The Disappearance of Adèle Bedeau (13 page)

‘Well,' he said, ‘thank you for a very pleasant evening.'

He had decided that he would take the stairs and allow Alice to take the elevator. It would be less awkward to part here in the foyer.

‘How about a nightcap?' said Alice.

‘A nightcap?' Manfred repeated.

‘Why not?' she said. She prodded him playfully on the arm.

Manfred could think of no plausible reason to refuse.

‘Where?' he said.

She shrugged. ‘Your place? My place is a mess. Half of my stuff is still in boxes.'

‘I don't think that's a good idea,' said Manfred, but she was already leading him to the elevator. Manfred got in and pressed his back against the grooved metal of the tiny box. Alice stood with her shoulder touching his. The smell of her perfume mingled with alcohol and cigarettes.

Alice led the way along the corridor to Manfred's door.

‘4F,' she said.

‘Perhaps we should go to a bar,' said Manfred. ‘I've only got whisky.'

‘Whisky's fine,' said Alice, ‘I like whisky.'

Manfred unlocked the door and led Alice along the passage to the kitchen. They stood by the table.

‘I'll fetch another chair,' said Manfred. He unlocked the door to the balcony where three folding chairs were stored.

‘Why don't we sit in the living room?' she said.

Manfred was about to object, but Alice was already on her way. Manfred went into the bedroom to fetch the whisky from the bedside table.

‘My apartment is exactly the same layout,' she called. He returned to the kitchen to get glasses. Alice had switched on the lamp next to the sofa and was standing in front of the wall of books, which were arranged more or less alphabetically. Manfred stood in the doorway with the bottle and glasses in his hand.

‘That's a lot of books for a bank manager,' said Alice. She appeared impressed. ‘Quite the enigma, aren't you, Monsieur Baumann.'

Manfred could not help feeling a thrill when she used his name like this. He had a sudden vision of a future with Alice. They would become lovers. They would maintain their separate apartments, but at weekends they would spend time together, going for country walks or whatever it was that lovers did. Without it ever being mentioned, it would become known at the bank that he had a lover. The whispers about his sexual orientation would come to an end. He would no longer spend every evening drinking at the counter of the Restaurant de la Cloche, exchanging awkward remarks with Pasteur. Lemerre and his cronies would look at him with newfound respect. But he knew, of course, that none of that would happen.

Alice sat on the sofa. She took off her shoes and curled her feet beneath her thighs. Manfred poured out two measures of whisky and handed one to Alice. He sat down on the armchair.

‘How long have you been here?' she asked.

‘Eighteen years,' he said. ‘It was supposed to be a stopgap for me as well.'

She laughed. She rummaged in her bag for her cigarettes and lit one. Manfred got up and fetched an ashtray from the kitchen, relieved to be out of the room for a moment. Alice smiled a thank you when he placed the ashtray on the table in front of her.

‘This is nice,' she said. She appeared to find Manfred's discomfort amusing.

The building was completely silent. Alice put her elbow on the arm of the sofa and rested her chin on her hand.

‘So what about you, Manfred?' Her dress was stretched tightly around her breasts.

‘What about me?'

‘Tell me about yourself.'

‘There's nothing to tell.'

‘Come on,' she said, as if cajoling a tongue-tied child.

Manfred sipped his whisky. He was beginning to feel nauseous. A car passed outside. He averted his eyes from Alice's breasts. He was terrified that Alice was going to attempt to seduce him. He was not so naive as to be unaware of the events that were expected to ensue from a ‘nightcap'.

‘Have you ever been married?' she asked.

Manfred shook his head. He wished Alice would stop asking questions.

‘There must have been someone,' she said playfully. She took a slug of whisky.

Manfred topped up her glass. She smiled, a little apologetically, as if she realised he did not want to talk about himself, or perhaps as if she realised that the whole evening had been a mistake. Manfred suddenly had the impression that she was about to get up and leave.

‘I was in love once,' he said.

‘Oh,' said Alice. She suddenly perked up.

‘It was a long time ago,' said Manfred. ‘She was very beautiful.'

‘What happened?'

Manfred looked at her.

‘She was murdered.'

Alice clasped her bottom lip in her teeth. ‘I'm sorry,' she said.

Manfred shook his head. He had a sudden urge to tell her the whole story, to spare her no detail about what had happened that summer. But he said nothing. He swilled the whisky round in his glass. Someone in an adjoining flat turned on a television.

