The Erasers (32 page)

And night is already falling—and the cold fog comes in from the North Sea; the city seems to fall asleep in it. There has been almost no day at all.

Walking along past the shopwindows that light up one after the other, Wallas tries to distinguish the usable elements of the report Laurent has given him to read. That the motive of the crime is not theft, he is—in the precise sense of the words
—
“
paid to find out.
”
But why go so far as to imagine this duplication of the murderer? It does not take anyone any further to have supposed that the man who fired the fatal shot is not the man who pointed out the familiar way across the garden and through the house. Moreover, the argument about the footsteps on the lawn is not very convincing. If someone were already walking on the brick rim of the path, the other man could have walked behind him or rather in front of him, since he was the only one supposed to know the way. This is the position it is easiest to imagine the two night prowlers adopting. In any case, no one needed to walk on the lawn; if anyone did, it must be for some other reason—or else for no reason at all.

Wallas feels the day
’
s accumulated fatigue beginning to make his legs numb. He is not used to walking such long distances. These comings and goings from one end of the town to the other must ultimately add up to a good number of miles, most of which he has covered on foot. Leaving the police station, he headed for the Rue de C
orinthe by way of the Rue de la
Charte, the prefecture, and the Rue Bergere; here he found himself at an intersection of three roads: the one he was on and two possible directions opposite him, forming a right angle between them. He remembered having already passed this place twice before: the first time he had gone the right way, the second time he had made a mistake; but he could no longer remember which of these two streets he had taken the first time—moreover, they looked very much alike.

He took the one to the left, and after a few detours made necessary by the arrangement of sidewalks, he came out—much sooner than he would have believed possible—on the courthouse square, just in front of the police station.

Laurent was just leaving; he has indicated his surprise at finding Wallas here, since he had left some fifteen minutes ago. Yet Laurent has not asked for any explanation and has offered to drive the special agent to Juard
’
s clinic in his own car, for he was going that way himself.

Two minutes later, Wallas was ringing at Number 11. It is the same nurse who has opened the door before—the one who, this morning, had insisted so indiscreetly on keeping him there despite the doctor
’
s absence. He could tell from her smile that she recognized him.
“
They
’
re all the same!
”
He has told her he wanted to speak to Doctor Juard
in person;
he has emphasized the urgent nature of his visit and has given her a card on which were printed the words:
“
Bureau of Investigation of the Ministry of the Interior.
”

He has been asked to wait in a kind of dim parlor-library. Since no one has asked him to sit down, he has walked up and down in front of the shelves filled with books, now and then reading a few titles as he passed. One whole shelf was filled with books devoted to the plague—as many historical studies as medical ones.

A woman has walked through the room, then two others and a short, thin man wearing glasses, who seemed in a great hurry.

The nurse has finally come back and—as if she had forgotten him—asked him what he was waiting for. He has answered that he was waiting for Doctor Juard.

“
But the doctor left a moment ago, didn
’
t you see him just now?
”

It was hard to believe that she was not making fun of him. How could he have guessed that the man he has just seen was Doctor Juard, since he did not know him. And why hadn
’
t she announced his visit as he had asked her to?

“
Don
’
t be angry, Monsieur; I thought the doctor would have spoken to you before he went out. I had told him you were here. He
’
s just been called on an emergency case, and it was impossible for him to stay—even a minute. Since the doctor has a very busy afternoon, he
’
s asked if you could meet him at exactly four-thirty in the hall of the railway station, between the telephone booths and the snack bar; it
’
s the only way you can meet him today: he won
’
t be coming back here until late tonight. When I saw the doctor come in here, I assumed he was going to arrange the meeting himself.
”

On his way through the room, the little doctor had glanced at him out of the corner of his eye.
“
There are some funny doctors around here.
”

Since he had plenty of time, Wallas went around to Marchat
’
s apartment building. But his ring at the door remained unanswered. That wasn
’
t important, one way or the other, Laurent having repeated to him the essentials of his conversation with the man who believed himself doomed to die. Still, he would have liked to judge the man
’
s mental equilibrium for himself. Laurent described him as raving mad, and the way he had behaved in the commissioner
’
s office justified, at least in part, this opinion. But on certain points, Wallas is not so sure as the commissioner of the insanity of Marchat
’
s fears: the execution
of a new victim is in fact only too likely for this very evening.

Having walked back downstairs, Wallas has asked the concierge of the building if he knew when his tenant would be coming in. Monsieur Marchat had just left in his car for several days, with his entire family; he had probably heard of the death of a close relative:
“
The poor fellow was all worked up.
”

The businessman lives in the southern part of town, not far from the wood export offices. From here, Wallas proceeded toward the station, walking back along the Rue de Berlin and through the courthouse square. He then followed an endless canal bordered on the other side by a row of old houses whose narrow gables have been rotted away by the water for centuries, until they lean over the canal most alarmingly.

