But the latter turns his long face toward Laurent and, placing his index finger vertically across his lips as though to ask for silence, he begins making a series of clownish gestures, both imperative and suppliant. At the same time he enters completely and closes the door behind him with a thousand precautions.
“Now, Monsieur, what do you want?” the commissioner asks.
He no longer knows whether to be annoyed, amused, or disturbed. But his loud voice seems to terrify his visitor. In fact, the latter, who is trying to make as little noise as possible, stretches his arm out toward him in a pathetic exhortation to be still, while approaching the desk on tiptoe. Laurent, who has stood up, instinctively steps back toward the wall.
“Don’t worry,” the stranger murmurs, “and please don’t call any one or you’ll ruin me.”
He is a man in late middle age, tall and thin, dressed in black. His measured tone and the middle-class dignity of his clothes somewhat reassure the commissioner.
“To whom have I the honor of speaking, Monsieur?”
“Marchat, Adolphe Marchat, wood exporter. I apologize for this intrusion, Commissioner, but I have something extremely important to tell you, and since I wanted no one to know I am here, I thought that the gravity of the circumstances would authorize me to…”
Laurent interrupts him with a gesture that means “In that case, of course!” but he is irritated: he has already noticed that the rotation of the floor men was not efficient between service hours; he must have that taken care of.
“Sit-down, Monsieur,” he says.
Returning to his desk and his familiar position, he spreads out his hands on top of the papers.
The visitor sits down in the chair indicated but, finding it too far away, he remains on the edge of it and leans forward as far as he can, so as to make himself heard without raising his voice.
“I’m here about the death of poor Dupont…”
Laurent is not at all surprised. Without having quite realized it, he was waiting for this sentence. He recognizes it as if he had heard it ahead of time. It is what is coming next that interests him:
“I was present during our unfortunate friend’s last moments…”
“Oh, you were Daniel Dupont’s friend…”
“Let’s not exaggerate, Commissioner; we knew each other for a long time, that’s all. And I find, in fact, that our relations…”
Marchat stops talking. Then, suddenly making up his mind, he declares in a dramatic tone of voice-but still just as softly:
“Commissioner, I’m supposed to be killed tonight!”
This time Laurent raises his arms to the ceiling. This was all he needed!
“What kind of joke is that?”
“Don’t shout, Commissioner. Do I look like I’m joking?”
He doesn’t certainly. Laurent drops his hands on the desk.
“Tonight,” Marchat continues, “I’m supposed to go to a certain place where the murderers will be waiting for me-the ones who shot Dupont yesterday-and then it’ll be my turn…”
He climbs the stairs-slowly.
This house has always looked sinister to him. The ceilings that are too high, the dark woodwork, the corners harboring shadows which the electric light never manages to dispel-everything seems to reinforce the anxiety that has seized him since he came in.
Tonight, Marchat notices details that had never struck him before: creaking doors, disturbing hallways, inexplicable shadows. At the end of the banister grimaces a jester’s head.
From step to step the ascent grows slower. In front of the little painting of the blasted tower, the condemned man stops. He would like to know, now, what this painting means.
In a minute it will be too late-for there are only five more steps before he reaches the place where he will die.
His interlocutor’s lugubrious tone does not impress the commissioner. He asks for details: who is to kill Marchat? Where? Why? And how does he know? Besides, Doctor Juard hasn’t made any reference to his presence in the clinic; why not? Laurent has difficulty concealing his thoughts; he is almost convinced he is dealing with a lunatic who may not even have known the professor and in whom the mere delusion of persecution may have inspired notions so senseless. If he weren’t apprehensive about this lunatic’s possible violence, Laurent would show him the door at once.
However, Marchat speaks vehemently. What he has to say is extremely serious. There are unfortunately certain things which he cannot reveal, but he begs the commissioner’s help: he can’t let an innocent man be killed in this way! Laurent grows impatient:
“How do you expect me to help you if you can’t tell me anything?”
Marchat finally tells how he happened to be in front of Juard’s clinic in the Rue de Corinthe just when the doctor was bringing in a wounded man. He came closer out of curiosity and recognized Daniel Dupont, whom he had met, in other circumstances, at the home of mutual friends. He offered his services to help carry him, for the doctor was alone. If the latter has not mentioned his intervention, it is by Marchat’s express request: the latter was particularly anxious that his name not be connected with this crime in any way. Nevertheless the turn events are taking obliges him to put himself under police protection.
Laurent is astonished: would Doctor Juard have accepted the help of a passer-by, when he had specialized personnel at his disposal?
“No, Commissioner, there was no one there at that hour.”
“There wasn’t? What time was it?”
Marchat hesitates a few second before answering:
“It must have been around eight-eight-thirty; I couldn’t say exactly.”
It was at nine that Juard telephoned the police to announce Dupont’s death. Laurent asks:
“Wasn’t it probably after nine?”
“No, it wasn’t: by nine poor Dupont was already dead.”
So Marchat has been to the operating room. The doctor declared he needed no assistant for the operation, whose extreme seriousness had, in fact, not yet become apparent to him. Yet Dupont, fearing the worst, has taken advantage of the few minutes he had before he was put under the anesthetic to reveal the circumstances of the attack. Marchat must have promised not to divulge them, though he doesn’t understand why secrecy must be kept with regard to the police. In any case, he doesn’t think he’s breaking his word by revealing to the chief commissioner the task the professor has entrusted him with-though nothing, he repeats, would indicate himself as a candidate for such an adventure. He is supposed to go this very day to the little house in the Rue des Arpenteurs and take certain files which he will then hand over to a prominent political figure to whom these papers are of the greatest importance.
There are two things Laurent doesn’t understand. Why, first of all, must this operation be kept secret? (Is it on account of the heirs?) And on the other hand, what is so dangerous about it? As for the “circumstances of the attack,” Marchat can rest easy: it is easy to reconstitute them!
In adding this, the commissioner-who still suspects suicide-winks meaningfully at his interlocutor. He is no longer sure what to make of this Marchat: according to the details the latter is furnishing about his friend’s death, one must admit that he certainly was at the clinic last evening; yet the rest of his remarks are so irrational and confused that it seems difficult to dismiss the hypothesis of madness, even so.
Emboldened by what he interprets as signs of complicity, the businessman is now speaking-ambiguously-of the terrorist organization and its opposition to a political group that…of which…Laurent, who finally sees what the other man is trying to say, helps him out of his difficulty:
“A political group whose members have systematically been assassinated, one by one, every evening at seven-thirty.”
And Marchat, who has not noticed the ironic smile which has accompanied this sentence, seems enormously relieved by it.
“Aha,” he says, “I suspected you knew all about it. That simplifies things a lot. Keeping the police in ignorance of the truth, as Dupont wanted to do, could only have unfortunate consequences. No matter how often I repeated my conviction to him that it was precisely the police’s business-and not mine!-there was no way of making
