The Erasers (25 page)

As he talked, he grew more
and more aware of the unbeliev
able character of his account. Moreover, maybe this was not matter of the words he was using: others chosen with more ca
re
might have suffered the same fate; it was enough for him t pronounce them for them to cease to inspire confidence. Walls consequently reached the point of no longer trying to rea
son
against the ready-made formulas that naturally occurred t him; they were the ones that were easiest.

To top it off, opposite him was the commissioner
’
s cyn
ical
face, whose all too obvious incredulity completely annihilate the plausibility of Wallas
’
constructions.

Laurent has begun asking himself precise questions. Wh
o
are the victims? What, exactly, was their role in the state Hasn
’
t their sudden and collective disappearance alread
y
caused an appreciable void? How does it happen that no on
e
speaks of it in society, in the newspapers, in the street?

In reality, this is easily explained. It is a matter of a rathe
r
numerous group of men scattered throughout the country. Fc the most part, they occupy no official positions; they are n
ot
supposed to belong to the gover
nment; their influence is never
theless direct and considerable. Economists, financiers, head of industrial corporations, men in charge of union council! jurists, engineers, technicians o
f all kinds, they prefer remain
ing in the background and leading quite obscure lives; thei
r
names are meaningless to the public, their faces completel
y
unknown. Yet the conspirators make no mistake about them they know how to reach, through them, the very core of th
e
nation
’
s politico-economic system. Up to now, everything po
s
sible has been done in high places to conceal the gravity of
the
situation; no publicity has been given to the nine murde
rs
already committed, several have even been treated as accidents the newspapers are keeping quiet; public life continues
i
usual, to all appearances. Since leaks are likely in a service
i
enormous and as ramified as that of the police, Roy-Dauzet h
as
decided that the latter should
not be directly assigned to
the terrorists. The minister has more confidence in the
v
arious information services he controls and whose personnel,
a
t least, is personally committed to him.

Wallas has answered the chief commissioner
’
s questions as
w
ell as he could, without betraying any essential secrets. But
h
e realizes the weaknesses of his position. These background
c
haracters who clandestinely run the country, these crimes no ne mentions, these secret services marginal to the actual police,
a
nd lastly, these terrorists, more mysterious than all the rest
—
here is enough here to disturb a self-confident official who is
h
earing about them for the first time
…
And probably the tory could be invented entirely and would still leave every-ne the possibility of believing it—or not—and these successive
revel
ations, in one direction or another, would only modify its
n
ature in exactly the same way.

Laurent, pink and plump, sitting comfortably in his official
a
rmchair among his salaried informers and his files, contracted the special agent so categorically that the latter has sud
d
enly felt his very existence threatened: himself a member of
o
ne of these vague organizations, Wallas himself could just as
w
ell be, like the conspiracy, a pure invention of an overly
im
aginative minister; it is to this status, in any case, that his iterlocutor seems to relegate him. For the commissioner now
d
eclared his opinion without bothering about appearances or
d
iscretion: they were dealing, once again, with one of
Roy-Dauzet
’s
whims; the fact that people like Fabius had any con
fi
dence in it was not enough to make it hold water. Moreover, the
ir
disciples went still further in their extravagance, like that
M
archat—who, unfortunately, might even go so far as to die at s
e
ven-thirty tonight by suggestion
…

The businessman
’
s intervention has obviously been of no
h
elp at all.

Wallas has left, taking with him the dead man
’
s revolver.
L
aurent did not want it: he h
ad nothing to do with it; since
Wallas was in charge of the investigation, he should hold on t the
“
items of evidence.
”
At the commissioner
’
s request, tit laboratory had returned the weapon in the state in which it ha been found, that is, with the empty shell that kept it from fun
c
tioning.

Wallas walks on. The arrangement of the streets constantl
y
surprises him in this city. He has followed the same route 2 this morning ever since he left the prefecture, and yet he ha the impression of walking much longer than he had to the fir< time, to cover the distance from the police station to Doct
or
Juard
’
s clinic. But since all the streets in the neighborhood loo
k
alike, he could not swear that he has always taken precisely th
e
same ones. He is afraid of having veered too far to the left an hence passed the street he was looking for.

