In the middle of the square, on a low pedestal protected by an iron fence, stands a bronze group representing a Greek chariot drawn by two horses, in which are standing several individuals, probably symbolic, whose unnatural positions are out of harmony with the presumed rapidity of their equipage.
On the other side begins the Avenue de la Reine, where the skinny elms have already lost their leaves. There are very few people out of doors in this neighborhood; the few bundled-up pedestrians and the black branches of the trees give it a precociously wintry look.
The courthouse cannot be far away, for, aside from its suburbs, the city is certainly not very large. The prefecture clock showed a little after seven-ten, so that Wallas has a good three-quarters of an hour in which to explore the area.
At the end of the avenue, the gray water of an old shunting canal contributes to the frozen calmness of the landscape.
Then comes the Avenue Christian-Charles, a little wider, lined by a few elegant shops and movie theaters. A streetcar passes, occasionally indicating its silent approach by two or three quick rings of its bell.
Wallas notices a signboard showing a yellowed map of the city, a movable pointer in its center. Ignoring this point of reference, as well as the little box containing the street names on a roll of paper, he has no difficulty reconstructing his route: the station, the slightly flattened ring of the Boulevard Circulaire, the Rue des Arpenteurs, the Rue de Brabant, the Rue Joseph-Janeck which joins the parkway, the Rue de Berlin, the prefecture. Now he is going to take the Avenue Christian-Charles as far as the parkway and then, since he has time for it, make a detour to the left, in order to return along the Canal Louis V and then the narrow canal that follows his street…the Rue de Copenhague. It is this latter he has just crossed. When this circuit will have been completed, Wallas will have twice crossed the city proper from one side to the other, within the confines of the Boulevard Circulaire. Beyond, the suburbs extend for considerable distances, dense and unattractive to the east and south, but aerated, toward the northwest, by the numerous ponds of the inland waterway and toward the southwest by the playing fields, a woods, and even a municipal park adorned with a zoo.
There was a shorter way of getting here from the end of the Rue Janeck, but it was also more complicated, and the lady with the quitch-grass broom was right to send him back by way of the prefecture. The black overcoat with the disturbed face turned here and vanished into this swarm of narrow twisting alleyways. On the point of walking away, Wallas remembers that he still has to find the courthouse; he discovers it almost at once, behind the prefecture and connected with it by a tiny street that starts on the square, the Rue de la Charte. As a matter of fact, the main police station is located just opposite. Wallas feels less of a stranger in this space thus marked out, he can move about in it with less deliberation.
Farther down the avenue he passes in front of the post office. It is closed. On the enormous door, a white cardboard poster: “The offices are open continuously from eight A.M. to seven P.M.” After having turned toward the parkway, he soon comes to the canal which he follows, attracted and sustained by it, absorbed in the contemplation of the reflections and the shadows.
When Wallas enters the Place de la Prefecture for the second time, the clock indicates five to eight. He has just time enough to go into the cafe at the corner of the Rue de la Charte to eat something quickly. The place is not at all like what he was expecting: this part of the country does not look as though it cared much about mirrors, chromium, and neon lighting. Behind its inadequate windows, supplemented by the timid glow of a few wall brackets, this big cafe is actually rather mournful, with its dark woodwork and thin banquettes covered in dark imitation leather. Wallas can just barely read the newspaper he has asked for. He quickly glances down the columns:
“Serious traffic accident on the Delft road.”
“The city council will meet tomorrow to elect a new mayor.”
“The medium deceived her clients.”
“Potato production has surpassed that of the best years in the past.”
“Death of one of our fellow citizens. A daring burglar made his way at nightfall yesterday into the residence of M. Daniel
Dupont “
It is likely that Laurent, the chief commissioner, will receive him in person once he arrives, thanks to Fabius’ letter of introduction. Provided he is not offended by such an intervention: Wallas will have to present matters skillfully; otherwise he risks turning the man into an enemy or in any case losing his cooperation, which is indispensable. As a matter of fact, though the local police have shown themselves absolutely ineffectual in dealing with the eight preceding crimes-not having been able to find a single lead and even classifying two cases as “death by accident”-it seems difficult to avoid their collaboration completely: they constitute, in spite of everything, the only possible source of information concerning the supposed “killers.” From another point of view, it would be inopportune to let them suppose that the latter were suspect.
Noticing an open stationery shop, Wallas walks in for no particular reason. A young girl who had been sitting behind the counter stands up to wait on him.
“Monsieur?”
She has a pretty, slightly sullen face and blond hair.
“I’d like a very soft gum eraser, for drawing.”
“Certainly, Monsieur.”
She turns back toward the drawers that line the wall. Her hair, combed straight up from the back of her neck, makes her look older, seen from behind. She searches through one of the drawers and sets down in front of Wallas a yellow eraser with beveled edges, longer than it is wide, an ordinary article for schoolchildren. He asks:
“Haven’t you any supplies just for drawing?”
“This is a drawing eraser, Monsieur.”
She encourages him with a half-smile. Wallas picks up the eraser to examine it more carefully; then he looks at the young girl, her eyes, her fleshy, half-parted lips. He smiles in his turn.
“What I wanted…”
She tilts her head slightly, as though to pay special attention to what he is going to say.
“…was something more crumbly.”
“Really, Monsieur, I can assure you this is a very good pencil eraser. All our customers are satisfied with it.”
“All right,” Wallas says, “I’ll try it. How much is it?”
He pays and leaves the store. She accompanies him to the door. No, she’s no longer a child: her hips, her slow gait are almost a woman’s.
Once out in the street, Wallas mechanically fingers the little eraser; it is obvious from the way it feels that it is no good at all. It would have been surprising, really, for it to be otherwise in so modest a shop… That girl was nice…He rubs his thumb across the end of the eraser. It is not at all what he is looking for.
4
By shifting the dossiers on top of his desk, Laurent covers up the little piece of eraser. Wallas finishes his remarks:
“In short, you haven’t found much.”
“You might say nothing,” the chief commissioner answers.
“And what do you intend to do now?”
“Nothing, since it isn’t my case any more!”
Commissioner Laurent accompanies these words with an ironically brokenhearted smile. When his interlocutor says nothing, he continues:
“I was wrong, no doubt, to believe myself in charge of public safety in this city. This paper,” he waves a letter between two fingers, “orders me in specific terms to let the capital take over last night’s crime. I couldn’t ask for anything better. And now the minister, you say-or in any case a service that is directly attached to him-sends you here to continue the investigation, not ‘in my place’ but ‘with my cooperation.’ What am I supposed to make of that? Except that this cooperation is to be limited to handing over to you whatever information I possess-which I
