddenly in a hurry, Fabius take

from his desk a rubber stamp which h

first presses on an ink pad, anafterward nervously taps on his new

man’s transfer sheet; then, with the sam

automatic gesture, he vigorously adds

second stamp right in the middle oWallas’ forehead, shouting:

“Ready for service!”

Wallas wakes up with a start. Hi

forehead has just bumped against th

edge of the table. He straightens up an

drinks the rest of his cold coffee wit



disgust.

Having examined the check stuc

under the saucer by the waiter, he stand

up and tosses a coin on the counter as h

passes. He goes out without waiting fo

his change. “For service” as he was tol

by…“Well, Monsieur, did you find you

post office?”

Wallas turns around. Still under theffect of his brief somnolence, he has no

noticed the woman in an apron who i

washing the window.

“Yes, I did; thank you.”

It is the woman with the broom wh

was washing the sidewalk this mornin



—in this very place.

“And it was open?”

“No, not until eight.”

“Then you should have listened t

me! The one in the Rue Jonas was just a

good.”“Yes, I suppose so. I didn’t mind th

walk, though,” Wallas answers as h

eaves.

On his way to the Rue Jonas, h

considers the best way to obtainformation about the man in the tor

raincoat. Despite his reluctance an

Fabius7 advice, it will be necessary fo



him to reveal his profession: it i

mpossible to start up a conversatio

with all six employees, one after th

other, on some ordinary excuse as thougby chance. It would therefore be best t

ask the postmaster to call his staf

ogether for a brief conference. Walla

will give the description of the man

who must have come in last nigh

between five-thirty and six—

unfortunately a busy time. (According the statements—which agree on thi

point—of Madame Bax and the drunk

he scene at the fence occurred a

nightfall, that is, around five o’clock.)

The hat, the raincoat, th

approximate height, the genera

manner…He does not know much that’



very exact. Should he add that the ma

ooks like himself? This may disturb th

witnesses to no purpose, for thi

resemblance is quite problematical—and, in any case, subjective.

The employees are all in thei

places now, though the electric clocndicates only one-thirty. Walla

assumes a preoccupied expression an

walks past the windows whil

examining the signs above them:

“Postage Prepaid. Stamps in Sheets

Surcharges. Parcel Post. Air Mail.”

“Parcel Post. Stamps. Registere

Letters. Special Delivery. Registere

Letters and Packages.”



“Stamps. Money Orders: Posta

Orders, Checks, International Mone

Orders.”

“Savings Bank. Pension Coupons

Pensions and Retirement. Stamps

Money Orders Cashed.”

“Telegrams. Telegraph MoneOrders Sent and Cashed. Telephon

Payments and Surcharges.”

“Telegrams. PneumatiCorrespondence. Poste Restante

Stamps.”

Behind the window, the girl raiseher head and looks at him. She smile

and says as she turns around toward

set of pigeonholes on the wall:



“There’s a letter for you.”

As she looks through the packet o

envelopes she has just taken out of on

of the pigeonholes, she adds: “I didn

recognize you right away with tha

overcoat.”

“It’s because it’s not as war oday,” Wallas says.

“Winter’s coming now,” the youn

woman answers.

Just as she is about to give him th

etter, she asks with a sudden an

satirical respect for the regulations:“Do you have your card

Monsieur?”

Wallas thrusts his hand into th



nside pocket of his overcoat. Th

registration card is not there, of course

he will explain “orgetting it by the fac

hat he has changed his clothes. But ldoes not have time to act out this littl

comedy.

“You know you gave it in lasnight,” she says. “I shouldn’t 3e givin

ou any mail any more, since you aren

registered here any more; but since th

box hasn’t been bought by anyone elset, it doesn’t matter.”

She hands him a crumple

envelope: “Monsieur Andre WS. PosOffice 5, 2 Rue Jonas. No. 326 D.” Th

word “Pneumatic” is written in the lef

corner.



“Has it been here long?” Walla

asks.

“Just after you came in, thi

morning. It must have been quarter t

welve, or twelve. You see, you wer

right to come back, in spite of what yo

old me. There isn’t even any address ohe back to forward it to. I wouldn

have known what to do with it.”

“It was sent at ten-forty,” Wallaremarks, examining the postmarks.

“Ten-forty?…You should have ha

t this morning. There was probabl

some delay in sending it. You were righ

o stop by again.”

“Oh,” Wallas says, “it can’t be ver



mportant.”



4

“In my opinion, this letter proves nothin

at all.” Laurent flattens the sheet out ohis desk with his open hand. “The

nothing ever proves anything.”

“But,” the commissioner remarks“that’s what I just finished telling you.”

As though to console Wallas, h

adds:



“Let’s put it this way: with thi

etter, you can prove anything you wan

—you can always prove whatever yo

want—for instance, that you are thmurderer: the post office employe

recognized you, and your name has

certain resemblance to this discree

WS’ that indicates it. You don’t happe

o be named Andre, do you?”

Wallas finds himself faced agai

with the commissioner’s jokes. Hnevertheless answers, out of civility:

“Anyone can have letters sent to hi

under any name. All you need to do ibuy a postal number; no one asks for th

purchaser’s real identity. The latte

could just as well get himself calle



Daniel Dupont’ or ‘Chie

Commissioner Laurent.’ It’s onl

unfortunate that we haven’t discovere

he place where he received his maisooner; we would have picked it up thi

morning too. I repeat that you have t

send a man to the Rue Jonas right away

o wait for his possible return; however

since he himself told them he wouldn

be back, this precaution will probabl

be of no use. All we can do is send fohat girl and question her. Maybe she’l

give us some clue.”

“Don’t get excited,” Laurent begins“keep calm. Actually, I don’t see an

reason why this Monsieur WS should b

he murderer. What do you really know

when you come down to facts? With th



help of a fanciful woman and a drun

man, you’ve been induced to accep

mail, some mail that didn’t belong to yo

from a poste restante window. (Pleasnote, by the way, that this is absolutel

rregular: in this country, the police hav

no right to force the postal authorities t

hand over private correspondence; yo

must have a court order for that.) Al

right. Who was this letter addressed to

To a man who looks like you. On thother hand, you also happen to resembl

though the testimony is more suspect

someone who is supposed to hav

walked past the little house and “stuchis arm between the bars of the fence” a

around five o’clock. You have decided

consequently, that this person then wen



nto this same post office. All right. Tha

would certainly be a coincidenc

—which the letter in question shoul

explain. But just what does this lettesay? That the sender (who signs himsel

J.B.) will expect this ‘Andre WS

sooner than they had previously arrange

“after quarter to twelve”)—

unfortunately the location of thei

rendezvous is not specified; that

because of the defection of a thirperson designated by the letter G, thi

same WS will need the whole afternoo

o do some job, concerning which w

are given no clues except that part of iwas already completed yesterda

besides, you have to admit that on

wonders what could still be done a



regards Dupont’s murder). Aside fro

hat, I can find only a little phrase whos

meaning neither you nor I can figure out

but which we can probably dismiss asecondary—you agree with me on that

Finally, to finish up, we find that on

word is illegible in one of the sentence

ou consider indicative—a word o

seven or eight letters that looks lik

ellipse’ or ‘eclipse’ or that could b

align’ or ‘idem’ or a lot of othehings.”

Laurent then declares that th

possession of a postal box does nondicate necessarily criminal intention

any more than the use of a pseudonym

The city’s six post offices have a total o

several thousand addressees of thi



nature. Some of the latter—less than

quarter, it appears—carry on a purel

sentimental or para-sentimenta

correspondence. One must also includabout the same number of more or les

fictional commercial-philanthropi

enterprises such as marriage agencies

employment offices, Hindu fakirs

astrologists, spiritual mentors,…etc. Th

rest, say more than half, consists o

businessmen of whom only a tinproportion are actually crooks.

The pneumatic message has bee

sent from post office number 3, the onserving the inner harbor and th

northeast suburbs. It is, as always,

matter of a sale of wood, or of som

operation relating to it: adjudication



ransportation, cargo or some such thing

Since the market suffers extremel

variable daily fluctuations, it is essentia

for the middle men to know how to takadvantage of it quickly; a delay o

wenty-four hours in a transaction ca

sometimes ruin a man.

J.B. is a commission-merchan

perhaps unlicensed—it isn’t necessaril

so). G and Andre WS are two of hi

agents. They cooperated yesterday on deal which is to be closed tonight

Without G’s cooperation, the secon

agent must be on hand sooner than usuan order not to be left behind.



5

Wallas is alone again, walking throug

he streets.

This time he is going to see Docto

Juard; as Laurent has just repeated t

him: that is the first thing to do. He hamanaged to obtain the cooperation of th

municipal police in the surveillance o

he little post office and the questionin



of the young woman working there. Bu

he could see that the commissioner’

mind was henceforth made up: there i

no terrorist organization, Daniel Duponhas killed himself. This is the onl

explanation Laurent regards a

reasonable; he admits that “mino

details” are temporarily at variance wit

his notion, yet each new element that i

brought to his attention immediatel

becomes an additional proof of suicide.This is the case, for instance, wit

regard to the revolver which Wallas ha

found in the professor’s house. Thcaliber of the weapon corresponds t

hat of the bullet turned in by the doctor

and this bullet just happens to be missin

from the clip. Finally, and mos



significant to the commissioner’s way o

hinking, the revolver was jammed. Thi

fact, determined in the polic

aboratories, would be a capital one: explains why Dupont, merely wounde

by his first bullet, did not fire a secon

shot. Instead of being ejected normally

he shell has remained jammed inside

his is why it has not been found on th

floor in the study. As for the rathe

blurred fingerprints taken from the gripheir arrangement is not incompatibl

with the gesture the commissioner ha

magined: the index finger on the trigge

as though to fire straight ahead, but thelbow stuck out and the wrist twisted i

such a way that the muzzle of the gun i

pressed, at only a slight angle, betwee



he two ribs. Despite this inconvenien

position, the weapon must be held firml

so that it remains in place…

***

A deafening shock in the chest

mmediately followed by an extremel

sharp pain in the right arm; then nothinmore-then nausea, which is certainly no

death. Dupont stares at his revolver wit

astonishment.His right arm moves withou

difficulty, his head is clear, the rest o

his body would also respond if he calle

upon it to do so. He is nevertheles

certain of having felt the detonation an

he rending of his flesh in the region o

his heart. He should be dead; now h



finds himself sitting at his desk as i

nothing had happened. The bullet mus

have swerved. He must finish the job a

soon as possible.

He turns the muzzle toward himsel

again; he presses it against the materia

of his vest, in the place where the firshole must already be. Fearing he migh

weaken, he puts all his strength int

contracting his finger But this tim

nothing happens, absolutely nothingHowever hard he tightens his finger o

he trigger, the weapon remains inert.

He lays it on the desk and puts hihand through several exercises to prov

o himself that it is functioning normally

t is the revolver that is jammed.



Although hard of hearing, old Anna

who was clearing off the table in th

dining room, has obviously heard th

explosion What is she doing? Has shgone out to call for help? Or is sh

coming upstairs? She never makes an

noise with her felt slippers. Somethin

must be done before she reaches him. H

must get out of this absurd situation.

The professor tries to get up; h

succeeds easily. He can even walk. Hgoes to the mantelpiece to look a

himself in the mirror; he moves a pile o

books aside. Now he sees the hole, ittle too high; the material of his vest

orn, is faintly stained with blood

almost nothing. He need only button hi

acket and it won’t show any more. A



glance at his face: no, he doesn’t look s

bad. He turns back to his desk, tears u

he letter he has written to his frien

Juard before dinner, and throws it in thwastebasket…

Daniel Dupont is sitting in his study. Hs cleaning his revolver.

He manipulates it with care.

After having checked the prope

functioning of the mechanism, he puts th

clip back in place. Then he puts his ra

away in a drawer. He is a meticulouman, who likes every task to be execute

properly.

He stands up and takes a few step



on the water-green carpet that muffle

every sound. There is scarcely any roo

o walk in the little study. On every sid

books surround him: law, sociaegislation, political economy… Dow

below, to the left, at the end of the lon

shelves, stands the row of books h

himself has added to the series. No

much. There were two or three idea

nevertheless. Who has understood them

Too bad for them; that’s no reason to kiloneself in despair! The professor smile

faintly, rather contemptuously, thinkin

again of the preposterous notions tha

had suddenly passed through his minust now, while he was holding th

revolver… People would have thought

was an accident.



He stops in front of his desk an

glances one last time at this letter he ha

ust written, to a Belgian colleagu

nterested in his theories. It is a cleardry letter; it gives all the explanation

necessary. Perhaps, when he has eate

dinner, he will add a warmer word at th

end.

Before going downstairs he must pu

he revolver back in the light tabl

drawer. He wraps it up carefully in thpiece of rag he has just put away absent

mindedly. Then he turns out the larg

amp on his desk. It is seven o’clock…

When he came back upstairs to finish hi

etter, he found he murderer waiting fo



him. It would have been better if he ha

kept the revolver in his pocket… Bu

who said that he had examined it just tha

day? He would have removed the olhell that jammed the mechanism. Th

aboratory only indicted that the weapo

was “well cared for” and that th

missing bullet had been “recently” fired

hat is, after the last cleaning—whic

could, after all, date from several week

ago, even several months. Laurenranslated this as follows: Dupont leane

t yesterday, in order to use it that ver

evening.

Wallas is now thinking that h

should have been able to convince th

commissioner. The latter’s argument

often seemed worthless, and it wa



certainly possible to prove it to him

nstead of which, Wallas has let himsel

get involved in utile arguments ove

secondary points—or even discussionhaving no relation to the crime whateve

—and when he wanted D make the broa

outlines of the case clear, he did so wit

phrases so clumsy that this whole stor

of the secret society and the time

murders assumed an unreal, gratuitous

“badly put together” quality in his mouthAs he talked, he grew more an

more aware of the unbelievabl

character of his account. Moreovermaybe this was not matter of the word

he was using: others chosen with mor

care might have suffered the same fate;

was enough for him t pronounce them fo



hem to cease to inspire confidence

Walls consequently reached the point o

no longer trying to reason against th

ready-made formulas that naturalloccurred t him; they were the ones tha

were easiest.

To top it off, opposite him was thcommissioner’s cynical face, whose al

oo obvious incredulity completel

annihilate the plausibility of Wallas

constructions.

Laurent has begun asking himsel

precise questions. Who are the victims

What, exactly, was their role in the statHasn’t their sudden and collectiv

disappearance already caused a

appreciable void? How does it happe



hat no one speaks of it in society, in th

newspapers, in the street?

In reality, this is easily explained. I

s a matter of a rather numerous group o

men scattered throughout the country. F

he most part, they occupy no officia

positions; they are not supposed tbelong to the government; their influenc

s nevertheless direct and considerable

Economists, financiers, head o

ndustrial corporations, men in charge ounion council! jurists, engineers

echnicians of all kinds, they prefe

remaining in the background and leadinquite obscure lives; their names ar

meaningless to the public, their face

completely unknown. Yet th

conspirators make no mistake about the



hey know how to reach, through them

he very core of the nation’s politico

economic system. Up to now, everythin

possible has been done in high places tconceal the gravity of the situation; n

publicity has been given to the nin

murders already committed, severa

have even been treated as accidents th

newspapers are keeping quiet; publi

ife continues i usual, to all appearances

Since leaks are likely in a serviceenormous and as ramified as that of th

police, Roy-Dauzet has decided that th

atter should not be directly assigned t

he terrorists. The minister has morconfidence in the various informatio

services he controls and whos

personnel, at least, is personall



committed to him.

Wallas has answered the chie

commissioner’s questions as well as h

could, without betraying any essentia

secrets. But he realizes the weaknesse

of his position. These backgroun

characters who clandestinely run thcountry, these crimes no ne mentions

hese secret services marginal to th

actual police, and lastly, these terrorists

more mysterious than all the rest—hers enough here to disturb a self-confiden

official who is hearing about them fo

he first time… And probably the torcould be invented entirely and woul

still leave every-ne the possibility o

believing it—or not—and thes

successive revelations, in one directio



or another, would only modify its natur

n exactly the same way.

