The Erasers (35 page)

The gate is not closed. The lock has been out of order for a long time, the key does not even turn in it, which does not prevent the latch from closing. Old Anna is growing quite careless—unless some child was playing here and opened the gate after he left—a child or a prowler. Dupont climbs the four steps up to the door, to make sure that the front door, in any case, is actually locked; he turns the heavy brass doorknob and pushes hard, adding the pressure of his shoulder, for he knows that the hinges are very stiff; since he wants to be sure of the result and mistrusts the unaccustomed movements imposed by his single good arm, he repeats the effort two or three times, yet without daring to make too much noise. But the big door is locked tight.

He has given Marchat the keys to this door, and the businessman has left without even bothering t
o return them. Dupont
has only the key to the little glass door left; he must therefore walk around the house to the back. Under his feet, the gravel crunches faintly in the silence of the night. It was a mistake to count on that coward Marchat. He has wasted the whole afternoon waiting for him; finally he telephoned his house, but there was no one there; at quarter to seven he finally received a message that came from somewhere: Marchat was sorry, he had had to leave town on urgent business. That was a lie, of course. It was fear that had made him run away.

Mechanically, Dupont has turned the doorknob of the little door. The latter opens without resistance. It was not locked.

The house is dark and silent.

The professor takes off his glasses, which are bothering him.
He has stopped in the vestibule and tries to figure out the situation
…
Did Marchat come after all? No, since it was the front
door keys that had been given to him. And old Anna, if she hadn
’
t left, would be in the kitchen at this hour
…
that
’
s not certain
…
in any case, she would have left a light on in the hall or on the stairs.
…

Dupont opens the kitchen door. No one there. He presses the light button. Everything is put away, as in a house where no one lives any longer. And all the shutters are closed. Dupont turns on the light in the hall. As he passes he opens the living room and dining room doors. No one, of course. He starts up the stairs. Perhaps Anna forgot to lock the little door when she was leaving. She has been growing absent-minded the last few months.

On the second floor, he goes to the housekeeper
’
s room. It is obvious that the room has been put in order for a long absence.

Having reached his study door, the professor holds his breath. Last night, the murderer was waiting for him there.

Yes, but last night the little door was open: the man didn
’
t need a key to get in; tonight he would have had to force the lock, and Dupont noticed nothing of the kind. And if the man found the door open this time too, it is because old Anna had not locked it, in any case.
…
It is impossible to reassure himself with arguments of this kind; with a bunch of skeleton keys, a specialist can easily open all ordinary locks. Someone has made his way into the house and is waiting, in the study, in the same place as yesterday, to finish the job.

Objectively, there is no reason to suppose this is not true. The professor is not easily frightened; nevertheless, at this moment he regrets that he was not sent a real bodyguard from the capital. However, there can be no question of leaving without taking with him the files he needs.

Marchat has told him on the telephone that the police commissioner did not think it had been a murder: he was convinced it was a suicide. Dupont turns around. He goes to get his revolver. Last night, when he departed for the clinic, he left it
on the night table
… Just b
efore he goes into the bedroom he
stops again: it may be here that the trap has been set for him.

These successive, more or less chimerical fears annoy the professor. With an impatient gesture he turns the handle; all the same he takes the precaution of not opening the door at once; he quickly thrusts in his hand to turn on the light and glances slowly around the door, ready to draw back if
he sees anything unusual.
..

But the bedroom is empty: no thug is posted behind the bed, nor in the corner next to the chest. Dupont sees only his own face in the mirror, where the traces of an anxiety that now seems ludicrous to him still remain.

He walks straight over to the night table. The revolver is no longer on the marble top. He finds it in the drawer, in its usual place. He probably will not use it, any more than he had the night before, but you never
know: if he had been armed last
night when he came upstairs from the dining room, he would certainly have used it then.

The professor checks to see that the safety catch has not been slipped back on and returns, walking steadily, his weapon in his hand, to the study. He will have to use only one arm
—
fortunately, his right. First put the revolver in his pocket, open the door, turn on the ceiling light and, as fast as possible, grasp the revolver while kicking open the door. This little farce
—
useless as the one he has just executed—makes him smile in anticipation.

