The Erasers

2

Eight short fat fingers pass delicately back and forth over each other, the back of the four right fingers against the inside of the four left fingers.

The left thumb caresses the right thumbnail, gently at first, then pressing harder and harder. The other fingers exchange positions, the back of the four left fingers vigorously rubbing the inside of the four right fingers. They interlace, lock, twist each other; the movement grows faster, more complicated, gradually loses its regularity, soon becomes so confused that nothing more can be distinguished in the swarm of joints and palms.

“Come in,” Laurent says.

He rests his hands flat on the desk, fingers spread wide. It is an officer with a letter.

“Someone slipped this under the door of the concierge’s lodge. It’s marked ‘Urgent’ and ‘Personal.’ ”

Laurent takes the yellow envelope the man hands him. The address, written in pencil, is scarcely legible: “Personal. Chief Commissioner. Urgent.”

“The concierge didn’t see who brought this letter?”

“He couldn’t; he found it under his door. It may have already been there a quarter of a hour, or even more.”

“All right. Thanks.”

When the officer has left the room, Laurent feels the envelope. It seems to contain a rather stiff card. He holds it up to the electric light, but sees nothing abnormal about it. He decides to open it with his paper knife.

It is a picture post card showing a little house in a bad imitation Louis XIII style, at the corner of a long, gloomy suburban street and a wide avenue, probably at the edge of a canal. On the back is written, also in pencil, this one phrase: “Meeting tonight at seven-thirty.” In a woman’s handwriting. There is no signature.

The police receive messages like this every day-anonymous letters, insults, threats, denunciations-most often very involved, usually sent by illiterates or lunatics. The text of this post card is distinguished by its brevity and its precision. The meeting place is not indicated; it must be the street corner shown on the photograph-at least so one might suppose. Ii Laurent recognized the place, he might send one or two men there at the hour arranged; but it isn’t worth the bother of doing a lot of research to end up-at best-laying hands on some fishing boat that is smuggling in five pounds of snuff.

It would be better to be sure that this minor infraction would be effectively punished by the inspector who discovered it. The chief commissioner knows that a good deal of minor smuggling occurs with the complicity of the police who merely take a modest share for themselves. It is only for serious misdemeanors that they are required to be completely uncompromising. it the other end of the scale of crimes, one wonders what their behavior might be…if, for instance, a political organization f the type described by Wallas were to appeal to their…luckily, the question does not come up.

The commissioner picks up his phone and asks for the capital. He wants to have a clear conscience. Only the central services can inform him-if they have had time to perform the autopsy.

He gets his line soon enough, but he is transferred from office to office several times without managing to get in touch with the proper branch. The head of the department that signed the letter ordering the release of the body told him to speak to the medico-legal service; here, no one seems to know anything. Transferred from one to the other in succession, he finally reaches the prefect’s office, where someone-he doesn’t know precisely who-agrees to listen to his question: “From that distance was the bullet that killed Daniel Dupont fired?”

“Just one minute, please, hold on.”

It is only after a rather long interval, interspersed with various noises, that the answer reaches him:

“A 7.65 bullet, fired from a distance of about four yards.”

An answer which proves absolutely nothing, save that the lesson has been well learned.

Laurent then receives another visit from Wallas.

The special agent seems to have nothing to say to him. He has come back here as if he no longer knew where to go. He describes the escape of the businessman Marchat, the meeting with Juard, the visit to the former Madame Dupont. The commissioner, as on each occasion he himself has had dealings with the doctor, finds the latter’s conduct rather suspect. As for the divorced wife, it was obvious to everyone that she knew nothing. Wallas describes the strange shopwindow the station saleswoman has made, and to Laurent’s great surprise, take out of his pocket the same post card the officer has just brought in.

The commissioner goes to his desk and picks up the card sent by the unknown woman. It is the same card. He read Wallas the phrase written on the back.