dealing, as you think, with a terrorist organization, they’ve been very careful to keep from being contaminated; in this sense, their hands are clean, cleaner than those of a police that maintains such close relations with the men they’re watching. Here, between the policeman and the criminal, you find every grade of intermediary. Our whole system is based on them. Unfortunately the shot that killed Daniel Dupont came from another world!”
“But you know there’s no such thing as a perfect crime; we must look for the flaw that has to exist somewhere.”
“Where are you going to look? Make no mistake about it, Monsieur: this is the work of specialists, they’ve obviously left few things to chance; but what makes the few clues we have useless is our inability to test them against anything else.”
“This case is already the ninth,” Wallas says.
“Yes, but you’ll agree that only the political opinions of the victims and the hour of their deaths have allowed us to connect them. Besides, I’m not so convinced as you that such coincidences correspond to anything real. And even supposing they do, we’re not much further: what use would it be to me, for instance, if a second murder just as anonymous were committed in this city tonight? As for the central services, they don’t have any more opportunities than I do to get results: they have the same files and the same methods. They’ve taken the body away from me, and it’s all the easier for me to abandon it to them since you tell me they have eight more they don’t know what to do with. Before your visit, I already had the impression that the case didn’t have anything to do with the police, and your presence here makes me sure of it.”
Despite his interlocutor’s evident prejudice, Wallas insists: the victim’s relatives and friends could be questioned. But Laurent has no hopes of finding out anything useful from this quarter either:
“It appears that Dupont led an extremely solitary life, shut up with his books and his old housekeeper. He seldom went out and received only rare visits. Did he have any friends? As for relatives, there seem to be none, except for his wife “
Wallas shows his surprise:
“He had a wife? Where was she at the time of the crime?”
“I don’t know. Dupont was married only a few years; his wife was much younger than he and probably couldn’t endure his hermit’s life. They separated right away. But they still saw each other now and then, apparently; by all means ask her what she was doing last night at seven-thirty.”
“You’re not saying that seriously?”
“Certainly I am. Why not? She knew the house and her ex-husband’s habits well; so she had more opportunities than anyone else to commit this murder discreetly. And since she was entitled to expect a considerable inheritance from him, she’s one of the few people I know of who could have any interest in seeing him dead.”
“Then why didn’t you mention her to me?”
“You told me that he was the victim of a political assassination!”
“She could have played her part in it anyway.”
“Of course. Why not?”
Commissioner Laurent has resumed his jocular tone. He says with a half-smile:
“Maybe it’s the housekeeper who killed him and made up all the rest with the help of Doctor Juard, whose reputation-let me tell you in passing-is not so good.”
“That seems rather unlikely,” Wallas observes.
“Even altogether unlikely, but you know that never kept anyone from being a suspect.”
Wallas feels that this irony is in bad taste. Furthermore, he realizes he will not learn much from this official, jealous of his authority but determined to do nothing. Isn’t Laurent really trying to wash his hands of the whole affair? Or else would he like to discourage his rivals in order to make his own investigation? Wallas stands up to say good-bye; he will visit this doctor first. Laurent shows him where he is to be found:
“The Juard Clinic, eleven Rue de Corinthe. It’s on the other side of the prefecture, not far from here.”
“I thought,” Wallas says, “that the newspaper said ‘a nearby clinic’?”
Laurent makes a cynical gesture:
“Oh, you know the papers! Besides, it’s not so far from the Rue des Arpenteurs.”
Wallas writes down the address in his notebook.
“There is even one paper,” the commissioner adds, “that mixed up the first names and announced the death of Albert Dupont, one of the biggest wood exporters in the city. He must have been quite surprised to read his obituary this morning!”
Laurent has stood up too. He winks as he says:
“After all, I haven’t seen the body; maybe it is Albert Du-pont’s.”
This idea amuses him enormously, his overfed body shakes from fits of laughter. Wallas smiles politely. The chief commissioner catches his breath and holds out his hand amiably.
“If I hear anything new,” he says, “I’ll let you know. What hotel are you staying at?”
“I’ve taken a room in a cafe, Rue des Arpenteurs, a few steps away from the house itself.”
“You have! Who told you about that?”
“No one; I found it by chance. It’s number ten.”
“Is there a telephone?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“Well, I’ll find it in the book if I have anything to tell you.”
Without waiting. Laurent begins leafing quickly through the phone book, licking his index finger.
“Arpenteurs, here we are. Number ten: Cafe des Allies?”
“Yes, that’s the one.”
“Telephone: two-zero-two-zero-three. But it’s not a hotel.”
“No,” Wallas says, “they only rent out a few rooms.”
Laurent goes to a shelf and picks out a ledger. After a moment of fruitless search, he asks:
“That’s strange, they’re not registered; are there many rooms?”
“No, I don’t think so,” Wallas answers. “You see, your facts aren’t so exact after all!”
A broad smile lights up the chief commissioner’s face.
“On the contrary, you have to admire our resources,” he says. “The first person to sleep in this cafe comes to tell me about it himself, without even giving the landlord a chance!”
“Why the first person? Suppose the murderer had slept there last night, what would you know about it?”
“The landlord would have registered him and reported to me, as he’ll do for you-he has until noon.”
“And if he doesn’t?” Wallas asks.
“Well, in that case, we would have to admire your perspicacity in having found the only clandestine rooming house in town so quickly. It would even be bad for you in the long run; you’d be the first serious suspect I’ve found: recently arrived in town, living twenty yards from the scene of the crime, and completely unknown to the police!”
“But I only arrived last night, at eleven!” Wallas protests.
“If you weren’t registered, what proof would there be?”
“At the time the crime was committed, I was a hundred kilometers from here; that can be verified.”
“Of course! Don’t good murderers always have an alibi?”
Laurent sits down again behind his desk and considers Wallas with a smiling expression. Then he suddenly asks:
“Do you have a revolver?”
“Yes,” Wallas answers. “This time I took one, on the advice of my chief.”
“What for?”
“You never know.”
“Right, you never know. Would you show it to me please?”
Wallas hands him the gun, a 7.65 millimeter automatic revolver, a common model. Laurent examines it carefully, after having removed the clip. Finally, without looking at Wallas, he says in the tone of an obvious comment:
“One bullet’s missing.”
He hands the weapon back to its owner. Then, very quickly, he clasps his hands, separates the palms though