***

Walking into the station hall, he saw the little chromium-plated stand at once, where a man in a white apron was selling sandwiches and bottles of soda pop. About five yards to the right there was a telephone booth—just one. He began walking up and down, glancing frequently at the dial of the clock. The doctor was late.

The hall was full of people hurrying in all directions. Wallas did not budge an inch from the place indicated by the nurse, for the crowd was so thick that he was afraid he might miss the doctor when he arrived.

Wallas began to be worried. The hour agreed on had long since passed and the disagreeable impression his visit to the clinic had made on him was growing stronger minute by minute. There had certainly been a misunderstanding. The nurse had garbled the message, either in understanding or transmitting it
—
perhaps in both.

He would have to telephone to the clinic to ask for an explanation. Since there was no phone book in the one booth standing here, Wallas has asked the man behind the soda fountain where he might find one. While handing out bottles and counting change, the man indicated a place in the hall where Wallas, despite his efforts, could see nothing but a newsstand. It seemed to him that the boy had not understood what he wanted. He has nevertheless started toward the tiny stall where there was obviously no trace of a phone book. A few stationery articles were exhibited among the illustrated magazines and the brightly colored covers of the detective stories; Wallas has asked to see some erasers.

It was at this moment that Doctor Juard appeared. He had been waiting at the other end of the hall, where the real snack bar and a whole row of telephone booths are.

The doctor was unable to tell him anything new. Wallas did not want to speak of the conspiracy, out of discretion, and Juard merely repeated what he had said that morning to the chief commissioner.

Quite naturally Wallas has taken, from the station square, the same streetcar as the evening before—the one that had taken him near the Rue des Arpenteurs. He got off at the same stop, and now follows the Boulevard Circulaire that brings him back to the little brick house and the wretched room over the
Café
des Allies. It is completely dark now. Wallas is no further along than when he arrived, the day before, by this same route.

He walks into the huge stone apartment building that stands at the corner of the street. He is going to
be forced, for the
counter-questioning of the concierge, to show his pink card and, most likely, to admit, at the same time, his little deception of this morning concerning his mother
’
s supposed friendship with Madame Bax.

From the greeting of the heavy-set, jovial man, Wallas sees that the latter recognizes him. When he reveals the object of his visit to him, the concierge smiles and merely says:

“
I knew this morning that you were from the police.
”

The man then explains that an inspector has already come by to question him, whom he has told that he knew nothing. Wallas then refers to the youth whose disturbing manners the concierge had mentioned. The other man raises his arms to heaven:

“
Disturbing!
”
he repeats.

It had seemed to him, in fact, that the inspector was attaching to this young man an importance which he himself was far from
…
etc. Wallas discovers, as he expected, that Commissioner Laurent made no mistake in suspecting his subordinate of immoderate
“
zeal.
”
Hence the concierge did not say that there had been quarreling during these encounters, but only that at moments
“
voices were raised.
”
Nor did he say that the student often seemed to be drunk. Yes, he saw him point to the house as he walked by to a friend, but he did not say that his gesture was threatening; he only mentioned
“
sweeping gestures
”
—the kind all boys that age make, impassioned or nervous. Lastly the concierge adds that the professor had already received, in the past—though rarely, as a matter of fact
—
visits from students at the School of Law.

The
café
is warm and cheerful despite the heavy atmosphere
—
smoke, men
’
s breath, and the vapors of white wine. There are a good many people—five or six drinkers laughing and talking in loud voices, all at once. Wallas has returned to this
p
lace as to a refuge; he would like to have told someone to
m
eet him here; he would wait for hours, lost in the noise of
t
hese trifling discussions—drinking hot rum at this rather iso
l
ated table
…

“
Greetings,
”
the drunk says.

“
Hello.
”

“
You kept me waiting,
”
the drunk says.

Wallas turns around. Here, too, there is no isolated table where he can be quiet.

He has no desire to go upstairs to his room, which he remembers is gloomy and which is probably quite cold as well. He walks over to the bar, where three men are standing.

“
Well,
”
the drunk shouts behind him,
“
aren
’
t you going to sit down over here?
”

The three men turn around at the same time and stare at Wallas without the slightest embarrassment. One is wearing a grease-stained mechanic
’
s suit; the two others are in heavy navy blue pea jackets with big collars. It occurs to Wallas that his bourgeois clothes are betraying his profession. Fabius would have started by dressing up as a sailor.

…
Fabius comes in. He is wearing a bargeman
’
s uniform and rolls his hips when he walks—the token of imaginary pitching on stormy seas.

“
Not much to catch today,
”
he remarks to no one in particular.
“
Guess all the herring are already canned
…
”

The three men stare at him with surprise and suspicion. Two other customers, standing in front of the stove, have broken off a conversation—though one they were deeply involved in
—
to stare at him too. The manager wipes a rag across the bar.

“
All right, are you coming?
”
the drunk repeats during the silence.
“
I
’
ll ask you the riddle.
”

The two sailors, the mechanic, the other two men next to the stove all go back to their previous conversations.