They drank the rest of the whisky in silence. Alice's toenails were painted red. Manfred imagined kneeling at her feet and kissing them. After a while, Alice said she should be going. She put on her shoes.

‘We should do this again sometime,' she said. ‘Why don't we do something on Sunday?'

Manfred was so relieved that she was leaving that he nodded agreement. At the door, she reached up and clasped the back of Manfred's neck and kissed him. Manfred kept his hands by his sides and then placed them on her hips. He could feel the grain of the fine wool of her dress with his fingertips. When they parted, she put the back of her fingers to her lips and widened her eyes. Manfred did not know what to say. Alice said she had better go and Manfred watched her disappear along the corridor.

I
T WAS THE EVENING OF
Céline's autumn show at the boutique. Gorski had been instructed to be at the shop by seven o'clock when the guests would start arriving. He stopped off at Le Pot on the way. He drank a glass of beer and then ordered a second. A succession of patrons drifted through the bar for a post-work nip, among them the corpulent hairdresser from the Restaurant de la Cloche who had been so venomous about Manfred Baumann. Thankfully he did not spot Gorski at his table in the corner. Gorski dreaded the twice-yearly ritual of Céline's show, but there was no question of not attending. He was expected to mingle with the guests and display the fine manners Céline had taught him.

Céline insisted that Gorski kept his wardrobe up to date. On more than one occasion, he had overheard remarks being passed at the station about his ‘dandyish' outfits. White shirts were banned. These were for clerical workers and waiters, groups even lower in Céline's elaborate social hierarchy than policemen. ‘Just because you're only a cop doesn't mean that you can't dress properly,' she liked to tell him. ‘I can't have the husband of the owner of
Céline's
going around looking like a vagrant.' She often used the phrase ‘only a cop' and it never failed to rile him as, he assumed, was intended. When called upon to introduce him at one of her gatherings, Céline was in the habit of pulling an apologetic face when informing people of her husband's profession.
Gorski would pretend that he had not seen it, but inside he seethed. A couple of drinks were required to gird himself for the evening. Gorski imagined Céline's face if she could see him now, sitting in this pleasingly grotty dive with the lowlife of the town. The thought gave him a moment's grim amusement.

He arrived at half past seven. Céline was at the back of the shop talking to a woman he did not recognise. She shot him a poisonous look. Gorski smiled at her and waved as if nothing were amiss. Clémence was standing nearby with a tray of champagne. Gorski pulled a face:
Am I in trouble
? She widened her eyes and nodded:
You sure are!
There were about thirty people in the shop, bunched in little knots. Gorski made his way over to Clémence. She was wearing a black skirt and pale yellow blouse, as were the two other girls Céline had requisitioned to act as waitresses – or hostesses, as she insisted on calling them. She looked nice. To Céline's chagrin, she generally refused to wear anything other than jeans and T-shirts.

Gorski took a glass of champagne from her tray.

‘How bad is it?' he asked.

‘You are in deep shit,' said Clémence. ‘Deep, deep shit.'

Gorski clicked his tongue, then knocked back the champagne and took another glass.

‘This is good stuff,' he said. ‘You tried it?'

‘Just one.'

‘You'll need more than that if you're going to get through tonight,' he said.

Clémence laughed, then darted her eyes in the direction of her mother. Céline was making her way over. She smiled her most charming smile, took his glass from him and placed it back on Clémence's tray. She took him by the elbow and steered him across the room. ‘Try not to embarrass me any more than you already have,' she stage-whispered.

They reached a knot of two couples. The men looked as uncomfortable as Gorski. Céline introduced him: ‘My husband, the great detective.'

Gorski shook hands. He did not register the names of the guests.

‘Nice to meet you,' he said to each in turn.

Céline abandoned him to attend to some new arrivals. One of the men seemed quite pleased to have Gorski to talk to. He was in the insurance business. He asked Gorski about the rate of burglaries in the town and went on to explain how this impacted on the premiums charged to clients. Gorski watched Céline go about her duties. She was wearing a flowing green silk suit with wide trousers. The chemise was open almost to her midriff, but owing to her flat chest there was nothing obscene about it. She looked elegant. She greeted each new arrival with a great fuss. She had a habit of laying her hand on the forearm of whoever she was talking to and arching her midriff towards them, before making some witty or saucy remark. People found her charming and flirtatious.

