Missing Person (9 page)

"Do you remember the apartment?" she asked. "You see ... I've kept some of the things ..."

She motioned toward the mannequin.

"Denise left all that..."

Denise?

"No, it hasn't really changed much ..." I said.

"And Denise?" she asked impatiently. "What happened to her?"

"Well," I said, "I haven't seen her for a long while ..."

"Oh..."

She looked disappointed and shook her head as though realizing she should not say anything further about this "Denise."

"Actually," I said, "you knew Denise a long time, didn't you?..."

"Yes ... I knew her through Léon ..."

"Léon?"

"Léon Van Allen."

"Of course," I said, responding to her tone of voice which was almost reproachful when the name "Léon" had not instantly evoked "Léon Van Allen" for me.

"What's he doing, Léon Van Allen?" I asked.

"Oh ... I've not had any news of him for two or three years ... He'd gone to Dutch Guyana, Paramaribo ... He started a dancing school there ..."

"Dancing?"

"Yes. Before he was a couturier, Léon danced ... Didn't you know that?"

"Yes, I did. But I had forgotten."

She threw herself back, leaning against the wall, and retied the belt of her dressing-gown.

"And what about you? What have you been doing?"

"Oh, me?... Nothing ..."

"You no longer work at the Dominican Embassy?"

"No."

"Do you remember when you offered to get me a Dominican passport?... You used to say that one had to be ready in life and always have several passports, as a precaution..."

This memory amused her. She gave a short laugh.

"When did you last have any news of... Denise?" I asked her.

"You'd left for Megève with her and she dropped me a line from there. Since then, nothing."

She stared at me questioningly, but no doubt did not dare ask me directly. Who was this Denise? Had she played an important part in my life?

"You see," I said, "there are times when I feel as though I'm in a complete fog ... There are gaps in my memory... Periods of depression ... So, since I was passing, I thought I'd come up ... to try to find the ... the ..."

I was looking for the right word in vain, but it did not matter at all, since she smiled and this smile showed that my approach was no surprise to her.

"You mean: to try to find the good times again."

"Yes. That's it... The good times ..."

She picked up a gilt box on a small low table at the end of the sofa and opened it. It was filled with cigarettes.

"No thanks," I said.

"You don't smoke any more? They're English cigarettes. I remember you used to smoke English cigarettes... Whenever the three of us met here, you, me and Denise, you used to bring me a bag full of packs of English cigarettes ..."

"Yes, that's right..."

"You could get as many as you wanted at the Dominican Legation..."

I stretched my hand out to the gilt box and picked up a cigarette between thumb and forefinger. I put it apprehensively in my mouth. She handed me her lighter after having lit her own cigarette. I had to try several times before I managed to get a flame. I inhaled. At once, a very painful, smarting sensation made me cough.

"I've lost the habit of it," I said.

I did not know how to get rid of this cigarette and continued to hold it between thumb and forefinger while it burnt itself out.

"So," I said, "you live in this apartment now?"

"Yes. I moved in again when I had no more news of Denise... Anyway, she'd told me before she left, that I could take the apartment back..."

"Before she left?"

"Naturally... Before you left for Megève ..."

She shrugged her shoulders, as though this must be obvious to me.

"I have the feeling I was only in this apartment a short time..."

"You stayed here several months with Denise ..

"And you lived here before us?"

She looked at me in amazement.

"Of course I did, you know that... It was my apartment ... I lent it to Denise because I had to leave Paris ..."

"Forgive me ... My mind was on something else."

"It suited Denise here ... She had room for her dressmaking ..."

A dressmaker?

"I wonder why we left this apartment," I said.

"Me too ..."

Again the questioning look. But what could I say in explanation? I knew less than she did. I knew nothing about all this. I finally put my cigarette butt, which was burning my fingers, in the ash tray.

"Did we meet before we came to live here?" I said tentatively.

"Yes. Two or three times. In your hotel..."

"What hotel."

