The Erasers (12 page)

Political crime? Did this withdrawn figure exert the occult influence some attributed to him? Even if it were so, you would have to be a Roy-Dauzet to construct such absurd hypotheses: a murder every day at the same hour
…
. Luckily, this time he has not confided his hallucinations
to the regular police. Laurent
still has a bad memory of the minister
’
s last whim: large quantities of arms and munitions were—he claimed—being landed daily in the harbor on behalf of some revolutionary organization; this traffic would have to be stopped at once and the guilty parties arrested! For almost three weeks the police have exhausted themselves: the depots minutely inspected, the holds searched from top to bottom, the crates opened one by one, the bales of cotton unpacked (then repacked) because their weight was over normal. They had picked up, as their entire prize, two undeclared revolvers and the hunting rifle an unfortunate passenger had concealed in a trunk to avoid paying customs duty. No one took the matter seriously, and the police, after a few days, were the laughingstock of the town. The chief commissioner is not about to set off on a wild goose chase of that sort so quickly.

As he left the police station, Wallas was once again seized by that impression of empty-headedness which he had earlier attributed to the cold. He then decided that the long walk on an empty stomach—which too light a breakfast had not made up for afterward—also contributed something to this feeling. To be in a position to think to advantage about the commissioner
’
s remarks and to put his own ideas in order, Wallas has decided it would be a good idea to eat a heavier meal. So he has gone into a restaurant he had noticed an hour before, where he has eaten with a good appetite two eggs and some ham with toast. At the same time, he has had the waitress explain the most convenient way to get to the Rue de Corinthe. Passing once more in front of the statue that decorates the Place de la
Préfecture
, he has approached it to read, on the west side
of the pedestal, the inscription carved in the stone:
“
The Chariot of State—V. Daulis, sculptor.
”

He has found the clinic easily, but Doctor Juard has just left. The reception nurse has asked him the purpose of his visit; he has answered that he preferred to speak to the doctor in person; she has then asked him if he wished to speak with Madame Juard who—she said—was also a doctor and, besides, was in charge of the clinic. Wallas has explained that he had not come for medical reasons. This explanation made the nurse smile—for no apparent reason—but she has asked nothing further. She did not know when the doctor would be back; it would be best to come back later, or telephone. While she closes the door behind him, she has murmured, loud enough so Wallas could hear her:

“
They
’
re all the same!
”

Wallas has returned to the square and walked around the prefecture on the right side, intending to come out onto the Boulevard Circulaire near the Rue des Arpenteurs; but he has lost his way in a labyrinth of tiny streets where the sudden turns and detours have forced him to walk much longer than was necessary. After crossing a canal, he has finally reached a familiar neighborhood: the Rue de Brabant and the imitation brick buildings of the wood exporters. During this entire course his attention has been completely absorbed by his concern to proceed in the right direction; and when, after crossing the parkway, he has found himself standing in front of the little house surrounded by spindle trees, the latter has suddenly looked sinister to him, whereas this morning he had been struck, on the contrary by its attractive appearance. He has tried to dismiss such unreasonable ideas, setting them down to fatigue, and he has decided to take the streetcar to move around the city from now on.

It is at this moment that he has realized that, for almost a half-hour, his mind had been exclusively preoccupied by the
nurse
’
s expression and tone: polite but apparently full of double meanings. She almost looked as though she supposed he wanted a shady doctor—for God knows what reason.

***

Wallas follows the hedge, behind the iron fence, and stops at the gate, where he stares for a minute at the front of the house. There are two windows on the ground floor, three upstairs, one of which (on the left) is partly open.

Contrary to his expectation, no bell sounds when he opens the gate and walks into the garden. He closes the gate, follows the gravel path, and walks up the four steps to the door. He presses the bell; a distant ring answers. In the center of the varnished oak door is a rectangular window protected by an elaborate grillwork: something like intertwined flower stems, with long, supple leaves
…
it might also represent wisps of smoke….

After a few seconds, Wallas rings again. Since no one comes to open the door, he glances through the little window—but without being able to make out anything inside. Then he looks up toward the second-story windows. An old woman is leaning just far enough out of the left one to catch sight of him.

“
Who do you want?
”
she cries when she realizes she has been seen.
“
No one
’
s here. You
’
d better leave, young man.
”

Her tone is suspicious and cold, but nevertheless something about it hints at the possibility of getting around her. Wallas assumes his most agreeable manner:

“
You
’
re Madame Smite, aren
’
t you?
”

“
What did you say?
”

“
You
’
re Madame Smite, aren
’
t you?
”
he repeats, somewhat louder.

