The Disappearance of Adèle Bedeau

Fourteen

AT LUNCH THE FOLLOWING DAY, the new waitress arrived to take Manfred’s order. It had taken her only a few days to settle into her role. She was a niece of Marie’s and Manfred had overheard Pasteur call her Dominique. She already seemed less harassed as she moved between the tables, even at this, the busiest time of day. Still, she was no Adèle and Manfred suddenly missed the sight of the former waitress, traipsing about the place with her carelessly fastened blouse. Dominique wrote Manfred’s order out in longhand, before snapping her notebook shut and saying, ‘Certainly, Monsieur Baumann.’

Manfred was sure that on hearing his name, the man at the adjacent table, who had previously been absorbed in his newspaper, suddenly glanced in his direction. When Manfred returned his look, he immediately averted his eyes. Manfred did not recognise the man. Had his name suddenly acquired the kind of notoriety that made someone, quite involuntarily, look up from his newspaper? Perhaps the man would later tell his wife that he had seen that fellow Baumann, whose name had been mentioned in connection with the disappearance of the waitress, sitting eating his lunch in the Restaurant de la Cloche as if nothing at all was amiss. And how, in any case, did Dominique know his name? Had Marie made a special point of pointing him out? Had she been one of those who had described him to Gorski as a creature of habit?

Dominique returned with his meat salad, a dish Manfred disliked, but which he nevertheless ordered once a week for fear of offending Pasteur, who regarded it as something of a specialité de la maison. She showed no particular emotion as she placed the bowl on the table. Manfred told himself he was being foolish. Most likely the girl had merely overheard her aunt calling him Monsieur Baumann. Marie addressed all the regulars in this formal manner. It was part of the old world atmosphere she liked to cultivate for the place. Still, it grated a little with Manfred. He felt warmly towards Marie and enjoyed the moments when she paused to exchange a few remarks with him. He never felt, as he did with other people, that she was about to ridicule him or accuse him of some misdemeanour, so when she addressed him in this way it was as if she was quite purposefully asserting the professional boundaries of their relationship.

As Manfred ate his lunch, he watched Marie go about her work. Was it possible that since the business with Adèle, she had been keeping her distance from him? There was nothing Manfred could put his finger on, yet he could not recall any occasion in the last few days when she had paused at his table to enquire about his wellbeing or pass a comment about the weather or some other uncontroversial subject. Today, for example, she had not so much as acknowledged him. She was attending to the tables on the far side of the room, as she always did during the lunch service, but even so Manfred would have expected her to mouth a greeting in his direction. The more he watched her, the more she appeared to be avoiding his gaze. Perhaps her nose was out of joint on account of his nonappearance the previous evening. Manfred felt a surge of annoyance. Was he not allowed to absent himself from the place for a single evening? He had even gone to the trouble of informing her husband in advance, not that he would expect Pasteur to have passed on the information. He ate the rest of his meal with a growing feeling of resentment. Perhaps in the future he would take his custom elsewhere. They could do without his money and gossip about him to their hearts’ content.

At the counter, Manfred deliberately averted his eyes when Marie passed with an armful of empty plates. She reappeared from the kitchen as he was collecting his change from the salver. She paused at his side and leaned in close to him.

‘So, Monsieur Baumann, what’s this I hear about a young lady in your life?’

Manfred was quite taken aback.

‘Young lady?’ he said.

‘Come on now,’ she said, placing a hand on Manfred’s arm, ‘I want to hear all about her.’

Pasteur glanced at them over his spectacles.

‘She’s just a friend,’ Manfred managed to mutter. He could not think of anyone who might have seen them together.

‘Well, you bring her in here sometime. Otherwise I’ll think you’re keeping her hidden away.’

‘Yes,’ said Manfred, ‘I will.’

He strode briskly back to the bank. Was it not possible to step outside one’s door without becoming the subject of conversation? Did people have nothing better to talk about than what he did with his evenings? He was further annoyed that Marie’s final remark had clearly been intended to convey that she knew he had eaten in another restaurant.

Manfred sat brooding at his desk. How ridiculous he was! The idea that he could sustain some kind of relationship with Alice Tarrou was preposterous. He had not even enjoyed their evening together. All he had done was listen to her talk about herself and her abhorrent ex-husband. And then, in a wretched attempt to gain her pity, he had mentioned Juliette. Manfred was disgusted with himself. It was quite despicable. And, on top of that, he had, for the first time in his life, disclosed his connection to the murdered girl. He had not mentioned her by name, but with Gorski sniffing around every aspect of his life, who was to say he would not question Alice? He felt quite nauseous.

