The Erasers

CHAPTER THREE
1

As usual, the big house is silent.

On the ground floor, the old deaf housekeeper is almost finished preparing dinner. She is wearing felt slippers that muffle the sound of her comings and goings along the hallway between the kitchen and the dining room, where she sets a single, unalterable place at the enormous table.

It is Monday: Monday’s dinner is never very complicated: a vegetable soup, probably ham, and a cream dessert of some vague flavor-or else caramel rice pudding…

But Daniel Dupont is not much concerned with gastronomy.

Sitting at his desk, he is examining his revolver. It must not fall out of order-though it has been so many years since anyone has used it. Dupont handles it carefully; he opens it, takes out the bullets, carefully cleans the mechanism, checks its operation; finally he returns the clip and puts his rag away in a drawer.

He is a meticulous man who likes every task to be executed correctly. A bullet in the heart is what makes the least mess. If it is fired properly-he has talked it over extensively with Doctor Juard-death is immediate and the loss of blood quite slight. So old Anna will have less trouble getting rid of the stains; for her, that is what matters. He is well aware that she does not like him.

On the whole, people have not liked him much, Evelyne… But that is not why he is killing himself. It does not matter to him whether people have liked him or not. He is killing himself for nothing-out of exhaustion.

Dupont takes a few steps on the water-green carpet that muffles every noise. There is not much room to walk in the little study. Books hem him in on all sides: law, social legislation, political economy…Down below, to the left, at the end of the long shelves, stands the row of books he himself has added to the series. Not much. There were two or three ideas there, even so. Who has understood them? Too bad for them.

He stops in front of his desk and glances at the letters he has just written: one to Roy-Dauzet, one to Juard…to whom else? One to his wife, maybe? No; and the one he is addressing to the minister has no doubt been mailed the day before…

He stops in front of the desk and glances one last time at this letter he has just written to Doctor Juard. It is clear and persuasive; it furnishes all the explanations necessary for camouflaging his suicide as a murder.

At first Dupont had thought of making it look like an accident: “Professor kills himself while cleaning old revolver.” But everybody would have known.

A crime is less suspicious. And he could count on Juard and Roy-Dauzet to keep his secret. The wood exporters will not have to turn their faces into masks when his name comes up in conversation. As for the doctor, he shouldn’t be surprised after their conversation last week; he had probably understood. He cannot, in any case, refuse to do this favor for a dead friend. What is asked of him is not very complicated: transferring the body to the clinic and immediately informing Roy-Dauzet by telephone; afterward the report to the municipal police and the release to the local papers. A minister’s friendship is very useful at times: there will be neither coroner nor inquest of any kind. And later (who knows?) this complicity may be useful to the doctor as well.

Everything is in order Dupont need only go down to dinner.

He must seem in his usual mood, so that old Anna will suspect nothing. He gives orders for the next day; with his habitual precision, he settles several details henceforth without importance. At seven-thirty he goes back upstairs and, without a moment’s hesitation, fires a bullet through his heart.

Here Laurent stops; there is still something that is not clear: did Dupont die immediately, or not?

Suppose he merely wounded himself: he still had strength enough to fire a second bullet, since the doctor declares he was able to get down the stairs and walk to the ambulance. And supposing the revolver was out of the question, the professor had other means at his disposal: slitting his wrists, for instance; he was the kind of man to have a razor blade handy in case the revolver failed him. It takes great courage to kill yourself, they say, but such courage is more characteristic of Dupont than this sudden renunciation.

On the other hand, if he had succeeded in killing himself outright, why should the doctor and the old housekeeper have invented this story: Dupont, wounded, calling for help from the top of the stairs and, though his life till then did not seem to be threatened, his sudden death on reaching the clinic. It might be supposed that Juard preferred this version, so that he would not be censured for having taken away the body: Dupont would have had to be still alive for him to be entitled to move him; and he would have also had to be capable of standing, so that the stretcher-bearers would not be needed; lastly, this brief survival permitted the victim to explain the circumstances of the murder viva voce. It is possible that Dupont himself recommended this precaution in his letter. But what is strange is that this morning the doctor virtually insisted that the wound had seemed insignificant to him at first-this, in spite of everything, makes Dupont’s death a little surprising. As for the housekeeper, she didn’t seem to have imagined even that the victim could have perished. If it is already surprising that Dupont, or Juard, adopted a solution that necessitated taking the old woman into their confidence, it is even more so that the latter played her role so skillfully with the inspectors only a few hours after the tragedy.

There is, of course, another hypothesis: Dupont might have shot himself the second time once he had reached the clinic-in this way, Madame Smite would have known nothing and her possible testimony would have to be taken into consideration by the doctor in concocting his own. Unfortunately, if it is likely that the doctor agreed to disguise his friend’s suicide, it is scarcely conceivable that he provided him the opportunity to carry it out.