He decides to go into a shop to ask the way to the Rue d
e
Corinthe. It is a small bookstore that also sells stationery, pe
n
cils, and paints for children. The saleswoman stands up to wai
t
on him:

“
Monsieur?
”

“
I
’
d like a very soft gum eraser, for drawing.
”

“
Yes of course, Monsieur.
”

The ruins of Thebes.

On a hill above the city, a Sunday painter has set up his ease in the shade of cypress trees, between the scattered shafts c columns. He paints carefully, his eyes shifting back to his su
bj
ect every few seconds; with a fine brush he points up man details that are scarcely noticeable to the naked eye, but whic
h
assume a surprising intensity once they are reproduced in th
e
picture. He must have very sharp eyes. One could count th
e
stones that form the edge of the quay, the bricks of the gab
led
end, and even the slates in the roof. At the corner of the fen
ce
the leaves of the spindle trees gleam in the sun, which emph
a
sizes their outlines. Behind, a bush rises above the hedge, a bare bush whose every twig is lined with a bright streak where the light hits it, and a dark one on the shadow side. The snapshot has been taken in winter, on an exceptionally clear day. What reason could the young woman 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 who preceded Dupont; the latter took up residence there some twenty-five years ago, and inherited it from an uncle. Has she been the servant there? Wallas sees again the gay, slightly provocative face of the saleswoman; thirty to thirty-five years old at the most, prepossessing maturity with full, rounded form; warm complexion, shining eyes, dark hair, an uncommon physical type in this country
—
actually reminiscent of the women of southern Europe or the Balkans.

“
Well yes, if you like it.
”

With a throaty little laugh, as if he had just indulged in some flattering compliment. His wife? That would be strange. Didn
’
t Laurent say she was running a shop now? Around fifteen years younger than her husband
…
dark, with black eyes… that
’
s who it is!

Wallas leaves the bookstore. A few yards farther on, he reaches a crossroad. Opposite him stands the red placard:
“
For drawing, for school, for the office
…
”

It is here that he got off the streetcar, before lunch. Again he follows the arrow toward the Victor-Hugo stationery shop.

Down below, directly beneath his eyes, a cable runs along the surface of the water.

Leaning over the parapet, he sees it rising from under the arch, straight and taut, apparently no thicker than his thumb; but distance is deceptive when there is no object of comparison. The coiled strands follow each other smoothly, giving the impression of great speed. A hundred spirals a second, perhaps?
…
Actually, that would still be no great rate of speed, that of a man walking briskly—that of the tug pulling a train of barges along a canal.

Beneath the metal cable is the water, greenish, opaque, chopping slightly in the wake of the already distant tug.

The first barge has not yet appeared under the bridge; the cable still runs along the water, without anything to suggest that it must soon be interrupted. Yet the tug is now reaching the next footbridge and, in order to pass under it, begins lowering its smokestack.

“
Daniel was a melancholy man
…
melancholy and solitary.
…
But he wasn
’
t the kind of man to commit suicide—anything but. We lived together almost two years in that house in the

Rue des Arpenteurs (the young woman stretches out her arm and points east—unless she is merely indicating the big photograph on the other side of the partition, in the shopwindow) and not once during those two years did he ever reveal the slightest sign of discouragement or doubt. It wasn
’
t just a front: that serenity was the true expression of his nature.
”

“
You were saying, just now, that he was melancholy.
”

“
Yes. That probably isn
’
t the right word. He wasn
’
t melancholy.
…
He certainly wasn
’
t gay: gaiety didn
’
t mean anything once you got through the garden gate. But melancholy didn
’
t either. I don
’
t know how to tell you
…
Boring? That isn
’
t right either. I enjoyed listening to him, when he was explaining something to me
…
No, what made it impossible to live with Daniel was that you felt he was alone, definitively alone. He was alone, and it didn
’
t bother him. He wasn
’
t made for marriage, or for any other kind of attachment. He had no friends. At the School of Law, his courses were popular, but he didn
’
t even know his students
’
faces
…
Why did he marry me?
…
I was very young, and I felt a kind of admiration for this older man; everyone I knew admired him. I had been brought up by an uncle, and Daniel came to his house for dinner now and then. I don
’
t know why I
’
m telling you all this, it can
’
t be interesting for you.
”

“
Yes, yes it is,
”
Wallas protests.
“
On the contrary, we need to know if Dupont
’
s suicide is plausible, if he might have had reasons to kill himself—or if he was capable of doing it without any reason.
”