Laurent, pink and plump, sittin

comfortably in his official armchai

among his salaried informers and hi

files, contracted the special agent s

categorically that the latter has suddenlfelt his very existence threatened

himself a member of one of these vagu

organizations, Wallas himself could jus

as well be, like the conspiracy, a purnvention of an overly imaginativ

minister; it is to this status, in any case

hat his iterlocutor seems to relegathim. For the commissioner now declare

his opinion without bothering abou

appearances or discretion: they wer

dealing, once again, with one of Roy



Dauzet’s whims; the fact that people lik

Fabius had any confidence in it was no

enough to make it hold water. Moreover

heir disciples went still further in theiextravagance, like that Marchat—who

unfortunately, might even go so far as t

die at seven-thirty tonight b

suggestion…

The businessman’s intervention ha

obviously been of no help at all.

Wallas has left, taking with him th

dead man’s revolver. Laurent did no

want it: he had nothing to do with it

since Wallas was in charge of thnvestigation, he should hold on t th

“items of evidence.” At th

commissioner’s request, tit laborator



had returned the weapon in the state i

which it ha been found, that is, with th

empty shell that kept it from functioning.

Wallas walks on. The arrangemen

of the streets constantly surprises him i

his city. He has followed the same rout

2 this morning ever since he left thprefecture, and yet he ha the impressio

of walking much longer than he had t

he fir< time, to cover the distance fro

he police station to Doctor Juard’clinic. But since all the streets in th

neighborhood look alike, he could no

swear that he has always taken preciselhe same ones. He is afraid of havin

veered too far to the left an hence passe

he street he was looking for.



He decides to go into a shop to as

he way to the Rue de Corinthe. It is

small bookstore that also sell

stationery, pencils, and paints fochildren. The saleswoman stands up t

wait on him:

“Monsieur?”“I’d like a very soft gum eraser, fo

drawing.”

“Yes of course, Monsieur.”

The ruins of Thebes.

On a hill above the city, a Sunda

painter has set up his ease in the shadof cypress trees, between the scattere

shafts c columns. He paints carefully, hi

eyes shifting back to his subject ever



few seconds; with a fine brush he point

up man details that are scarcel

noticeable to the naked eye, but whic

assume a surprising intensity once theare reproduced in the picture. He mus

have very sharp eyes. One could coun

he stones that form the edge of the quay

he bricks of the gabled end, and eve

he slates in the roof. At the corner of th

fence the leaves of the spindle tree

gleam in the sun, which emphasizes theioutlines. Behind, a bush rises above th

hedge, a bare bush whose every twig i

ined with a bright streak where the ligh

hits it, and a dark one on the shadowside. The snapshot has been taken i

winter, on an exceptionally clear day

What reason could the young woma



have for photographing this house?

“It’s a pretty house, isn’t it?”

“Well yes, if you like it.”

She cannot have been the tenant wh

preceded Dupont; the latter took u

residence there some twenty-five yearago, and inherited it from an uncle. Ha

she been the servant there? Wallas see

again the gay, slightly provocative fac

of the saleswoman; thirty to thirty-fivears old at the most, prepossessin

maturity with full, rounded form; war

complexion, shining eyes, dark hair, a

uncommon physical type in this countr

—actually reminiscent of the women o

southern Europe or the Balkans.



“Well yes, if you like it.”

With a throaty little laugh, as if h

had just indulged in some flatterin

compliment. His wife? That would b

strange. Didn’t Laurent say she wa

running a shop now? Around fiftee

ears younger than her husband…darkwith black eyes… that’s who it is!

Wallas leaves the bookstore. A few

ards farther on, he reaches a crossroadOpposite him stands the red placard

“For drawing, for school, for th

office…”

It is here that he got off the streetcar

before lunch. Again he follows th

arrow toward the Victor-Hugo stationer

shop.



CHAPTER FOUR



1

Down below, directly beneath his eyes

a cable runs along the surface of thwater.

Leaning over the parapet, he sees

rising from under the arch, straight anaut, apparently no thicker than hi

humb; but distance is deceptive whe

here is no object of comparison. Th



coiled strands follow each othe

smoothly, giving the impression of grea

speed. A hundred spirals a second

perhaps?…Actually, that would still bno great rate of speed, that of a ma

walking briskly—that of the tug pulling

rain of barges along a canal.

Beneath the metal cable is th

water, greenish, opaque, choppin

slightly in the wake of the already distan

ug.

The first barge has not yet appeare

under the bridge; the cable still run

along the water, without anything tsuggest that it must soon be interrupted

Yet the tug is now reaching the nex

footbridge and, in order to pass under it



begins lowering its smokestack.



2

“Daniel was a melanchol

man…melancholy and solitary.…But hwasn’t the kind of man to commit suicid

—anything but. We lived together almos

wo years in that house in the

Rue des Arpenteurs (the youn

woman stretches out her arm and point

east—unless she is merely indicating th



big photograph on the other side of th

partition, in the shopwindow) and no

once during those two years did he eve

reveal the slightest sign odiscouragement or doubt. It wasn’t just

front: that serenity was the tru

expression of his nature.”

“You were saying, just now, that h

was melancholy.”

“Yes. That probably isn’t the righword. He wasn’t melancholy.…H

certainly wasn’t gay: gaiety didn’t mea

anything once you got through the garde

gate. But melancholy didn’t either. don’t know how to tell you… Boring

That isn’t right either. I enjoyed listenin

o him, when he was explainin



something to me… No, what made

mpossible to live with Daniel was tha

ou felt he was alone, definitively alone

He was alone, and it didn’t bother himHe wasn’t made for marriage, or for an

other kind of attachment. He had n

friends. At the School of Law, hi

courses were popular, but he didn’t eve

know his students’ faces… Why did h

marry me?…I was very young, and I fe

a kind of admiration for this older maneveryone I knew admired him. I ha

been brought up by an uncle, and Danie

came to his house for dinner now an

hen. I don’t know why I’m telling yoall this, it can’t be interesting for you.”

“Yes, yes it is,” Wallas protests

“On the contrary, we need to know i



Dupont’s suicide is plausible, if h

might have had reasons to kill himself—

or if he was capable of doing it withou

any reason.”

“Oh, not that! There was always

reason—for his least action. When

didn’t appear at the moment, you founout later that there had been one all th

same, a precise, long deliberated reaso

hat left no aspect of the question i

doubt. Daniel did nothing without havindecided to do it in advance, and hi

decisions were always rationa

unchangeable too, of course…A lack omagination, if you like, but to a

extraordinary degree.…I had nothing bu

virtues to reproach him for, really: neve

doing anything without thinking firs



never changing his mind, never bein

wrong.”

“But you said his marriage was

mistake?”

“Well yes, of course, in his relation

with human beings he risked makin

mistakes. You could even say that he dinothing but make mistakes. Yet in th

ong run he was right anyway: his onl

mistake was in supposing the rest of thworld was as reasonable as he was.”

“Do you think he might have bee

somewhat bitter about thi

ncomprehension?”

“You don’t understand the kind o

man he was. Absolutely unshakable. H



was sure of being right, and that wa

enough for him. If other people enjoye

hemselves over chimeras, too bad fo

hem.”

“He might have changed as he grew

older; you hadn’t seen him since…”

“Oh yes, we’ve seen each otheseveral times: he was still the same. H

alked to me about his work, about how

he spent his time, the few people he stilsaw. He was happy, in his way;

housand miles from any thought o

suicide, anyway; satisfied with hi

monk’s life between his old deahousekeeper and his books…Hi

books…his work…that was all he live

for! You know the house, gloomy an



silent, muffled with rugs, full of old

fashioned ornaments no one is allowe

o touch. Once inside you fe

uncomfortable, as if you were choking ihe gloom that took away any desire t

oke, to laugh, to sing …I was twenty…

Daniel seemed comfortable there an

didn’t understand that someone els

might feel differently. Besides, he rarel

eft his study where no one was allowe

o move anything. Even at the beginninof our marriage, he only left the house t

do his errands, three times a week; th

minute he came back he went upstair

and shut himself in; and he often spensome of the night there. I only saw hi

during meals, when he came down to th

dining room, punctually at noon and a



seven.

“When you told me he was dead, jusnow, it gave me a funny feeling. I don

know how to describe it to you…Wha

difference could there be betwee

Daniel living and Daniel dead? Hwasn’t ever alive…Not that he lacke

personality, or character…But he wa

never alive.”***

“No, I haven’t seen him yet. I plan o

going there when I leave here.”“What’s his name?”

“Doctor Juard.”



“Oh He’s the one who performe

he operation?”

“Yes.”

“That’s funny.”

“He’s not a good surgeon?”

“Oh yes…I think he is.”

“You know him?”

“Just by name…I thought he was

gynecologist.”

“And that happened a long time ago?”“Everyone began talking about

ust before the beginning of…”



Wallas suddenly has the disagreeabl

sensation that he is wasting his time. A

he moment it occurred to him that th

stationery seller in the Rue Victor-Hugwas perhaps the former Madam

Dupont, this coincidence seeme

miraculous to him; he hurried bac

oward the shop, where from th

woman’s first words he discovered tha

he had guessed right. He fe

remendously pleased, as if an unhopedfor piece of luck bad just helped hi

nvestigation along considerably. Yet th

fact of having met this woman by chance

on his way, changed nothing about thmportance of the information he wa

entitled to expect from her: if Wallas ha

seriously supposed she could furnis



anything important he woul

mmediately have looked up the addres

of the divorced wife whose existenc

Commissioner Laurent had indicated thim this morning. At the time, he ha

decided it was more important t

proceed to other interrogations first—

hat of Doctor Juard, for instance, who

he has not yet been able to contact.

Wallas now realizes how

unreasonable his recent hope was. He ieft somewhat dazed by it—not onl

from realizing this hope was vain, bu

disturbed, above all, by not havinrealized it sooner. Sitting in the bac

room of the shop, facing this attractiv

oung woman, he wonders what he cam

here for—perhaps something he doesn



know himself.

At the same time, he is suddenl

afraid of no longer finding the doctor a

he clinic. And as he stands up

apologizing for being unable to stay an

chat any longer, he is once agai

surprised by the little throaty laugh thaseems to suggest some complicity. Ye

he banal phrase he has just spoke

offered no possibility of a doubl

meaning.…In his uncertainty, Wallaries to reconstitute it; but he doesn

manage to: “I’m going to have to…I’

going to…”The buzzer at the door brings hi

attempts to an end, like a bell trying t

remind him of the time. But instead o



freeing him, this intervention delays hi

departure still longer; the saleswoma

has disappeared into her shop, leavin

him alone after a few cheerful words:

“Just a minute, please. I have t

wait on a customer.”

“I’m sorry, Madame, to havo…Just a minute, please, I have to g

’m going to have to go I’m goin

o…I’m going to have to…”There was nothing to laugh abou

hat way.

Wallas sits down again, noknowing what to do while waiting fo

he woman to come back. Through th

half open door he has heard he



receiving her visitor with a brie

professional phrase—hard to make ou

moreover, for the room Wallas is in i

separated from the shop by a windinseries of hallways and anterooms

Afterward, he has heard no furthe

words. The customer, no doubt, has

ower voice, and the young woma

herself is not speaking—or else ha

owered her voice. But why would sh

ower her voice?His ears involuntarily straining

Wallas tries to imagine the scene. A

series of possibilities quickly flashebefore his eyes, mostly silent, o

whispered so low that the words ar

completely lost—which furthe

emphasizes their mimed, caricatura



even grotesque quality. Besides, almos

all these suppositions are characterize

by so flagrant an improbability that thei

own creator is obliged to recognize theas relating more to delirium than t

reasonable conjecture. He worries ove

his for a moment: does not his job, i

fact, consist of precisely…“It’s difficu

work… Difficult an

disappointing…Well, since you’ve com

recommended, I’m going to hire you—oprobation.…”

All that is obviously not ver

serious; if it were something importan—relating to his case—he would not le

his mind wander this way. He has n

reason to be interested in what is bein

said out there.



Yet he listens despite himself—h

ries to listen, rather, for he can hea

nothing but extremely vague noise

whose provenance is as littlcharacterized as their nature Nothing, i

any case, that resembles a little throat

augh…warm and provocative…

It is evening. Daniel Dupont return

from his errands. His eyes on the floor

he climbs the stairs with that determine

gait of his in which only a slight fatigucan be detected. Having reached th

second floor, he walks without

second’s hesitation toward the studdoor.…He starts as he hears, just behin

him, the little throaty laugh that greets hi

arrival. In the dimness of the landing

where he neglected to turn on the light



he has not noticed the attractive youn

woman who is waiting for him in fron

of the open bedroom door…with he

ittle throaty laugh that seems to emanatfrom her whole body…provocative an

suggestive His wife.

Wallas dismisses this image in iturn. The bedroom door shuts the overl

carnal wife inside. The ghost of Danie

Dupont continues on its way toward th

study, eyes the floor, hand alreadextended toward the doorknob it is abou

o turn…

From the shop side, the situation istill just as vague. Wallas, who i

growing impatient, mechanically pushe

up his cuff to look at his wrist watch. H



remembers at the same moment that

has stopped: it still shows seven-thirty

There is no use setting it as long as

won’t work.

On the chest opposite him, on eithe

side of a porcelain figurine of stylize

gallantry, is a pair of portraits. The onon the left shows the stern face of

middle-aged man; he is seen in three

quarters, almost in profile, and seems t

be observing the statuette out of thcorner of his eye—unless he is lookin

at the second photograph, older than th

first, as the yellowing of the paper anhe old-fashioned clothes of the peopl

shown in it indicate. A little boy in

communion suit is looking up toward

all woman wearing the ruffled dress an



plumed hat fashionable in the las

century. It is probably his mother, a

extremely young mother whom the chil

ooks up at with rather perplexeadmiration—as far as can be judge

from this faded snapshot, where th

features have lost a good deal of thei

actuality. This lady must also be th

mother of the stationer) seller; the sever

gentleman may be Dupont. Wallas doe

not even know what the dead man lookike.

Seen at close range, the photograp

reveals an almost imperceptible smilewithout its being possible to tell whethe

t comes from the mouth or from th

eyes…. From another angle, the ma

assumes an almost coarse expressio



hat has something vulgar, self-satisfied

rather repugnant about it. Daniel Dupon

returns from his errands. He climbs th

stairs with a heavy tread in which hihaste can nevertheless be detected

When he reaches the top, he turns lef

oward the bedroom, whose door h

pushes open without bothering t

knock… But the figure of a young ma

has appeared from the study just behin

him Two revolver shots ring out. Duponcollapses without a sound on the hal

carpet.

The young woman appears in thdoorway: “I haven’t kept you waitin

oo long, have I?” she asks in her throat

voice.



“No, not at all,” Wallas answers

“but I’ll have to be running along now.”

She stops him with a gesture:

“Wait just a minute! You know wha

he bought? Guess!”

“Who?”The customer, of course. And he ha

bought an eraser, oi course. What doe

she think is so surprising about that?

“You know, the customer who jus

eft!”

“I don’t know,” Wallas says.“The postcard!” the young woma

exclaims. “He bought the post car

showing the house, the one you bough



from me yourself this morning!”

This time the throaty laugh continue

ndefinitely

When she came into the shop, ther

was a short, sickly looking man there

wearing a long greenish coat and a dirt

hat. He did not say what he wanted righaway, merely murmuring “Goo

morning” vaguely between his teeth. H

glanced around the room, and after pause slightly too long to seem natura

he decided on the rack of post cards

which he calmly went over to examine

He said something like:

“…choose a card…”

“Take your time,” the saleswoma



replied.

But the man’s manner had somethin

so unusual about it that she was going t

call Wallas in, on some excuse, to show

hat she was not alone, when the ma

stopped in front of one of the cards; h

ook it out of the stand and examined carefully. Then, without saying anothe

word, he put a coin down on the counte

the price of the card was indicated o

he rack) and left the shop, taking hifind with him. It was the little house i

he Rue des Arpenteurs, the “scene of th

crime!” Wasn’t that a funny customer?

When Wallas is finally able to leave

here is no longer any chance of findin



he strange collector of photographs. Th

Rue Victor-Hugo is empty in bot

directions. It is impossible to know

which way the stranger turned.

Wallas therefore heads for the Juar

Clinic—or at least where he imagines

o be, for he has forgotten to asdirections from the young woman, and h

prefers—without any real reason

moreover—not to go back to her shop

again.