To recapitulate: it must be taken as certain that Dupont killed himself without the help of either the doctor or the housekeeper; consequently he did it when he was alone-that is: either in his study at seven-thirty, or in his bedroom, while the housekeeper was calling the clinic from the telephone in a nearby cafe. After the old woman’s return, Dupont remained with someone at all times-the housekeeper first, later the doctor-and either one would have kept him from making a second attempt. He might also have fired a first shot in the study and a second in the bedroom, but this complication would not settle anything, for in any case he didn’t seem seriously wounded at the time of the doctor’s arrival. As a matter of fact, it is not plausible to question the housekeeper’s good faith (only the doctor is an accomplice in the distortion of the truth). When he left his house, Dupont wasn’t dead, he could even walk, more or less-the doctor was forced to indicate this, in order not to be contradicted by the housekeeper. All of which, moreover, could be calculated ahead of time: the housekeeper not being in on the secret, it was necessary to avoid having her find the body holding a revolver-which would give her more opportunities to suspect suicide and would also permit her to call in any doctor-or even the police.

Consequently the solution is as follows: Dupont shoots himself in the chest, knowing the wound to be mortal but giving him time enough to shout that he has been attacked. He takes advantage of the housekeeper’s deafness to get her to admit to a murderer’s hasty flight through the house. Then he waits for his friend the doctor to arrive and explains to the latter what he must do after his death. Juard takes the wounded man away^ and then attempts to save him in spite of himself…

There is still something that does not fit: if he seemed in such good condition, Dupont could not be so certain that his wound was mortal.

Which leads back to the hypothesis of the apparent failure followed by a last-minute retreat when faced with death. Dupont aimed badly; he gave himself an apparently harmless wound which nevertheless frightened him enough to make him abandon his plan. He then called for help, but being unwilling to admit the truth, he invented the preposterous story of an attack. As soon as the doctor arrived, Dupont had himself taken to the clinic and operated on, without waiting for a stretcher. But his wound was more serious than was supposed, and an hour later he was dead. Hence not only are the housekeeper’s declarations sincere (she could even have seen some door open that wasn’t supposed to be), but it remains possible that the doctor’s are, too: the gynecologist need not have discovered that the bullet was fired at point-blank range. The minister, who knows the ins and outs of the case because of a letter from Dupont sent just before, has had the inquest stopped and the body removed.

Commissioner Laurent knows that he will now recapitulate all his hypotheses once again, for it is precisely this last solution he finds the most unsatisfactory. Though at each new attempt since this morning he has come out at the same point, he refuses to accept this conclusion. He would prefer any unlikelihood to that banal reversal generally attributed to the instinct of self-preservation, but which fits in so badly with the professor’s character, the courage he has shown in many circumstances, his behavior at the front during the war, his refusal to compromise in civil life, his unquestioned force of character. He could decide to kill himself; he could have reasons for wanting to disguise this death; but he could not abandon his plan so suddenly, once he had embarked upon it.

Yet aside from this, there remains only one explanation: murder; and since there is no possible murderer, it is Wallas’ theory that has to be adopted: the phantom “gang” with their mysterious purposes and inscrutable conspiracies… Commissioner Laurent laughs to himself over this, so preposterous does he find the minister’s latest notion. This case is mixed up enough already, without looking for such nonsense to add to it.

Then too, it is really too absurd to go on wracking his brains over a riddle from which he has been so opportunely excused. Besides, it is time for lunch.

But the rubicund little man cannot make up his mind to leave his office. He expected to have some word from Wallas during the morning, but he has received neither a second visit nor a phone call. Has the special agent also been assassinated by the gangsters? Vanished for ever, swallowed up by the shadows?

Actually, he knows nothing about this Wallas, nor about the exact nature of his job. Why, for instance, did he need to visit Laurent before starting his work? The commissioner possesses nothing but the testimony of the doctor and the old housekeeper; the agent sent from the capital could question both of the latter directly. And he had no particular need to ask permission to enter the dead man’s residence-open henceforth to anyone at all, under the protection of a half mad old woman.

In this respect, one might say that the minister’s behavior is at the least frivolous: in a criminal case you don’t…But isn’t this offhandedness the best evidence that the case is one of suicide, and that they are well aware of this in the capital? All the same, it may cause them some difficulties later on, with the heirs.

