Missing Person (2 page)

"Yes, yes ...," he murmured.

The light made me blink. He poured us some wine.

"Yes ... I do believe I have seen this gentleman before..."

"It's a real puzzle," said Sonachidze. "He won't give us any clues ..."

A thought suddenly seemed to strike him.

"But perhaps you'd rather we didn't talk about it any more? Would you prefer to remain incognito?"

"Not at all," I said with a smile.

The young man brought us a serving of sweetbreads.

"What business are you in?" asked Heurteur.

"For eight years I've been working in a private detective agency, the C. M. Hutte Agency."

They stared at me in amazement.

"But I'm sure that's got nothing to do with my previous life. So, don't worry about it."

"Strange," announced Heurteur, gazing at me, "it's hard to tell your age."

"Because of the moustache, no doubt."

"Without your moustache," said Sonachidze, "perhaps we'd know you right away."

And he held out his arm, placed the open palm of his hand just under my nose to hide the moustache and screwed up his eyes like a portrait painter in front of his model.

"The more I see of this gentleman, the more it seems to me he was in that crowd ..." said Heurteur.

"But when?" asked Sonachidze.

"Oh ... a long time ago ... It's ages since we've worked in the night clubs, Paul..."

"Do you think it goes back to the time we worked at the Tanagra?"

Heurteur stared at me more and more intently.

"Excuse me," he said, "but would you stand up for a moment?"

I did as he asked. He looked me up and down a couple of times.

"Yes, you do remind me of a certain customer. Your height... Just a moment..

He had raised his hand and was sitting quite still, as if trying to hold on to some fleeting memory.

"Just one moment ... Just one moment ... I have it, Paul..."

He smiled triumphantly.

"You can sit down ..

He was jubilant. He was sure of the effect of what he was about to say. Ceremoniously he poured out some wine for Sonachidze and me.

"You were always with a man, as tall as yourself... perhaps even taller ... Do you remember, Paul?"

"What period are we talking about, though?" asked Sonachidze.

"The Tanagra, of course ..."

"A man as tall as himself?" Sonachidze repeated. "At the Tanagra?..."

"Don't you see?"

Heurteur shrugged his shoulders.

Now it was Sonachidze's turn to smile triumphantly. He nodded.

"I do see ..."

"Well?"

"Styoppa."

"Yes, of course, Styoppa ..."

Sonachidze had turned to me.

"Did you know Styoppa?"

"Perhaps," I said carefully.

"Of course you did ..." said Heurteur. "You were often with Styoppa ... I'm sure of it..."

"Styoppa..."

Judging from the way Sonachidze pronounced it, evidently a Russian name.

"He was the one who always asked the band to play '
Alaverdi'
..said Heurteur. "A Caucasian song …"

"Do you remember?" said Sonachidze, gripping my wrist very hard. "'
Alaverdi' …"

He whistled the tune, his eyes shining. Suddenly, I too was moved. The tune seemed familiar to me.

Just then, the waiter who had served us approached Heurteur and indicated something at the far end of the room.

A woman was seated alone at one of the tables, in semi- darkness. She was wearing a pale blue dress and her chin was cupped in the palms of her hands. What was she dreaming of?

"The bride."

"What is she doing there?" asked Heurteur.

"I don't know," said the waiter.

"Did you ask her if she wanted anything?"

"No. No. She doesn't want anything."

"And the others?"

"They ordered another dozen bottles of Krug."

Heurteur shrugged.

"It's none of my business."

And Sonachidze, who had taken no notice of "the bride," or of what they were saying, kept repeating:

"Yes ... Styoppa ... Do you remember Styoppa?"

He was so excited that I ended up answering, with a smile that was intended to be enigmatic:

"Yes, yes. A little ..."

He turned to Heurteur and said in a grave tone:

"He remembers Styoppa."

"Just as I thought."

The white-coated waiter stood quite still in front of Heurteur, looking embarrassed.

"I think they're going to use the rooms, sir . . . What should I do?"

"I knew this wedding party would end badly," said Heurteur. "Well, old chap, they can do what they like. It's none of our business."

The bride sat motionless at the table. She had crossed her arms.