Midway through the afternoon, Carolyn knocked timidly on the door. Manfred spread some papers on the desk in front of him before telling her to enter. She stepped into the doorway of the office and said there was a policeman to see him. Manfred felt no surprise until, instead of Gorski, a young gendarme appeared behind her.

‘Monsieur Baumann,’ he said without preamble, ‘Inspector Gorski would like to see you at the police station.’

Manfred was too surprised to respond, not because he was being asked to go to the police station, but because Gorski had not had the courtesy to come himself. Despite the awkwardness of their previous encounters there had been an atmosphere of civility, of two professional men talking, if not candidly, at least respectfully to one another. Now Gorski had sent a minion barely out of school to pick him up, as if he was a common criminal. And to compound the matter, he had done so at his place of work, in front of his staff.

‘That’s out of the question,’ Manfred said, ‘I can’t just leave at the drop of a hat.’

He said this mainly for the benefit of Carolyn, who was standing inside the door, her exit blocked by the policeman. He had no real intention of refusing.

‘I must insist,’ said the policeman. He took a few steps towards Manfred’s desk, as if he thought he might be about to make a bolt for it. Carolyn took the opportunity to slip out. Manfred remained seated for a moment.

‘Am I under arrest?’ He immediately regretted saying this. It suggested a guilty conscience.

‘No, monsieur, as I understand, you are assisting Inspector Gorski with his enquiries into the disappearance of Adèle Bedeau.’

Manfred wished that Carolyn had stayed long enough to hear this. He was merely assisting the police with their enquiries.

‘Can you give me five minutes?’ he said.

The cop nodded but remained standing, the door to the office still open. Manfred made a show of finishing reading a document, then arranged the papers on his desk into a neat pile and stood up. He fetched his jacket from the stand and put it on. The policeman put out his hand as if to usher him towards the door and followed him closely out. The staff made no pretence of carrying on with their work. They were gathered round the desk of Mlle Givskov. Manfred instructed Carolyn to reschedule his appointments for the remainder of the afternoon. She looked puzzled as Manfred did not have any appointments. He ignored her expression and told Mlle Givskov to lock up if he did not return before the bank closed for the day.

‘Of course, M. Baumann,’ she said as if the situation were entirely normal.

A police car was parked outside, even though the station was barely three hundred metres away. The young cop opened the rear door and Manfred got in. Nothing was said on the short drive. Manfred rarely had occasion to ride in a car. The same street that he walked four times a day looked different, as if he were seeing it in a film. The tinted windows of the vehicle had the effect of heightening the colours of the sky and the yellowing leaves on the trees. They pulled up outside the station and the cop led Manfred up the little steps, his hand on his elbow. He resisted the temptation to look around to see if anyone was witness to this humiliating spectacle. Manfred had never set foot in the police station before. Although the facade was shabby, it was a rather grand building by the standards of Saint-Louis. A washed-out tricolour hung limply above the entrance. To the right was a notice board displaying faded recruitment posters for the police and the foreign legion.

The policeman told Manfred to take a seat in the reception area and said something to the officer behind the glass partition. The officer, a man in his fifties with a grey face and a drooping moustache, looked over and nodded disinterestedly. Fifteen minutes passed. The officer with the moustache did not so much as glance in his direction when he appeared at the window to deal with the trickle of callers. An old woman, evidently well-known to the cops, came in to report her dog missing. A delivery driver asked directions. Manfred had taken the seat nearest the door and every time someone entered he had to move his legs to let them pass. He gazed at the dog-eared posters on the wall opposite, urging citizens to keep their houses and vehicles locked and to be vigilant against crime. After another ten minutes, Gorski arrived. He did not greet or even appear to notice Manfred. He tapped his keys on the window and someone buzzed open the door to the right.

Another few minutes passed. Manfred wondered if he should ring the bell and remind the desk sergeant that he was here. That was what an innocent man would do. Someone with nothing to hide, someone who was assisting the police with their enquiries would not sit meekly waiting to be called. He decided to give it another five minutes. Above the window was a circle of clean paint where there had once been a clock. The telephone on the counter rang. The grey-faced officer answered, his eyes staring blankly at Manfred while he spoke. He took down an address and promised to send someone round. Then he disappeared. Manfred heard an outburst of laughter. He imagined the cops behind the partition discussing how long they could make him wait. He felt his face colour and resolved to get up and ring the bell. As he was getting to his feet, Gorski appeared at the window. He had probably been clandestinely observing him.