And Wallas, if this is so-what is he doing here? Is it by an error of transmission in Roy-Dauzet’s orders that the illustrious Fabius has started this counter-investigation? Or does the special agent also know that Dupont committed suicide? His job could be merely to pick up important papers in the house in the Rue des Arpenteurs, and his visit to the police was then only a sign of courtesy. If you can call it courtesy to come and make fun of a high official by telling him old wives’ tales…

No, that’s not it! It’s obvious that Wallas is sincere: he believes strongly in what he says; as for his unexpected visit, wouldn’t it be one more sign that Laurent is respected in the capital?

The chief commissioner has reached this point in his reflections, when he is interrupted by the arrival of a strange character.

Without any announcement from the officer on duty, without even a knock, the door opens slowly and a head appears in the aperture, glancing around the room with an anxious expression.

“What is it?” the commissioner asks, ready to throw the intruder out.

But the latter turns his long face toward Laurent and, placing his index finger vertically across his lips as though to ask for silence, he begins making a series of clownish gestures, both imperative and suppliant. At the same time he enters completely and closes the door behind him with a thousand precautions.

“Now, Monsieur, what do you want?” the commissioner asks.

He no longer knows whether to be annoyed, amused, or disturbed. But his loud voice seems to terrify his visitor. In fact, the latter, who is trying to make as little noise as possible, stretches his arm out toward him in a pathetic exhortation to be still, while approaching the desk on tiptoe. Laurent, who has stood up, instinctively steps back toward the wall.

“Don’t worry,” the stranger murmurs, “and please don’t call any one or you’ll ruin me.”

He is a man in late middle age, tall and thin, dressed in black. His measured tone and the middle-class dignity of his clothes somewhat reassure the commissioner.

“To whom have I the honor of speaking, Monsieur?”

“Marchat, Adolphe Marchat, wood exporter. I apologize for this intrusion, Commissioner, but I have something extremely important to tell you, and since I wanted no one to know I am here, I thought that the gravity of the circumstances would authorize me to…”

Laurent interrupts him with a gesture that means “In that case, of course!” but he is irritated: he has already noticed that the rotation of the floor men was not efficient between service hours; he must have that taken care of.

“Sit-down, Monsieur,” he says.

Returning to his desk and his familiar position, he spreads out his hands on top of the papers.

The visitor sits down in the chair indicated but, finding it too far away, he remains on the edge of it and leans forward as far as he can, so as to make himself heard without raising his voice.

“I’m here about the death of poor Dupont…”

Laurent is not at all surprised. Without having quite realized it, he was waiting for this sentence. He recognizes it as if he had heard it ahead of time. It is what is coming next that interests him:

“I was present during our unfortunate friend’s last moments…”

“Oh, you were Daniel Dupont’s friend…”

“Let’s not exaggerate, Commissioner; we knew each other for a long time, that’s all. And I find, in fact, that our relations…”

Marchat stops talking. Then, suddenly making up his mind, he declares in a dramatic tone of voice-but still just as softly:

“Commissioner, I’m supposed to be killed tonight!”

This time Laurent raises his arms to the ceiling. This was all he needed!

“What kind of joke is that?”

“Don’t shout, Commissioner. Do I look like I’m joking?”

He doesn’t certainly. Laurent drops his hands on the desk.

“Tonight,” Marchat continues, “I’m supposed to go to a certain place where the murderers will be waiting for me-the ones who shot Dupont yesterday-and then it’ll be my turn…”

He climbs the stairs-slowly.

This house has always looked sinister to him. The ceilings that are too high, the dark woodwork, the corners harboring shadows which the electric light never manages to dispel-everything seems to reinforce the anxiety that has seized him since he came in.

Tonight, Marchat notices details that had never struck him before: creaking doors, disturbing hallways, inexplicable shadows. At the end of the banister grimaces a jester’s head.

From step to step the ascent grows slower. In front of the little painting of the blasted tower, the condemned man stops. He would like to know, now, what this painting means.

In a minute it will be too late-for there are only five more steps before he reaches the place where he will die.

His interlocutor’s lugubrious tone does not impress the commissioner. He asks for details: who is to kill Marchat? Where? Why? And how does he know? Besides, Doctor Juard hasn’t made any reference to his presence in the clinic; why not? Laurent has difficulty concealing his thoughts; he is almost convinced he is dealing with a lunatic who may not even have known the professor and in whom the mere delusion of persecution may have inspired notions so senseless. If he weren’t apprehensive about this lunatic’s possible violence, Laurent would show him the door at once.

However, Marchat speaks vehemently. What he has to say is extremely serious. There are unfortunately certain things which he cannot reveal, but he begs the commissioner’s help: he can’t let an innocent man be killed in this way! Laurent grows impatient:

“How do you expect me to help you if you can’t tell me anything?”

