When he expressed a certain discreet surprise at her repeated assertions that she had noticed nothing, the young woman replied that one always hesitates before handing a man over to the police, but from the moment she learned it was a question of murder, she had dismissed her scruples.
There remained the more likely explanation: Madame Bax concealed, beneath her calm exterior, a little too much imagination. But she seemed to divine this impression, and to give more weight to her testimony she added that at least one other person had seen the malefactor: before the latter had reached the parkway a man who was obviously drunk came out of the little cafe-about twenty yards to the left-and took the same direction, staggering slightly; he was singing or talking to himself in a loud voice. The malefactor turned around and the drunk man shouted something to him, trying to walk faster to catch up with him; but the other man, without paying any more attention to him, went on his way toward the harbor.
Unfortunately Madame Bax was unable to furnish a more detailed description: a man in a raincoat with a light gray hat. As for his impromptu traveling companion, she thought she had passed him frequently in the neighborhood; in her opinion, he was probably well known in all the bars in the vicinity.
Leaving the building by the second exit, the one to the Rue des Arpenteurs, Wallas crossed the street to examine the gate: he was able to verify the fact that the automatic buzzer had been twisted to prevent contact when the gate was opened; this job, executed at arm’s length, seemed to him to have been the work of uncommon muscular strength.
Looking up, he glimpsed, once again, behind the mesh of embroidered net, the figure of Madame Bax.
“Hello,” Wallas says as he closes the door behind him.
The manager does not answer.
He is motionless, at his post. His massive body is leaning on his arms, spread wide on the counter where his hands grip the edge, as though to keep the body from springing forward-or from falling. The neck, already short, vanishes completely between the raised shoulders; the head hangs, almost threatening, the mouth slightly twisted, the gaze blank.
“Cold enough for you this morning?” Wallas says-to say something.
He walks over to the cast-iron stove that looks less disagreeable than this mastiff confined, for safety’s sake, behind his bar. He holds out his hands toward the glowing metal. For the information he needs, he would probably do better to look elsewhere.
“Hello,” a voice says behind him-a drunken voice, but full of good intentions.
The room is rather dim and the wood-burning stove, which draws badly in cold weather, thickens the air with a bluish haze. Wallas has not noticed the man before. He is slumped over the rear table, the only customer in the cafe, happy to find someone to talk to at last. He probably knows that other drunkard Madame Bax referred to as a witness. But now he is staring at Wallas, opening his mouth and saying with a kind of thick-tongued resentment:
“Why didn’t you want to talk, yesterday?”
“Me?” Wallas asks, surprised.
“You think I don’t recognize you?” the man exclaims, his face lighting up with a cheerful grimace.
He turns around toward the bar and repeats:
“He thinks I don’t recognize him!”
The manager, his eyes blank, has not moved.
“You know me?” Wallas asks.
“Of course I do, my friend! Even though I didn’t think you were very polite “ He counts carefully on his fingers “It was yesterday.”
“No,” Wallas says, “you must be making some mistake.”
“He says it was a mistake!” the drunk shrieks toward the manager. “Me, a mistake!”
And he bursts into the thunderous laughter.
When he has quieted down a little, Wallas asks-to get into the spirit of the thing:
“Where was it then? And what time?”
“What time, don’t ask me! I never know what time it is
It was still dark. And it was here, going out…here…here… here…”
With each new “here” his voice gets louder; at the same time, the man makes a series of huge vague gestures toward the door with his right arm. Then, suddenly calmer, he adds in almost a whisper, and as though to himself:
“Where else would it be?”
Wallas despairs of getting anything out of him. Still the pleasant temperature of the room keeps him from leaving. He sits down at the next table.
“At this time yesterday I was over a hundred kilometers from here…”
Slowly the commissioner begins rubbing his palms together again:
“Of course! Don’t good murderers always have an alibi?”
A satisfied smile. The two plump hands come to rest on the desk, fingers wide apart
“What time was it?” the drunk asks.
“When you said.”
“That’s just it, I didn’t say!” the drunk exclaims triumphantly. “You pay for the round.”
Funny joke, Wallas thinks. But he does not budge. The manager now looks at him reproachfully.
“It’s all a lie,” the drunk concludes after a pause for laborious reflection. He examines Wallas and adds scornfully: “You don’t even have a car.”
“I came by train,” Wallas says.
“Oh,” the drunk says.
His good humor has vanished; he seems worn out by the discussion. Nevertheless he translates for the manager, but in a completely gloomy tone:
“He says he came by train.”
The manager does not answer. He has changed position; his head up, his arms dangling, it is apparent he is preparing to take some action. As a matter of fact he grasps his rag and wipes it back and forth across the top of the bar.
“What’s the difference,” the drunk begins with difficulty…“what’s the difference between a railroad and a bottle of wine?”
He is talking to his glass. Wallas automatically tries to think of the difference.
“Well?” his neighbor suddenly asks, cheered by the prospect of a victory.
“I don’t know,” Wallas says.
“So there’s no difference for you? You hear that, bartender, he doesn’t see any difference!”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Yes you did!” the drunk shouts. “The bartender’s here to back me up. You said it. You pay for the round!”
“I’ll pay for the round,” Wallas admits. “Bartender, give us two glasses of white wine.”
“Two glasses of white wine!” repeats his companion, who has recovered his good humor.
“Don’t wear yourself out,” the manager says. “I’m not deaf.”
The drunk has emptied his glass in one gulp. Wallas is just starting to drink his. He is surprised to feel so comfortable in this filthy bar; is it only because it’s warm in here? After the sharp air of the street, a somewhat numbing sense of well-being penetrates his body. He feels full of kindness toward this drunken bum, and even toward the manager who scarcely encourages sympathy. As a matter of fact the latter keeps his eyes on his latest customer; and his expression is so deliberately suspicious that Wallas ends up, in spite of everything, by being somewhat disturbed. He turns back toward the riddle-lover, but the wine the latter has just drunk seems to have plunged him back into his gloomy thoughts. In the hope of cheering him up, Wallas asks:
“Well, what was the difference?”
“The difference?” The drunk seems completely in the dark this time. “The difference between what?”
“You know, between the railroad and the bottle!”
“Oh…the bottle…” the other man says slowly, as if he were coming back from a great distance away. “The difference…Well, it’s a big one, the difference…the railroad!… It’s not at all the same thing…”
It would certainly have been better to question him before giving him more to drink. Mouth open, the man is