"Rue Cambon. The Hôtel Castille. Do you remember the green room you had with Denise?"

"Yes."

"You'd left the Hôtel Castille because you didn't feel safe there ... That was why, wasn't it?"

"Yes."

"It really was a strange time ..."

"What time?"

She did not answer and lit another cigarette.

"I'd like to show you some photos," I said.

From the inside pocket of my jacket, I pulled out an envelope which I was never without now and in which I had put all the photos. I showed her the one of Freddie Howard de Luz, Gay Orlov, the unknown young woman and me, taken in the "summer dining-room."

"Do you recognize me?"

She had turned to look at the photo in the sunlight.

"You're with Denise but I don't know the two others..."

So, that was Denise.

"You didn't know Freddie Howard de Luz?"

"No."

"Or Gay Orlov?"

"No."

People certainly lead compartmentalized lives and their friends do not know each other. It's unfortunate.

"I have two more photos of her."

I handed her the tiny passport photo and the other with her leaning her elbows on the railings.

"I've already seen that photo," she said ... "I think she even sent it to me from Megève ... But I don't remember what I did with it now ..."

I took the photo from her and looked at it closely. Megève. Behind Denise was a small window with wooden shutters. Yes, the shutters and the railings might well belong to a mountain chalet.

"That journey to Megève really was an odd idea," I announced suddenly. "Did Denise ever tell you what she thought of it?"

She was studying the little passport photo. I waited for her to answer, my heart beating hard. She raised her head.

"Yes .. . She spoke to me about it... She told me that Megève was a safe place... And that you could always cross the border ..."

"Yes... Of course..."

I did not dare continue. Why am I so diffident and apprehensive, when it comes to something that means a lot to me? She too - I could tell from her look - would have welcomed some explanation. The two of us remained silent. Finally, she took the plunge:

"But what did happen at Megève?"

She put this question so urgently that for the first time I felt discouraged, and even more than that, desperate, the kind of despair that overwhelms you when you realize that in spite of your efforts, your good qualities, all your goodwill, you are running into an insurmountable obstacle.

"I'll tell you about it... Another day..

There must have been something distraught in my voice or my expression, because she squeezed my arm as though to console me and said:

"Forgive me asking you indiscreet questions ... But... I was a friend of Denise …"

"I understand ..."

She had got up.

"Wait a moment..."

She left the room. I looked down at the patches of sunlight on the white wool rugs. Then at the parquet and the rectangular table, and the old mannequin which had belonged to "Denise." Surely, I must finally recognize one of the places where I had lived.

She returned, holding something in her hand. Two books. And a diary.

"Denise forgot this when she left. Here . . . you have them..."

I was surprised she had not put these souvenirs in a box, as Styoppa de Dzhagorev and the former gardener of Freddie's mother had done. Indeed, it was the first time in the course of my investigations that I had not been given a box. This thought made me laugh.

"What are you laughing at?"

"Nothing."

I studied the covers of the books. One showed the face of a Chinaman, with a moustache and bowler hat, looming out of a bluish fog. The title:
Charlie Chan.
The other cover was yellow and at the bottom was a design of a mask and a goose quill. The book was called,
Anonymous Letters.

"Denise simply consumed detective novels..." she said. "There's this too ..."

She handed me the little crocodile-skin diary. "Thanks."

I opened it and turned over the pages. Nothing had been written there: no name, no appointments. The diary showed the days and the months, but not the year. Finally I discovered a piece of paper between the pages and unfolded it:

Republic of France

Prefecture of the Seine Department

Abstract of the records of births in the XIIIth arrondissement of Paris

Year 1917

21st December nineteen hundred and seventeen

At fifteen hours, Quai d'Austerlitz 9
A
,
was born Denise Yvette Coudreuse, of female sex, to Paul Coudreuse, and to Henriette Bogaerts, no profession, domicile as above

Married 3rd April 1939 in Paris (XVIIth), to Jimmy Pedro Stern.

