Mr Hire's Engagement (8 page)

'After all, they can't do anything to you! And it means gaining time.'

She spoke calmly, her elbows on her knees and her chin in her hands.

'I don't suppose you care if they suspect you.'

Mr. Hire was winding the alarm-clock.

'When it's all blown over he'll leave the district and we shall have nothing to worry about.'

Mr. Hire heard no more than the hum of her voice. He was tired, with a mixture of physical and moral weariness. She did not realize this at first and went on talking, standing up now, walking about the room. When she noticed that he looked like a wax image again, she held out her hand with a smile.

'Good night. I must go now.'

He put a limp hand in hers.

'You really do like me a little?' she urged.

Instead of replying, Mr. Hire opened the door, which he locked behind her.

Alice galloped down the stairs, crossed the courtyard in a breath of cold air, and arrived in her own room before her excitement had abated. At once she noticed the three sheets of brown paper which now concealed Mr. Hire, gave a satisfied smile, and again took off her blouse and skirt, stretched herself and finally removed her vest. She was winking at herself in the glass. She could imagine a tiny hole in the brown paper and Mr. Hire's eye lurking behind it as it had lurked at the keyhole.

She loitered, and even decided to wash herself all over, so as to wander naked all the longer in her brightly-lit room. But every now and then her expression changed to one of cold resentment and she snarled, as though uttering a threat:

'The idiot!'

But the idiot was not looking through the brown paper. He had remained standing with his hand on the key, leaning against the door, and what he was looking at was his own room, the white-faced alarm- clock on the black mantelpiece, the three-legged stove, the cupboard, the oilcloth and the coffee-pot, last of all his bed, with the unusual hollow in it.

Eventually, he let go of the key. His hand fell to his side. He heaved a sigh, and that was all, for that evening.

VI

To the Public Prosecutor, to the Public Prosecutor,

To the Public Prosecutor,

'To the Pub . . .'

Mr. Hire tore his sheet of pink blotting-paper into tiny scraps, threw them into the stove, and stood for a moment watching the flames. He had been working hard. There were always a great many answers to his advertisements on Mondays, for humble people write their letters on Sunday mornings. And this time there had been Saturday's post left over to open.

All alone in his basement, he had tied up a hundred and twenty parcels, and this had meant three trips to the post office. The exercise did him good. During the third trip he had almost smiled when he caught sight of the discouraged face of the inspector who was trailing him, reflected in a window. It was not the same one as usual, but a little bearded fellow with bad teeth, who had been shivering outside No. 67 all day, with his coat collar turned up.

'To the Public Prosecutor,'

'To the . . .'

'To the . . .'

The past two hours since he finished his work Mr. Hire had spent doodling on his blotting-paper, scribbling words and crossing them out, and now he suddenly gave up the attempt to find an idea, to think of something clever and subtle, which would turn suspicion aside from the house at Villejuif.

At a few minutes to seven he made sure that the stove would gently burn itself out, switched off the light, and left the house, with his black briefcase under his arm. The little man was standing at the corner of the street and taking the trouble to pretend he was waiting to meet someone. All the way along the Boulevard Voltaire he kept close to the house-fronts, dodging behind some passer-by whenever Mr. Hire looked round. They must have forgotten to tell him it didn't matter.

He was undoubtedly married, a father, and unlucky: there was something indefinable about him that told one that. When Mr. Hire went into the restaurant where he lunched every day, with his own napkin in a pigeon-hole, the policeman stayed outside and walked three or four times, a faint, ghostly figure, past the steam-dimmed window.

There were paper tablecloths, the tables were very small, and the waitresses wore black dresses and white aprons; the menu was written in chalk on a big slate.

All the time he ate his black pudding and potatoes, Mr. Hire was thinking, racking his brains, and when he looked up it was to say, in an unnatural-sounding voice: 'Some red wine.'

This had never happened before. Never had he drunk anything except water or
café au lait.

 
'A carafe?'