‘Monsieur Baumann,’ he said, ‘please come through.’ He pressed a buzzer to open the door and ushered Manfred along a stale-smelling corridor into an interview room. He indicated that Manfred should take the seat with his back to the door and sat down opposite him. There was a tape recorder on a second table against the wall. Gorski did not switch it on. He put his elbows on the table and exhaled theatrically as if contemplating how to begin. He clasped his fingers together and rested his chin on them.

‘Monsieur Baumann,’ he began, ‘I’ve asked you to come to the station because I wanted to give you the opportunity to correct the version of events you have given me.’

Manfred remained silent.

‘It seems to me that…’ he made a show of weighing his words carefully, ‘…that you must have been mistaken in some of the things you have told me.’

Manfred did not know what to say. Be sure your sins will find you out, one of his grandfather’s favourite aphorisms, ran through his mind. Perhaps now was the moment to admit that he had seen Adèle. What, after all, would come of it? Certainly he could be accused of wasting police time, perhaps even obstructing the investigation, but such things were bureaucratic matters rarely resulting in charges. In truth, it would be a relief to admit to something Gorski clearly already knew, even if there were repercussions. And the repercussions of sticking to his story were undoubtedly worse. Clearly there must have been some development. Why else would Gorski have summoned him?

Before Manfred had the chance to speak, Gorski nodded curtly. The opportunity was gone. He got up and paced to the side of the tiny room.

‘You recall, of course,’ he continued, ‘that before her disappearance, Adèle Bedeau was seen in the company of a young man.’

Manfred nodded.

‘This young man — an Alex Ackermann — has now come forward. He came to see me because he was rightly concerned that he was a suspect in the disappearance of the girl. He seemed sincere in his desire to provide information and, without burdening you with details, initial enquiries appear to bear out his story. There are, however, a couple of points which require clarification.’

He paused. Manfred’s mouth was dry. Gorski’s pedantic manner irritated him. Why didn’t he just come out with whatever it was he had up his sleeve? It was too late now to admit that he had seen the young man. It would appear that he was only doing so because he had been cornered. And in any case, who was to say that Gorski would believe what he had to say? Had he not already proved himself to be a liar. Now anything he said would be treated with scepticism.

Gorski resumed his seat.

‘According to Ackermann, on the Wednesday night when he met Adèle, she was in the company of another man. He described the man as being in his late thirties, about one-eighty, with short dark hair, wearing a dark suit and tie and a light raincoat.’ Gorski widened his eyes and held out the palms of his hands. ‘So you can see why I am confused.’

‘That description could fit any number of people.’

Gorski tipped his head as if to concede the point. ‘What were you wearing that night?’

Manfred did not answer. He was surprised at the number of thoughts that could flash through his mind in a short space of time. He could affect surprise: Yes, of course, I remember now! I did walk a little way with Adèle that night. How stupid of me to have forgotten! But Gorski would never fall for such a ploy. Perhaps, it was time for outrage. He was an upstanding member of the community, a professional person with not a blemish on his record, he had had enough of Gorski’s insinuations. But Manfred lacked the decisiveness for either course. Instead he just sat there, awaiting the inevitable.

‘I simply want you to admit that you saw the girl on the night in question, so that we can move on,’ said Gorski.

‘He must be lying,’ Manfred said.

Gorski shook his head slowly. ‘It would be something of a coincidence, I think you’d agree, if he invented this figure who just happened to match your description. In any case, having come forward of his own volition, why would he lie?’

‘Perhaps he wanted to throw suspicion on someone else.’

‘I don’t think so,’ said Gorski, as if he and Manfred were all of a sudden engaged in mutually trying to solve a puzzle. ‘But it’s an interesting question nevertheless: why would he lie? You’d agree, I imagine, that if a person lies they must have some reason for doing so.’

He let this last comment hang in the air for a few moments.

Manfred stared at the table. It had a chipped formica top and a metal rim. Previous visitors had scratched their names on the surface. It seemed a curious place, Manfred thought, to advertise one’s presence. Gorski sighed, leaned forward over the table.