He has just turned into the nex

street, when he sees in front of him, a

he next intersection, the little man in thgreen coat staring at his post card

standing in the middle of the sidewalk

Wallas walks toward him without havin



exactly decided what he is going to do

having no doubt noticed him, the othe

man begins walking again an

mmediately disappears around thcorner to the right. A few seconds later

Wallas, walking faster, reaches th

ntersection. To the right extends a long

straight street without shops or any kin

of doorway in which a man could b

concealed; it is completely empty, asid

from a tall pedestrian far in the distancewho is quickly disappearing down th

street.

Wallas continues to the firscrossing and looks in all directions. Stil

no one. The little man has vanished.





3

Wallas has continued his pursuit. He ha

systematically explored all thneighboring streets. Afterward, stil

unwilling to give up, although th

chances of finding any trace of th

unknown man are henceforth very sligh

he has retraced his steps, turning, turnin

back, passing the same places two o

hree times, unable to tear himself awa



from the intersection where he had see

he man for the last time.

Discouraged by this incident, h

could make up his mind to leave onl

when he saw what time it was in

ewelry store window: he had just tim

enough to get to the police station, whern his presence Laurent was to questio

he post office employees summoned a

Wallas’ request.

But on the way, Wallas once agai

reviews the circumstances of th

appearance and the subsequen

disappearance of the purchaser of thpost card—the little man standing in th

middle of the sidewalk, his eyes fixed o

he photograph he is holding in bot



hands, quite close to his face, as if h

expected to discover some secret in it—

and then the empty streets in ever

direction.

Already irritated by his ow

obstinacy in pursuing a shadow, Walla

vainly tries to relegate this incident to itproper place—a minor one, after all. I

s most likely a case of some lunati

who collects criminal documents; h

doesn’t have much to occupy him in thisleepy little town: the murder describe

by the morning papers is a windfall fo

him; after lunch, he went to look at th“scene of the crime” and on the wa

home he was struck by the stationer

shopwindow, where he recognized th

house; he immediately went in, bu



didn’t know what to ask th

saleswoman; in order to put a good fac

on the matter, he looked through the rac

of post cards that happened to contaihe object of his desire; he immediatel

bought the card and couldn’t keep fro

examining it on the way home. As for hi

disappearance, it is even more easil

explicable: after having turned at th

ntersection, he went into one of the firs

houses—he had reached his owresidence.

This reconstruction is ver

plausible—the most plausible, in fact—but Wallas keeps going back to the sigh

of the little man in the green coa

standing in the middle of the sidewalk

as if this presence had somethin



rreducible about it which n

explanation—however plausible—coul

account for.

At the police station, Laurent and Walla

begin by deciding on the questions to as

he post office employees: what do theknow about the so-called Andre WS? I

he known in the neighborhood? Doe

anyone know where he lives? How lonhas he had a poste restante number i

he Rue Jonas post office? Does he com

for his mail often? Does he receive

ot? Where are his letters sent fromLastly, why is he not coming back an

more? Has he given any reason? Whe

did he come for the last time?…etc. It i



also a question of establishing a

accurate a description as possible of th

man in the torn raincoat.

The employees, who were waitin

n an adjoining room, are shown in

There are three; the girl from the sixt

window is named Juliette Dexter, heserious and thoughtful expressio

nspires confidence; afterward com

Lebermann, Emilie, fifty one, unmarried

who works at the next window and ialways interested in what is happenin

around her; also a woman whc no longe

belongs to the post office staff, Madame Jean, has been summoned.

Madame Jean, because she onc

obtained a graduation certificate



performed, during the summer, th

functions of temporary clerk at the Ru

Jonas post office; and for the month o

September, during MademoisellDexter’s vacation, she replaced th

atter at her window. Apparently he

work was not regarded as entirel

satisfactory, since the administration ha

preferred not to continue the experimen

and to do without her service. Madam

Jean, who at present is a simpldomestic in the house of a businessma

on the Boulevard Circulaire, is not at al

bitter about this unfortunate effort. Sh

prefers manual work. The attraction of higher salary had led her to give it up

she has returned to it, after three months

with a kind of relief: the various task



she was assigned during her stay at th

post office all appeared somewhat od

o her, both complicated and futile

something like a game of cards, fonstance; the internal operations, eve

more than those carried on at th

windows, were subject to certain secre

regulations and engendered a number o

rituals that were generall

ncomprehensible. Madame Jean, wh

had always slept very well up to thime she worked in the post office, ha

begun, after a few weeks of this new

ob, to suffer from obsessive nightmare

n which she had to reproduce wholvolumes of sibylline writings which sh

ranscribed, for lack of time, quit

ncorrectly, distorting the signs an



confusing their order, so that the wor

had to be done over and over again.

Now she had recovered her ol

calm and the post office had almos

returned for her to the status of a

ordinary shop where stamps and letter

cards were sold, when suddenly a policnspector came to question her about he

previous month’s activities. Immediatel

her suspicions returned, her mistrust, he

fears: so something really wrong wagoing on in the Rue Jonas post offic

after all. Unlike her former colleague

Emilie Leber-mann, whom the promisof scandal hugely excited, Madame Jea

was quite reluctant about coming to th

police station, determined to open he

mouth only enough to avoid any persona



difficulties. Besides, there would be n

problem: she has seen nothing, sh

knows nothing.

Nevertheless she is not to

surprised to find in the commissioner’

office the well-dressed (but suspiciousl

reticent) gentleman who asked her, thivery morning, the way to the “main pos

office” in order to send, he said,

elegram. So he’s mixed up in thi

business! He doesn’t need to worry, iany case, that she’ll say anything to th

police about his comings and goings thi

morning.This is the third time she has see

him today, but he has not recognized her

since he has only seen her up to now i



an apron and without a hat, there i

nothing surprising about that.

Madame Jean notices with som

satisfaction that the commissioner i

questioning Juliette Dexter first—quit

pleasantly, moreover.

“You know,” he says to her, “thman receiving poste res-tante mai

under the name of Andre WS…”

The girl opens her eyes wide anurns toward the telegram clerk. Sh

opens her mouth to speak…but say

nothing and sits bolt upright on her chair

staring back and forth at the two men.

Then Wallas has to begin by explainin



hat he is not Andre WS, which plunge

he girl into still greater astonishment

“But…the letter…just now? …”

Yes, he was the one who took th

etter, but it was the first time he ha

ever been seen in the Rue Jonas. He ha

aken advantage of his resemblance the man in question.

“Well well…Well well…” the ol

maid keeps saying, flabbergasted.Madame Jean, however, show

nothing and continues to stare at the floo

straight ahead of her.

The girl’s testimony is explicit: th

man who calls himself Andre W

resembles Wallas almost exactly. Sh



did not hesitate when she saw the latte

present himself at the window—despit

he change of clothes.

The other man was wearing quit

modest and rather shabby clothes. H

almost always wore a beige raincoat tha

was too tight for his powerful frame; oreflection, he must have been heavie

han Wallas.

“And he had glasses.”It is the old maid who adds thi

detail. But Mademoiselle Dexte

protests: Andre WS has never wor

glasses. Her colleague insists on he

point: she remembers distinctly, sh

even pointed out, one day, that it mad

him look like a doctor.



“What kind of glasses?” Lauren

asks.

They were thick-rimmed tortoise

shell glasses with slightly tinted lenses.

“What color were they tinted?”

“A kind of smoky gray.”“Were the two lenses exactly th

same color, or was one of them a littl

darker than the other?”

She hadn’t noticed this detail, bu

t’s quite possible, as a matter of fact

hat one of the lenses was darker. It’

hard to tell about the visitors—whcome up to the windows with the ligh

behind them—but she remembers now

hat…



Laurent asks Juliette Dexter th

exact time of the last visit of the ma

with the poste restante number.

“It was around five-thirty or six,

she answers; “he always came aroun

hen—a little later, maybe, at th

beginning of the month, when it tooonger to get dark. In any case, it wa

when we were busiest.”

Wallas interrupts her: he haunderstood, from what the girl had tol

him when she gave him the letter, that th

other man had come by shortly before

oward the end of the morning.

“Yes, that’s right,” she says after

moment’s thought; “but that time

wasn’t you yet. He came a little afte



eleven, as he did from time to time, a

well as making his evening visits.”

Did he come regularly ever

evening? And when did his visits start

o, he didn’t come regularly: sometime

more than a week passed without hi

showing up, and then they would see hievery evening for four or five days—an

even mornings, too, sometimes. When h

came, it was because he was expecting

message or a series of messages; mainever came for him during his periods o

absence. He received mostly pneumati

messages and telegrams, rarely ordinarmessages; the pneumatic messages cam

from within the city itself, obviously, th

elegrams from the capital or elsewhere



The girl stops talking, and since n

one asks her anything further, she add

after a moment:

“He should have found his las

pneumatic when he came by thi

morning. If he didn’t, it’s the fault of th

central service.”But her reproach almost seems to b

addressed to Wallas. And no one know

f the tinge of regret in her voice refero that urgent letter which has no

reached its addressee, or to th

nefficient functioning of the post offic

system in general.

Mademoiselle Dexter saw the man in th



ight raincoat for the first time when sh

returned from her vacation, early in

October; but the poste restant

number had already been rented fo

some time since. When? She couldn

say exactly; it will be easy, of course, t

find the date in the post office recordsAs for knowing if the man had alread

come during the month of September

hey will have to ask her replacemen

about that.

Unfortunately, Madame Jean doe

not remember; she didn’t notice, at th

ime, that name of Andre WS nor did shrecall having ever seen this face—

Wallas’ face—with or without glasses.

Mademoiselle Lebermann think



hat he had come already, that he ha

even come long before, for that ver

remark she had made about his lookin

ike a doctor must have dated froAugust, since it was in August tha

Doctor Gelin had taken on an assistan

and she had thought at first that thi

was…

“Could you say,” the commissione

asks her, “if it was the right lens that wa

darker, or the left?”

The old maid takes several minute

o answer.

“I think,” she says finally, “that

was on the left side.”

“That’s strange,” Laurent say



houghtfully. “Think carefully; wasn’t

more likely the right eye?”

“Wait a minute, Commissioner, wa

a minute: I said ‘on the left side,’ on my

eft side—for him that meant his righ

eye.”

“Good, that sounds better,” thcommissioner says.

He would like to know, now, if th

beige raincoat did not have a rip acroshe right shoulder last night. The gir

didn’t look up when the man turne

around, and she hadn’t seen any such rip

from the front. Mademoisell

Lebermann, on the other hand, ha

ooked up and watched him as he left

here had been an L-shaped tear acros



he right shoulder.

Lastly, they are not in agreement a

o the contents of the telegrams either

he girl can remember extremely shor

and commonplace texts—confirmations

counter-orders, meetings—without an

detail that suggests the nature of thbusiness referred to; Mademoisell

Lebermann refers to long messages wit

obscure phrases that must have had

secret meaning.

“Telegrams are always shor

because of the price,” Juliette Dexte

adds, as though she had not heard whaher colleague had just declared. “Peopl

don’t repeat what the corresponden

already knows if they don’t have to.”



Madame Jean has no opinion abou

what is or is not said in a telegram.

Alone again, Wallas and Laurent add u

what they have just learned. The total i

soon reached, for they have learne

nothing at all. Andre WS never told thpost office girl anything that coul

furnish a lead or suggest his activities

he was not talkative. On the other handhe does not seem to have been someon

from the neighborhood: at least, no on

knows him there.

Mademoiselle Lebermann has give

her personal opinion at the end of th

questioning: a doctor specializing i

llegal operations. “There are som



funny doctors around here, you know,

she has added knowingly.

There is no reason to reject thi

hypothesis a priori, but Laurent point

out that his own, according to which it i

merely the wood export market that is i

question, has a better chance of being thright one after all; and besides, it woul

fit in better with the way the message

happened to be grouped.

Furthermore, it is still not certai

hat this Andre WS is the perso

Madame Bax saw from her window a

nightfall, in front of the gate of the housn the Rue des Arpenteurs. The rip th

drunk described in the back of th

raincoat might have served to identif



him, but the young post office employe

has specified she saw nothing of th

kind; now it is impossible, on this point

o take into account the affirmativestimony of the old maid, and th

raincoat alone—without the rip—is no

proof enough; any more—obviously—

han the resemblance to Wallas which, i

t were to be taken seriously, would jus

as well lead to accusing the latter.

Before leaving the commissioner, Walla

also examines a police report, the wor

of one of the two inspectors who, thevening before, made the firs

examinations of the dead man’

residence.



“You’ll see,” Laurent remarked a

he handed him the slender file of type

pages, “it’s an interesting piece of work

This boy is a little young, of course: yocan tell it’s his first crime. For instance

he wrote this memorandum on his own

since our investigation has officiall

been interrupted. I even think he mus

have made additional investigations o

his own account, after having been tol

o finish up. The enthusiasm of neophyte, you understand.”

While Wallas is reading th

document, the commissioner makes few further remarks—apparently ironi

ones—as to the young inspector’

conclusions and the naïveté with whic

he has received the suggestions o



people who “obviously were taking hi

n.”

The text begins as follows: “O

Monday, October twenty-sixth, at eigh

minutes after nine…”

The first pages discuss in detail, bu

without digressions or commentary, thelephone call from Doctor Juard and th

nformation furnished by the latter as t

he professor’s death and the attactself. Then comes an extremely precis

description of the house and it

environs: the corner of the Rue de

Arpenteurs, the little garden with ithedge of spindle trees and its fence, th

wo doors to the house—one in front, th

other at the rear—the arrangement of th



ground-floor rooms, the staircase, th

carpet, the study on the second floor; th

arrangement of the furniture in this las

room is also analyzed in scrupuloudetail. Then follow the polic

observations proper: bloodstains

fingerprints, objects apparently not i

heir normal place or position…“lastl

he fingerprints number 3—right hand—

also figure distinctly on a cubica

paperweight weighing between seveand eight hundred grams, placed to th

eft of the manuscript page—about te

centimeters away.”

Aside from these exaggeratedl

detailed notations, the memorandu

furnishes more or less the substance o

he first reports made by the inspectors



o whom Laurent had introduced Walla

his morning. However, two new

ndications appear in it: the recen

damaging of the buzzer system at the gatwhich is no news to Wallas) and fres

racks discovered on the narrow strip o

awn along the west end of the house; th

measurements of these footprints ar

ndicated, as well as the average lengt

of the strides.

A little more attention is paid, thiime, to the housekeeper’s words

Wallas even recognizes, in the phrase

quoted, the old woman’s favoritexpressions. In particular, the complet

story of the damaged telephone line i

given and Madame Smite’s vain effort

o have it repaired.



After taking the housekeeper’

estimony, the zealous inspector ha

nterviewed the concierge from th

apartment house across the street and thmanager of a “small café located som

wenty yards away, at number 10”—th

Café des Allies. The concierge refers t

he regular visitors to the house; h

himself often sits—particularly in th

spring and summer—on his doorstep i

he afternoons, just opposite the gardegate; consequently he has been able t

observe that very few people visited th

victim: the postman, the employee fro

he public utilities system, occasionalla salesman of Venetian blinds or vacuu

cleaners, as well as four or fiv

gentlemen whom it is difficult at firs



glance to distinguish from salesmen—fo

hey wear the same type of suit and carr

he same briefcase—but who ar

businessmen from the city, professorsdoctors, etc. It is apparent that the autho

only reproduces all these triflin

remarks out of a concern for objectivity

and despite the care he takes to presen

what follows with the same detachment

he obviously regards it as much mor

mportant. It concerns a young manapparently a student, extremely simpl

dressed, short, even somewhat puny; thi

boy had apparently come several time

during the course of the summer, theafter a lacuna of more than a month

hree times in a row during the secon

week in October—the week when it wa



so warm; since the window of the roo

where Dupont was sitting was open then

he concierge could hear the tone of th

conversation frequently rising durinhese visits; the last day, the visit ende

n a violent quarrel. It was the youn

man who did most of the shouting, th

concierge thinks; this boy seemed ver

nervous and may have been drinking

ittle too much—he sometimes went int

he Café des Allies when he left thprofessor’s house. Lastly, the day befor

he murder, he walked along the cana

with a friend—much taller and stronge

han himself, and certainly older tooThey stopped in front of the little hous

and the student pointed to one of th

rooms on the second floor; he wa



obviously overexcited, he wa

explaining something to his companio

with animation, making threatenin

gestures.

Although Madame Smite i

extremely deaf (and “rather peculiar”

and “seems to be completely ignorant oher employer’s associates,” it i

possible that she can give the name o

his young man and say what he wa

doing in the house.