Gorski had met Céline in this very shop. He was twenty-five and had been a detective for only a few weeks. He had not yet got used to wearing a suit to work. His
gendarme
's uniform had bestowed authority. In plainclothes you had to identify yourself. People looked at him with disbelief – he was too fresh-faced to be a detective. He practised taking out his ID in front of the mirror in his tiny bathroom. He held it unfolded at his side, then raised it slowly to shoulder height, before saying, ‘Georges Gorski, Saint-Louis police.' He did this over and over, but still felt like he was imitating cops in films.

Ribéry asked him to accompany him to a robbery at a ladies-wear shop on a side street next to the little park in front of the Protestant temple. It was only a few hundred metres from the police station, but Ribéry insisted on driving. He never walked anywhere. The citizenry, he maintained, expected to see a detective pull up in a car. The shop window showed a selection of corsetry and brassieres in beige and cream. Gorski had the impression that the display had not been changed in years. On the pavement Ribéry indicated with an outstretched arm that Gorski
should enter first. ‘You take the lead,' he said. A bell tinkled above the door. The wood of the jamb was splintered where the door had been forced. A woman in her mid-fifties was standing by the glass counter. She was wearing a tweed skirt, cream blouse and sensible brown shoes. Her hair was secured in a bun. The mascara around her eyes was smudged. Gorski fumbled for his ID in the inside pocket of his jacket and held it out.

‘Detective Gorski,' he said, ‘and this is Inspector Ribéry.'

He looked over his shoulder. Ribéry was carrying out a close inspection of a display of undergarments. Gorski asked a few routine questions. The cash register had simply been lifted from the counter and, as it was Friday, it had contained the entire week's takings. Nothing else had been stolen. Mme Bettine explained that her assistant had discovered the break-in. Céline appeared from the back shop. She was about twenty, dressed in a dark blue pencil skirt and a white blouse. She was tall and slender with no waist at all and small breasts. She had a tousled mane of chestnut hair. Gorski could see the outline of her brassiere through the sheer material of her blouse. She looked at Gorski with clear green eyes. She appeared perfectly composed.

‘I understand you discovered the break-in,' he said.

‘I arrived at about quarter to nine. The door had been pushed in.' Her tone was matter-of-fact.

Gorski nodded. ‘Have either of you noticed any suspicious activity in the last few days?'

The two women looked blankly at him.

‘Any suspicious characters loitering outside, a customer behaving oddly perhaps? The fact that the robbery occurred when the till was full suggests that the culprits may have known something about the routine of the shop.'

‘You think they might have been watching us?' said Mme Bettine. She started to snivel into a tissue she was holding. The girl made no attempt to comfort her. Neither of them had seen anything.

Gorski nodded slowly. He explained that he would send round a fingerprint team that afternoon. In the meantime they should avoid touching any smooth surfaces.

‘Is that it?' said Céline.

‘We'll make enquiries in the neighbourhood. Perhaps someone heard the door being forced.' He turned to Ribéry, who was fingering a satin nightdress. He might have been a customer looking for a gift for his wife.

‘Gypsies,' he said without looking up. ‘It'll be gypsies.'

Gorski ignored his comment.

‘I'll let you know how the investigation progresses,' he said. ‘In the meantime, can I suggest you take your takings to the bank on a daily basis from now on. Metal shutters also make an effective deterrent.'

‘Excellent work,' said Ribéry on the pavement outside. ‘Most convincing. Not a chance of getting them, of course.'

Gorski spent the rest of the morning questioning residents in the vicinity of the shop. He could easily have requisitioned a couple of
gendarmes
to do this legwork for him, but he had not yet become accustomed to wielding his newfound authority over his colleagues, most of whom were older and more experienced than he was and tended to look askance when he asked them to do anything. His quest was as fruitless as Ribéry had anticipated. People looked blankly at him and shook their heads, before pushing their doors closed in his face. The amount stolen hardly merited this expenditure of time, but he could hardly report back to the shop without carrying out a rudimentary investigation. As he exited a building opposite the shop, he spotted Céline on the pavement smoking. She saw him and waved languidly. Gorski waved back, pleased that his efforts had not gone unnoticed. At one o'clock, he gave up and went to the Restaurant de la Cloche, where he knew Ribéry would be lunching. He joined him at his table.

