The Erasers (22 page)

The businessman has already thought of this, but it is not so easy to escape an organization this powerful: the murderers will keep him prisoner and kill him at the appointed hour; they
’
re outside, waiting for him
; for the doctor—being ignorant
of it—didn
’
t specify exactly when Marchat would go to the
professor
’
s house.

“
You heard what the doctor said on the telephone?
”

“
I didn
’
t actually hear what he said, except for a word from

time to time But from what I did hear, I could reconstruct

the whole conversation.
”

Laurent is beginning to get tired of this and makes his visitor increasingly aware of his fatigue. The latter, for his part, grows more and more nervous; at times, he almost abandons his whispering and his discretion:

“
‘
Calm down, calm down!
’
It
’
s easy for you to say that, Commissioner! If you had been in my shoes since this morning, counting the hours you had left to live
…
”

“
Ah,
”
Laurent says,
“
why only since this morning?
”

It was
‘
since last night
’
that the businessman meant. He quickly corrects himself: he hasn
’
t slept a wink all night.

In that case, the commissioner informs him, he was making a mistake. He could have slept as soundly as usual: there
are
no murderers, and there
is
no conspiracy. Daniel Dupont committed suicide!

Marchat remains somewhat flabbergasted. But he immediately continues:

“
No, that
’
s impossible! I can assure you there was no question of suicide.
”

“
You can? How do you know?
”

“
He told me himself
…”

“
He said whatever he wanted to say
…”

“
If he had meant to kill himself, he would have made another attempt.
”

“
There was no need for that, since he died anyway.
”

“
Yes
…
of course.
…
No, it
’
s really impossible! I saw
Doctor Juard go to the telephone
…”

“
Did you hear what the doctor said on the telephone?
”

“
Yes, I did, I heard everything. You can imagine I didn
’
t
miss a word. The red files, the study cabinet, the designated victim would walk into the trap of his own accord
…
”

“
Well then, go there now: it isn
’
t the
‘
hour of the crime
’
!
I
”

“
I told you they
’
re waiting for me already!
”

“
Did you hear what the doctor
…
”

…………

The businessman leaves. Now his mind is made up. It is
Dupont who was right: the chief commissioner is in the murderers
’
pay. His behavior cannot be explained in any other way.
He wanted to allay Marchat
’
s suspicions by persuading him
that there was no conspiracy at all and that Dupont has committed suicide. Suicide! Luckily Marchat stopped in time
before he spilled everything he knew
No, there was nothing to fear there: the commissioner knows perfectly well that Dupont isn
’
t dead, since Doctor Juard is keeping them informed. They are pretending to believe he is dead to achieve their purposes in a few days. What they want now is to get Marchat into the little house to kill him in place of the professor.

Well, it
’
s simple: he will not go to pick up the files—not at seven-thirty, or at any other time (for he isn
’
t stupid enough to fall into the commissioner
’
s trap: the killers, no doubt about it, will remain on the alert all afternoon). Even Dupont, when he finds out just what the situation is, will no longer insist. Roy-Dauzet will just have to send another commissioner.

Marchat is not going to be satisfied with these purely negative measures; the murderers would have no difficulty finding an opportunity to take revenge for their failure. He must protect himself against any new attempt. The best way to do i
t is
to leave the city as soon as possible, and to go into hiding somewhere in the country. It might even be wiser to take the first boat and get across the ocean altogether.

But Marchat cannot make up his mind. Since early in the day he has wavered between one plan and the next, convinced, each time, that the last idea that has occurred to him is the best:

Take the police into his confidence—or deceive them; escape
without delay—or wait here in the city; inform the professor of
this decision—or say nothing; go get the files right away from
the house in the Rue des Arpenteurs—or not go there at all
He has, in fact, not given up all thought of doing this favor for his friend. And he keeps seeing himself in front of the house
surrounded by spindle trees He pushes open the heavy oak
door, to which Dupont has given him the keys. He climbs the
stairs—slowly
…

But from step to step he walks more and more slowly. He never reaches the top.

This time, he is certain of what is waiting for him if he goes all the way to the study. He won
’
t go. He will inform the professor and give him back his keys.

On the way, however, he ponders the difficulties of the undertaking: Dupont—he knows him—will not be willing to admit his reasons. And if Doctor Juard, who will certainly listen at the door, manages to overhear their discussion and consequently learns that Marchat is not going for the files, the latter will also lose his last chance of escaping the murderers; for instead of waiting for him until seven-thirty in the trap where he is supposed to appear, they will shadow him from now on, so that he will not even have the subsequent freedom to hide or run away.

It would be better to get out of the country immediately, while the others may not have begun watching him.

He climbs the stairs. As usual, the big house is silent….

Before coming to a complete halt, the drawbridge platform quivers slightly. Paying no attention to this almost imperceptible movement, the bicyclist has already passed through the gate to continue on his way:

“
Good morning, Monsieur.
”

Jumping on his vehicle, he has shouted,
“
Good morning
”
instead of
“
Good-bye.
”
They had exchanged two or three remarks about the weather, waiting until passage was re-established.