It would be best to question th

housekeeper once again; unfortunatel

she has left the city. In her absence, thnspector has attempted to question th

manager of the Café des Allies; h

points out, by the way, that “members o



his profession are generally quite wel

nformed as to the private life of thei

customers.” The manager had no desir

o talk, and it required all the inspector’patience and diplomacy to get to th

bottom of the affair:

Some twenty years ago, Dupon“had relations regularly” with a woma

“in modest circumstances” who

subsequently gave birth to a son. Th

professor, who had “done everything tkeep this regrettable event fro

occurring” (?) and whom the woma

attempted to pressure into an alliancepersisted in his refusal to marry her

Finding no other way to bring to an en

he “proceedings of which he was th

object” he soon afterward married



oung girl of his own circle. But th

llegitimate child, having grown up, now

returned with the intention of obtainin

arge sums of money, “which provokestormy arguments whose echoes wer

heard by the neighbors.”

In his conclusions, the inspectobegins by proving that Daniel Dupon

himself has, on a number of points

“distorted the truth.”

“The mere examination of th

material evidence,” he writes, “proves

without there being any need to bring i

he evidence of the witnesses, that:

“First, there were two aggressors

not just one: the man with the smal

hands (fingerprints number 3) and smal



feet (tracks on the lawn) who took suc

short strides, cannot be the one

necessarily tall and strong, who twiste

he wire of the electric buzzer at thgarden gate; furthermore, if the first ma

was obliged to walk on the lawn t

avoid making the gravel crunch, it i

because there was already someon

walking beside him, on the brick rim o

he path; had he been alone, he woul

have chosen this wide rim himself.“Second, at least one of these tw

men was familiar with the house and no

an anonymous malefactor: it is apparenhat he was well acquainted with th

premises and the household habits.

“Third, he was certainly recognize



by the professor; the latter claimed t

have been attacked before even havin

had time to open the door all the way

hereby explaining that he didn’t see himurderer’s face; actually, he went int

he study and spoke to the two men: ther

was even a struggle between them, as i

ndicated by the disorder of the roo

piles of books knocked over, chai

moved, etc.) and the fingerprint

number 3) on the paperweight.“Fourth, the motive of the crime i

not theft: someone who knew the hous

so well would also know that there wanothing to steal in this room.

“Dupont was unwilling to reveal hi

murderer, for the latter was too closely



nvolved with him. He even conceale

as long as possible the seriousness of hi

wound, hoping that his friend Docto

Juard would take care of him, and thascandal would be avoided. It is for thi

reason that the housekeeper believe

Dupont had only received a ‘fles

wound in the arm? “

And the whole scene i

reconstructed. The young man, afte

having vainly appealed to his rights, tfilial love, to pity, and finally t

blackmail, determined, as a last resort t

attempt force. Since he is a weakling anafraid of his father, he has sought th

services of a friend, stronger and olde

han himself, whom he will introduce a

his attorney but who is actually his thug



They have decided to make their visit o

Monday, October 26, at seven-thirty i

he evening…

Daniel Dupont reaches the stud

door, his eyes on the floor, his han

already stretched toward the doorkno

hat he is preparing to turn, when he isuddenly struck by this thought: “Jean i

here waiting for me!” The professo

stops and holds his breath. Perhaps Jea

has not come alone: didn’t he threatehim, the other day, with bringing hi

“lawyer” with him? Who knows wha

oday’s children are capable of?Cautiously he turns around an

iptoes into the bedroom to get th

revolver he has kept, since the war, i



he drawer of his night table. But just a

he is slipping off the safety catch, h

feels a sudden qualm: he is not going t

fire at his own son, after all; it’s only tfrighten him.

Back in the hallway, the weight o

he revolver in his hand seems unrelateo the fear that ran through him a minut

earlier; by comparison this sudden fea

vanishes altogether: why should his so

have come tonight? Moreover, Dupont inot afraid of him. He puts the gun in hi

pocket. Starting tomorrow, he will hav

he house doors locked at nightfall.He turns the doorknob and opens th

study door. Jean is there waiting for him

He is standing between the chai



and the desk. He has been reading th

papers there. Another man is standing i

front of the bookcase, to one side, hi

hands in his pockets—obviously a baype.

“Good evening,” Jean says.

His eyes are bright, both arroganand apprehensive; he must have bee

drinking again. His mouth grimaces in

parody of a smile.“What are you doing here?” Dupon

asks coldly.

“I came to talk to you,” Jean says“That’s (gesture of his chin

Maurice…he’s my attorney (anothe

grimace).”



“Good evening,” Maurice says.

“Who let you in?”

“No one,” Jean says. “I know thhouse.”

Which means: “I’m a member of th

family!”“Well, you can leave the way yo

came,” the professor says calmly. “It’

ust as easy: you know the way.”

“We’re not leaving just yet,” Jea

says; “we came to talk-to talk business.”

“We’ve already exhausted thsubject, my boy. Now you’re going t

eave.”

Dupont walks toward his son with



determined expression; he sees the boy’

eyes fill with fear…fear and hatre

…He repeats:

“You’re going to leave.”

Jean picks up the first thing he find

within his reach: the heavy paperweigh

with sharp edges. He brandishes itready to strike. Dupont steps back an

puts his hand on his revolver.

But Maurice has seen the gesturand is already in front of Dupont

quicker to take aim himself:

“Let go of that and take your hanout of your pocket.”

After that no one speaks. With hi

dignity at stake, Dupont feels that h



cannot obey this contemptuous treatmen

n front of his son.

“The police are coming,” he says. “

knew you’d be here waiting for me

Before coming in I telephoned from th

bedroom.”

“The cops?” Maurice says. “I donhear anything.”

“It won’t be long, don’t worry.”

“We have time enough to get thing

straight!”

“They’ll be here any minute.”

“The telephone’s been cut for tw

days,” Jean says.

This time, Dupont’s anger is to



much for him. Everything happens in

flash: the professor’s sudden movemen

o take out his gun, the shot that hits hi

full in the chest, and the young man’shrill cry:

“Don’t shoot, Maurice!”



4

But the chief does not seem convinced

He dares not reject his assistant’hypothesis out of hand, for you neve

know: suppose that happened to be wha

happened, what would he look like then

Then too, the obscurities an

contradictions of the case have to b

nterpreted one way or another… Wha

bothers him about this theory is that i



nvolves—accuses, actually—peopl

oo highly placed, whom it can only b

dangerous to affront—whether they ar

nnocent or guilty. He says:

“We aren’t accustomed here…w

aren’t accustomed in the

Executive Information Service to woron suspicions as vague

as that “

He would like to add, by the waysome nasty joke about the Bureau o

nvestigation, and the “great Fabius,” bu

he decides to restrain himself: this ma

not be the right moment.

In the hope of discouraging hi

assistant, at least temporarily, from th

slippery path onto which the latter want



o lure him, he proposes to send him o

an assignment to the scene of the crime

here he could deal with the local polic

functionaries and with the doctor whhas received Professor Dupont’

estimony along with his last breath; h

could also discover whether the victim’

residence furnishes any new clue; h

could…But the assistant shakes his head

t is quite futile for him to waste his tim

n that gloomy provincial town, halasleep in the North Sea fog. He woul

find nothing there, absolutely nothing. I

s here, in the capital, that the drama ha

been acted…that the drama is beinacted.

“He thinks I’m afraid,” the chie

realizes; but he doesn’t care. He says



quite casually:

“Sometimes you go through hell an

high water to find a murderer…”

“…far away,” his assistan

continues, “when all you need to do i

stretch out your hand.”

“Don’t forget that the crime too

place up there, even so…”

“It took place up there the way

could have taken place and, as a matte

of fact, as it takes place anywhere, ver

day, now here, now there. What actuall

happened in Professor Dupont’s houshe evening of October twenty-sixth? A

replica, a copy, a simple reproduction o

an event whose original and whose ke



are elsewhere. And tonight, once again

as every evening…”

“That’s still no reason fo

neglecting whatever clues we could fin

up there.”

“What would I find up there, if

went? Nothing but reflections, shadowsghosts. And tonight, once again…”

Tonight a new copy will b

discreetly slipped under the door, correct copy duly signed and notarized

with just what it needs in the way o

misspellings and misplaced commas s

hat the blind, the cowardly, the ston

deaf can go on waiting and reassurin

each other: “It can’t be really the sam

hing, can it?”



To try to persuade his chief, th

assistant goes on:

“We’re not the only ones concerne

with this case. If we don’t act fas

enough, we run the risk of findin

another service pulling the rug out fro

under us…maybe the great Fabiuhimself, who will pass himself off as hi

country’s savior once again…and get u

all arrested, if he finds out we knew th

ruth and concealed it …You’ll baccused” of complicity, you can be sur

of that.”

But the chief does not seeconvinced. He growls between his teeth

with an expression of suspicion an

doubt:



“. .. the truth…the truth…the trut

…”



5

Madame Jean glances cautiously towar

he post office. Everything is calm alonhe parkway.

But everything seemed just as cal

before, and yet some thing happenedhere, fifty yards away, at the corner o

he Rue Jonas. It had already begun i

September—otherwise th



commissioner would not have sent fo

her this afternoon. Probably she wa

aking part in their shady deals withou

even knowing it. In any case, she didnget anything out of it.

She certainly gave the man letters

without thinking twice about it: she haenough trouble checking the numbers o

he cards, without examining the faces o

he people who handed them to her. H

might even have come often: the littlDexter girl obviously knew him wel

He said he wasn’t the one, of course

and Madame Jean wasn’t going to saanything different! They’re big enough t

get out of it by themselves. Yet she ha

proof of the fact that he really was th

one: if he was so eager to find anothe



post office this morning, it was becaus

he couldn’t go back to that one, where h

would have been recognized right away

When she saw him again, afte

unch, he was so tired that he had falle

asleep over his table. What had he bee

doing all morning long? Something elsbesides sending a telegram, that wa

sure. And why was he loitering aroun

here again?

A doctor, Emilie said—maybe

He’s well dressed; he looks important

Madame Jean tries to imagine Walla

with the heavy glasses described by thold maid; actually it makes him int

quite a likely doctor. Which obviousl

does not keep him from being a criminal



“There are some funny doctor

around here, you know.” That’s the truth

And who don’t know much: th

epidemic proved that. But this one’s slyHe’s even managed to put th

commissioner in his pocket: a little mor

and he’d have been running th

nvestigation! He sounded so cock

when he answered the little Dexter gir

hat the poor thing didn’t dare say mothe

word. They don’t have much chance ofinding the guilty man now.

Madame Jean thinks about thi

strange turn of events inwhich the guiltman himself takes charge of th

nvestigation. Since she cannot make an

headway in so confusing a supposition

she deliberately turns her eyes away—



and begins thinking about somethin

else.



6

A tremendous voice fills the hal

Projected by invisible loudspeakers, bounces back and forth against the wall

covered with signs and advertisements

which amplify it still more, multiply it

reflect it, baffle it with a whole series o

more or less conflicting echoes an

resonances, in which the origina

message is lost—transformed into



gigantic oracle, magnificent

ndecipherable, and terrifying.

As suddenly as it had begun, th

uproar stops, again making way for th

confused murmur of the crowd.

People are hurrying in al

directions. They must have guessed—omagined they guessed—the meaning o

he announcement, for the agitation ha

redoubled. Among the curtailemovements—each of which affects onl

an extremely small section of the hall—

between a timetable and a ticket window

from an information booth to newsstand—or even within less define

areas, animated here and there wit

vague, hesitant discontinuous, aleator



movements—in the middle of thi

swarming mass occasionally interrupted

up to now, by some less episodi

rajectory, distinct currents now appearn one corner a single file has starte

across the entire hall in a decisiv

diagonal; farther on, scattered impulse

unite in a series of calls and quick step

whose impetus clears a wide passag

until it comes to a halt against one of th

exits; a woman slaps a little boy, gentleman feverishly searches throug

his many pockets for the ticket he ha

ust bought; on all sides people ar

shouting, dragging suitcases, hurrying.

Doctor Juard has neither suitcas

nor ticket. He is not interested in th

rain schedules. He has not understoo



what the loudspeaker has said. Neithe

his movements nor his general attitud

have undergone any important chang

since a moment ago: he takes five stepalong the wall, between the snack ba

and the telephones, turns around, take

wo steps in the opposite direction

glances at his watch, looks up at the bi

clock, continues straight ahead to th

first telephone booth, turns back, stops

stands still for a few seconds…and thestarts slowly toward the snack bar. He i

waiting for someone who has not come.

Again the warning buzzing can be hear

and suddenly the whole hall echoes t

he rumbling of the divine voice. It is



clear and strong voice; one must listen t

t carefully to realize that what it i

saying is incomprehensible.

This last message is shorter than th

previous one. It is followed by n

appreciable change among the crowd

Doctor Juard, who has stood stock stilbegins walking toward the row o

elephone booths again.

But these words that do not seem thave achieved their purpose leave hi

with a vague sensation of discomfort. I

he announcement was not for th

ravelers, perhaps it concerned him“Doctor Juard is wanted on th

elephone.” He did not imagine he coul

be summoned by so monstrous a voice



And upon reflection, it is indeed unlikel

hat the official station loudspeaker

should bother to transmit persona

messages between train departures.

Having reached the row o

elephone booths once again, the littl

doctor realizes that the latter are nomarked with numbers making it possibl

o distinguish them, and tha

consequently the voice could not hav

specified which telephone he shoulanswer. Now he would have to pick up

all the receivers, one after the other…

This presents no insurmountabldifficulty, and if a station employe

came to ask him to account for hi

behavior, he would explain that no on

has told him which of these telephone



he was wanted on. Nothing more natura

after all. Unfortunately, he risk

ntercepting other messages an

consequently finding himself mixed up isome new drama, as if the situation i

which he is struggling were no

complicated enough already. He think

back to the unlucky day when he mad

he other man’s acquaintance, followin

an error of the same kind: he had diale

he wrong number, and immediatelevents had followed one another s

quickly that he had not been able t

disengage himself; one thing led t

another and he ended up by agreeino…Besides, the other man left him n

choice.

Then was there only one surgeon i



he whole town, so that Dupont too ha

o come to his clinic to hide out? To th

clinic of Doctor Juard, the “gan

doctor!” This title, though ratheunsuitable in fact, corresponds none th

ess to the state of mind he himself ha

been in since that single encounter; h

feels tied hand and foot; and since ther

s no question of his using what h

knows against them, he can only see th

other side of his position: he is in theihands, at their mercy. At the first slip

hey will get rid of this useles

supernumerary. If they knew, fo

nstance, that their latest victim has beehiding in his own clinic since las

night…

Why doesn’t that Wallas get here



Juard is growing impatient. He wasn

he one who asked for an interview; al

he did was to arrange the meeting place

o keep the special agent’s investigationaway from the clinic. There are to

many people sniffing around the phon

dead man already.

Occasionally the little doctor i

astonished that the catastrophe has no

already occurred. Dupont is supposed t

have been dead some twenty hours bnow; Juard himself, who has given hi

asylum…He couldn’t betray th

professor’s confidence either and hanhim over to his enemies. Moreover

where would he find them? He’ll us

his excuse, he’ll claim he didn’t know

where the bullet came from either, he’l



say… But what good would it all do

The other man isn’t used to weighing th

fate of his victims so long. Juard ha

realized from the start, without exactladmitting it to himself, that he wa

condemning himself by helping th

professor—besides, he considered hi

help absurd: the other man doesn’t le

himself be fooled so easily as that.

Yet nothing has happened yet today

Time is passing quite normally. Dupons calmly waiting for the car the ministe

promised. As the time set for Dupont’

departure approaches, the little doctor’confidence increases despite himself.

But now he is afraid that this Walla

—who needed him?—might spoi



everything at the last minute; he i

anxious about this delay that nothing i

he special agent’s insistence a half-hou

ago could have suggested. Juard coulake advantage of it to get away withou

seeing him, particularly since hi

professional obligations do not allow

him to stay here until tonight; but h

cannot make up his mind to leave: th

policeman might arrive from one minut

o the next, and if he sees no one at threndezvous he will go back to the Ru

de Corinthe—which must be avoided a

all costs.