“
Give me a hot rum, please,
”
Wallas says to the manager.

And he goes to the first table and sits down, facing away from the drunk.

“
Still polite as ever,
”
the latter observes.

“
I could still,
”
someone says,
“
be walking obliquely to the canal and be walking in a straight line anyway.
”

The manager serves the three men at the bar another round. The other two have resumed their argument; it is the meaning of the word
oblique
that is in dispute. Each man is trying to prove he is 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 can go straight ahead while still taking a direction that
’
s oblique—oblique in relation to the canal.
”

The other man thinks a moment and remarks calmly:

“
You
’
re going to fall into the canal.
”

“
Then you refuse to answer?
”

“
Listen, Antoine, you can say whatever you want, I
’
m not changing what I said: if you walk obliquely, you don
’
t go straight ahead! Even if it
’
s in relation to a canal or anything else.
”

The man in the pharmacist
’
s gray smock and cap considers the argument he has just given an irrefutable one. His adversary shrugs in disgust:

“
I
’
ve never met anyone so stupid in my life.
”

He turns toward the sailors; but the latter are speaking among themselves, making exclamations in dialect and laughing loudly. Antoine comes over to the table where Wallas is drinking his hot rum; he calls on Wallas as his witness:

“
You heard that, Monsieur? Here
’
s a supposedly educated man who doesn
’
t allow that a line can be both straight and oblique.
”

“
Oh.
”

“
Do you allow that?
”

“
No, I don
’
t,
”
Wallas quickly answers.

“
What do you mean, you don
’
t? An oblique line is a line
…
”

“
Yes, of course. I said I don
’
t allow that it isn
’
t allowed.
”

“
Oh, all right
…
fine.
”

Antoine does not seem quite satisfied with this position, which he considers too subtle. All the same he shouts to his companion:

“
You hear that, pillpusher?
”

“
I don
’
t hear anything,
”
the pharmacist answers.

“
This gentleman agrees with me!
”

“
That
’
s not what he said.
”

Antoine grows more and more exasperated.

“
All right, explain to him what
‘
oblique
’
means, will you?
”
he asks Wallas.

“
Oblique,
”
Wallas repeats evasively.
“
That can mean several things.
”

“
That
’
s my opinion too,
”
the pharmacist says approvingly.

“
All right,
”
Antoine cries, at the end of his patience,
“
a line that
’
s oblique in relation to another line, that means something, doesn
’
t it?
”

Wallas tries to formulate a precise answer:

“
It means,
”
he says,
“
that they form an angle, an angle between zero and 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 my life,
”
Antoine says.

“
Well, I know one even better Listen to this
…
”

The drunk has stood up from his table to get into the conversation. Since it is difficult for him to stand, he immediately sits down again beside Wallas. He speaks slowly, so as not to get his words confused:

“
Tell me what animal is a parricide in the morning
…
”

“
That
’
s all we needed was this goon here,
”
Antoine objects.
“
You don
’
t even know what an oblique line is, I
’
ll bet
…
.
”

“
You look pretty oblique to me,
”
the drunk says mildly.
“
I
’
m the one around here who asks riddles. I have one here just for my old pal
…
”

The two adversaries move away toward the bar, seeking new partisans. Wallas turns his back on the drunk, who goes on nevertheless, his voice jubilant and deliberate:

“
What animal is parricide in the morning, incestuous at noon, and blind at night?
”

At the bar the discussion has become a general one, but the five men are all talking at once and Wallas can hear only snatches of their remarks.

“
Well,
”
the drunk insists,
“
can
’
t you guess? It
’
s not so hard: parricide in the morning, blind at noon.
…
No
…
blind in the morning, incestuous at noon, parricide at night. Well? What animal is it?
”

Fortunately the manager comes over to take away the empty glasses.

“
I
’
ll be keeping the room tonight,
”
Wallas informs him.

“
And he
’
ll pay the next round,
”
the drunk adds.

But no one pays any attention to this suggestion.

“
Well, are you deaf?
”
the drunk asks.
“
Hey! Buddy! Deaf at noon and blind at night?
”

“
Let him alone,
”
the manager says.

“
And limps in the morning,
”
the drunk concludes with sudden seriousness.

“
I told you to let him alone.
”

“
All right, I wasn
’
t doing anything. I
’
m asking a riddle.
”

The manager wipes his rag across the table.

“
Let us alone with your riddles.
”

Wallas leaves. More than any specific task to be accomplished, it is the man with the riddles who is chasing him out of the little
café
.

He prefers to walk, despite the cold and the night, despite his fatigue. He tries to organize the various elements he has been able to pick up here and there during the course of the day. Passing in front of the garden fence, he glances up at the house, now empty. On the other side of the street, Madame Bax
’
s window is lit.

“
Hey! Aren
’
t you waiting for me? Hey! 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 a hurry…. Hey!
…
Not so fast.
…
Hey! Hey!
…
Hey!
…
”