Certified abstract

                       Paris - the sixteenth of June 1939

"Did you see this?" I said.

She looked at the certificate in surprise.

"Did you know her husband? This ... Jimmy Pedro Stern?"

"No."

I put the diary and the certificate into my inside pocket, with the envelope which contained the photographs, and for some reason the thought struck me that, as soon as I could, I should conceal all these treasures in the lining of my jacket.

"Thanks for giving me these souvenirs."

"You're welcome, Mr. McEvoy."

I was relieved when she repeated my name, as I had not quite caught it when she first mentioned it. I should have liked to write it down, there and then, but was unsure about the spelling.

"I like the way you pronounce my name," I said. "It's hard for a French person ... But how would you write it? People always spell it wrong when they try..."

A mischievous tone had crept into my voice. She smiled.

"M ... C ... capital E, V ... O ... Y ..." she spelled.

"In one word? Are you quite sure?"

"Absolutely," she said, as though sidestepping a trap I had set for her.

So, it was McEvoy.

"Well done," I said.

"I never make spelling mistakes."

"Pedro McEvoy... It's a strange name, all the same, don't you think? There are times when I still can't get used to it..."

"By the way, I was forgetting this," she said.

She took an envelope from her pocket.

"It's the last little note I had from Denise ..."

I unfolded the sheet of paper and read:

Megève, 14th February.

Dear Hélène,

Its decided. Tomorrow Pedro and I are crossing the border. I'll send you news from over there, as soon as possible.

In the meantime, I'll give you the telephone number of someone in Paris through whom we can correspond:

O
LEG
DE
W
RÉDÉ
AUTeuil 54-73 Affectionately,

Denise

"And did you phone?"

"Yes, but each time I was told the gentleman wasn't there."

"Who was he this ... Wrédé?"

"I don't know. Denise never spoke to me about him..."

The sun had gradually deserted the room. She lit the little lamp standing on the low table at the end of the sofa.

"I should very much like to see the room where I lived," I said.

"Of course..."

We walked down a corridor and she opened a door on the right.

"There," she said. "I no longer use this room ... I sleep in the guest room ... You know ... the one that looks out on the yard..."

I stood in the doorway. It was still quite light. Purplish red curtains hung on both sides of the window. The wallpaper had a pale blue design.

"Do you remember it?" she asked.

"Yes."

A daybed against the back wall. I sat down on the edge of this bed.

"Can I sit here for a few minutes on my own?"

"Of course."

"It reminds me of 'the good times'..."

She gave me a sad look and shook her head.

"I'll make some tea..."

She left the room and I looked around me. In this room too, the parquet floor was damaged and there were pieces missing, though the gaps had not been filled. Across from the window, a marble fireplace with a mirror above it, whose gilt frame was embellished with a shell in each corner. I lay down on the bed and stared up at the ceiling, then at the wallpaper design. I studied the latter so closely, my forehead practically touched the wall. Rustic scenes. Girls in elaborate wigs, seated on swings. Shepherds in puffed knee-breeches, playing the mandolin. Moonlit woods. None of this reminded me of anything and yet these designs must have been familiar to me when I used to sleep in this bed. I searched the ceiling, the walls, and the door area for any sign, any trace, though of what I did not know. But nothing caught my eye.

I got up and walked to the window. I looked out.

The street was deserted and darker than when I had entered the building. The policeman was still standing sentry on the opposite pavement. To the left, if I leaned out, I could see a square, also deserted, with other policemen on patrol. The windows of all these buildings seemed to be absorbing the gathering dusk. They were dark and it was clear that nobody lived around here.

Then it was as if something clicked into place. The view from this room made me feel anxious, apprehensive, a feeling I had had before. These façades, this deserted street, these figures standing sentry in the dusk disturbed me in the same insidious manner as a song or a once familiar perfume. And I was certain that I had often stood here, at this hour, motionless, watching, without making the slightest movement, and without even daring to switch on the light.