This time she answers as if she had understood long before:

“
Yes, of course! What do you want Madame Smite fori
”
And without waiting she adds in her shrill voice:
“
If it
’
s for
the telephone, I can tell you now that you
’
ve come too late, young man: there
’
s no one here any more!
”

“
No, Madame, that
’
s not what it
’
s about. I
’
d like to talk to you.
”

“
I don
’
t have time to stay and talk. I
’
m packing my things.
”

Wallas is shouting now, by contagion and almost as loudly as the old woman. He insists:

“
Listen, Madame Smite, I only want to ask you for a little information.
”

The old woman still does not seem to have made up her mind to let him in. He has stepped back so that she can see him more easily: his respectable clothes certainly count in his favor. And finally the housekeeper declares, before disappearing into the room:
“
I can
’
t understand a word you
’
re saying, young man. I
’
ll come down.
”

But quite a while passes, and nothing at all happens. Wallas is on the point of calling, fearing she has forgotten all about him, when suddenly the window in the front door opens without his having heard the slightest noise in the hall, and the old woman
’
s face presses up against the grill.

“
So you
’
re here for the telephone, are you?
”
she shrieks stubbornly (and just as loudly, though she is now six inches from her interlocutor).
“
That makes a week we
’
ve been waiting for you, young man! You
’
re not coming from an asylum, at least, like the one last night?
”

Wallas is somewhat baffled.

“
Well, I
…
”
he begins, supposing she
’
s referring to the clinic,
“
I stopped by there but…
”

The old housekeeper interrupts him at once, outraged:

“
What? Does the company hire only lunatics? And you
’
ve probably stopped in every
café
on the way too, before you got here, haven
’
t you?
”

Wallas remains calm. Laurent has suggested that the woman sometimes said funny things;
still, he did not think she was
this crazy. He will have to explain the matter to her carefully, articulating each word so she can understand what he is saying:

“
No, listen, Madame, you
’
re making a mistake
“

But Wallas suddenly remembers the two
café
s he was in this morning—and the one he has slept in as well; these are facts he cannot deny, although he does not see why he should be blamed for them. Besides, why should he bother himself about these grotesque accusations?

“
It
’
s a misunderstanding. It
’
s not the company that
’
s sending me.
”
(That, at least, he can state without any ambiguity whatever.)

“
Then what
’
s this all about, young man?
”
the suspicious face replies.

An interrogation is not going to be easy under these conditions! Probably her employer
’
s murder has unsettled the housekeeper
’
s mind.

“
I told you I
’
m not here for the telephone,
”
Wallas repeats, forcing himself to be patient.

“
Well,
”
she exclaims,
“
you don
’
t have to shout so loud, you know. I
’
m not deaf!
”
She reads lips, obviously.
“
And if you
’
re not here for the telephone, there
’
s no use talking.
”

Preferring not to bring up the subject again, Wallas quickly explains the purpose of his visit. To his great surprise, he makes himself understood without the slightest difficulty: Madame Smite agrees to let him come in. But instead of opening the door, she remains staring at him, behind the grill that half conceals her face. Through the opening in the window which she is about to close again, she remarks, finally, with a touch of reproach (shouldn
’
t he have known about it long since?):

“
Not through this door, young man. It
’
s too hard to open. You can walk around to the back.
”

And the window closes wit
h a click. As he walks down the
steps to the gravel path, Wallas feels her eyes fixed on him from the darkness of the hall.

Nevertheless old Anna hurries toward the kitchen. This gentleman has a nicer look about him than the two who came last night, with their red faces and their big boots. They went all over the place to do their dirty work and did not even listen to what they were told. She had to keep a close watch over them, for fear they might take something; their looks did not inspire much confidence. What if they were accomplices who had come to look for what the thief had not been able to steal when he ran away? This one looks less shrewd—and keeps getting mixed up in a lot of nonsense before coming to the point—but certainly he is better brought up. Monsieur Dupont always wanted her to let people in through the front door. The locks are too complicated. Now that he is dead, they can just as well walk around.

Wallas arrives at the little glass door the commissioner has mentioned to him. He knocks on a pane with his forefinger doubled up. Since the old housekeeper has disappeared again, he tries to turn the handle; the door is not locked. He pushes it open, it creaks on its hinges, like the door in an abandoned house—haunted maybe—where each movement provokes a flight of owls and bats. But once the door is closed, no rustle of wings disturbs the silence. Wallas takes a few hesitant steps; his eyes, growing used to the dimness, glances around the woodwork, the complicated moldings, the brass column at the foot of the staircase, the carpets, everything that constituted the ornaments of a bourgeois residence early in the century.