anyone in the street. Oh, I’m sorry now I ever listened to Monsieur Dupont; he insisted on Doctor Juard-he had his notions, you know, and he never paid any attention to whatever I might think of them. Well, people are what they are; I’m not going to start speaking ill of him now…I was here, washing the dishes after dinner, when I heard him call me from upstairs; when I passed, I noticed the door had been opened-the one you just came in. Monsieur Dupont was on the landing-and as alive as you or I, you know-only he had his left arm against his chest and a little blood on his hand. He was holding his revolver in the other hand. I had a terrible time getting rid of the little bloodstains he made on my carpet, and it took me at least two hours to clean the bedspread where I found him lying when I came back-when I came back from telephoning. It’s not easy to get off, you know; luckily, he wasn’t bleeding much. He told me: ‘It’s just a flesh wound in my arm; don’t worry, it’s nothing serious.’ I wanted to take care of him myself, but he didn’t let me, stubborn as he was-I told you-and I had to go call that miserable doctor who took him away in a car. He didn’t even want me to hold him up, coming down the stairs! But when I got to the clinic early this morning to take him a change of linen, they suddenly told me he was dead. ‘Heart failure’ that murderer told me! And he wasn’t any prouder than that, no indeed, young man. I didn’t make a fuss; still, I’d like to know who killed him if it wasn’t that Doctor Juard! For once in his life, Monsieur Dupont would have done better to listen to me…”
It is almost a note of triumph that sounds in the old woman’s voice. Most likely her master kept her from talking, so as not to be deafened by that terrible voice; now she’s trying to make up for it. Wallas attempts to put some order in this flood of words. Madame Smite, apparently, has been more disturbed by the bloodstains she had to wash off than by her employer’s wound. She has not checked whether it was really his arm that had been hit: moreover, Dupont had not let her get too close a look; and the blood on his hand does not prove much. He was wounded in the chest and did not want to terrify his housekeeper by admitting it. In order to deceive her, he even managed to stand up and walk to the ambulance; it may even have been this effort that finished him off. The doctor, in any case, should not have let him do it. Obviously it is the doctor who must be questioned.
“Juard Clinic. Gynecology. Maternity Home.” The nurse who opened the door did not even tell him to come in; she was standing in the opening of the door, ready to close it again: like a guardian afraid that some stranger would try to force his way in, but at the same time she insisted on keeping him:
“And what is it you wish, Monsieur?”
“I wanted to speak to the doctor.”
“Madame Juard is in her office-it’s always Madame Juard who receives our clients.”
“But I’m not a client. I must see the doctor in person.”
“Madame Juard is a doctor too, Monsieur. She is in charge of the clinic, so of course she’s in touch with all the…”
When he finally told her that he had no need of the clinic’s services, she stopped talking, as though she had found out what she wanted; and she looked at him with the vaguely superior smile of someone who knew perfectly well what he wanted from the start. Her politeness assumed a nuance of impertinence:
“No, Monsieur, he didn’t say when he was coming back. Don’t you want to leave your name?”
“It’s no use, my name won’t mean anything to him.”
He had distinctly heard: “They’re all the same!”
“…that murderer told me…”
On the hallway carpet downstairs, the old woman shows him the scarcely perceptible traces of five or six spots of something. Wallas asks if the inspectors who came the evening before took the victim’s revolver with them.
“Certainly not!” Madame Smite exclaims. “You don’t suppose I let those two loot the house? I put it back in his drawer. He might have needed it again.”
Wallas would like to see it. She leads him into the bedroom: rather a large room, of the same impersonal and old-fashioned comfort as the rest of the house, stuffed with hangings, curtains, and carpets. A complete silence must have reigned in this house, where everything is arranged to muffle the slightest sound. Did Dupont wear felt slippers too? How did he manage to speak to his deaf servant without raising his voice? Habit probably. Wallas notices that the bedspread has been changed-it could not have been cleaned so perfectly. Everything is as neat and orderly as if nothing had ever happened.
Madame Smite opens the night table drawer and hands Wallas a pistol he recognizes at first glance: it is the same model as his own, a serious weapon for self-defense, not a plaything. He takes out the clip and notices that one bullet has already been fired.
“Did Monsieur Dupont shoot at the man running away?” he asks, although he knows the answer in advance: when Du-pont came back with his revolver, the murderer had disappeared. Wallas would like to show the gun to Commissioner Laurent, but the housekeeper hesitates about letting him take it, then she gives in with a shrug:
“Take it with you, young man. What use is it here now?”
“I’m not asking you for a present. This pistol is a piece of evidence, you understand?”
“Take it, I tell you, since you want it so much.”
“And you don’t know if your employer had used it before, for something else?”
“What do you think he would use it for, young man? Monsieur Dupont was not a man to shoot off his revolver in the house to amuse himself. No, thank God. He had his faults, but…” Wallas puts the pistol in his overcoat pocket.
The housekeeper leaves her visitor; she has nothing else to tell him: her late employer’s difficult character, the strenuous washing of the bloodstains, the criminal doctor, the continuing negligence of the telephone company… She has already repeated all this several times; now she has to finish packing her suitcases in order not to miss the two o’clock train that will take her to her daughter’s. It is not a very nice time of the year to be going to the country; still, she has to hurry. Wallas looks at his watch: it still shows seven-thirty. In Dupont’s bedroom, the bronze clock on the mantelpiece, between the empty candlesticks, had also stopped.
Yielding to the special agent’s urging, Madame Smite finally admits that she is supposed to give the house keys to the police; somewhat reluctantly she gives him the key to the back door. He will close it himself when he leaves. The housekeeper will leave by the front door, for she also has the keys for it. As for the garden gate, the lock has not been working for a long time. Wallas remains alone in the study. Dupont lived in this tiny room, he left it only to sleep and to take his meals, at noon and at seven at night. Wallas approaches the desk; the inspectors appear to have left everything as it was: on the blotter is lying the sheet of paper on which Dupont had written only four words so far: “which can not prevent…”-”…death…” obviously. That is the word he was looking for when he went downstairs to eat.
CHAPTER TWO
1
It is certainly the sound of footsteps; footsteps on the stairs, coming closer. Someone is coming up. Someone is coming up slowly-no: carefully; perhaps cautiously? Holding on to the banister, judging from the sound. Someone who becomes breathless from a climb which is too stiff for him or who is tired from having come a long distance. They are a man’s footsteps, but deliberate, muffled by the carpet-which gives them, at moments, something of a timorous or clandestine quality.
But this impression does not last. At closer range, the footsteps sound spontaneous, uninhibited: the footsteps of a relaxed man peacefully climbing the stairs.
The last three steps are taken more vigorously, probably in haste to reach the landing. The man is in front of the door now; he stops a moment to catch his breath…
(… one knock, three short quick knocks…)
But he does not remain there more than a few seconds and begins to climb the next flight. The steps die away toward the top of the building.
It was not Garinati.
It is ten o’clock, though: Garinati should be coming. He should even have been here over a minute ago; he’s late already. Those footsteps on the stairs should have been his.