The little doctor continues to wal

back and forth between the snack ba

and the telephones, five steps in on

direction, five steps in the other. H



does not know which side to take…h

stops a moment. He glances at his watc

—although he had seen the time on th

big clock scarcely twenty secondbefore. He sets limits beyond which h

will wait no longer; but he exceed

hem, one after the other—and still doe

not leave.

To the left of the clock is posted a sign

foot and a half high in red capital letters

DO NOT BLOCK EXIT

Symmetrically posted, a slogan i

blue letters on a yellow background

“Don’t Leave Without Taking Th

Times.”



All at once Juard decides someone i

playing tricks on him; this notion strike

him with such violence that it gives hi

an almost physical sensation, analogouo that afforded by a misstep that cause

a sudden loss of balance.

The man named Wallas doesn’t carabout being on time at this absur

rendezvous: it’s the clinic he’

nterested in! He is there at this ver

moment, busily rummaging througeverything; since he has a searc

warrant, no one dares say a thing. B

choosing this unexpected spot—thstation—Juard has only reinforced th

special agent’s suspicions, while givin

free rein to his curiosity.



Perhaps there is still time to keep

Dupont from being discovered. Juar

has not a minute to lose. While he i

crossing the hall, he thinks of a way tarrange matters, when a new cause fo

alarm strikes him: this Wallas is a phon

policeman, he’s looking for th

professor in order to kill him

The little doctor stops short in orde

o think.

He is in front of the newsstand

whose wares he pretends to b

examining. Don’t leave without takin

The Times. He steps forward on thpretext of buying the evening edition.

A customer, bending over th

counter, straightens up an( steps back



ittle to make room for Juard in front o

he tiny stand; then he exclaims:

“Oh, Doctor!” he says, “I wa

ooking for you.”

***

Doctor Juard has now described for thhird time the discovery of the burglar i

he study, the revolver shot, the “fles

wound,” and death on the operatin

able. He knows his story by heart bhis time; he is aware of repeating

more naturally than he did this mornin

n the commissioner’s office; and whe

he is asked an additional question, h

furnishes the requested detail withou

difficulty, even if he improvises. Thi

fiction has gradually assumed enoug



weight in his mind to dictate the righ

answers to him automatically;

continues of its own accord to secrete it

own details and hesitations—just areality would, in such circumstances

Juard is not far, at moments, from bein

aken in himself.

His interlocutor is not trying

moreover, to complicate his task. H

furnishes the next clue appropriately:

s obvious that he is already accustomeo this version of the facts and does no

dream of contesting it.

“Could you suggest froapproximately what distance the sho

was fired?”

“About five or six yards; it’



difficult to give an exact figure.”

“The bullet penetrated the bod

from in front?”

“Yes, directly in front, between th

fourth and fifth ribs. For a bullet fired b

a man running away, it was skillfull

aimed.”

“There was no other wound, wa

here?”

“No, just the one.”

The dialogue moves along easily—

so easily that it becomes almos

disturbing, like the overly cunnincamouflage of a trap. Juard wonders i

Wallas does not know more than he i

admitting.



Isn’t it obvious, in fact, that th

special agent knows the whole truth? H

wouldn’t have been transferred from th

capital for just a burglary. Then what ihe trying to get out of the doctor? Th

atter cautiously asks a few indirec

questions to try to find out if it is reall

necessary to continue this farce; bu

Wallas remains immured in their origina

conventions, neither because he feel

hey are more certain or because he hanot understood the signals of complicit

Juard has made to him, or else for stil

other reasons.

The little doctor would especiall

ike to know what kind of protection h

can count on from the police. Despite th

misunderstanding that burdens thei



conversation, he has a certain sympath

for Wallas; but he does not have th

mpression that his help could be ver

effective in dealing with so powerful aorganization. He does not even wear

uniform. As for the men from the polic

station, though they have more apparen

prestige, Juard is too close to them not t

know how much he can expect from the

and what he can count on there.

The relative confidence Wallanspires in him still does not keep hi

from staying on the defensive: the so

called “special agent” may also be in thother man’s pay.

On the other hand, it is no

mpossible that his sincerity is s



complete that he doesn’t even know

what has really happened.

Juard returns to his clinic. He has bee

able to obtain neither information no

promises from Wallas. He has less an

ess hope of any possible help from thauthorities, were things to go badly

They would be quicker to condemn hi

as an accomplice.Whichever way he turns, he is jus

as guilty. The issue, as he sees it, i

nevitably a fatal one.

Given these various dangers, th

special agent, who at first inspired hi

with unexpected fears, now seems o



reflection much less dangerous, if no

exactly a savior. Juard is even about t

reproach himself for his own suspicions

shouldn’t he have told the truth—owhich Wallas certainly seems, after a

basically ignorant…

But the little doctor then rememberhe last words he spoket as he wa

eaving: “Sometimes you go through hel

and high water to find a murderer…” H

has immediately regretted them, for theapplied all too clearly—much mor

clearly than he had planned—to th

present situation. Now he is pleased ahaving spoken them. Wallas, thanks t

him, now possesses the key to the riddle

f he considers it carefully and know

how to deal with what he finds, he wil



not be following a false lead. However

Juard has not felt that the special agen

paid particularly close attention to hi

ast words.

Back in the Rue de Corinthe, th

doctor is going to rejoin Daniel Dupon

n the little white room. As is customarn the clinic, he walks in withou

knocking. The professor, who has hi

back to the door, starts when he hear

him.

“You frightened me.”

“I’m sorry,” Juard says, “I came i

as if this were my own room. I don

know what I was thinking of.”

Dupont must have been walkin



back and forth between the bed and th

window. He looks annoyed.

“How’s the arm?” Juard asks.

“Fine, just fine.”

“Any fever?”

“No, none. I’m all right.”

“It would be better not to mov

around too much.”

Dupont does not answer. He i

hinking about something else. He walk

over to the window, pulls aside one o

he curtains—only an inch or so—so ao look out into the street without bein

seen.

“Marchat hasn’t come back,” h



says.

“He’ll be here soon,” the docto

says.

“Yes…He’ll have to hurry.”

“You’ve still got plenty of time.”

“Yes…not so much.”

Dupont lets go of the curtain. Th

ight material falls back, getting th

pattern of the embroidery appear againBefore becoming quite motionless, th

curtain is still shaken by a few tin

oscillations—quickly dying away—

faint trembling.

The professor lowers his arm with

certain slowness, that of a man who ha

nothing else to do afterward—an



herefore has no reason to move rapidly

He is waiting for someone who has no

come; in order to conceal hi

nervousness—and to master it somewha—he forces himself to observe thi

exaggerated moderation. He lowers hi

arm.

His hand, instead of hangin

naturally, moves up his leg, hesitates a

he bottom of his jacket, lifts it slightly

moves down again, rises again, passeunderneath the bottom of the jacket an

finally vanishes into the trouser pocket.

Dupont turns around to face thdoctor.



7

He glimpses his face in the mirror ove

he fireplace and, beneath it, the doublrow of objects arranged on the marble

he statuette and its reflection, the bras

candlestick and its reflection, th

obacco jar, the ashtray, the othe

statuette—a splendid wrestler about t

crush a lizard.



The athlete with the lizard, th

ashtray, the tobacco jar, the candlestic

…He takes his hand out of his pocke

and extends it toward the first statuette, blind old man led by a child. In th

mirror, the hand’s reflection advances t

meet it. Both remain momentaril

suspended over the brass candlestick—

hesitating. Then the reflection and th

hand come to rest, one opposite th

other, calmly at equal distances from thmirror’s surface, at the edge of th

marble and at the edge of its reflection.

The blind man with the child, thbrass candlestick, th< tobacco jar, th

ashtray, the athlete crushing a lizard.

The hand again advances toward th



bronze blind man—the image of the han

oward that of the blind man… The tw

hands, the two blind men, the tw

children, the two empty candlesticks, thwo earthenware jars, the two ashtrays

he two Apollos, the two lizards…

He still remains hesitating for somime. Then he resolutely grasps th

statuette on the left and replaces it by th

erracotta jar; the candlestick replace

he jar, the blind man the candlestick.

The tobacco jar, the blind man wit

he child, the candlestick, the ashtray, th

splendid athlete.

He examined his work. Somethin

still disturbs him. The



tobacco jar, the blind man, th

candlestick He reverses the

last two objects. The earthenwar

pot and its reflection, the blind man an

his reflection, the candlestick, the athlet

with the lizard, the ashtray.

Finally he pushes the little reashtray about an inch toward the corne

of the marble mantelpiece.

Garinati leaves his room, locks the doo

behind him, and begins walking dow

he long spiral of the staircase.

Along a canal. The blocks of granite tha

ine the quay; under the dust glea



occasional crystals, black, white, an

pinkish. To the right, a little farthe

down, is the water.

A rubber-coated electric wire makes

vertical line against the wall.

Below, to pass over a cornice, i

makes a right angle, once, twice. Bu

afterward, instead of following the inne

surface, it stands away from the wall anhangs free for about a foot and a half.

Below, fastened again against th

vertical wall, it describes another twor three sinusoidal arcs before finall

resuming its straight descent.



The little glass door has creaked loudly

n his hurry to get away, Garinati ha

opened it a little more than he shoul

have.

The cube of gray lava. The warnin

buzzer disconnected, the street tha

smells of cabbage soup. The muddpaths that fade away, far away, amon

he rusty corrugated iron.

The bicycles coming home from work

The wave of bicycles flows along th

Boulevard Circulaire.

“Don’t you read the papers?” Bon

bends over toward his briefcase.



Garinati puts his hands over his ear

o get rid of that irritating noise. Thi

ime he uses both hands, which he keep

pressed hard against each side of hihead for a minute.

When he takes them away, th

whistling sound has stopped. He beginwalking, carefully, as though he wer

afraid of making it start all over again b

movements that might be too sudden

After a few steps he is once agaistanding in front of the apartment hous

he has just left.

After a few steps more he sees, glancin

up at a gleaming shop, the brick house a

he corner of the Rue des Arpenteurs. I



s not the house itself, but a hug

photograph of it carefully arrange

behind the glass.

He goes in.

There is no one in the shop. Throug

a door in the rear comes a dark youn

woman who smiles at him politely. Hglances toward the shelves covering th

walls.

One showcase entirely filled with candy

each piece wrapped in brightly colore

paper and sorted out in large round ooval jars.

One showcase completely full o

ittle spoons, in groups of twelve—i



parallel rows, other rows fan-shaped, i

squares, in circles…

Bona would go to the Rue de

Arpenteurs, ring at the door of the littl

house. The old deaf servant woul

finally hear and come to the door.

“Monsieur Daniel Dupont, please.”


Bona would repeat, louder:

“Monsieur Daniel Dupont!”

“Yes, this is the house. What do yo

want?”“I came to find out how he was…

Find out how he was!”

“Oh, I see. Very kind. Monsieu



Dupont is quite well.”

Why should Bona go to find out how

he was, since he knows the professor i

dead?

Garinati stares, under the platform, at thgirders and cables graduall

disappearing from sight. On the othe

side of the canal, the huge drawbridg

machinery hums smoothly.

It would be enough to insert som

hard object—it could be of quite smal

size—into one of the essential gears iorder to stop the whole system, with

shriek of wrenched machinery. A smal

very hard object that would resist bein



crushed: the cube of gray lava …

What would be the use? Th

emergency crew would come at once

Tomorrow everything would be i

operation as usual—as if nothing ha

happened.

“Monsieur Daniel Dupont, please.”


Bona raises his voice:

“Monsieur Daniel Dupont.”

“Yes, I hear you! You don’t have tshout, you know. I’m not deaf! What d

ou want Monsieur Dupont for now?”

“I came to find out how he is.”



“How he is? But he’s dead, youn

man! Dead, you hear? There’s no on

else here, you’ve come too late.”

The little glass door creaks loudly.

Something to say to that Wallas? Whawould he have to say to him? He take

he post card out of his pocket and stop

o look at it. You could almost count th

granite crystals in the curb of stone in thforeground.

A ball of crumpled paper—bluis

and dirty. He kicks it, two or three timesA plaque of black glass attached b

four gilded screws. The one on the uppe

right has lost the decorative rosette tha



concealed its head.

A white step.

A brick, an ordinary brick, a bricamong the thousands of bricks tha

constitute the wall.

That is all that remains of Garinataround five in the evening.

The tug has now reached the nex

footbridge and in order to pass under

begins lowering its smokestack.

Looking directly down, the cabl

still runs along the surface of the water

straight and taut, scarcely bigger arounhan a man’s thumb. It rise

mperceptibly above the glaucou

wavelets.



And suddenly, preceded by a rippl

of foam, appears from under the arch o

he bridge the blunt bow of the barge

which moves slowly on toward the nexbridge.

The little man in the long greenis

coat who has been leaning over thparapet straightens up.



CHAPTER FIVE



1

And night is already falling—and th

cold fog comes in from the North Seahe city seems to fall asleep in it. Ther

has been almost no day at all.

Walking along past thshopwindows that light up one after th

other, Wallas tries to distinguish th

usable elements of the report Laurent ha



given him to read. That the motive of th

crime is not theft, he is—in the precis

sense of the words—“paid to find out.

But why go so far as to imagine thiduplication of the murderer? It does no

ake anyone any further to have suppose

hat the man who fired the fatal shot i

not the man who pointed out the familia

way across the garden and through th

house. Moreover, the argument about th

footsteps on the lawn is not verconvincing. If someone were alread

walking on the brick rim of the path, th

other man could have walked behind hi

or rather in front of him, since he wahe only one supposed to know the way

This is the position it is easiest t

magine the two night prowlers adopting



n any case, no one needed to walk o

he lawn; if anyone did, it must be fo

some other reason—or else for n

reason at all.

Wallas feels the day’s accumulate

fatigue beginning to make his legs numb

He is not used to walking such londistances. These comings and going

from one end of the town to the othe

must ultimately add up to a good numbe

of miles, most of which he has covereon foot. Leaving the police station, h

headed for the Rue de Corinthe by wa

of the Rue de la Charte, the prefectureand the Rue Bergere; here he foun

himself at an intersection of three roads

he one he was on and two possibl

directions opposite him, forming a righ



angle between them. He remembere

having already passed this place twic

before: the first time he had gone th

right way, the second time he had made mistake; but he could no longe

remember which of these two streets h

had taken the first time—moreover, the

ooked very much alike.

He took the one to the left, and afte

a few detours made necessary by th

arrangement of sidewalks, he came ou—much sooner than he would hav

believed possible—on the courthous

square, just in front of the police stationLaurent was just leaving; he ha

ndicated his surprise at finding Walla

here, since he had left some fiftee



minutes ago. Yet Laurent has not aske

for any explanation and has offered t

drive the special agent to Juard’s clini

n his own car, for he was going that wahimself.

Two minutes later, Wallas wa

ringing at Number 11. It is the samnurse who has opened the door before—

he one who, this morning, had insiste

so indiscreetly on keeping him ther

despite the doctor’s absence. He coulell from her smile that she recognize

him. “They’re all the same!” He has tol

her he wanted to speak to Doctor Juarn person; he has emphasized the urgen

nature of his visit and has given her

card on which were printed the words

“Bureau of Investigation of the Ministr



of the Interior.”

He has been asked to wait in a kin

of dim parlor-library. Since no one ha

asked him to sit down, he has walked up

and down in front of the shelves fille

with books, now and then reading a few

itles as he passed. One whole shelf wafilled with books devoted to the plagu

—as many historical studies as medica

ones.

A woman has walked through th

room, then two others and a short, thi

man wearing glasses, who seemed in

great hurry.

The nurse has finally come back an

—as if she had forgotten him—aske

him what he was waiting for. He ha



answered that he was waiting for Docto

Juard.

“But the doctor left a moment ago

didn’t you see him just now?”

It was hard to believe that she wa

not making fun of him. How could h

have guessed that the man he has jusseen was Doctor Juard, since he did no

know him. And why hadn’t sh

announced his visit as he had asked heo?

“Don’t be angry, Monsieur; I though

he doctor would have spoken to yo

before he went out. I had told him yo

were here. He’s just been called on a

emergency case, and it was impossibl

for him to stay—even a minute. Since th



doctor has a very busy afternoon, he’

asked if you could meet him at exactl

four-thirty in the hall of the railwa

station, between the telephone boothand the snack bar; it’s the only way yo

can meet him today: he won’t be comin

back here until late tonight. When I saw

he doctor come in here, I assumed h

was going to arrange the meetin

himself.”