"I wonder why she's sitting there on her own," said Heurteur. "Anyway, it's got absolutely nothing to do with us ..."

And he flicked his hand, as though brushing a fly away.

"Let's get back to business," he said. "You admit then you knew Styoppa?"

"Yes," I sighed.

"In other words, you were in the same crowd ... They were quite a crowd too, weren't they, Paul... ?"

"Oh... ! They've all gone now," said Sonachidze gloomily. "Except for you, sir... I'm delighted to have been able to... to place you ... You were in Styoppa's crowd ... You were lucky!... Those were much better times than now, and people were better class too ..."

"And what's more, we were younger," said Heurteur, laughing.

"When are you talking about?" I asked them, my heart pounding.

"We're not good at dates," said Sonachidze. "But, in any case, it goes back to the beginning of time, all that..."

Suddenly he seemed exhausted.

"There certainly are some strange coincidences," said Heurteur.

And he got up, went over to a little bar in a corner of the room, and brought back a newspaper, turning over the pages.

Finally, he handed me the paper, pointing to the following notice:

The death is announced of Marie de Rosen, on October 25th, in her ninety-second year.

On behalf of her daughter, her son, her grandsons, nephews and grand-nephews.

And on behalf of her friends, Georges Sacher and Styoppa de Dzhagorev.

A service, followed by the interment in the Sainte-Geneviève-des-Bois Cemetery, will take place, on November 4th, at
4
:00
P
.
M
.
in the cemetery chapel.

Ninth Day Divine Service will be held on November 5 th, in the Russian Orthodox Church, 19 Rue Claude-Lorrain, 75016, Paris.

"Please take this announcement as the only notification."

"So, Styoppa is alive?" said Sonachidze. "Do you still see him?"

"No," I said.

"You're right. One must live in the present. Jean, how about a brandy?"

"Good idea."

From then on, they seemed completely to lose interest in Styoppa and my past. But it made no difference, since at last I was on the track.

"Can I keep the paper?" I asked casually.

"Certainly," said Heurteur.

We clinked glasses. All that was left of what I had once been, then, was a dim shape in the minds of two bartenders, and even that was almost obliterated by the memory of a certain Styoppa de Dzhagorev. And they had heard nothing of this Styoppa since "the beginning of time," as Sonachidze said.

"So, you're a private detective?" Heurteur asked me.

"Not any more. My employer has just retired."

"And are you carrying on?"

I shrugged and did not answer.

"Anyway, I should be delighted to see you again. Come back any time."

He had got to his feet and held out his hand to us.

"Excuse me for showing you out now, but I still have my accounts to do ... And those others with their ... orgy."

He gestured in the direction of the pond.

"Good-bye, Jean."

"Good-bye, Paul."

Heurteur looked at me thoughtfully. Speaking very softly:

"Now that you're standing, you remind me of something else..."

"What does he remind you of?" asked Sonachidze.

"A customer who used to come every evening, very late, when we worked at the Hôtel Castille ..."

Sonachidze, in his turn, looked me up and down.

"It's possible," he said, "that you're an old customer from the Hôtel Castille after all..."

I gave an embarrassed smile.

Sonachidze took my arm and we crossed the restaurant, which was even darker than when we had arrived. The bride in the pale blue dress was no longer at her table. Outside, we heard blasts of music and laughter coming from across the pond.

"Could you please remind me what that song was that this ... this ..."

"Styoppa?" asked Sonachidze.

"Yes, which he always asked for ..

He started whistling the first few bars. Then he stopped.

"Will you see Styoppa again?"

"Perhaps."

He gripped my arm very hard.

"Tell him Sonachidze still thinks of him a lot."

His gaze lingered on me:

"Maybe Jean's right after all. You were a customer at the Hôtel Castille ... Try to remember ... The Hôtel Castille, Rue Cambon..."

I turned away and opened the car door. Someone was huddled up on the front seat, leaning against the window. I bent down and recognized the bride. She was asleep, her pale blue dress drawn up to the middle of her thighs.

"We'll have to get her out of there," said Sonachidze.

I shook her gently but she went on sleeping. So, I took her by the waist and managed to pull her out of the car.

