The Disappearance of Adèle Bedeau (4 page)

They greeted each other with a more passionate kiss than the previous evening. They remained in a close embrace for some time. The young man put his right hand on Adèle's behind. She gripped the back of his neck and arched her groin into his thigh. Manfred could feel himself becoming aroused. When they parted, the young man offered Adèle a cigarette, which she accepted. They climbed onto the scooter. They made a wide turn in the road and rode off, Adèle's arms around the youth's waist. And that was that. That was what Manfred had furtively loitered to see. He hurried off, suddenly afraid that someone might have seen him spying on the couple. But it was late and the streets of Saint-Louis were deserted.

M
ANFRED DID NOT WAVER
from his usual Friday selection,
andouillette
with mustard sauce and mashed potato. Adèle had not turned up for work. Manfred felt a pang of disappointment. He realised he had been looking forward to seeing her. Pasteur was in a foul mood as Adèle's absence obliged him to wait tables. He took orders brusquely, tapping his pencil on his notepad as he waited for diners to reach a decision. Manfred did not ask him where Adèle was. Nor did he ask for his empty water jug to be filled. Pasteur's ill temper upset the ambience of the restaurant. Customers were not given to lingering over their lunch at any time, but today they ate more quickly than usual. While one normally had to raise one's voice to be heard over the din of clattering plates and animated chatter, the atmosphere was now subdued. Manfred ate his pear tart and paid his bill hurriedly. He was left with fifteen minutes to kill before he had to go back to the bank. He could think of nothing to do, so went back anyway. No one commented on his early return.

In the evening Adèle was still absent. The restaurant was quiet and Pasteur was back in his usual place behind the counter. His foul mood seemed to have subsided. When he was on his second glass, Manfred asked him where Adèle was. He tried to keep his tone casual.

Pasteur shrugged. ‘She didn't turn up at lunch and she didn't turn up this evening.'

‘Is she ill?'

‘Your guess is as good as mine, pal,' said Pasteur.

Manfred ignored his curt tone.

‘She hasn't called?'

Pasteur looked up impatiently from his paper. He had said all he wished to on the subject. When Marie emerged from the kitchen, Manfred contemplated asking her, but he thought better of it. People might wonder about this sudden interest in the waitress. If Pasteur was not concerned, why should he be? Why indeed was he so interested? In the months that Adèle had worked at the restaurant he had rarely given her a second thought, other than lustful ones. He had never once wondered where she lived, what she did in her spare time or what, if anything, went on in her head.

Later on, after Marie had taken the final carafe of the evening to Lemerre's table, she paused behind the counter to wipe down the surfaces. This was Pasteur's job, but he plainly thought he had done enough menial work for the day.

‘Busy day, Marie?' Manfred said.

‘A busy day, yes, Monsieur Baumann,' she replied, before disappearing into the kitchen. Manfred nursed his final glass of wine a little longer than usual. Marie emerged from the kitchen a few minutes later, but she did not linger by the counter. She set the tables for the following day's service before retiring to the apartment upstairs. Manfred paid his bill and left.

Around three o'clock the following afternoon Manfred was sitting at the table in his kitchen reading a detective novel. There was a knock at the door. He started. No one ever called on him and anyone wishing to do so would have to use the buzzer in the street to gain access to the building. He sat stock-still for a few moments. It was probably some pollster or evangelist whom another resident had allowed in. Manfred held his breath and strained his ear for the sound of departing footsteps. Then there
was a second sharp knock. It was an insistent, impatient rap – one that suggested the person on the other side of the door knew he was inside. Manfred pushed his chair back silently and padded along the passage. He listened for a moment and then put his eye to the peephole.

A man with closely cropped grey hair and narrow grey eyes was looking directly at the door. Manfred recognised him. He was a policeman. When Manfred opened the door, he held up his ID, which he must have been holding in his hand in readiness. ‘Inspector Gorski, Saint-Louis police.'

‘Yes,' said Manfred.

Gorski was a stocky man of average height in his mid- or late forties. He was wearing a slate grey suit, dark blue shirt and a tie of a similar colour. He had a light raincoat folded over his left arm. He showed no sign of recognising Manfred. Manfred held out his hand and then let it fall to his side. Was one supposed to shake hands with a policeman?

‘Might I have a word, Monsieur Baumann?'