On his way through the room, thittle doctor had glanced at him out of th

corner of his eye. “There are some funn

doctors around here.”

Since he had plenty of time, Wallas wen

around to Marchat’s apartment building



But his ring at the door remaine

unanswered. That wasn’t important, on

way or the other, Laurent havin

repeated to him the essentials of hiconversation with the man who believe

himself doomed to die. Still, he woul

have liked to judge the man’s menta

equilibrium for himself. Lauren

described him as raving mad, and th

way he had behaved in th

commissioner’s office justified, at leasn part, this opinion. But on certai

points, Wallas is not so sure as th

commissioner of the insanity o

Marchat’s fears: the execution of a newvictim is in fact only too likely for thi

very evening.

Having walked back downstairs



Wallas has asked the concierge of th

building if he knew when his tenan

would be coming in. Monsieur Marcha

had just left in his car for several dayswith his entire family; he had probabl

heard of the death of a close relative

“The poor fellow was all worked up.”

The businessman lives in th

southern part of town, not far from th

wood export offices. From here, Walla

proceeded toward the station, walkinback along the Rue de Berlin an

hrough the courthouse square. He the

followed an endless canal bordered ohe other side by a row of old house

whose narrow gables have been rotte

away by the water for centuries, unti

hey lean over the canal most alarmingly



***

Walking into the station hall, he saw th

ittle chromium-plated stand at once

where a man in a white apron wa

selling sandwiches and bottles of sod

pop. About five yards to the right ther

was a telephone booth—just one. Hbegan walking up and down, glancin

frequently at the dial of the clock. Th

doctor was late.

The hall was full of people hurryin

n all directions. Wallas did not budg

an inch from the place indicated by th

nurse, for the crowd was so thick that hwas afraid he might miss the docto

when he arrived.



Wallas began to be worried. The hou

agreed on had long since passed and th

disagreeable impression his visit to th

clinic had made on him was growinstronger minute by minute. There ha

certainly been a misunderstanding. Th

nurse had garbled the message, either i

understanding or transmitting

—perhaps in both.

He would have to telephone to th

clinic to ask for an explanation. Sinchere was no phone book in the on

booth standing here, Wallas has aske

he man behind the soda fountain wherhe might find one. While handing ou

bottles and counting change, the ma

ndicated a place in the hall wher

Wallas, despite his efforts, could se



nothing but a newsstand. It seemed t

him that the boy had not understood wha

he wanted. He has nevertheless starte

oward the tiny stall where there waobviously no trace of a phone book. A

few stationery articles were exhibite

among the illustrated magazines and th

brightly colored covers of the detectiv

stories; Wallas has asked to see som

erasers.

It was at this moment that DoctoJuard appeared. He had been waiting a

he other end of the hall, where the rea

snack bar and a whole row of telephonbooths are.

The doctor was unable to tell hi

anything new. Wallas did not want t



speak of the conspiracy, out o

discretion, and Juard merely repeate

what he had said that morning to th

chief commissioner.

Quite naturally Wallas has taken, fro

he station square, the same streetcar ahe evening before—the one that ha

aken him near the Rue des Arpenteurs

He got off at the same stop, and nowfollows the Boulevard Circulaire tha

brings him back to the little brick hous

and the wretched room over the Café de

Allies. It is completely dark now. Wallas no further along than when he arrived

he day before, by this same route.



He walks into the huge stone apartmen

building that stands at the corner of th

street. He is going to be forced, for th

counter-questioning of the concierge, tshow his pink card and, most likely, t

admit, at the same time, his littl

deception of this morning concerning hi

mother’s supposed friendship wit

Madame Bax.

From the greeting of the heavy-set

ovial man, Wallas sees that the latterecognizes him. When he reveals th

object of his visit to him, the concierg

smiles and merely says:“I knew this morning that you wer

from the police.”

The man then explains that a



nspector has already come by t

question him, whom he has told that h

knew nothing. Wallas then refers to th

outh whose disturbing manners thconcierge had mentioned. The other ma

raises his arms to heaven:

“Disturbing!” he repeats.It had seemed to him, in fact, that th

nspector was attaching to this youn

man an importance which he himselwas far from…etc. Wallas discovers, a

he expected, that Commissioner Lauren

made no mistake in suspecting hi

subordinate of immoderate “zeal.Hence the concierge did not say tha

here had been quarreling during thes

encounters, but only that at moment



“voices were raised.” Nor did he sa

hat the student often seemed to be drunk

Yes, he saw him point to the house as h

walked by to a friend, but he did not sahat his gesture was threatening; he onl

mentioned “sweeping gestures”—th

kind all boys that age make, impassione

or nervous. Lastly the concierge add

hat the professor had already received

n the past—though rarely, as a matter o

fact—visits from students at the Schooof Law.

The café is warm and cheerful despithe heavy atmosphere—smoke, men’

breath, and the vapors of white wine

There are a good many people—five o



six drinkers laughing and talking in lou

voices, all at once. Wallas has returne

o this place as to a refuge; he woul

ike to have told someone to meet hihere; he would wait for hours, lost in th

noise of these trifling discussions—

drinking hot rum at this rather isolate

able…

“Greetings,” the drunk says.

“Hello.”“You kept me waiting,” the drun

says.

Wallas turns around. Here, toohere is no isolated table where he ca

be quiet.

He has no desire to go upstairs t



his room, which he remembers i

gloomy and which is probably quite col

as well. He walks over to the bar, wher

hree men are standing.

“Well,” the drunk shouts behin

him, “aren’t you going to sit down ove

here?”The three men turn around at th

same time and stare at Wallas withou

he slightest embarrassment. One iwearing a grease-stained mechanic’

suit; the two others are in heavy nav

blue pea jackets with big collars. I

occurs to Wallas that his bourgeoiclothes are betraying his profession

Fabius would have started by dressin

up as a sailor.



…Fabius comes in. He is wearing

bargeman’s uniform and rolls his hip

when he walks—the token of imaginar

pitching on stormy seas.

“Not much to catch today,” h

remarks to no one in particular. “Gues

all the herring are already canned…”The three men stare at him wit

surprise and suspicion. Two othe

customers, standing in front of the stovehave broken off a conversation—thoug

one they were deeply involved in—t

stare at him too. The manager wipes

rag across the bar.

“All right, are you coming?” th

drunk repeats during the silence. “I’l

ask you the riddle.”



The two sailors, the mechanic, th

other two men next to the stove all g

back to their previous conversations.

“Give me a hot rum, please,

Wallas says to the manager.

And he goes to the first table an

sits down, facing away from the drunk.

“Still polite as ever,” the latte

observes.

“I could still,” someone says, “b

walking obliquely to the canal and b

walking in a straight line anyway.”

The manager serves the three men ahe bar another round. The other tw

have resumed their argument; it is th

meaning of the word oblique that is i



dispute. Each man is trying to prove h

s right by shouting louder than the other

“Are you going to let me talk?”

“That’s all you do is talk!”

“You don’t understand: I said I ca

go straight ahead while still taking direction that’s oblique—oblique i

relation to the canal.”

The other man thinks a moment an

remarks calmly:

“You’re going to fall into the canal.

“Then you refuse to answer?”“Listen, Antoine, you can sa

whatever you want, I’m not changin

what I said: if you walk obliquely, yo



don’t go straight ahead! Even if it’s i

relation to a canal or anything else.”

The man in the pharmacist’s gra

smock and cap considers the argumen

he has just given an irrefutable one. Hi

adversary shrugs in disgust:

“I’ve never met anyone so stupid imy life.”

He turns toward the sailors; but th

atter are speaking among themselvesmaking exclamations in dialect an

aughing loudly. Antoine comes over t

he table where Wallas is drinking hi

hot rum; he calls on Wallas as hi

witness:

“You heard that, Monsieur? Here’



a supposedly educated man who doesn

allow that a line can be both straight an

oblique.”

“Oh.”

“Do you allow that?”

“No, I don’t,” Wallas quicklanswers.

“What do you mean, you don’t? A

oblique line is a line…”

“Yes, of course. I said I don’t allow

hat it isn’t allowed.”

“Oh, all right…fine.”Antoine does not seem quit

satisfied with this position, which h

considers too subtle. All the same h



shouts to his companion:

“You hear that, pillpusher?”

“I don’t hear anything,” thpharmacist answers.

“This gentleman agrees with me!”

“That’s not what he said.”

Antoine grows more and mor

exasperated.

“All right, explain to him wha

oblique’ means, will you?” he ask

Wallas.

“Oblique,” Wallas repeatevasively. “That can mean severa

hings.”

“That’s my opinion too,” th



pharmacist says approvingly.

“All right,” Antoine cries, at the en

of his patience, “a line that’s oblique i

relation to another line, that mean

something, doesn’t it?”

Wallas tries to formulate a precis

answer:

“It means,” he says, “that they for

an angle, an angle between zero an

ninety degrees.”

The pharmacist chuckles.

“That’s what I said,” he concludes

“If there’s an angle, it isn’t straight.”

“I never met anyone so stupid in m

ife,” Antoine says.



“Well, I know one even bette

Listen to this…”

The drunk has stood up from hi

able to get into the conversation. Sinc

t is difficult for him to stand, h

mmediately sits down again besid

Wallas. He speaks slowly, so as not tget his words confused:

“Tell me what animal is a parricid

n the morning…”“That’s all we needed was thi

goon here,” Antoine objects. “You don

even know what an oblique line is, I’l

bet….”

“You look pretty oblique to me,” th

drunk says mildly. “I’m the one aroun



here who asks riddles. I have one her

ust for my old pal…”

The two adversaries move awa

oward the bar, seeking new partisans

Wallas turns his back on the drunk, wh

goes on nevertheless, his voice jubilan

and deliberate:“What animal is parricide in th

morning, incestuous at noon, and blind a

night?”At the bar the discussion ha

become a general one, but the five me

are all talking at once and Wallas ca

hear only snatches of their remarks.

“Well,” the drunk insists, “can’t yo

guess? It’s not so hard: parricide in th



morning, blind at noon.…No…blind i

he morning, incestuous at noon

parricide at night. Well? What animal i

t?”

Fortunately the manager comes ove

o take away the empty glasses.

“I’ll be keeping the room tonight,Wallas informs him.

“And he’ll pay the next round,” th

drunk adds.

But no one pays any attention to thi

suggestion.

“Well, are you deaf?” the drunasks. “Hey! Buddy! Deaf at noon an

blind at night?”

“Let him alone,” the manager says.



“And limps in the morning,” th

drunk concludes with sudde

seriousness.

“I told you to let him alone.”

“All right, I wasn’t doing anything

’m asking a riddle.”

The manager wipes his rag acros

he table.

“Let us alone with your riddles.”

Wallas leaves. More than an

specific task to be accomplished, it i

he man with the riddles who is chasin

him out of the little café.

He prefers to walk, despite the col

and the night, despite his fatigue. H

ries to organize the various elements h



has been able to pick up here and ther

during the course of the day. Passing i

front of the garden fence, he glances up

at the house, now empty. On the otheside of the street, Madame Bax’

window is lit.

“Hey! Aren’t you waiting for meHey! Buddy!”

It is the drunk who is pursuing him.

“Hey! You there. Hey!”

Wallas walks faster.

“Wait a minute! Hey!”

The jubilant voice gradually fades.

“Hey there, don’t be in such

hurry…. Hey! … Not so fast.…Hey



Hey!…Hey!…”



2

Eight short fat fingers pass delicatel

back and forth over each other, the bacof the four right fingers against the insid

of the four left fingers.

The left thumb caresses the righhumbnail, gently at first, then pressin

harder and harder. The other finger

exchange positions, the back of the fou



eft fingers vigorously rubbing the insid

of the four right fingers. They interlace

ock, twist each other; the movemen

grows faster, more complicatedgradually loses its regularity, soo

becomes so confused that nothing mor

can be distinguished in the swarm o

oints and palms.

“Come in,” Laurent says.

He rests his hands flat on the deskfingers spread wide. It is an officer wit

a letter.

“Someone slipped this under th

door of the concierge’s lodge. It’

marked ‘Urgent’ and ‘Personal.’ ”

Laurent takes the yellow envelop



he man hands him. The address, writte

n pencil, is scarcely legible: “Persona

Chief Commissioner. Urgent.”

“The concierge didn’t see wh

brought this letter?”

“He couldn’t; he found it under hi

door. It may have already been there quarter of a hour, or even more.”

“All right. Thanks.”

When the officer has left the room

Laurent feels the envelope. It seems t

contain a rather stiff card. He holds it up

o the electric light, but sees nothinabnormal about it. He decides to open

with his paper knife.

It is a picture post card showing



ittle house in a bad imitation Louis XII

style, at the corner of a long, gloom

suburban street and a wide avenue

probably at the edge of a canal. On thback is written, also in pencil, this on

phrase: “Meeting tonight at seven

hirty.” In a woman’s handwriting. Ther

s no signature.

The police receive messages lik

his every day—anonymous letters

nsults, threats, denunciations—mosoften very involved, usually sent b

lliterates or lunatics. The text of thi

post card is distinguished by its brevitand its precision. The meeting place i

not indicated; it must be the street corne

shown on the photograph—at least s

one might suppose. Ii Laurent recognize



he place, he might send one or two me

here at the hour arranged; but it isn

worth the bother of doing a lot o

research to end up—at best—layinhands on some fishing boat that i

smuggling in five pounds of snuff.

It would be better to be sure thahis minor infraction would b

effectively punished by the inspecto

who discovered it. The chie

commissioner knows that a good deal ominor smuggling occurs with th

complicity of the police who merely tak

a modest share for themselves. It is onlfor serious misdemeanors that they ar

required to be completel

uncompromising. it the other end of th

scale of crimes, one wonders what thei



behavior might be…if, for instance,

political organization f the typ

described by Wallas were to appeal t

heir…luckily, the question does nocome up.

The commissioner picks up hi

phone and asks for the capital. He wanto have a clear conscience. Only th

central services can inform him—if the

have had time to perform the autopsy.

He gets his line soon enough, but h

s transferred from office to offic

several times without managing to get i

ouch with the proper branch. The heaof the department that signed the lette

ordering the release of the body told hi

o speak to the medico-legal service



here, no one seems to know anything

Transferred from one to the other i

succession, he finally reaches th

prefect’s office, where someone—hdoesn’t know precisely who—agrees t

isten to his question: “From tha

distance was the bullet that killed Danie

Dupont fired ?”

“Just one minute, please, hold on.”

It is only after a rather long intervanterspersed with various noises, that th

answer reaches him:

“A 7.65 bullet, fired from a distanc

of about four yards.”

An answer which proves absolutel

nothing, save that the lesson has bee



well learned.

Laurent then receives another visit froWallas.

The special agent seems to hav

nothing to say to him. He has come bachere as if he no longer knew where t

go. He describes the escape of th

businessman Marchat, the meeting wit

Juard, the visit to the former MadamDupont. The commissioner, as on eac

occasion he himself has had dealing

with the doctor, finds the latter’s conduc

rather suspect. As for the divorced wife

t was obvious to everyone that sh

knew nothing. Wallas describes th

strange shopwindow the statio



saleswoman has made, and to Laurent’

great surprise, take out of his pocket th

same post card the officer has jus

brought in.

The commissioner goes to his des

and picks up the card sent by th

unknown woman. It is the same card. Hread Wallas the phrase written on th

back.



3

The scene takes place in a Pompeian

style city—and, most particularly, in rectangular forum one end of which i

occupied by a temple (or a theater, o

something of the same kind the othe

sides by various smaller monument

divided by wide paved roadways

Wallas has no idea where this imag

comes from. He is talking—sometime



n the middle of the square-sometimes o

stairs, long flights of stairs—to peopl

he can’t distinguish from one another bu

who were at the start clearlcharacterized and individual. He himsel

has a distinct role, probably a majo

one, perhaps official. The memor

suddenly becomes quite piercing; for

fraction of a second, the entire scen

assumes an extraordinary density. Bu

what scene? He has just time to heahimself say:

“And did that happen a long tim

ago?”Immediately everything ha

vanished, the people, the stair th

emple, the rectangular forum and it



monuments. He has never seen anythin

of the kind.

It is the agreeable face of a dar

oung woman which appears in its plac

—the stationery saleswoman from th

Rue Victor-Hugo and the echo of he

ittle throaty laugh. Yet her face iserious.

