The Investigation

XI

BY THE TIME THE INVESTIGATOR WAS finally able to leave the Hope Hotel, the morning was well advanced.

The Policeman had detained him for more than two hours, compelling him to answer a barrage of brusque questions. Some of these the Policeman had repeated again and again, at intervals of a few minutes, in order to make sure the Investigator’s responses didn’t vary. He’d been required to explain, three times and in meticulous detail, his every action and reaction, no matter how insignificant, since the moment he’d awakened that morning. He’d had to describe the telephone call that had rousted him from his sleep, his discovery of the walled-up window (“I’ll verify that,” the Policeman had assured him, almost threateningly), the counting of the stairs, the massive presence of Tourists in the breakfast room (“Tourists? Really? First I’ve heard of them!” the Policeman had sneered), and, finally, the incident in the ladies’ room.

In addition, the Policeman had insisted on examining, with the most minute attention, the cut on the Investigator’s forehead. Having completed the examination — for which he’d pulled on a pair of surgical gloves — the Policeman had stood erect and ordered the Investigator to accompany him to the restroom for a re-enactment.

“A what?”

“You understood me perfectly well.”

“But you must be crazy! A re-enactment for a torn towel? What kind of world is this? I can’t waste my time on such childishness. I’ve got a job to do, an Investigation to conduct. People have died. Men and women have killed themselves. I don’t think you realize what suicide represents, but whether you do or not, it is my duty to understand why these acts have been committed. I need to know why, inside such a brief span of time, and within the same enterprise — within the Enterprise — so many people have fallen so deeply into despair that they’ve chosen to end it all rather than consult a Psychologist or seek help from an Occupational Physician or apply for an appointment with the Director of Human Resources or confide in a colleague or a family member or even to call up one of the many associations that offer assistance to suffering people! And you put obstacles in my path, you detain me for trivialities, you interrogate me for an hour about a mutilated towel, about damages that would never have taken place if this Hotel provided the minimal level of services that a guest has every right to expect, you waste my time with—”

“Who am I?” the Policeman interrupted him.

“You’re … you told me you were the Policeman.”

“Exactly. Well, then?”

“Well, then, what?”

“Well, then! Does one question the Policeman’s orders?”

The Investigator opened his mouth, only to feel his throat dry up and his words die unspoken. His shoulders slumped. “Let’s get it over with,” he sighed.

The Policeman invited the Investigator to follow him to the ladies’ room, where the re-enactment took place. It lasted twenty-seven minutes. The Investigator was obliged to reconstruct his actions and movements during his prior visit to the ladies’ room. The Policeman observed him from different angles, jotted down notes, drew an extremely precise sketch, strode purposefully around the room, measuring its dimensions, and used his mobile telephone to take photographs of the broken towel dispenser, of the towel itself (which he’d extracted from the trash can after slipping on a fresh pair of surgical gloves), and of the Investigator (close-ups, frontal and profile views). He put some questions to the Investigator and ascertained that the stains on his trousers and jacket hadn’t disappeared. When he finally seemed convinced that the Investigator wasn’t hiding anything and had told him nothing but the truth, the Policeman asked the suspect to accompany him to his space.

“Your space? What space?”

“My office, if you prefer. Surely you don’t think I’m going to let you go without taking a statement from you?”

“A statem—”

The Policeman was already walking away, so the Investigator was forced to follow in his footsteps. They left the restroom. The Policeman closed the door behind them and put seals on it, to the Investigator’s great astonishment. Then they crossed the immense breakfast room, passed in front of the reception desk, which was still deserted, and stopped before a door situated to the right of the counter. This door bore a sign: STAFF ONLY. The Policeman drew a key from his pocket, opened the door, and showed the Investigator in.

It was a broom closet whose jumbled contents included a great many buckets, floor cloths, sponges, dustpans, and cleaning products, along with a very large vacuum cleaner. In one corner, an electric typewriter stood on a pair of boards laid across two trestles.

“I can’t stand computers,” said the Policeman, having noticed the Investigator’s skeptical look. “Computers dehumanize relations.”

He held out a pink plastic bucket to the Investigator, who took hold of it without grasping its purpose. Then the Policeman seized another bucket, a blue one, turned it upside down, and sat on it. “Go on, don’t be afraid,” he said. “They’re pretty sturdy and quite comfortable, too, once you get used to them. My chairs haven’t been delivered yet.”

The Policeman inserted a sheet of paper into the typewriter. He performed this act most meticulously, removing and reinserting the sheet three times because it seemed slightly askew.

“What if I’m dealing with a madman here?” the Investigator wondered. “Maybe he’s a policeman like I’m God the Father. He didn’t show me his card. His office is in a hotel, and what kind of office is it? A nasty little storage room. Yes, that’s it — he’s nuts! Why has it taken me so long to see that?”

The thought revived his confidence. He nearly burst out laughing, but he restrained himself. Better not to let anything show, better to play along with this lunatic for a few more minutes, and then to clear out at top speed. He’d have plenty of time that evening to lodge a complaint with the Hotel Management about this obviously sick person, who must be a deranged janitor.

“There we are!” exclaimed the Policeman, smiling broadly at the sight of the white page, perfectly horizontal and flawlessly aligned with the upper edge of the typewriter’s platen.

“I’m at your service,” the Investigator replied.