The Erasers

CHAPTER TWO
1

It is certainly the sound of footsteps; footsteps on the stairs, coming closer. Someone is coming up. Someone is coming up slowly-no: carefully; perhaps cautiously? Holding on to the banister, judging from the sound. Someone who becomes breathless from a climb which is too stiff for him or who is tired from having come a long distance. They are a man’s footsteps, but deliberate, muffled by the carpet-which gives them, at moments, something of a timorous or clandestine quality.

But this impression does not last. At closer range, the footsteps sound spontaneous, uninhibited: the footsteps of a relaxed man peacefully climbing the stairs.

The last three steps are taken more vigorously, probably in haste to reach the landing. The man is in front of the door now; he stops a moment to catch his breath…

(… one knock, three short quick knocks…)

But he does not remain there more than a few seconds and begins to climb the next flight. The steps die away toward the top of the building.

It was not Garinati.

It is ten o’clock, though: Garinati should be coming. He should even have been here over a minute ago; he’s late already. Those footsteps on the stairs should have been his.

He walks upstairs somewhat in that way, but he makes even less noise, though setting his feet down more firmly, step after step without any particular attention, without the least…

No! It’s impossible to involve Garinati in this business any longer: after tonight, someone else will have to replace him at his job. For a few days at least he will have to be kept under cover and watched; afterward, maybe, he could be given some new job, but one without any serious risks.

For several days he has seemed somewhat tired. He complained of headaches; and once or twice, he said peculiar things. During the last meeting he even went so far as to be downright difficult: uneasy, hypersensitive, constantly asking about details long since settled, and more than once raising unreasonable objections and turning sullen if they were rejected too quickly.

His work has suffered from it: Daniel Dupont did not die immediately-every report confirms this. It does not matter really, since he died all the same and, what’s more, “without regaining consciousness”; but from the point of view of the plan, there is something irregular about it: Dupont did not actually die at the time his death was scheduled for. Without any doubt, it is Garinati’s exaggerated nervousness that is responsible. Afterward he did not come to the prescribed meeting place. Finally, this morning, despite the written order, he is late. No question about it, he is not the same man any more.

Jean Bonaventure-called “Bona”-is sitting on a garden chair, in the middle of an empty room. Beside him, a leather briefcase is lying on the floor-a pine floor distinguished by no particular quality save an obvious lack of care. The walls, on the other hand, are covered with a paper in good condition, if not new: tiny multicolored bouquets uniformly decorating a pearl-gray background. The ceiling too has obviously been whitewashed recently; in the center, a wire hangs down with an electric light bulb at the end.

A square window without curtains provides what light there is. Two doors, both wide open, lead into a darker room on one side, and on the other into a little hall to the entrance door of the apartment. There is not a stick of furniture in this room except for two wrought-iron chairs painted the usual dark green. Bona is sitting on one; the other, facing him, about six feet away, remains empty.

Bona is not dressed for sitting indoors. His overcoat is tightly buttoned up to the collar, his hands are gloved, and he keeps his hat on.

He is waiting, motionless on this uncomfortable chair, bolt upright, his hands crossed on his knees, his feet riveted to the floor, betraying no impatience. He is looking straight ahead at the little spots left by the raindrops on the windowpanes and, beyond, over the huge blue-glazed window of the factories on the other side of the street, at the irregular buildings of the suburbs, rising in waves toward a grayish horizon bristling with chimneys and pylons.

Usually this landscape has little relief and looks rather unattractive, but this morning the grayish yellow sky of snowy days gives it unaccustomed dimensions. Certain outlines are emphasized, others are blurred; here and there distances open out, unsuspected masses appear; the whole view is organized into a series of planes silhouetted against one another, so that the depth, suddenly illuminated, seems to lose its natural look-and perhaps its reality-as if this over-exactitude were possible only in a painting. Distances are so affected that they become virtually unrecognizable, without it being possible to say in just what way they are transformed: extended or telescoped-or both at once-unless they have acquired a new quality that has more to do with geometry… Sometimes this happens to lost cities, petrified by some cataclysm for centuries-or only for a few seconds before their collapse, a wink of hesitation between life and what already bears another name: after, before, eternity.

Bona watches. Eyes calm, he contemplates his work. He is waiting. He has just astounded the city. Daniel Dupont died, yesterday, murdered. Tonight, at the same hour, an identical crime will echo this scandal, finally wrenching the police from their routine, the papers from their silence. In a week, the organization has already sown anxiety in every corner of the country, but the powers that be still pretend to regard these acts as unconnected accidents of no importance. It will take this highly unlikely coincidence that is being prepared to set off the panic.

Bona cocks his ears. The footsteps have stopped in front of his door.

A pause. No one.

Lightly, but distinctly, the agreed-upon signal is given…a faint knock, three quick, almost imperceptible knocks, a faint knock…

“We won’t talk about it any more, now that it’s settled.”