The drawbridge has a single platform; the system
’
s axis of rotation is on the other side of the canal. Heads raised, they watch the girders and cables under the platform gradually vanish from sight.

Then the free end of the bridge, showing a cross section of the roadway, passes in front of their eyes; and then, all at once, they see the entire surface of smooth asphalt stretching toward the other bank between the two sidewalks with their railings on the outer sides.

Their glances have continued to move slowly downward, following the movement of the bridge, until the two corner plates of iron—polished by the car wheels—have come exactly opposite the other pair on the bank. Suddenly the noise of the motor has stopped, and in the silen
ce, the electric bell has rung,
announcing to the pedestrians that they may cross the bridge again.

“
I wouldn
’
t be surprised!
”
the bicyclist has repeated.

“
Maybe you
’
re right I Good luck!
”

“
Good morning, Monsieur.
”

But on the other side of the barrier, it was apparent that everything was not yet over; because of a certain elasticity in the materials, the platform
’
s descent had not stopped when the machinery did; it had continued for several seconds, moving a fraction of an inch perhaps, creating a tiny gap in the continuity of the roadway which brought the metal rim slightly above its position of equilibrium; and the oscillations—growing fainter and fainter, less and less noticeable, but whose cessation it was difficult to be certain of—consequently approximated—by a series of successive prolongations and regressions on either side of a quite illusory fixity—a phenomenon completed, nevertheless, some time before.

This time, the bridge is open to traffic. No barge is seeking passage. The workman in the navy blue pea jacket, idle, stares blankly at the sky. He glances toward the man walking toward him, recognizes Wallas and nods to him, as he might to someone he was accustomed to see every day.

On either side of the gap that marks the end of the movable part of the bridge, the metal corner plates look motionless and appear to be on the same level.

At the end of the Rue Joseph-Janeck, Wallas turns right onto the Boulevard Circulaire. Some twenty yards farther on, the Rue Jonas begins, and there is a small post office at the corner.

A neighborhood post office: only six windows and three telephone booths; between the ma
in door and the booths: a large
ground-glass window, and beneath it the long, slightly tilted writing desk where people can fill out forms.

At this hour, the room is empty and, on the employees
’
side of the counter, only two elderly ladies can be seen, nibbling their sandwiches over immaculate napkins. Wallas decides it is better to wait to begin his investigation until the entire staff is present. He will come back at one-thirty. In any case, he will have to eat lunch sooner or later.

He heads toward a
notice
that looks as if it had been posted recently, and to justify his entrance he pretends to examine it with interest.

It is a series of paragraphs announcing certain modifications made by the minister in the organization of details in the postal system—nothing, in short, of interest to the public, aside from a few hypothetical specialists. For an outsider, the precise nature of these modifications does not seem clear, so that Wallas finds himself wondering if there is any real difference between the new state of affairs and the one that existed previously.

As he leaves, he has the impression that the two women are staring at him in perplexity.

Retracing his steps, Wallas notices, on the other side of the Rue Janeck, an automat of modest size but equipped with the most recent machinery. The chromium-plated dispensers are lined up along the walls; at the rear sits the cashier from whom the diners obtain special tokens. The entire length of the room is occupied by two rows of small round plastic tables attached to the floor. Standing in front of these tables, some fifteen people—continually changing—are eating with quick, precise gestures. Girls in white laboratory smocks clear the tables and wipe them off once the diners leave. On the white walls, a sign reproduced many times:

“
Please Hurry. Thank You.
”

Wallas examines all the machines. Each of them contains
—
placed on a series of glass trays, equidistant and superposed
—
a column of earthenware plates with precisely the same culinary preparation on each one reproduced down to the last lettuce leaf. When a column is emptied, anonymous hands fill up the blanks from behind.

Having reached the last dispenser, Wallas has not yet made up his mind. Besides, his selection is of slight importance, for the various dishes differ only by the arrangement of articles on the plate; the basic element is marinated herring.

Behind this last pane of glass, Wallas glimpses, one on top of the other, six replicas of the following composition: on a bed of toast, spread with margarine, is arranged a broad filet of herring with silvery-blue skin; to the right, five quarters of tomato, to the left, three slices of hard-boiled egg; set on top, at specific points; three black olives. Each tray also contains a fork and a knife. The circular slices of toast are certainly made for this purpose.

Wallas drops his token into the slot and presses a button. With a pleasant hum of its electric motor, the entire column of plates begins to descend; in the empty compartment at the bottom appears, then halts, the plate whose owner he has become. He removes it and the napkin that accompanies it and sets them both down on a free table. After having performed the same operation to obtain a slice of the same toast, accompanied this time by cheese, and once again for a glass of beer, he begins to cut up his meal into little cubes.