There was no reason to be alarmed that the detective knew his name. It was inscribed on the small silver plaque on the door.

‘Of course.'

There was a pause. Manfred waited for the policeman to say something else before he realised that he was waiting to be invited inside. He stood back from the door. Gorski thanked him and stepped into the narrow passage that led to the kitchen. Gorski was obliged to squeeze past Manfred, before Manfred in turn squeezed past him to show him into the kitchen. For a number of years Manfred had employed a cleaner, but he had never liked having someone else poking around the apartment. It made him feel uncomfortable and there was, in any case, little for her to do as he was quite fastidious. He washed up as soon as he had finished eating and firmly adhered to the credo of keeping everything in its place. The old woman used to vacuum the already immaculate rooms and take care of his laundry and ironing, a chore Manfred disliked. But it embarrassed him to
think of her stripping his bed and washing and folding away his underwear. Manfred had been relieved when she died (he could not have possibly dismissed her), and in the four years since then few people had set foot in his apartment. These days Manfred did his laundry in the scullery in the basement of the building on Sunday afternoons. It was not enjoyable, but it served to occupy a part of the weekend he otherwise struggled to fill.

The two men stood face to face in the kitchen. Manfred felt that the detective was scrutinising him. If there was a flicker of recognition in his grey eyes, he would most likely ascribe it to the fact that in a town like Saint-Louis the inhabitants crossed paths a great deal. Indeed, though he generally kept to the opposite pavement, Manfred walked past the police station on his way to and from the Restaurant de la Cloche every day. It would, in fact, be odd if the detective had never seen him.

Manfred felt like he was in a scene from a film. Next the cop would say,
You haven't asked me what this is about
? and he would immediately fall under suspicion. But Manfred had missed his opportunity. Whatever he said now would sound stilted and unnatural. Of course, he suspected why Gorski was there. In a sense he had been expecting him. He should have confined himself to a polite
How can I help you
? Or he should have said straight out that he assumed the policeman's visit was something to do with the waitress. Gorski did not appear to notice Manfred's discomfort. He must be accustomed to people behaving awkwardly in the presence of the police. Indeed, to behave in a relaxed manner might suggest that one was used to dealing with the law and was therefore a suspicious character.

Gorski patted the back of the chair that Manfred had been sitting in.

‘Do you mind?' he said, sitting down without waiting for an answer.

Manfred asked if he could offer the detective a cup of coffee. Gorski declined and Manfred sat down on the opposite side of the table. He would have liked to occupy himself with the business of
making coffee. Gorski had done nothing to put him at his ease. He picked up the book Manfred had been reading and examined it. Manfred smiled apologetically. He contemplated telling the policeman that he was well versed in more elevating literature, but he did not do so. Perhaps the policeman read only detective novels, or read nothing at all and would think him snobbish. In any case, what was wrong with passing a Saturday afternoon with a popular novel?

Gorski laid the book carefully back on the table.

‘This shouldn't take long,' he said, but he did not appear to be in any hurry.

Manfred clasped his hands and set them on the table in front of him in an attempt to stop fidgeting. He did not feel he was making a good impression.

Gorski suddenly pushed his chair back and stood up. This instantly made Manfred feel that he was about to be interrogated, but he could hardly now jump to his feet to put himself on an even footing with the policeman.

‘I'm investigating the disappearance of Adèle Bedeau,' said Gorski.

‘Disappearance?' said Manfred. He was pleased with the way it came out – as if he was genuinely surprised. It was better, Manfred decided, that he had not mentioned Adèle before this point. Just because a girl did not appear for work and failed to inform her employers of the reason for her absence, it did not mean that something untoward had happened.

Gorski shrugged. ‘Perhaps “disappearance” is too strong a word. A couple of days ago she was around and now she isn't. Nobody knows where she is. So, to all intents and purposes, she has disappeared.'

Manfred nodded.

‘I take it that you know Mlle Bedeau?'

‘Yes,' said Manfred. It would be stupid to deny it. ‘She's a waitress at the restaurant where I eat lunch.'

‘And that is that the extent of your relationship?'

‘I'm not sure I would say we had a relationship. Until just now I didn't even know her second name.'

He felt a little more relaxed. Gorski did not give the impression that he was going to unduly press him. The detective sat down.

‘She is a waitress and you are a customer. Nothing more?'