‘Any luck?' the inspector asked through a mouthful of food.

Gorski shook his head.

‘I admire your enthusiasm,' said Ribéry, ‘but that door would have given way with one decent kick. Nobody would have heard a thing.'

He poured Gorski a glass of wine from his
pichet
. Nothing more was said about the break-in. Gorski could think of no other reasonable lines of enquiry. He could ask at local bars whether anyone had been spending more money than usual, but the sum in question was not large enough to raise any eyebrows. In any case, he had already learned that bar owners did not take kindly to being questioned about the activities of their patrons and tended to be tight-lipped. It was not good for business to be seen to be too cosy with the police. Ribéry ordered a second
pichet
and insisted on pouring Gorski another glass.

‘You've done more than enough work for today,' he said, filling his own glass to the brim.

Gorski returned to the station and wrote up a report of his morning's activities. The fingerprint team had not found anything usable. There had been plenty of prints on the glass counter, but they all belonged to the owner and her assistant. Before he returned to the shop, Gorski went to his apartment to change. It was a hot day and the light blue shirt he was wearing had large dark circles under the arms. He stripped to the waist and washed his armpits over the sink. Then he put on a clean white shirt and the same dark blue tie he had been wearing earlier.

It was five o'clock when he returned to the shop. A joiner was on his knees in the doorway, packing away his tools. Gorski had to step over him to get into the shop. Céline was leaning against the counter.

‘Hello again,' she said.

‘Where's Mme Bettine?' he said.

‘I sent her home,' said Céline. ‘I couldn't stand her snivelling anymore.'

Gorski nodded. The girl's comment struck him as needlessly spiteful.

‘I'm afraid there do not appear to be any witnesses.'

Céline shrugged. ‘The old bag's insured.'

Gorski wondered if the girl was striking this attitude in an attempt to impress him, to try to appear older and more worldly than she was. The joiner stood up and indicated that he was done. Céline thanked him and closed the door behind him. She turned the sign on the door to closed.

‘You changed your shirt,' she said. ‘The other one was better. You can't wear a white shirt with a dark blue tie. You should only wear a white shirt with a black suit.'

Gorski was embarrassed that she had noticed he had changed.

‘Oh,' he said, ‘I didn't know that.'

‘That suit's not up to much either. Maybe I should take you shopping sometime.'

Gorski could feel himself beginning to blush.

‘I was wondering if you might have thought of anything else.'

The girl smiled at him. She had a wide, attractive mouth. She leaned against the glass counter where the till had been. It was still dusted with fingerprint powder.

‘Are you always this diligent?' she asked.

Gorski shook his head slowly. ‘Not always,' he said.

They were only a matter of feet apart. He couldn't think of anything else to say. Céline put a finger to her lips. It was still stained with the fingerprinter's ink. Gorski took a step towards her. She clasped his neck and pulled his mouth towards hers.

Gorski's only previous sexual experiences had occurred during the summer he spent labouring on a farm before his final year at school. One afternoon, he was creosoting the doors of an outbuilding. It was very hot and the fumes from the chemicals had made him feel nauseous. The daughter of one of the farmhands appeared at his side. She was an olive-skinned girl of fourteen or fifteen, with dark hair and brown eyes. Her name was Marthe. She might have been watching him for some time, but Gorski had not noticed her. Without saying anything, she pushed open the door Gorski was painting and went inside. Gorski followed. It was cool and dark in the barn. Yellow slats of
sunlight stabbed through the gaps in the wooden walls. Marthe pulled up her chemise and placed Gorski's hands on her large breasts. Gorski squeezed them then lowered his mouth over a brown nipple. Marthe undid his trousers, pushed him to the floor and squatted over him. She ground her groin mechanically against him, gasping melodramatically. Gorski found the experience quite painful. (Later, he learned to spit on his hand to lubricate his member.) He came almost immediately, the smell of creosote in his nostrils. Marthe finished and climbed off him. She fixed her clothing, then asked Gorski if he had a cigarette, which he did not. She shrugged and left the barn.

Similar encounters occurred regularly for the rest of the summer. Gorski was left with the impression that sex was easy to come by and not the great mystery that people made it out to be. Marthe was matter-of-fact after the act. There was never any need to get dressed afterwards since they never actually removed their clothes. Gorski started to buy cigarettes and sometimes they would lie next to each other for a few minutes and smoke.