The Erasers (34 page)

It would be more reasonable to admit what Laurent, for his part, appears to be quite cer
tain of: a reminder coming from
Marchat. The businessman, before leaving the city, would thus have made a final effort to convince the police to have the dead man
’
s residence watched.

The suspicious behavior of the little doctor, the businessman
’
s fears, various allusions contained in the pneumatic message
…
The deductions that can be made from such evidence furnish little opportunity for certainty. Wallas knows that. He realizes, in particular, the influence on him of the card left at the police station—though this card cannot logically constitute part of the structure. But after all, he has nothing better to do than show up at the rendezvous. Since at present there is no other lead, he will lose nothing in following this one. He has the key to the house in his pocket—the one to the little glass door—that Madame Smite gave him. Marchat has fled, leaving him a clear field: he himself will play the role of the businessman, to see if by some miracle someone will come to murder him. He congratulates himself on having brought his revolver along.

“
It
’
s true, you never know,
”
Laurent has said ironically.

Wallas reaches the garden gate.

It is seven o
’
clock.

***

Everything around him is dark. The street is deserted. Wallas calmly opens the gate.

Once inside, he carefully pushes it shut, but not all the way, so as to leave some trace of his passage.

There is no use attracting the attention of anyone walking on the parkway at this hour by unnecessary noise. To avoid making the gravel crunch, Wallas walks on the lawn—easier than on the brick rim. He walks around the house on the right side. In the darkness, he can just make out the path, paler between the two flowerbeds and the neatly pruned top of the spindle trees.

A wooden shutter now protects the glass panes of the little door. The key turns easily in the lock. Wallas surprises himself in the attitudes of a burglar: instead of opening the door wide, he has slipped in through a discreet gap. He takes out the key and gently closes the door behind him.

The big house is silent.

To the right the kitchen, at the rear and to the left the dining room. Wallas knows the way; he would not need any light to guide him. He nevertheless turns on his pocket flashlight and moves forward, preceded by the thin pencil of light. The tiling of the vestibule is black and white, laid in a pattern of squares and lozenges. A strip of gray carpet with two garnet stripes at the edges covers the stairs.

In the luminous circle of the electric light appears a tiny dark painting that is obviously rather old. It is a nightmare scene. At the foot of a ruined tower, illuminated by a flash of sinister lightning, two men are lying. One is wearing royal clothes, his gold crown gleams in the grass beside him; the other is a simple peasant. The lightning has just dealt out the same death to both of them.

On the point of turning the doorknob, Wallas stops: if the murderer is actually lying in wait behind this door, it would be stupid for a special agent to fall into such a trap; since he has come to the rendezvous, he should play the game all the way to the end. He slips his hand into his pocket to take out his revolver, when he remembers the second one he has been carrying around since the morning—Daniel Dupont
’
s revolver, which is jammed and would be of no help to him if he had to protect his life. He must be careful not to make any mistake about which is which.

Actually, he runs no risk of doing so. Dupont
’
s revolver is
in his left overcoat pocket: he had put it there first and then put it back in the same place when the revolver was returned from the laboratory. Since he has never handled both weapons at the same time, he cannot have confused them.

To be absolutely certain, he examines them on the spot by the light of his flashlight. He recognizes his own revolver indisputably. He even feels no apprehension about trying to fire the dead man
’
s gun—it is, indeed, that one that is jammed. He starts to put it back in his pocket, but then decides it is no use encumbering himself with this heavy object any longer. He therefore goes into the bedroom and puts it back in the night table drawer from which he had seen the old housekeeper take it this morning.

In the study, Wallas presses the button of the light switch on the door jamb. One bulb in the ceiling fixture goes on. Before leaving the house, the old housekeeper has closed all the shutters; consequently no one will see the light from outside.

His loaded revolver in his right hand, Wallas inspects the little room. No one is hiding in it, obviously. Everything is in order. Madame Smite must have straightened the piles of books which the inspector had indicated as having been disordered. The white sheet on which the professor had as yet written only four words has disappeared, filed away in a folder or in some drawer. The cube of vitrified stone, with its sharp edges and deadly corners, is lying harmlessly between the inkwell and the memo-pad. Only the chair is at a slight angle, pulled out from the desk, as if someone were about to sit down.

Wallas stands behind the back of the chair and looks toward the door; this is a good place to wait for the arrival of the hypothetical murderer. It would
be even better to turn out the
light; the special agent would then have time to see the enemy before being discovered.

From his observation post, Wallas carefully notes the location of the various pieces of furniture. He goes back to the door, presses the light button, and in the dark returns to the same place. He checks his position by resting his free hand on the back of the chair in front of him.

If the murderer
’
s trail has not been picked up, it is because Daniel Dupont has not been murdered; yet it is impossible to reconstruct his suicide in any coherent way.
…
Laurent rubs his hands together faster
…
And what if Dupont weren
’
t dead?