It made a ruby-red splash of colour, with a paler reflection on the white paper that covered the table. Mr. Hire poured a little wine into his glass and drowned it with water till it faded to pink. Just as he was drinking he saw the waitresses exchange glances, and he went on drinking, but the thrill was lost, the enjoyment spoilt. He smiled ironically.

When he came out the policeman was across the road, in an ill-lit bar, eating a
croissant
which he dipped in his coffee, and Mr. Hire saw him stuff half a
croissant
into his mouth, fumble in his pockets and fling down some coins on the counter.

A bus passed close beside the pavement. Mr. Hire could have jumped on the platform and left the inspector high and dry. He didn't do so. He went on walking, with his stomach thrust forward because he had eaten a good deal and, above all, because he was conscious of the importance of his every gesture.

He did not go far. Near the Place Voltaire was a big café, whose lights shone over nearly a hundred yards of the Boulevard. Mr. Hire went in, and the further he penetrated into the throng the more boldly he thrust out his chest, the more confidently he hugged the briefcase under his arm, while a smile began to hover on his lips.

To the left of the café was a cinema, which was under the same management, and which announced its programme by the uninterrupted ringing of a bell. It could be heard all over the place. The café was enormous. Down one side, people sat eating. Along the other side were tables covered with red cloths, where people were playing cards. At the far end were six billiard tables, lit by green arc-lights, and round these, shirt-sleeved men were moving with ceremonious gestures.

There were women and children about, waiting for Father to finish his game. Forty waiters ran to and fro between the rows of tables, calling:

'Look out, please!'

And on a platform a pianist, a violinist and a woman 'cellist were announcing the next item on their programme by hanging up number- cards on a brass rod.

Mr. Hire walked jauntily through all this. As he passed the cash-desk at the far end, the manager gave him a little bow all to himself.

From here the cinema bell could still be heard, and the orchestra tuning up, the click of the billiard balls, but other sounds now came through an open door, rolling noises followed by a kind of thunderclap.

Mr. Hire advanced towards the thunder. He went through the door, on the far side of which the glare of brilliant lights was replaced by austere, sparse lighting like that in a factory or laboratory. He took off his hat and overcoat, handed his briefcase to the waiter, and went into the cloakroom, where he combed his hair and washed his hands.

By the time he emerged, the policeman had plucked up courage enough to come in. He was sitting at a table in a corner, but had not dared to take off his overcoat. He must be feeling ill at ease and wondering whether this place was public or private.

It was a square room, roofed in with glass. There were only a few tables with glasses of beer on them, but nobody was sitting at them.

The people were further along, standing round four sets of skittles. On the wall hung a notice:

'Bowling Voltaire Club.'

And Mr. Hire advanced with the natural ease of a dancer, holding out a hand which everyone shook. Yes, everyone shook Mr. Hire by the hand, even the players who were holding a big, iron-encircled ball, and who interrupted their game for moment. They all knew Mr. Hire. They all greeted him.

'We've been waiting for you.'

'You're number four.'

The men had taken off their coats, and Mr. Hire took off his and laid it, neady folded, on a chair, not without casting a glance at the little policeman who was sitting all alone, over there, at one of the green tables.

'What shall I bring you, Mr. Hire?'

This from the waiter, who also knew him.

'Well, give me a kummel!'

So there! He had made up his mind to it. While waiting for his turn, he watched the game with a slightly disdainful eye, and at one moment the policeman heard him humming the waltz that the orchestra in the main café was playing.

'Your turn!'

Mr. Hire looked across at the inspector, heaved a sigh of satisfaction and said to his partner:

'You begin, please.'

He hunted among the big balls for his usual one, which he picked out, weighed in his hand, and rocked to and fro several times, before taking up his stand at a considerable distance from the board along which it must roll on its way to the skittles. His opponent had knocked down five of these.

Mr. Hire, leaning forward, one arm hanging loosely, was waiting for the skittles to be put up again, with his eyes half shut and his right foot feeling the ground, like a runner ready to sprint. Twenty people were watching him. The pink spots showed on his cheeks, and his lips were parted.