"We can't just leave her on the ground," I said.

I carried her in my arms to the restaurant. Her head lay against my shoulder and her fair hair caressed my neck. She was wearing some highly pungent perfume which reminded me of something. But what?

3

I
T
WAS
a quarter to six. I asked the taxi driver to wait for me in the little Rue Charles-Marie-Widor and proceeded on foot until I reached Rue Claude-Lorrain, where the Russian Church was.

A detached, one-story building, with net curtains at the windows. On the right, a very wide path. I took up my position on the pavement facing it.

First I saw two women who stopped in front of the door opening on to the street. One had short brown hair and wore a black woollen shawl; the other was a blonde, very made up, and sported a gray hat which was shaped like a Musketeer's. I heard them speaking French.

A stout, elderly man, completely bald, with heavy bags under his Mongolian slits of eyes, extracted himself from a taxi. They started up the path.

On the left, from Rue Boileau, a group of five people came toward me. In front, two middle-aged women supported a very old man by the arms, an old man so white- haired, so fragile, he seemed to be made of dried plaster. There followed two men who looked alike, father and son no doubt, both wearing well-cut, gray striped suits, the father dandified, the son with wavy blond hair. Just at this moment, a car braked level with the group and another alert, stiff old man, enveloped in a loden cape, his gray hair cut short, got out. He had a military bearing. Was this Styoppa?

They all entered the church by a side door, at the end of the path. I would have liked to have followed them, but my presence among them would have attracted attention. I was having increasing qualms that I might fail to identify Styoppa.

A car had just pulled to one side, a little further off, on the right. Two men got out, then a woman. One of the men was very tall and wore a navy blue overcoat. I crossed the street and waited for them.

They come closer and closer. It seems to me that the tall man stares hard at me before starting up the path with the two others. Behind the stained glass windows which look out on to the path, tapers are burning. He stoops as he passes through the door, which is much too low for him, and I know it is Styoppa.

The taxi's engine was running but there was no one at the wheel. One of the doors was ajar, as if the driver would be returning any moment. Where could he be? I glanced about me and decided to walk round the block to look for him.

I found him in a café close by, in Rue Chardon-Lagache. He was seated at a table, with a glass of beer in front of him.

"Are you going to be much longer?" he asked

"Oh ... another twenty minutes."

Fair-haired, pale-skinned, with heavy jowls and protruding eyes. I don't think I have ever seen a man with fleshier ear lobes.

"Does it matter if I let the meter run?"

"It doesn't matter," I said.

He smiled politely.

"Aren't you afraid your taxi might get stolen?"

He shrugged his shoulders.

"Oh, you know ..."

He had ordered a pâté sandwich and was eating with deliberation, gazing at me gloomily.

"What exactly are you waiting for?"

"Someone who'll be coming out of the Russian church, down the road."

"Are you Russian?"

"No."

"It's silly . . . You should have asked him when he was leaving ... It would have cost you less ..."

"Never mind."

He ordered another glass of beer.

"Could you get me a paper?" he said.

He started searching in his pocket for the change, but I stopped him.

"Don't worry..."

"Thanks. Get me
Le Hérisson
. Thanks again ..."

I wandered about for quite a while before finding a newsstand in Avenue de Versailles.
Le Hérisson
was printed on a creamy green paper.

He read, knitting his brows and turning over the pages after moistening his index finger with his tongue. And I contemplated this fat, blond, blue-eyed man, with white skin, reading his green paper.

I didn't dare interrupt him in his reading. At last, he consulted his tiny wrist watch.

"We must go."

In Rue Charles-Marie-Widor, he sat down behind the wheel of his taxi and I asked him to wait for me. Again, I stationed myself in front of the Russian church, but on the opposite side of the street.

There was no one there. Had they, perhaps, left already? If so, there was no hope of my tracking down Styoppa de Dzhagorev again, since his name was not in the Paris directory. The tapers still burned behind the stained glass windows which looked out on to the path. Had I known the ancient lady for whom this service was being held? If I had been one of Styoppa's frequent companions, he would probably have introduced me to his friends, including, no doubt, this Marie de Rosen. She must have been far older than us at the time.