“Don’t you read the papers?”
“Oh, you know, the newspapers!”
This remark is accompanied by a cynical gesture. All three have serious, but dispassionate faces; they are speaking in neutral, even tones, as if they were not paying too much attention to their words. Probably they are talking about something of slight interest-or about something already repeated over and over again.
“And what do you make of the letter?”
“In my opinion, that letter proves nothing at all.”
“Then nothing ever proves anything.”
With simultaneous gestures, they finish their glasses of beer. Then, in single file, they head for the door. Wallas can still hear:
“Well, we’ll see tomorrow, I hope.”
In a cafe that is the image of the one in the Rue des Arpenteurs-not very clean, but well heated-Wallas is drinking a cup of coffee.
He is vainly struggling to get rid of this cottony discomfort that keeps him from thinking about his case seriously. He must be catching some kind of grippe. Though he usually escapes minor ailments of this kind, it would have to be today that he doesn’t feel “up to snuff.” Yet he awoke feeling fine, as usual; it was during the morning that a kind of generalized discomfort gradually invaded his system. At first he ascribed it to hunger, then to the cold. But, even so, he has eaten and warmed himself with this coffee without managing to overcome his torpor.
Yet he needs all his wits about him if he wants to come to any conclusion; for up to now, though luck has been with him to a certain extent, he hasn’t made much progress. Yet it is of the greatest importance to his future that he give evidence at this time of lucidity and skill.
When he started to work at the Bureau of Investigation, some months ago, his chiefs did not conceal from him that he was being hired on probation, and that the job he would ultimately be given would depend in particular on the successes he achieved. This crime is the first important case he has been given. Of course he is not the only man to be concerned with it: other people, other services too, whose very existence he doesn’t know a thing about, are working on the same case; but since he has been given his opportunity, he should expend all his zeal upon it.
The first contact with Fabius was not very encouraging. Wallas came from another division of the ministry, where he was very well thought of; he had been offered this transfer to replace a man who had fallen critically ill.
“So you want to work in the Bureau of Investigation…”
Fabius is talking. He examines the new recruit dubiously, obviously apprehensive that he will not be equal to his job.
“It’s difficult work,” he begins, his tone severe.
“I know it is, Monsieur,” Wallas answers, “but I’ll do…”
“Difficult and disappointing.”
He speaks slowly and hesitantly, without letting himself be distracted by Wallas’ answers, which he seems, moreover, not to hear.
“Come over here, we’ll have a look.”
Out of his desk drawer, he takes a curious instrument that looks like a combination of calipers and a protractor. Wallas approaches and bends his head forward, to permit Fabius to take the customary measurements of his forehead. This is a regulation formality. Wallas knows that; he has already taken his own approximate measurements with a tape-measure: he is slightly over the compulsory square centimeters.
“One hundred-fourteen… Forty-three.”
Fabius takes a slip of paper to make the calculation.
“Now let’s see. One hundred-fourteen multiplied by forty-three. Three times four, twelve; three times one, three, and one makes four; three times one, three. Four times four, sixteen; four times one, four and one makes five; four times one, four. Two; six and four, ten: zero; five and three, eight, and one makes nine; four. Four thousand nine hundred and two… That’s not so good, young man.”
Fabius stares at him mournfully, shaking his head.
“But Monsieur,” Wallas protests politely, “I made the calculation myself and…”
“Four thousand nine hundred and two. Forty-nine square centimeters of frontal surface; you have to have at least fifty, you know.”
“But Monsieur, I…”
“Well, since you’ve come recommended, I’m going to hire you-on probation… Maybe some good hard work will help you gain a few millimeters. We’ll decide about that after your first important case.”
Suddenly in a hurry, Fabius takes from his desk a rubber stamp which he first presses on an ink pad, and afterward nervously taps on his new man’s transfer sheet; then, with the same automatic gesture, he vigorously adds a second stamp right in the middle of Wallas’ forehead, shouting:
“Ready for service!”
Wallas wakes up with a start. His forehead has just bumped against the edge of the table. He straightens up and drinks the rest of his cold coffee with disgust.
Having examined the check stuck under the saucer by the waiter, he stands up and tosses a coin on the counter as he passes. He goes out without waiting for his change. “For service” as he was told by…
“Well, Monsieur, did you find your post office?”
Wallas turns around. Still under the effect of his brief somnolence, he has not noticed the woman in an apron who is washing the window.
“Yes, I did; thank you.”
It is the woman with the broom who was washing the sidewalk this morning-in this very place.
“And it was open?”
“No, not until eight.”
“Then you should have listened to me! The one in the Rue Jonas was just as good.”
“Yes, I suppose so. I didn’t mind the walk, though,” Wallas answers as he leaves.
On his way to the Rue Jonas, he considers the best way to obtain information about the man in the torn raincoat. Despite his reluctance and Fabius ^ advice, it will be necessary for him to reveal his profession: it is impossible to start up a conversation with all six employees, one after the other, on some ordinary excuse as though by chance. It would therefore be best to ask the postmaster to call his staff together for a brief conference. Wallas will give the description of the man, who must have come in last night between five-thirty and six- unfortunately a busy time. (According to the statements-which agree on this point-of Madame Bax and the drunk, the scene at the fence occurred at nightfall, that is, around five o’clock.)
The hat, the raincoat, the approximate height, the general manner…He does not know much that’s very exact. Should he add that the man looks like himself? This may disturb the witnesses to no purpose, for this resemblance is quite problematical-and, in any case, subjective.
The employees are all in their places now, though the electric clock indicates only one-thirty. Wallas assumes a preoccupied expression and walks past the windows while examining the signs above them:
“Postage Prepaid. Stamps in Sheets. Surcharges. Parcel Post. Air Mail.”
“Parcel Post. Stamps. Registered Letters. Special Delivery. Registered Letters and Packages.”
“Stamps. Money Orders: Postal Orders, Checks, International Money Orders.”
“Savings Bank. Pension Coupons. Pensions and Retirement. Stamps. Money Orders Cashed.”
“Telegrams. Telegraph Money Orders Sent and Cashed. Telephone Payments and Surcharges.”
“Telegrams. Pneumatic Correspondence. Poste Restante. Stamps.”
Behind the window, the girl raises her head and looks at him. She smiles and says as she turns around toward a set of pigeonholes on the wall:
“There’s a letter for you.”
As she looks through the packet of envelopes she has just taken out of one of the pigeonholes, she adds: “I