Suddenly he started off, running with short, pattering steps. It looked as though the heavy ball were carrying him with it, but a moment later it left his hand and rolled along the board, not very fast, spinning on its own axis. It hit the first skittle, and after that it behaved like a top, or rather as though it were thinking for itself. One would have sworn that it changed its direction now and then, determined to knock down the lot.

Just one skittle remained standing, while Mr. Hire frowned and wiped his damp palms with his handkerchief.

The waiter brought him his kummel, which he drank absentmindedly, in little sips, before picking up the ball which had been returned to him. His eyes were measuring, calculating, planning. He ran forward again with puckered brow, released his ball and stamped his foot on the ground, for this time, too, one of the nine skittles was left upright.

'You get so excited,' remarked the club Secretary, who was chief clerk in a Government office.

Mr. Hire did not reply. He had no time to reply. He wiped his hands again, carefully, down between the fingers, and mopped his forehead and the back of his neck. '. . . ha!' he grunted, just as the ball left his hand. He had no need to watch it roll. The spectators were applauding. And he, without a word, picked up his ball from the end of the trough along which they rolled it back to him, bent forward, and did his little pattering run. 'Nine!'

The nine skittles fell with a glorious rattling sound, all the more glorious because, for one anxious moment, the last of them had stood rocking to and fro, as though determined not to topple over. 'And nine again!'

Five nines running! He was panting for breath, covered with sweat to the tip of his chin. His hair was clinging to his temples.

He had finished. Smiling, he put his jacket on again for fear of catching cold, and strolled towards his companions. 'Have I another game to play?'

'Presently, against Godard.'

He did not join in any conversation. Holding his handkerchief in his clammy hands, he strolled nonchalantly from one game to another and watched the balls rolling, gave kindly applause for fours or fives.

The light, the warmth, the austere surroundings, the gravity of all these men, were reminiscent of a fencing saloon or a riding school. This was a serious business. There was not one woman present. Whereas the billiard players, on the other side of the door, were right out in the public eye, with the music playing and children roaming around the green tables. Further along, the card-players were watched by their wives, who kept asking:

'Why don't you cut in?'

And beyond them, again, was the cinema. Between these walls there were perhaps three thousand people drinking, eating, playing, smoking, and the various noises went on together without blending, without drowning one another, even the thin note of the bell that rang each time a drink was served, and the bell on the cash-till, whose ringing was preceded by the sound of the handle being turned.

Where was the little policeman? There was nobody now by the green-topped tables. Only his hat was still lying on the chair.

Mr. Hire, his hands in his pockets, took a stroll, and on reaching a point where he could see through the open door, he spotted his inspector talking to the waiter. He smiled and looked at his watch.

'You say he comes the first Monday of every month?'

'That's the club day. Some members practise on other days, but not him.'

The waiter was surprised, looked suspiciously at the inspector.

'If you're from the police you ought to know him, he's a police officer too, in fact he must be pretty high up in the force.'

'Oh! So he says he belongs to the police?'

'Everybody thought so even before he mentioned it. He looks as though he did.'

'Has he been a member of the club for long?'

'About two years. I remember, because I was already the waiter for the bowling-room. He came in timid-like, just the way you did, one evening, and he asked me if it was open to the public. He sat down over there, with his briefcase on his knee, and ordered a
café crème.
The game interested him so much that he stayed there for two hours; then, when everybody had left, he stood the skitties up and had a go, all by himself. He went red in the face when he saw me watching, and it was me who advised him to join, seeing it only costs thirty francs a year . .

Mr. Hire was looking at them from a distance.

'And he was the one who mentioned the police?'

'For months we were wondering what his job could be. He's not the chatty kind. Even now he's the best player in the club, he doesn't meet any of the others except here. Anyhow, one day the Treasurer had made a bet that he'd find out, and he asked him point-blank.'