The chief commissioner suddenly understands the oddities of this
“
wound,
”
the impossibility of letting the police see the
“
corpse,
”
Doctor Juard
’
s embarrassed looks. Dupont is not dead; it just took a little thought to realize that.

The motives of the entire story are not yet quite clear, but the point of departure is here: Daniel Dupont is not dead.

Laurent picks up his telephone and dials a number: 202-203.

“
Hello,
Café
des Allies?
”

“
Yes,
”
a low, almost cavernous voice replies.

“
I
’
d like to speak to Monsieur Wallas.
”

“
Monsieur Wallas isn
’
t here,
”
the voice answers, disgustedly.

“
You don
’
t know where he is?
”

“
How should I know?
”
the voice says,
“
I
’
m not his nursemaid.
”

“
This is the police calling. You have a man staying there named Wallas, don
’
t you?
”

“
Yes, I reported him this morning,
”
the voice says.

“
That
’
s not what I
’
m asking. I
’
m asking if this man is in your establishment. Has he gone up to his room?
”

“
I
’
ll find out,
”
the voice answers reluctantly. A minute later it adds with a note of satisfaction:
“
No one
’
s there!
”

“
All right. I
’
d like to speak to the manager.
”

“
I
’
m the manager here,
”
the voice says.

“
You are. Then it was you who told an inspector that nonsense about some fictitious son of Professor Dupont?
”

“
I didn
’
t say anything like that,
”
the voice protests.
“
I said that sometimes young people came in here, they
’
re all ages
—
some young enough to be Dupont
’
s sons….
”

“
Did you say he had a son?
”

“
I don
’
t even know whether he had any! He never came in here, and even if he had I wouldn
’
t have stopped him from getting into every whore in the neighborhood—excuse me, Monsieur.
”
The voice suddenly grows gentler, making an attempt at correctness:
“
The inspector asked if any young people ever came in here; I said yes. Over sixteen is legal. Then he insinuated that maybe this Dupont had a son; I didn
’
t want to say no, so I said it was perfectly possible he had come in here to drink one day or the other….
”

“
All right. We
’
ll send for you. But from now on watch out what you
’
re saying; and try to be a little more polite. Monsieur Wallas didn
’
t say what time he
’
d be back?
”

A pause. The other man has hung up. A threatening smile is already spreading across the commissioner
’
s face
…
when he finally hears the voice:
“
All he said was that he would sleep here tonight.
”

“
Thanks. I
’
ll call back.
”

Laurent hangs up. He rubs his hands. He would have liked to announce his discovery to the special agent right away. He enjoys in anticipation Wallas
’
incredulous astonishment when
he will hear at the end of the wire:
“
Dupont isn
’
t dead. Dupont is in hiding at Doctor Juard
’
s clinic.
”

“
The car is here,
”
Juard says.

Dupont stands up and starts for the door at once. He is dressed for the trip. He has been able to put only one arm through the sleeve of his heavy overcoat, which the doctor has buttoned as well as possible over the wounded arm, which is held in a canvas sling. He is wearing a wide-brimmed felt hat that entirely conceals his forehead. He has even accepted dark glasses so that no one will recognize him; the only pair to be found in the clinic was a pair of medical glasses, one of whose lenses is very dark and the other much lighter—which gives the professor the comical look of a villain in a melodrama.

Since at the last minute Marchat refuses to do him the favor he had promised, Dupont will have to go to the little house for the papers himself.

Juard has arranged matters so that the corridors of the clinic are empty when his friend passes through them. The latter has no difficulty getting to the big black ambulance waiting in front of the door. He sits down on the front seat beside the driver
—
it will be easier for getting in and out without wasting any time.

The driver has put on the black hospital uniform and the flat cap with the shiny visor. Actually this must be one of the
“
bodyguards
”
Roy-Dauzet uses, more or less officially. The man, moreover, has an impressive build, a sober manner, the hard, inscrutable face of a film killer. He hasn
’
t opened his mouth once; he has handed the professor the letter from the minister proving that he is th
e man they have been expecting,
and as soon as the doctor has slammed the 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
left
…
Around that building
…
Turn here
…
The second
on the right
…
Now straight ahead.
..
”

In a few minutes they reach the Boulevard Circulaire. Dupont has the car stop at the corner of the Rue des Arpenteurs.

“
Don
’
t park here,
”
he tells the driver.
“
I prefer not to have my visit noticed. Drive around, or park a few hundred yards away. And be back in exactly half an hour.
”

“
Yes, Monsieur,
”
the man says.
“
Do you want me to park the car and come with you?
”

“
There
’
s no need for that, thank you.
”

Dupont gets out and walks quickly toward the gate. He hears the ambulance drive away. The man is not a
“
bodyguard
”
: he would have insisted on following Dupont. His looks had fooled the professor, who now smiles at his own romanticism. The very existence of these famous guards is, moreover, quite uncertain.