Wallas and his mother had finall

reached the dead end of a anal; in thsunlight, the low houses reflected thei

old façades i the green water. It was no

an aunt they were looking for: it as

male relative, someone he had nevereally known. He did not see him tha

day either. It was his father. How coul

he have forgotten it?



***

Wallas wanders through the city a

random. The night is amp and cold. Al

day long, the sky has remained yellow

ow, overcast—promising snow—but

has not snowed, and it is now th

ovember mists that have gatheredWinter is coming early this year.

The lights at the street corners cas

reddish circles just strong enough tkeep the pedestrian from losing his way

t takes a good deal of care, crossing th

street, not to stumble against th

curbstones.

In the neighborhoods where th

shops are more numerous, le stranger i

surprised to find so few shopwindow



ighted. Probably there is no need t

attract customers in order to sell ice an

brown soap. There are few notion store

n this province.

Wallas steps into a crowded, dust

shop that seems intended for the storag

of merchandise rather than its retail saleAt the rear, a man in an apron is nailin

shut a crate. He stops pounding to try t

understand what kind of eraser Walla

wants. He nods several times during thcourse of the explanation as if he knew

what Wallas meant. Then, without sayin

a word, he walks toward the other sidof the shop; he is obliged to shift a larg

number of objects on his way in order t

reach his go; He opens and close

several drawers, one after the other, thi



for a minute, climbs up a ladder, begin

searching again, wit out any mor

success.

He comes back toward his client: h

no longer has the item. He still had som

not long ago—a lot left over from befor

he war; they must have sold the last on—unless it’s been put away somewher

else: “There are so many things here tha

ou can never find anything.”

Wallas dives back into the night.

Why not go back to the solitary house awell as anywhere else?

As the chief commissioner pointe

out to him, Doctor Juard behavior is no



absolutely clear—though it is hard to se

what his secret role could be. When h

walked through the parlor library, th

ittle doctor glanced at Wallas out of thcorner of his eye while pretending not t

see him through his heavy glasses: yet h

had walked through the room on purpos

o have a look at him. And several time

during their conversation half an hou

ater, Wallas was amazed at the strang

way which Juard expressed himself: hseemed to be thinking of something els

and occasionally even to be talkin

about something else. “He has a ba

conscience,” Laurent declares.

Perhaps, too, the businessma

Marchat is not so crazy as it seems

After all, to go into hiding was the bette



part of vale It is strange that the doctor’

account does not make the least allusio

o Marchat’s presence in the Rue d

Corinthe at the time of the woundeman’s arrival; he has always claimed, t

he contrary, that he did not nee

anyone’s help; yet according to th

commissioner, Marchat cannot hav

nvented all the details he report

concerning the professor’s demise. I

Juard knew, one way or another, thaMarchat was to be murdered tonight i

his turn, it would certainly be to hi

advantage to conceal the businessman’

presence in his clinic last evening Hdoes not know that the latter has alread

mentioned it to the police.

Then the pneumatic messag



discovered at the poste restante window

actually did concern this case—Walla

was convinced of it from the beginning

t is the summons sent to the murderefor the second crime—today’s—whic

according to this hypothesis) shoul

ake place in this same city. Th

conclusions of the inspector whos

report Wallas read in Laurent’s offic

could be correct about this: the existenc

of two accomplices in the murder oDaniel Dupont—the addressee (Andr

WS) and the person designated by th

etter G in the text of the letter. Tonight

he former would work alone. LastlyMarchat was right to fear an attack lon

before the fatal hour—as confirmed b

he words “all afternoon” also appearin



n the pneumatic message.

There remains the post car

mysteriously slipped under th

concierge’s door at the police station. I

s extremely doubtful that th

conspirators would have decided t

nform the police of the time and placof their crime. It is part of their progra

o indicate the authorship of their crime

and to give them all the publicit

possible (the Executive Services and thMinistry of the Interior have alread

received certain messages from th

eaders of the organization), but the poscard would constitute evidence capabl

of wrecking their plans—unless the

henceforth felt so powerful that they ha

nothing further to fear from anyone. On



would almost be led to suspect th

commissioner himself of duplicity—

which, from another point of view, i

difficult to imagine.

It would be more reasonable t

admit what Laurent, for his part, appear

o be quite certain of: a reminder cominfrom Marchat. The businessman, befor

eaving the city, would thus have made

final effort to convince the police t

have the dead man’s residence watched

The suspicious behavior of the littl

doctor, the businessman’s fears, variou

allusions contained in the pneumatimessage…The deductions that can b

made from such evidence furnish littl

opportunity for certainty. Wallas know



hat. He realizes, in particular, th

nfluence on him of the card left at th

police station—though this card canno

ogically constitute part of the structureBut after all, he has nothing better to d

han show up at the rendezvous. Since a

present there is no other lead, he wil

ose nothing in following this one. H

has the key to the house in his pocket—

he one to the little glass door—tha

Madame Smite gave him. Marchat hafled, leaving him a clear field: h

himself will play the role of th

businessman, to see if by some miracl

someone will come to murder him. Hcongratulates himself on having brough

his revolver along.

“It’s true, you never know,” Lauren



has said ironically.

Wallas reaches the garden gate.

It is seven o’clock.

***

Everything around him is dark. Th

street is deserted. Wallas calmly open

he gate.

Once inside, he carefully pushes

shut, but not all the way, so as to leav

some trace of his passage.

There is no use attracting thattention of anyone walking on th

parkway at this hour by unnecessar

noise. To avoid making the grave



crunch, Wallas walks on the lawn—

easier than on the brick rim. He walk

around the house on the right side. In th

darkness, he can just make out the pathpaler between the two flowerbeds an

he neatly pruned top of the spindl

rees.

A wooden shutter now protects th

glass panes of the little door. The ke

urns easily in the lock. Wallas surprise

himself in the attitudes of a burglarnstead of opening the door wide, he ha

slipped in through a discreet gap. H

akes out the key and gently closes thdoor behind him.

The big house is silent.

To the right the kitchen, at the rea



and to the left the dining room. Walla

knows the way; he would not need an

ight to guide him. He nevertheless turn

on his pocket flashlight and moveforward, preceded by the thin pencil o

ight. The tiling of the vestibule is blac

and white, laid in a pattern of square

and lozenges. A strip of gray carpet wit

wo garnet stripes at the edges cover

he stairs.

In the luminous circle of the electriight appears a tiny dark painting that i

obviously rather old. It is a nightmar

scene. At the foot of a ruined towerlluminated by a flash of siniste

ightning, two men are lying. One i

wearing royal clothes, his gold crow

gleams in the grass beside him; the othe



s a simple peasant. The lightning ha

ust dealt out the same death to both o

hem.

On the point of turning the doorknob

Wallas stops: if the murderer is actuall

ying in wait behind this door, it woulbe stupid for a special agent to fall int

such a trap; since he has come to th

rendezvous, he should play the game alhe way to the end. He slips his hand int

his pocket to take out his revolver, whe

he remembers the second one he ha

been carrying around since the mornin—Daniel Dupont’s revolver, which i

ammed and would be of no help to hi

f he had to protect his life. He must b



careful not to make any mistake abou

which is which.

Actually, he runs no risk of doin

so. Dupont’s revolver is in his lef

overcoat pocket: he had put it there firs

and then put it back in the same plac

when the revolver was returned from thaboratory. Since he has never handle

both weapons at the same time, h

cannot have confused them.

To be absolutely certain, h

examines them on the spot by the light o

his flashlight. He recognizes his ow

revolver indisputably. He even feels napprehension about trying to fire th

dead man’s gun—it is, indeed, that on

hat is jammed. He starts to put it back i



his pocket, but then decides it is no us

encumbering himself with this heav

object any longer. He therefore goes int

he bedroom and puts it back in the nighable drawer from which he had seen th

old housekeeper take it this morning.

n the study, Wallas presses the button o

he light switch on the door jamb. On

bulb in the ceiling fixture goes onBefore leaving the house, the ol

housekeeper has closed all the shutters

consequently no one will see the ligh

from outside.

His loaded revolver in his righ

hand, Wallas inspects the little room. N

one is hiding in it, obviously. Everythin



s in order. Madame Smite must hav

straightened the piles of books which th

nspector had indicated as having bee

disordered. The white sheet on whiche professor had as yet written only fou

words has disappeared, filed away in

folder or in some drawer. The cube o

vitrified stone, with its sharp edges an

deadly corners, is lying harmlessl

between the inkwell and the memo-pad

Only the chair is at a slight angle, pulleout from the desk, as if someone wer

about to sit down.

Wallas stands behind the back of thchair and looks toward the door; this is

good place to wait for the arrival of th

hypothetical murderer. It would be eve

better to turn out the light; the specia



agent would then have time to see th

enemy before being discovered.

From his observation post, Walla

carefully notes the location of th

various pieces of furniture. He goe

back to the door, presses the light button

and in the dark returns to the same placeHe checks his position by resting hi

free hand on the back of the chair in fron

of him.



4

f the murderer’s trail has not bee

picked up, it is because Daniel Duponhas not been murdered; yet it i

mpossible to reconstruct his suicide i

any coherent way.…Laurent rubs hi

hands together faster… And what i

Dupont weren’t dead?

The chief commissioner suddenl



understands the oddities of thi

“wound,” the impossibility of letting th

police see the “corpse,” Doctor Juard’

embarrassed looks. Dupont is not deadt just took a little thought to realize that

The motives of the entire story ar

not yet quite clear, but the point odeparture is here: Daniel Dupont is no

dead.

Laurent picks up his telephone andials a number: 202-203.

“Hello, Café des Allies?”

“Yes,” a low, almost cavernouvoice replies.

“I’d like to speak to Monsieu

Wallas.”



“Monsieur Wallas isn’t here,” th

voice answers, disgustedly.

“You don’t know where he is?”

“How should I know?” the voic

says, “I’m not his nursemaid.”

“This is the police calling. Yohave a man staying there named Wallas

don’t you?”

“Yes, I reported him this morning,

he voice says.

“That’s not what I’m asking. I’

asking if this man is in you

establishment. Has he gone up to hiroom?”

“I’ll find out,” the voice answer

reluctantly. A minute later it adds with



note of satisfaction: “No one’s there!”

“All right. I’d like to speak to th

manager.”

“I’m the manager here,” the voic

says.

“You are. Then it was you who tolan inspector that nonsense about som

fictitious son of Professor Dupont?”

“I didn’t say anything like that,” th

voice protests. “I said that sometime

oung people came in here, they’re al

ages—some young enough to b

Dupont’s sons….”“Did you say he had a son?”

“I don’t even know whether he ha

any! He never came in here, and even i



he had I wouldn’t have stopped him fro

getting into every whore in th

neighborhood—excuse me, Monsieur.

The voice suddenly grows gentlermaking an attempt at correctness: “Th

nspector asked if any young people eve

came in here; I said yes. Over sixteen i

egal. Then he insinuated that maybe thi

Dupont had a son; I didn’t want to sa

no, so I said it was perfectly possible h

had come in here to drink one day or thother….”

“All right. We’ll send for you. Bu

from now on watch out what you’rsaying; and try to be a little more polite

Monsieur Wallas didn’t say what tim

he’d be back?”



A pause. The other man has hung up

A threatening smile is already spreadin

across the commissioner’s face…whe

he finally hears the voice: “All he saiwas that he would sleep here tonight.”

“Thanks. I’ll call back.”

Laurent hangs up. He rubs his handsHe would have liked to announce hi

discovery to the special agent righ

away. He enjoys in anticipation Wallasncredulous astonishment when he wil

hear at the end of the wire: “Dupont isn

dead. Dupont is in hiding at Docto

Juard’s clinic.”



5

“The car is here,” Juard says.

Dupont stands up and starts for th

door at once. He is dressed for the trip

He has been able to put only one ar

hrough the sleeve of his heavy overcoatwhich the doctor has buttoned as well a

possible over the wounded arm, whic

s held in a canvas sling. He is wearin



a wide-brimmed felt hat that entirel

conceals his forehead. He has eve

accepted dark glasses so that no one wil

recognize him; the only pair to be founn the clinic was a pair of medica

glasses, one of whose lenses is ver

dark and the other much lighter—whic

gives the professor the comical look of

villain in a melodrama.

Since at the last minute Marcha

refuses to do him the favor he hapromised, Dupont will have to go to th

ittle house for the papers himself.

Juard has arranged matters so thahe corridors of the clinic are empt

when his friend passes through them

The latter has no difficulty getting to th



big black ambulance waiting in front o

he door. He sits down on the front sea

beside the driver—it will be easier fo

getting in and out without wasting anime.

The driver has put on the blac

hospital uniform and the flat cap with thshiny visor. Actually this must be one o

he “bodyguards” Roy-Dauzet uses

more or less officially. The man

moreover, has an impressive build, sober manner, the hard, inscrutable fac

of a film killer. He hasn’t opened hi

mouth once; he has handed the professohe letter from the minister proving tha

he is the man they have been expecting

and as soon as the doctor has slamme

he door, he drives away.



“We have to stop at my house first,

Dupont says. “I’ll tell you where to go

Turn right…Right again...To the lef

…Around that building… Turn her…The second on the right…Now

straight ahead...”

In a few minutes they reach thBoulevard Circulaire. Dupont has th

car stop at the corner of the Rue de

Arpenteurs.

“Don’t park here,” he tells th

driver. “I prefer not to have my vis

noticed. Drive around, or park a few

hundred yards away. And be back iexactly half an hour.”

“Yes, Monsieur,” the man says. “D

ou want me to park the car and com



with you?”

“There’s no need for that, than

ou.”

Dupont gets out and walks quickl

oward the gate. He hears the ambulanc

drive away. The man is not

“bodyguard”: he would have insisted ofollowing Dupont. His looks had foole

he professor, who now smiles at hi

own romanticism. The very existence ohese famous guards is, moreover, quit

uncertain.

The gate is not closed. The lock ha

been out of order for a long time, the ke

does not even turn in it, which does no



prevent the latch from closing. Old Ann

s growing quite careless—unless som

child was playing here and opened th

gate after he left—a child or a prowlerDupont climbs the four steps up to th

door, to make sure that the front door, i

any case, is actually locked; he turns th

heavy brass doorknob and pushes hard

adding the pressure of his shoulder, fo

he knows that the hinges are very stiff

since he wants to be sure of the resuland mistrusts the unaccustome

movements imposed by his single goo

arm, he repeats the effort two or thre

imes, yet without daring to make tomuch noise. But the big door is locke

ight.

He has given Marchat the keys t



his door, and the businessman has lef

without even bothering to return them

Dupont has only the key to the little glas

door left; he must therefore walk arounhe house to the back. Under his feet, th

gravel crunches faintly in the silence o

he night. It was a mistake to count o

hat coward Marchat. He has wasted th

whole afternoon waiting for him; finall

he telephoned his house, but there wa

no one there; at quarter to seven hfinally received a message that cam

from somewhere: Marchat was sorry, h

had had to leave town on urgen

business. That was a lie, of course. Iwas fear that had made him run away.

Mechanically, Dupont has turned th

doorknob of the little door. The latte



opens without resistance. It was no

ocked.

The house is dark and silent.

The professor takes off his glasses

which are bothering him. He has stoppen the vestibule and tries to figure out th

situation…Did Marchat come after all

o, since it was the front door keys tha

had been given to him. And old Anna, ishe hadn’t left, would be in the kitchen a

his hour…that’s not certain…in an

case, she would have left a light on i

he hall or on the stairs. …

Dupont opens the kitchen door. N

one there. He presses the light button



Everything is put away, as in a hous

where no one lives any longer. And al

he shutters are closed. Dupont turns o

he light in the hall. As he passes hopens the living room and dining roo

doors. No one, of course. He starts u

he stairs. Perhaps Anna forgot to loc

he little door when she was leaving

She has been growing absent-minded th

ast few months.

On the second floor, he goes to thhousekeeper’s room. It is obvious tha

he room has been put in order for a lon

absence.

Having reached his study door, th

professor holds his breath. Last nigh



he murderer was waiting for him there.

Yes, but last night the little doo

was open: the man didn’t need a key t

get in; tonight he would have had t

force the lock, and Dupont notice

nothing of the kind. And if the man foun

he door open this time too, it is becausold Anna had not locked it, in any case

…It is impossible to reassure himsel

with arguments of this kind; with a bunc

of skeleton keys, a specialist can easilopen all ordinary locks. Someone ha

made his way into the house and i

waiting, in the study, in the same placas yesterday, to finish the job.