Marchat finally tells how he happened to be in front of Juard’s clinic in the Rue de Corinthe just when the doctor was bringing in a wounded man. He came closer out of curiosity and recognized Daniel Dupont, whom he had met, in other circumstances, at the home of mutual friends. He offered his services to help carry him, for the doctor was alone. If the latter has not mentioned his intervention, it is by Marchat’s express request: the latter was particularly anxious that his name not be connected with this crime in any way. Nevertheless the turn events are taking obliges him to put himself under police protection.

Laurent is astonished: would Doctor Juard have accepted the help of a passer-by, when he had specialized personnel at his disposal?

“No, Commissioner, there was no one there at that hour.”

“There wasn’t? What time was it?”

Marchat hesitates a few second before answering:

“It must have been around eight-eight-thirty; I couldn’t say exactly.”

It was at nine that Juard telephoned the police to announce Dupont’s death. Laurent asks:

“Wasn’t it probably after nine?”

“No, it wasn’t: by nine poor Dupont was already dead.”

So Marchat has been to the operating room. The doctor declared he needed no assistant for the operation, whose extreme seriousness had, in fact, not yet become apparent to him. Yet Dupont, fearing the worst, has taken advantage of the few minutes he had before he was put under the anesthetic to reveal the circumstances of the attack. Marchat must have promised not to divulge them, though he doesn’t understand why secrecy must be kept with regard to the police. In any case, he doesn’t think he’s breaking his word by revealing to the chief commissioner the task the professor has entrusted him with-though nothing, he repeats, would indicate himself as a candidate for such an adventure. He is supposed to go this very day to the little house in the Rue des Arpenteurs and take certain files which he will then hand over to a prominent political figure to whom these papers are of the greatest importance.

There are two things Laurent doesn’t understand. Why, first of all, must this operation be kept secret? (Is it on account of the heirs?) And on the other hand, what is so dangerous about it? As for the “circumstances of the attack,” Marchat can rest easy: it is easy to reconstitute them!

In adding this, the commissioner-who still suspects suicide-winks meaningfully at his interlocutor. He is no longer sure what to make of this Marchat: according to the details the latter is furnishing about his friend’s death, one must admit that he certainly was at the clinic last evening; yet the rest of his remarks are so irrational and confused that it seems difficult to dismiss the hypothesis of madness, even so.

Emboldened by what he interprets as signs of complicity, the businessman is now speaking-ambiguously-of the terrorist organization and its opposition to a political group that…of which…Laurent, who finally sees what the other man is trying to say, helps him out of his difficulty:

“A political group whose members have systematically been assassinated, one by one, every evening at seven-thirty.”

And Marchat, who has not noticed the ironic smile which has accompanied this sentence, seems enormously relieved by it.

“Aha,” he says, “I suspected you knew all about it. That simplifies things a lot. Keeping the police in ignorance of the truth, as Dupont wanted to do, could only have unfortunate consequences. No matter how often I repeated my conviction to him that it was precisely the police’s business-and not mine!-there was no way of making him give up his ridiculous mystery. That’s why I started by playing this farce; and since you answered me in the same tone, we have had some difficulty putting a stop to it. Now we’ll be able to talk.”

Laurent decides to take him up on it. He is rather curious to see what will come out of all this.

“You were saying that Daniel Dupont, before dying, had given you a secret mission which endangered your life?”

Marchat opens his eyes wide. “Before dying?” He no longer knows what he can say and what he must conceal.

“Well,” Laurent insists, “what makes you think that someone’s lying in wait for you in that house?”

“The doctor, Commissioner! Doctor Juard! He heard everything!”

Doctor Juard was present when Dupont explained the importance of the files in question and what must be done with them. Once he understood that Marchat was to go for them, he slipped away on some pretext or other and telephoned the leader of the gang to warn him. Marchat had taken the precaution of repeating loudly that he didn’t belong to the group, but he noticed that the doctor had not believed a word he said; so that the gangsters have decided to make the businessman their victim this very evening. And the police simply must stop them, for it is a mistake, a tragic mistake: he has never had any relation with the group, he isn’t even an advocate of their policy, and he doesn’t want…”

“All right,” Laurent says, “calm down. Did you hear what the doctor said on the telephone?”

“No…I mean: not exactly, but…Just from the look on his face, it was easy to see what he was going to do.”

Obviously this man is every bit as mad as Roy-Dauzet. But what is the source of this collective hysteria? As for Dupont, it is understandable that he has found it convenient to accuse the mysterious anarchists: he would have been wiser to have sent his papers off before killing himself. Still other points are not extremely clear. Unfortunately, there is not much hope of having them explained by questioning this man.

To get rid of him, the commissioner suggests a good way of escaping his murderers: since the latter can strike only at seven-thirty sharp, he need only go for the files at some other time.

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…”

…