‘After this mysterious figure walked off — in the direction of your apartment, I might add — Ackermann asked Adèle who he was. She replied that he was a customer from the restaurant and that he “gave her the creeps”.’

Manfred felt like he had been kicked in the stomach. He gave her the creeps. The phrase made him nauseous. Why would Adèle say such a thing? Their relations had always been polite, cordial even. He had never treated her with anything other than courtesy. If anything, he had gone out of his way to be pleasant in order that she would understand that he did not look down upon her as a mere waitress. On top of that, on the night in question, they had passed a few pleasant moments together and she had called him by his first name. And yet she had told this young upstart that he gave her the creeps. It did not make sense. Perhaps she had said this because in fact she felt some attraction to Manfred and had not wished to arouse the jealousy of her boyfriend. Perhaps he was the hot-headed type and would have made a scene. This tallied with the fact that when they had said goodnight, she had addressed him as monsieur, clearly in an attempt to cast their relationship in a more formal light.

Gorski had paused and was looking at Manfred, but his words had washed over him. He had obviously asked a question.

‘I’m sorry?’ said Manfred. He could hardly explain how offensive Adèle’s words were since he had previously claimed that he had no feelings one way or the other about her. If this were the case, why would he be so concerned with what she thought of him? Or perhaps Gorski had reached the same conclusion about the hurtful words Adèle had used — that there was more to their relationship than either of them wished to admit, something which would be quite understandable given the difference in their ages and standing in the community.

Gorski shook his head. ‘Manfred, I’ve given you every opportunity to put your version of events right. All I want to do is piece together Mlle Bedeau’s movements before she disappeared. By your own admission, on the night in question, you left the Restaurant de la Cloche shortly after the girl. You walked in the same direction, yet you claim to have seen neither Adèle nor this young man. And now Ackermann, who has never seen you before, describes a man precisely answering your description. You must recognise that I can hardly do anything other than conclude that you’re hiding something from me.’

Was it, even now, too late to revise his story?

‘I understand,’ said Manfred.

‘So you maintain that you saw neither Adèle Bedeau nor Alex Ackermann that night?’

Manfred nodded sadly.

Gorski stood up and walked towards the door. Manfred took this to mean the ordeal was over, but he merely shouted along the corridor for two cups of coffee. He sat down again, and the two men waited in silence for the coffee to arrive. Manfred stared at the names on the tabletop. Perhaps like him, these previous occupants of this room felt that they were disappearing into the netherworld of the penal system. The impulse to write a tabletop epitaph to oneself seemed suddenly less strange.

The cop with the drooping moustache brought the coffee in two plastic cups and wordlessly placed some sachets of sugar on the table. Gorski tore three open and emptied them into his cup. Manfred found it incongruous that the detective would load his coffee with so much sugar. He took a sip before resuming, leaning across the table, his face close to Manfred’s.

‘The following night, the night of Adèle’s disappearance,’ Gorski was speaking rapidly now, ‘Ackermann saw the same man pass the park at the Protestant temple, then wait in the shrubbery at the edge of the park until Adèle arrived. When they rode off on his scooter, the man ducked into a doorway, clearly in order to conceal himself.’

Manfred felt his throat tighten. He should say something. What would someone falsely accused say?

‘He must be mistaken.’

‘Mistaken?’ said Gorski. He shook his head slowly.

Manfred did his best to maintain eye contact with Gorski. Then he looked at the table. There was a wasp on the lip of his coffee cup, moving sluggishly as they always did at this time of year. Gorski pushed down on the table, his fingertips evenly spread. He had small delicate hands. The wasp dropped to the table and struggled to right itself. Gorski scraped his chair back, stood up and leant on the wall to Manfred’s right. He adopted a more conversational tone, as if they were two friends passing the time of day over a drink in a bar. That night, he informed Manfred, Adèle and Ackermann had visited what could only be described as a shebeen, where they had drunk a large quantity of alcohol and smoked joints.

‘Afterwards they went to a house party in a basement on Rue de la Gare,’ he went on. ‘To cut a long story short, they had an argument and Ackermann left. That, he claims, was the last he saw of Mlle Bedeau. From what I can gather, she later left the party alone and in a state of some intoxication.’

Manfred lowered his eyes. He took a sip from the plastic cup in front of him. It tasted foul. The wasp was slowly making its way around the metal rim of the table. He was relieved that the interview had at least moved on from his own actions that night. Gorski appeared to be waiting for him to respond, but he said nothing. What could he expect him to say about Adèle’s actions on the night in question?

