“In any case,” the commissioner concludes, “for a bullet fired by a man running away, it was carefully aimed.”
“Chance…” the doctor says.
“There wasn’t any other wound, was there?”
“No, only the one.”
Doctor Juard answers a few more questions. If he hasn’t telephoned the police at once, it is because the phone in Dupont’s house was out of order; and once he reached the clinic, the wounded man’s condition gave him no opportunity. It was from a nearby cafe that Madame Smite had called him. No, he doesn’t know the name of this cafe He also confirms the removal of the body by the police van, and hands the commissioner, in conclusion, the only piece of evidence he has left: a tiny ball of tissue paper…
“I’ve brought you the bullet,” he says.
Laurent thanks him. The police magistrate will probably need the doctor’s testimony.
They separate after a few more friendly words.
Laurent stares at the tiny cone of black metal, a 7.65 projectile that could just as well have come from Wallas’ pistol as from any weapon of the same type. If only the cartridge shell had been found too.
This Doctor Juard certainly has something suspicious about him. The first time Laurent had any dealing with him, he could not quite dismiss this impression: the doctor’s embarrassed phrases, his peculiar explanations, his reticence had finally made Laurent suspect some sort of intrigue. He sees now that this is the man’s normal behavior. Is it his glasses that give him that shifty look? Or his deferential politeness? If Fabius saw him, he would unhesitatingly classify him among the accomplices 1 Hasn’t Laurent himself instinctively tried to unsettle him further by disconcerting questions? The poor wretch didn’t need any such treatment though: the simplest words, in his mouth, assume an equivocal quality.
“… My cooperation was so insignificant…”
What was surprising if people talked about his professional activities? Perhaps, today, he is also affected by the death of one of his friends under his own scapel. Heart disease! Why not?
“Chance…”
Chance, for the second time, puts this little doctor in a rather curious situation. Laurent will not be completely satisfied until the capital sends on the coroner’s conclusions. If Dupont has committed suicide, a specialist can tell that the shot was fired at close range: Juard has realized this and is trying, out of friendship, to convince Laurent that Dupont was murdered. He has come here to decide what effect his declarations have produced; he is afraid that the body-even after the operation-might betray the truth. He is apparently unaware that the police van has removed it to another destination.
He is a truly loyal friend. Didn’t he, last night, “out of respect for the deceased,” request that the press not make too much fuss over this “sensational incident!” Besides, he had nothing to fear: the morning papers could insert only a last minute brief account; as for the evening papers, they will have plenty of time to receive the group’s orders. Although a professor and living quietly, Daniel Dupont belonged to that section of the industrial and mercantile bourgeoisie that does not like to see its life, or its death, discussed in the marketplace. Now no newspaper in the whole country could flatter itself that it was completely independent of this class; with all the more reason in this provincial city, where their omnipotent influence seemed to have no flaws. Shipowners, paper manufacturers, wood exporters, spinning-mill owners, all join hands to protect identical interests. Dupont-it was true-denounced the weaknesses of their system in his books, but that was more a question of advice than attack, and even the ones who did not listen to him respected the professor.
Political crime? Did this withdrawn figure exert the occult influence some attributed to him? Even if it were so, you would have to be a Roy-Dauzet to construct such absurd hypotheses: a murder every day at the same hour… Luckily, this time he has not confided his hallucinations to the regular police. Laurent still has a bad memory of the minister’s last whim: large quantities of arms and munitions were-he claimed-being landed daily in the harbor on behalf of some revolutionary organization; this traffic would have to be stopped at once and the guilty parties arrested! For almost three weeks the police have exhausted themselves: the depots minutely inspected, the holds searched from top to bottom, the crates opened one by one, the bales of cotton unpacked (then repacked) because their weight was over normal. They had picked up, as their entire prize, two undeclared revolvers and the hunting rifle an unfortunate passenger had concealed in a trunk to avoid paying customs duty. No one took the matter seriously, and the police, after a few days, were the laughingstock of the town. The chief commissioner is not about to set off on a wild goose chase of that sort so quickly.
6
As he left the police station, Wallas was once again seized by that impression of empty-headedness which he had earlier attributed to the cold. He then decided that the long walk on an empty stomach-which too light a breakfast had not made up for afterward-also contributed something to this feeling. To be in a position to think to advantage about the commissioner’s remarks and to put his own ideas in order, Wallas has decided it would be a good idea to eat a heavier meal. So he has gone into a restaurant he had noticed an hour before, where he has eaten with a good appetite two eggs and some ham with toast. At the same time, he has had the waitress explain the most convenient way to get to the Rue de Corinthe. Passing once more in front of the statue that decorates the Place de la Prefecture, he has approached it to read, on the west side of the pedestal, the inscription carved in the stone: “The Chariot of State-V. Daulis, sculptor.”
He has found the clinic easily, but Doctor Juard has just left. The reception nurse has asked him the purpose of his visit; he has answered that he preferred to speak to the doctor in person; she has then asked him if he wished to speak with Madame Juard who-she said-was also a doctor and, besides, was in charge of the clinic. Wallas has explained that he had not come for medical reasons. This explanation made the nurse smile-for no apparent reason-but she has asked nothing further. She did not know when the doctor would be back; it would be best to come back later, or telephone. While she closes the door behind him, she has murmured, loud enough so Wallas could hear her:
“They’re all the same!”
Wallas has returned to the square and walked around the prefecture on the right side, intending to come out onto the Boulevard Circulaire near the Rue des Arpenteurs; but he has lost his way in a labyrinth of tiny streets where the sudden turns and detours have forced him to walk much longer than was necessary. After crossing a canal, he has finally reached a familiar neighborhood: the Rue de Brabant and the imitation brick buildings of the wood exporters. During this entire course his attention has been completely absorbed by his concern to proceed in the right direction; and when, after crossing the parkway, he has found himself standing in front of the little house surrounded by spindle trees, the latter has suddenly looked sinister to him, whereas this morning he had been struck, on the contrary by its attractive appearance. He has tried to dismiss such unreasonable ideas, setting them down to fatigue, and he has decided to take the streetcar to move around the city from now on.
It is at this moment that he has realized that, for almost a half-hour, his mind had been exclusively preoccupied by the nurse’s expression and tone: polite but apparently full of double meanings. She almost looked as though she supposed he wanted a shady doctor-for God knows what reason.
Wallas follows the hedge, behind the iron fence, and stops at the gate, where he stares for a minute at the front of the house. There are two windows on the ground floor, three upstairs, one of which (on the left) is partly open.
Contrary to his expectation, no bell sounds when he opens the gate and walks into the garden. He closes the gate, follows the gravel path, and walks up the four steps to the door. He presses the bell; a distant ring answers. In the center of the varnished oak door is a rectangular window protected by an elaborate grillwork: something like intertwined flower stems, with long, supple leaves…it might also represent wisps of smoke…
After a few seconds, Wallas rings again. Since no one comes to open the door, he glances through the little window-but without being able to make out anything inside. Then he looks up toward the second-story windows. An
