keeping the fingers interlaced, brings his wrists together again and rubs his thumbs against each other. The hands separate and stretch; each doubles over with a faint clapping sound, opens once more and finally comes to rest on the desk, lying flat, the fingers spread apart at regular intervals.
“Yes, I know,” Wallas answers.
In making room for his ledgers, the commissioner has shifted the dossiers that cover his desk, thereby causing the piece of grayish eraser to reappear, an ink eraser probably, whose poor quality is betrayed by several worn, slightly shiny places.
5
Once the door is closed, the commissioner walks slowly back to his chair. He rubs his hands with satisfaction. So it is Roy-Dauzet who has had the body taken away! This kind of conspiracy story is worthy of the old lunatic’s grotesque imagination. And now he is sending his clan of secret agents and detectives all over the country-even the great Fabius and his consorts.
Political crime? That, of course, would explain the complete failure of his own investigation-in any case it is a good excuse-but Laurent greatly distrusts the minister’s tendency to hysterical storytelling, so that he is delighted to see others besides himself set foot on this dangerous path. He has no difficulty imagining the mess they will be getting into: it is apparent, to begin with, that the confidential agent sent to the scene of the crime hadn’t heard of the hasty transfer of the body to the capital-his surprise was not made up. He seems full of good will, this Wallas; but what could he do with it? Besides, just what is his job anyway? He has not been very talkative; what does he really know about these “terrorists”? Nothing probably; and with good reason! Or has he been given orders to keep quiet? Maybe Fabius, who is the best sleuth in Europe, proved to him that Laurent himself was in the gang’s pay? You have to expect anything from these geniuses.
First of all, they operate as if their chief concern is to see the police stop their investigations (that was what they were most anxious about, they even ordered him to abandon the house without so much as sealing it or stationing a man there, even though the old servant who is still there alone does not seem to have all her wits about her) and then they pretend to come and ask his advice. Well, they will have to continue to get along without him.
Before sitting down, the commissioner straightens up his desk a little; he puts back the phone book, replaces the loose sheets in the dossiers. The one marked “Dupont” joins the left-hand pile, that of closed cases. Laurent rubs his hands again and repeats to himself: “Perfect!”
But a little later, when Laurent is finishing his mail, the man on duty announces Doctor Juard. What does this one want now! Can’t they leave him in peace about this case he’s not even supposed to be concerned with?
When he has the doctor shown in, Laurent is struck by his exhausted look.
“Monsieur,” the latter begins, almost in a whisper, “I’m here about the death of this unfortunate Dupont. I’m Doctor Juard.”
“Of course, Doctor, but we’ve already worked together once, if my memory doesn’t deceive me?”
“Oh, ‘worked’!” the little doctor says modestly. “My cooperation was so insignificant. I didn’t think you would even remember it.”
“We’ve all done what we could, Doctor,” the commissioner says.
After a slight pause, the doctor continues, as though reluctantly:
“I sent you a death certificate, but I thought you might want to see me anyway…”
He stops. Laurent watches him calmly, his hands lying on the desk which he absent-mindedly taps with one finger.
“Of course, Doctor, I’m glad you did,” he says at last.
This is a purely formal encouragement. Doctor Juard is beginning to regret having rushed here so soon, instead of waiting until the police sent for him. He wipes his glasses to gain time, and continues with a sigh:
“All the same, I don’t know what I could tell you about this strange crime.”
If he has nothing to say, why has he come? He has preferred to come of his own accord rather than seem to be afraid of questioning. He thought we were going to ask him specific details-for which he has prepared himself- and now we’re letting him get out of it by himself, as if he were the one in the wrong.
“Why ‘strange’?” the commissioner asks.
He doesn’t think it’s strange. It’s the doctor he thinks strange, sitting there stringing out his empty phrases instead of simply saying what he knows. What he knows about what? He hasn’t been called to give evidence. He has been particularly afraid that the police would come and rummage through his clinic: that’s why he’s here.
“I mean: out of the ordinary; there aren’t murders in our city very often. And it’s extremely rare that a burglar making his way into an inhabited house should be so upset at the sight of the owner that he feels it necessary to shoot him.”
Another thing that has kept him from staying home is his need to find out exactly what the others know and don’t know.
“You say ‘a burglar’?” Laurent asks in surprise; “did he take anything?”
“Not that I know of.”
“If he didn’t steal anything, he’s not a burglar.”
“You’re playing with words, Monsieur,” the little doctor insists: “he probably had every intention of stealing.”
“Oh, ‘intention’! You’re moving a little too fast.”
Fortunately the commissioner decides to say something and asks:
“It was the housekeeper who called you, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, old Madame Smite.”
“Didn’t you think it was odd that she should call in a gynecologist to take care of a wounded man?”
“Good lord, Monsieur, I’m a surgeon; I performed many such operations during the war. Dupont knew it: we had been friends since college.”
“Oh, Daniel Dupont was your friend? I’m sorry, Doctor.”
Juard makes an almost protesting gesture:
“Let’s not exaggerate; we knew each other for a long time, that’s all.”
Laurent continues:
“You went to get the victim by yourself?”
“Yes, I didn’t want to take an orderly: I have a very small staff. Poor Dupont didn’t seem in any danger; Madame Smite and I were able to hold him up, going down the stairs…”
“Then he could still walk? Didn’t you say, last night, that he was unconscious?”
“No, Monsieur, I certainly did not. When I arrived, the wounded man was waiting for me on his bed; he spoke to me and because he was so insistent, I agreed to take him without a stretcher, so as to lose as little time as possible. It was during the trip in the car that he suddenly grew weaker. Up till then he assured me that it was nothing serious, but at that moment I realized that his heart had been touched. I operated immediately: the bullet had lodged in the wall of die ventricle, he could have recovered from that. The heart stopped when I performed the extraction; all my efforts to revive him remained useless.”
The doctor sighs, with a look of great exhaustion.
“Perhaps,” the commissioner says, “there was some cardiac difficulty to complicate matters?”
But the practitioner shakes his head.
“You can’t be sure: a normal man can succumb to a wound of that type too. Actually, it’s a matter of luck.”
“Tell me, Doctor,” Laurent asks after a moment’s thought, “can you suggest at about what distance from the body the shot was fired?”
“Five yards…ten?” Juard says evasively. “It’s difficult to give an exact figure.”