‘Surely you can see why I’m telling you this,’ said Gorski.

‘I’m sorry, I can’t,’ Manfred replied.

‘Rue de la Gare is not three hundred metres from your apartment.’

‘And?’

‘You say you went home directly that night.’

‘Yes.’

‘What did you do?’

Manfred thought for a few moments. ‘I read for a while, drank a whisky or two and went to bed.’

‘Watch any television?’

‘I don’t own a television.’

‘Make any telephone calls?’

‘No.’

‘Anyone call you?’

‘No’

‘Did you speak to anyone in the building?’

‘No.’

‘So, really you could have been anywhere.’

‘I was at home.’

‘But you couldn’t prove that.’

Manfred shrugged.

Gorski drained the remains of his coffee, placed the cup carefully back on the table.

‘Have you ever harboured any thoughts about Adèle Bedeau?’ he asked.

‘What sort of thoughts?’

Gorski fixed him with his gaze. ‘You know what sort of thoughts, carnal thoughts.’

Manfred could hardly tell Gorski that he spent his evenings surreptitiously spying on her and often went home and masturbated thinking about her heavy breasts and wide behind.

‘Certainly not,’ he said, ‘I have nothing but respect for Mlle Bedeau.’

‘So you think it would be disrespectful to have sexual thoughts about a woman?’

Manfred felt besieged. ‘I don’t think about Adèle Bedeau that way.’

‘Are you a homosexual?’

‘No,’ said Manfred.

‘Some people seem to think you are.’

This came as no surprise to Manfred. He had heard whispers to this effect in the bank. Lemerre often liked to taunt him with such insinuations. He could all too clearly imagine the hairdresser gleefully telling Gorski that he was that way inclined.

‘I’m not queer,’ he said.

‘A pity that,’ said Gorski, ‘since it’s unlikely that a homosexual would be involved in crime like this.’

‘A crime like what?’ said Manfred. He raised his voice slightly. Gorski ignored his question.

‘What about women?’ he went on. ‘Do you have a lover?’

Manfred thought of Alice. He felt suddenly that he would never see her again.

‘No,’ he said.

‘But a man of your age has needs.’

‘I take care of those,’ said Manfred. He had started to grind his back teeth.

‘In what manner?’ Gorski’s tone was affable, curious, as if he was enquiring about an innocuous hobby.

Manfred clamped his jaw firmly shut. He wanted to cry out for Gorski to stop. He could not bear this relentless delving into his business. His fingernails whitened as he gripped the table.

‘Has Adèle Bedeau ever been in your apartment?’

The suggestion came so out of the blue that Manfred exhaled sharply. He attempted to pass off his response as laughter.

‘I’m glad you find this amusing, Manfred,’ Gorski went on. ‘The last time this girl was seen alive was in the vicinity of your apartment. You have consistently lied about seeing Mlle Bedeau on the two nights in question, leading me to conclude that there is something in your relationship with her that you wish to conceal.’

‘I have no relationship with Mlle Bedeau.’

‘Then why lie about it?’

Manfred said nothing.

‘Did Adèle Bedeau visit your apartment in the early hours of Friday morning?’

‘No,’ said Manfred. ‘She has never been in my apartment. She doesn’t even know where I live.’

‘Very well,’ said Gorski. He shook his head slowly, as if Manfred had disappointed him. Then he pushed himself off the wall he had been leaning against and left the room. Manfred exhaled. His heart was pounding. Slowly his breathing subsided. He wiped the sweat from his forehead with his handkerchief. Things were getting out of hand. He felt nauseous.

The officer from the reception desk appeared and asked Manfred to follow him. They walked back along the corridor leading to the reception area. The policeman pressed a buzzer and held the door open for Manfred.

‘Am I to wait?’ Manfred asked.

The policeman shook his head. ‘You’re free to go.’

Manfred stood bemused in the reception area for a few moments. Plainly Gorski was toying with him. He hesitated before exiting. Nobody intervened. He came to a halt on the pavement at the foot of the steps. His hands were shaking. The late afternoon air was still hot. He felt conspicuous in front of the police station, but the few passers-by paid no attention to him. Why should they? There was nothing out of the ordinary about him. He was just a man wiping his brow on a warm day. He stepped to the side of the pavement to allow a woman in North African dress and her three children to pass.