But Garinati does not quite understand the meaning of these words; he insists: he will begin again, and this time he will not make any mistakes. Finally the admission escapes him: he will put out the light, if this precaution is indispensable, although from another point of view…”

“You didn’t put it out?” Bona asks.

“I couldn’t. Dupont came back upstairs too soon. I barely had time to recognize things around me.”

“But you saw him come down, and you went up right after that?”

“I had to wait until the old woman left the kitchen too.”

Bona says nothing. Garinati is even guiltier than he thought. It is fear that made him confuse his actions, as it is making him confuse his words now:

“I went up right away. He probably wasn’t hungry. I couldn’t see in the dark either, could I? But I’ll start over, and this time…”

He stops, seeking encouragement from his chief’s stern face. Why has Bona suddenly abandoned the friendly tone he had been using the last few days? That stupid detail of the light switch is only an excuse…

“You should have turned out the light,” Bona says.

“I’ll go back, I’ll turn out the light. I’ll go tonight.”

“Tonight is someone else’s job.”

“No, it’s my job: it’s my job to finish the job I started.”

“You don’t know what you’re saying, Garinati. What are you talking about?”

“I’ll go back to the house. Or I’ll go find him wherever he’s hiding. I’ll find him and I’ll kill him.”

Bona stops examining the horizon to stare at his interlocutor.

“You said you’ll kill Daniel Dupont now?”

“I swear I will!”

“Don’t swear anything, Garinati: it’s too late.”

“It’s never…”

It’s never too late. The failure automatically goes back to the starting point for the second try… The hands go once around the dial and the condemned man makes his theatrical gestures again, pointing to his chest once more: “Aim for the heart, soldiers!” And again…

“Don’t you read the papers?” Bona asks.

He leans over to look for something in his briefcase. Garinati takes the folded newspapers that is handed to him and reads the first paragraph his eyes focus on:

“A daring burglar made his way at nightfall yesterday…” He reads slowly, carefully; when he reaches the end, he starts over to be sure he has not missed anything: “A daring burglar…” He looks up at Bona, who is staring over his head, without smiling.

Garinati reads the article through once again. He says in a low voice:

“He’s dead. Of course. I had turned out the light.”

All right, this man is crazy.

“It must be a mistake,” Garinati says. “I only wounded him.”

“He died of it. You’re lucky.”

“Maybe this newspaper’s made a mistake?”

“Don’t worry: I have my own informants. Daniel Dupont is dead-a little late, that’s all.”

After a pause, Bona adds less severely:

“After all, you did kill him.”

The way you throw a dog a bone.

Garinati tries to make Bona explain; he is not convinced; he wants to tell about his reservations. But his chief soon wearies of this weak man’s “probablys” and “maybes”:

“All right, that’s enough. We won’t talk about it any more, now that it’s settled.”

“Did you find the man named Wallas?”

“I know where he spent the night.”

“What is he doing this morning?”

“This morning, I had to…”

“You’ve let him get away. And you haven’t picked up his trail?”

“I had to come here and…”

“You were late. Anyway you had several hours to do it in. Where do you expect to find him now? And when?” Garinati does not know what to answer any more.

Bona stares at him sternly:

“You were supposed to report to me last night. Why didn’t I see you?”

He would like to explain his failure, the light, the fact that he did not have time enough… But Bona does not give him a chance; he interrupts him harshly:

“Why didn’t you come?”

That is just what Garinati was going to talk about, but how can you make someone understand things if he does not want to listen to you? Still, he will have to start with that light, it is the cause of everything: Dupont turned it on again too soon and saw him before he could shoot, so that he did not…

“Now about this Wallas they’ve sent us, what’s he done since he’s been here?”

Garinati tells what he knows: the room in the Cafe des Allies, Rue des Arpenteurs; his departure very early this morning…

“You’ve let him escape. And you haven’t picked up his trail?”

Of course that’s unfair: how could he know Wallas would be leaving so early, and it is not easy to find someone you have never seen, in a city this size.

Besides, why bother spying on this policeman who cannot do anything more than anyone else? Wouldn’t it be better to get ready for tonight’s job? But Bona seems reserved; he pretends not to hear. Garinati goes on nevertheless: he wants to make up for his mistake, go back to Daniel Dupont’s house and kill him.

Bona seems surprised. He stops staring at the horizon to look at his interlocutor. Then he leans over toward his briefcase, opens it, and takes out a folded newspaper:

“Don’t you read the papers?”

Garinati holds out his hand without understanding.

Even his footsteps have changed: they are slow, almost sluggish; they have lost their vitality. They gradually fade away down the staircase.

Far away, the same bluish-gray color as the chimneys and the roofs, blending into them despite slight movements whose direction, moreover, is difficult to determine because of the distance, two men-chimneysweeps maybe, or roofers-are preparing for the early approach of winter.

Downstairs the door to the building can be heard closing.