‘Yes.'

‘You've never seen her outside the restaurant?'

‘You mean in a social sense?'

‘In any sense.'

Manfred shook his head slowly, as if giving the matter some thought.

Gorski gave no indication of disbelieving him.

‘Mlle Bedeau hasn't been seen since she left work on Thursday evening. You haven't seen her since then?'

It was on Thursday that he had spied on Adèle and the young man in the little park. Manfred had no wish to become embroiled in a police investigation, but perhaps what he had seen was of significance. What if the youth on the scooter was a suspect in Adèle's disappearance? What if he was the only one who had seen them together? But only a moment before, he'd told Gorski he had never seen Adèle outside the restaurant. It was not advisable to contradict himself.

‘No,' he said. ‘No, I haven't.'

Gorski nodded curtly, as if this was precisely what he had expected Manfred to say. Did he already know that Manfred had seen Adèle on the night in question?

He stood up abruptly. ‘I won't detain you any further, monsieur. Thank you for your time.' He handed Manfred a card and told him to call if he thought of anything.

Having seen Gorski out with the same awkwardness in the narrow passage, Manfred returned to his chair at the kitchen table. How stupid it had been to lie. The policeman had disconcerted him. It would have been a simple matter to tell him what he had seen on Thursday evening, to have described the young man and in which direction they rode off. He need not have
mentioned how he had loitered at the edge of the park. Now he had withheld evidence from the investigation. What was more, when his omission came to light, as it inevitably would, he would be sure to fall under suspicion.

Later Manfred sat with his forehead against the window of the train to Strasbourg. It was done now. Short of calling the number on Gorski's card and pretending that he had suddenly remembered what he had seen, there was nothing he could do to remedy the situation. And in any case, if the situation arose again, would he not behave in exactly the same way? What benefit would there have been in divulging what he had seen? More questions would certainly have followed. He would become involved in the investigation and Manfred did not like to be involved in anything. And where, after all, did the truth end? Should he have confessed his silly crush on Adèle, a crush based on nothing more than the girl concealing their familiarity from her friend? Should he have told Gorski how he surreptitiously watched Adèle go about her chores in the restaurant, hoping, like a schoolboy, for a glimpse of her brassiere?

Before heading to Chez Simone, Manfred went to a large brasserie near the station. The waiter recognised him and acknowledged him with an upward movement of his head. Manfred ordered a mushroom omelette with
frites
and a half-bottle of wine, as he always did. A group of students, three boys and two girls, sat around a nearby table by the window, scarves knotted fashionably around their necks. Manfred opened his book on the table, but he did not read it. He observed the students with the detachment of an anthropologist. They were entirely oblivious to his presence. Manfred was not close enough to hear the subject of their discussion, but it was obvious that the boys were competing to impress their female companions with witty or learned remarks. At a certain point a third girl joined the group and an elaborate round of handshakes and kisses was exchanged. The new arrival was exceptionally pretty and the boys now unashamedly directed their attentions towards her. The two
other girls engaged in a separate conversation. Manfred felt like he was witnessing a ruthless evolutionary ritual.

He paid his bill. He had to pass the students' table on the way to the door and as he did so, he slowed his pace and inhaled the scent of the newcomer. None of the students so much as glanced at him.

Manfred always had a couple of drinks at Simone's before engaging on the actual business of his visit. When it was free, he took the seat at a table in the corner and sat watching the other customers. The place was lit only by the lights illuminating the bottles behind the bar and by the candles on the tables. Madame Simone sat on a high stool at the end of the bar with a glass of wine, a cigarette constantly burning in her hand. The smoke made languid coils in the lights behind the bar before dispersing into the general fug. She was close to fifty years old and dressed in a black wraparound dress fastened beneath her breasts. She had a pronounced nose, a wide red mouth and darting, twinkling eyes, thickly painted with mascara. She always greeted Manfred with great warmth, called him darling and kissed him on both cheeks. She greeted all her patrons in this way, but Manfred was always touched by her welcome. Simone never dispensed drinks. Such duties were performed by whichever of the girls were in the bar at the time. In all his visits, Manfred had never seen Simone take a sip of her drink. It was a prop to create the illusion that one was not in a public establishment, but a personal guest, sharing a drink with the hostess. Now and again Simone joined a group of men at their table and gracefully passed a few minutes with them.