Objectively, there is no reason t

suppose this is not true. The professor i



not easily frightened; nevertheless, a

his moment he regrets that he was no

sent a real bodyguard from the capita

However, there can be no question oeaving without taking with him the file

he needs.

Marchat has told him on thelephone that the police commissione

did not think it had been a murder: h

was convinced it was a suicide. Dupon

urns around. He goes to get hirevolver. Last night, when he departe

for the clinic, he left it on the nigh

able… Just before he goes into thbedroom he stops again: it may be her

hat the trap has been set for him.

These successive, more or les



chimerical fears annoy the professor

With an impatient gesture he turns th

handle; all the same he takes th

precaution of not opening the door aonce; he quickly thrusts in his hand t

urn on the light and glances slowl

around the door, ready to draw back i

he sees anything unusual...

But the bedroom is empty: no thug i

posted behind the bed, nor in the corne

next to the chest. Dupont sees only hiown face in the mirror, where the trace

of an anxiety that now seems ludicrou

o him still remain.He walks straight over to the nigh

able. The revolver is no longer on th

marble top. He finds it in the drawer, i



ts usual place. He probably will not us

t, any more than he had the night before

but you never know: if he had bee

armed last night when he came upstairfrom the dining room, he would certainl

have used it then.

The professor checks to see that thsafety catch has not been slipped bac

on and returns, walking steadily, hi

weapon in his hand, to the study. He wil

have to use only one arm—fortunatelyhis right. First put the revolver in hi

pocket, open the door, turn on the ceilin

ight and, as fast as possible, grasp threvolver while kicking open the door

This little farce—useless as the one h

has just executed—makes him smile i

anticipation.



***

Wallas listens to his heart poundingSince he is quite close to the window, h

has heard the car stop, the garden gat

open, the heavy footsteps crunchin

across the gravel. The man has tried tget in through the front door. He ha

shaken it a few times, without success

hen has walked around the houseConsequently Wallas could tell it wasn

Marchat who had changed his mind an

come for the dead man’s papers; it wa

neither Marchat nor someone sent by hi—or by the old housekeeper. It wa

someone who did not have the keys t

he house.



The crunching footsteps hav

passed underneath the window. The ma

went to the little door which the specia

agent has left open for him on purposeThe hinges have creaked slightly whe

he pushed the door open. To be sure hi

victim would not escape, the man ha

ooked in every room he passed on th

ground floor and then upstairs.

Now Wallas sees the slit of ligh

widening along the jamb, witunendurable slowness.

Wallas aims at the place where th

murderer will appear, a black figuroutlined against the illuminate

doorway…

But the man obviously distrusts thi



room plunged in darkness. A hand move

forward, gropes for the switch…

Wallas, dazzled by the light, onl

distinguishes the quick movement of a

arm lowering toward him the muzzle of

heavy revolver, the movement of a ma

firing As he throws himself to the floorWallas pulls the trigger.



6

The man has fallen forward, his righ

arm outstretched, the left folded undehim. His hand remains clenched on th

butt of the revolver. He no longer moves

Wallas stands up. Fearing a trick, happroaches cautiously, his gun stil

aimed, not knowing what he should do.

He walks around the body, keepin



out of reach of a possible reaction. Th

man still does not move. His hat ha

remained pulled down over hi

forehead. The right eye is partly open thother is turned down toward the ground

he nose is crushed against the carpet

What can be seen of the face looks quit

gray. He is dead.

It is nervousness that makes Walla

ose the rest of his discretion. He lean

down and touches the man’s wrist, tryino find his pulse. The hand releases th

heavy revolver and dangles limply in hi

grasp. The pulse has stopped. The man certainly dead.

Wallas decides he must look throug

he corpse’s pockets (For what?) Onl



he right overcoat pocket is accessible

H< thrusts in his hand and removes

pair of spectacles, one o whose lenses i

very dark and the other much lighter.

“Can you say whether it was th

right lens that was darker or the left?”

The left lens…on the right sid…The right lens on the left side….

It is the left lens that is darker

Wallas puts the glasses on the floor anstraightens up. He does not want t

continue the search. He feels instead lik

sitting down. He is very tired.

In self-defense. He saw the ma

aiming at him. He saw the finge

squeezing the trigger. He perceived th



considerable interval of time it took hi

o react and fire back. He was sure ti

didn’t have very quick reflexes.

Yet he had to admit that he fire

first. He didn’t hear the other revolve

fire before his own; and if the tw

explosions had occurred at exactly thsame moment, there would be som

race of the stray bullet on the wall or i

he backs of the books. Wallas raises th

window curtain: the panes are alsntact. His adversary did not have tim

o fire.

It is only the tension of his sensehat gave him, at the time, tha

mpression of slow motion.

Wallas presses his palm against th



muzzle of his gun; it feels distinctl

warm. He turns back toward the bod

and leans down to touch the abandone

revolver. It is quite cold. Taking a betteook, Wallas realizes that the left sleev

of the overcoat is empty. He feels th

shape of the arm under the material. Wa

his arm in a sling? “A flesh wound i

he arm.”

He must inform Laurent. From now

on this is a matter for the police. Thspecial agent cannot continue to handl

he case alone, now that there is

corpse.The commissioner will not be at hi

office this late. Wallas looks at hi

watch; it shows seven thirty-five. The



he remembers that it had stopped a

seven-thirty. He raises it to his ear an

hears the faint ticking. It must be th

detonation that has started it going agai—or else the shock, if he bumped i

when he threw himself to the floor. H

will call the commissioner at his office

f he is no longer there, someone ca

certainly tell Wallas where to find him

He has noticed a telephone in th

bedroom.The door is open. The light is on

The drawer of the night ;able is wid

open. The revolver is no longer there.Wallas picks up the receiver

umber 124-24. “It’s a direct line.” Th

ringing at the other end of the line i



nterrupted at once.

“Hello!” a distant voice says.

“Hello, this is Wallas, it’s…”

“Oh good, I just tried to call you

This is Laurent speaking. I’ve made

discovery—you’ll never guess! DanieDupont! He isn’t dead at all! Do yo

hear me?” He repeats, separating eac

syllable: “Daniel Dupont is not dead!”

Then who said the telephone in th

house wasn’t working?

EPILOGUE



n the dimness of the café the manager iarranging the tables and chairs, th

ashtrays, the siphons of soda water; it i

six in the morning.

The manager is not altogethe

awake. He is in a bad mood; he has no

had enough sleep. Last night he wante

o wait until his lodger returned beforocking up; but it was no use keepin

awake so late, for he finally closed u

all the same and went to bed withou



ever having seen that damned Walla

come in. He has decided that his lodge

was arrested, since the police wer

ooking for him.

Wallas has come in only thi

morning—ten minutes-ago—lookin

ired, his face drawn, hardly able tstand up. “The police called, they’r

ooking for you,” the manager has sai

as he opened the door for him. Wallas i

not affected by the news; he has merelanswered: “Yes, I know; thanks,” and h

has gone straight upstairs to his room

Too polite to be honest. It was a goohing he had waited until six to come in

f the manager had not been up, h

certainly wouldn’t have got out of bed t

et him in. Besides, he’s not going t



ake any more lodgers, it’s too muc

rouble. It will be a piece of luck if thi

one doesn’t make trouble with all hi

problems.

The manager has no sooner put on th

ight in the café than in comes a littlman in shabby clothes, dirty hat and a

overcoat too… It’s the same one wh

came yesterday morning at the samime. He asks the same question as th

day before:

“Monsieur Wallas, please?”

The manager hesitates, not knowin

whether his lodger will find it mor

disagreeable to be disturbed at thi



moment or to miss the man who has bee

ooking for him the last twenty-fou

hours. From his face, the latter does no

ook as if he had very good news.

“He’s upstairs, just go straight up

t’s the room at the end of the hall on th

second floor.”The little man with the woebegon

face heads for the door indicated, at th

rear of the café. The manager had nonoticed yet how silent his footstep

were.

Garinati closes the door behind him. H

s in a narrow hall illuminated by

vague light from the ground-glass pan



above another door—opening onto th

street. The staircase is opposite him

nstead of walking toward it, he follow

he hallway to the door—which he opennoiselessly. He finds himself out on th

sidewalk again. Wallas is upstairs, that’

all he wanted to know.

Today he won’t let him get away; h

will be able to give Bona an account o

his every movement. He has only to

well deserved his chief’s censure ancontempt these last few days. As

consequence Bona had preferred not t

mention to him the execution of AlberDupont, the wood exporter tha

“Monsieur Andre” had performed las

night. A good job, apparently.



But Garinati’s own work has no

been so bad as he had thought, after all

He has had to see his victim’s body wit

his own eyes to be quite certain of hideath. He had been getting ideas. Th

shot he fired at the professor was

deadly one all right.

Bona will be annoyed when he find

out (he always finds out, sooner or later

hat Garinati, instead of following th

special agent, has spent the night makindangerous expeditions through all th

hospitals and clinics in town, looking fo

he corpse of Daniel Dupont.He has seen the dead man with hi

own eyes. It is the last mistake he wil

have made. From now on he will not b



so stupid about losing his confidence i

Bona. He will obey his orders withou

hesitation. Today: follow Wallas like

shadow. It isn’t very hard.

And it won’t be very long: Walla

will leave the city by the first train. H

s sitting on the edge of his bed, hielbows on his knees, his head betwee

his hands. He has taken off his shoes

which were hurting him; his feet ar

swollen from so much walking.

This sleepless night has exhauste

him. He has accompanied the chie

commissioner everywhere, for Laurenhad at once taken charge of the cas

again and resumed all his duties. Severa

imes, during their nocturnal rides



Wallas fell asleep in the car. Now tha

he had recovered the missing corpse

Laurent was, on the contrary, quite a

ease: he has displayed an energy whichis one-day colleague scarcely expecte

from him—particularly after eight-thirty

when he learned of the murder of th

millionaire exporter.

Wallas, on the other hand, has n

onger concerned himself with anything

He has stayed on because no one haold him to leave.

When he telephoned the Bureau

Fabius himself answered. Wallas hareported on his case and asked if h

could be transferred back to his ol

department. This was taking th



nitiative, for he certainly would no

have been kept on at this delicate pos

after such an unfortunate incident. Sinc

he court does not need him for thmoment, he will return to the capita

during the morning.

In his extreme exhaustion, snatcheof his wasted day still come back t

orment him: “…and if, at that moment,

had thought about…and if I had…” H

chases away these obsessions with ampatient shake of his head. Now it i

oo late.

Forty-three multiplied by onhundred-fourteen. Four times three

welve. Four times four, sixteen. Sixtee

and one, seventeen. Forty-three. Forty



hree. Two. Seven and three, ten. Fou

and three, seven. Seven and one, eight

Eight and one, nine. Four. Four thousan

nine hundred two. There is no othepossible solution. “Four thousand nin

hundred two…that’s not so good, m

boy. Forty-nine square centimeters o

surface: you need at least fifty, yo

know.”

Only one centimeter—all he wa

missing was that ridiculous space.

He still has two tiny millimeters lef

over. Two last tiny millimeters. Tw

square millimeters of dream…It isnmuch. The glaucous water of the canal

rises and overflows, covers the granit

quays, overflows the streets, spreads it



monsters and its mud over the whol

city.…

Wallas stands up: if he stays her

without moving, he will really go t

sleep. He tries to take his comb out o

his inside jacket pocket, but his gesture

are clumsy and in grasping the case hdrops his wallet, out of which severa

papers fall. His carte d’identite show

him that face that once was his; he walk

over to the dresser to see himself in thmirror and compares the image with th

photograph: lack of sleep, aging hi

features, has re-established thresemblance. Besides, it would be n

use changing this photograph, he nee

only let his mustache grow out again. H

doesn’t really have a narrow forehead



t’s only that his hairline is low.

Putting the papers back in th

wallet, Wallas cannot find the retur

rain ticket. He looks to see if it is no

still on the floor near the bed; he the

searches through all his pockets; h

ooks through the wallet once again. Hremembers having seen the ticket ther

during the day. He must have dropped

while taking out some money. It was als

he only proof of the exact time of hiarrival in the city.

On the telephone, Fabius did not hav

he dramatic reactions Wallas feared. H

only half listened to his agent’s account

The chief was on a new lead: now



was the next crime, tonight’s, that wa

supposed to occur in the capita

according to him, at least.

Wallas begins to shave. He hear

he throaty laugh of the stationer

saleswoman—more annoying tha

provocative.“I’m going to have to go…”

“Sometimes you go through hell an

high water to find a murderer, and thcrime hasn’t even been committed. Yo

go through hell and high water t

discover it “ “…quite far from him

whereas one need only point towar

one’s own chest…” Where do thes

phrases come from?



It is not the stationery saleswoman’

augh; the noise is coming fro

downstairs—probably from the café.

Antoine is very pleased with his joke

He turns to the right and the left to see i

his entire audience has had the benefit ot. The pharmacist, who is the only wh

has not laughed, merely says:

“That’s ridiculous. I don’t see wht wouldn’t snow in October.”

But Antoine has just noticed, in th

newspaper one of the sailors is readinga headline that makes him exclaim:

“There, what did I say!”

“What did you say?” the pharmacis



asks.

“Hey, bartender, what did I say

Albert Dupont is dead. Look here, yo

can see for yourself that he’s name

Albert and that he’s dead as a doornail!”

Antoine takes the newspaper awa

from the sailor and holds it over the barn silence the manager begins reading th

article in question: “Walking home as h

was accustomed to do every evening…”“All right,” Antoine says, “who wa

right?”

The manager does not answer; hcalmly continues reading. The other

have resumed their argument over th

early winter. Antoine, growin



mpatient, repeats:

“Well?”

“Well,” the manager says, “you’d bbetter off reading to the end before yo

start laughing. It’s not the same story a

esterday. This was last night; an

esterday it was the day beforesterday. Besides, this one isn’t

burglar that shot at him: it’s a car tha

skidded and ran over him on the edge ohe sidewalk. ‘…the driver of the truck

after pulling back onto the road, escape

oward the harbor…’ Read first, instea

of talking so much. If you can’t tell thdifference between yesterday and toda

here’s no use talking.”

He gives back the newspaper an



picks up the empty glasses to rinse them

“You’re not trying to tell us,

Antoine says, “that someone name

Dupont gets killed every night.”

“There’s more than one donkey a

he fair…” the drunk begin

sententiously.

Wallas, after shaving, goes bac

downstairs to drink a cup of hot coffee

t must be ready by this time. The firs

person he sees when he comes into th

café is the riddle-man whose question“What animal in the morning…” he ha

been vainly trying to reconstruct al

night…



“Good morning,” the drunk say

with his jubilant smile.

“Good morning,” Wallas answers

“Will you give me a cup of black coffee

please?”

A little later, while he is drinkin

his coffee at a table, the drunk comeover and tries to start a conversation

Wallas finally asks him:

“How did that riddle of yours g

esterday? What animal…”

The drunk, delighted, sits dowopposite him and searches his memory

What animal…Suddenly his face light

up; he rinks and begins enunciating wit



an infinitely sly expression:

“What animal is black, has six legs

and flies?”

“No,” Wallas says, “it wa

something else.”

A wipe of the rag. The manageshrugs. Some people actually lave tim

o waste.

But he mistrusts the friendl

manners his lodger puts on so willingly

A man who dresses like that doesn’t tak

a room and lien spend the whole nigh

out. And why did that man from thpolice station want to talk to him las

night?

“I’m the manager.”



“Oh, it was you! You’re the on

who told an inspector that lonsens

about some fictitious son of Professo

Dupont?”

“I didn’t say anything like that.

said that sometimes young people cam

n here, they’re all ages—some younenough to ^e Dupont’s sons…”

“Did you say he had a son?”

“I don’t even know whether he haany!”

“All right, let me speak to th

manager.”“I’m the manager.”

“Oh, it was you! You’re the on

who told that nonsense about th



fictitious son of Professor Dupont?”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Did you say he had a son?”

“I don’t even know whether he ha

any. All I said was that young people o

all ages came in here.”“You’re the one who told tha

nonsense, or was it the manager?”

“I’m the manager.”

“You’re the one, young peopl

nonsense, professor at the bar?”

The Erasers - Alain Robbe-Grillet

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The Erasers - Alain Robbe-Grillet