***

Wallas listens to his heart pounding. Since he is quite close to the window, he has heard the car stop, the garden gate open, the heavy footsteps crunching across the gravel. The man has tried to get in through the front door. He has shaken it a few times, without success, then has walked around the house. Consequently Wallas could tell it wasn
’
t Marchat who had changed
h
is mind and come for the dead man
’
s papers; it was neither Marchat nor someone sent by him—or by the old housekeeper.
I
t was someone who did not have the keys to the house.

The crunching footsteps have passed underneath the window.
T
he man went to the little door which the special agent has left
o
pen for him on purpose. The hinges have creaked slightly
w
hen he pushed the door open. To be sure his victim would not
e
scape, the man has looked in every room he passed on the ground floor and then upstairs.

Now Wallas sees the slit of light widening along the jamb,
w
ith unendurable slowness.

Wallas aims at the place where the murderer will appear, a
b
lack figure outlined against the illuminated doorway
…

But the man obviously distrusts this room plunged in
darkness
. A hand moves forward, gropes for the switch
…

Wallas, dazzled by the light, only distinguishes the qu
ick
movement of an arm lowering toward him the muzzle of a
heavy revolver, the movement of a man firing As he throws
himself to the floor, Wallas pulls the trigger.

The man has fallen forward, his right arm outstretched, the left folded under him. His hand remains clenched on the butt of the revolver. He no longer moves.

Wallas stands up. Fearing a trick, he approaches cautiously, his gun still aimed, not knowing what he should do.

He walks around the body, keeping out of reach of a possible reaction. The man still does not move. His hat has remained pulled down over his forehead. The right eye is partly open the other is turned down toward the ground; the nose is crushed against the carpet. What can be seen of the face looks quite gray. He is dead.

It is nervousness that makes
Wallas lose the rest of his dis
cretion. He leans down and touches the man
’
s wrist, trying t
o
find his pulse. The hand releases the heavy revolver an
d
dangles limply in his grasp. The pulse has stopped. The man i certainly dead.

Wallas decides he must look through the corpse
’
s pockets (For what?) Only the right overcoat pocket is accessible. H< thrusts in his hand and removes a pair of spectacles, one o whose lenses is very dark and the other much lighter.

“
Can you say whether it was the right lens that was darke
r
or the left?
”

The left lens
…
on the right side
…
The right lens on th
e
left side….

It is the left lens that is dar
ker. Wallas puts the glasses on
the floor and straightens up. He does not want to continue the search. He feels instead like sitting down. He is very tired.

In self-defense. He
saw
the man aiming at him. He saw the
f
inger squeezing the trigger. He perceived the considerable interval of time it took him to react and fire back. He was sure tie didn
’
t have very quick reflexes.

Yet he had to admit that he fired first. He didn
’
t hear the
o
ther revolver fire before his own; and if the two explosions had occurred at exactly the same moment, there would be some trace of the stray bullet on the wall or in the backs of the books. Wallas raises the window curtain: the panes are also intact. His adversary did not have time to fire.

It is only the tension of his senses that gave him, at the time, that impression of slow motion.

Wallas presses his palm against the muzzle of his gun; it feels distinctly warm. He turns back toward the body and leans
d
own to touch the abandoned revolver. It is quite cold. Taking
a
better look, Wallas realizes that the left sleeve of the overcoat is empty. He feels the shape of the arm under the material. Was
this
arm in a sling?
“
A flesh wound in the arm.
”

He must inform Laurent. From now on this is a matter for the police. The special agent cannot continue to handle the case
a
lone, now that there is a corpse.

The commissioner will not be at his office this late. Wallas looks at his watch; it shows seven thirty-five. Then he remembers that it had stopped at seven-thirty. He raises it to his ear
an
d hears the faint ticking. It must be the detonation that has started it going again—or else the shock, if he bumped it when
he
threw himself to the floor. He will call the commissioner at
h
is office; if he is no longer there, someone can certainly tell Wallas where to find him. He has noticed a telephone in the bedroom.

The door is open. The light is on. The drawer of the night ;able is wide open. The revolver is no longer there.

Wallas picks up the receiver. Number 124-24.
“
It
’
s a direct line.
”
The ringing at the other end of the line is interrupted 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
’v
e made a discovery—you
’
ll never guess! Daniel Dupont! He isn
’
t dead at all! Do you hear me?
”
He repeats, separating each syllable:
“
Daniel Dupont is not dead!
”

Then who said the telephone in the house wasn
’
t working?