“And now, toss me your papers.”
He complies. I bend down to pick up his Florentine leather wallet. Three blue-on-blue hundred-Swiss-franc notes. A business card: Charles-André Junker, Imefbank, rue Petitot 6, Geneva. Telephone: 26 12 70. That’s a banker I’ll soon be consulting about the appreciation of our revolutionary investments in Switzerland. Mechanically I pocket the engraved card and the 100 FS notes. Quickly I empty the compartment of his papers. There’s a driver’s licence in the name of François-Marc de Saugy, boulevard des Philosophes 16, Liège. Profession: procurator.
“Procurator of Carl von Ryndt and H. de Heutz I assume?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t know those names …”
“It’s pointless to waste my time, Monsieur … de Saudy …”
“De Saugy …”
“… Monsieur de Saugy. Your ID is in order: you have an expert supplier, I can see that. But I’m not interested in the forger’s art … I know who you are — de Heutz or von Ryndt, I don’t care! — and I know that you’re working against us. I may as well tell you, we’ve dismantled your clever organization and we’re well aware of your close ties with your counterparts in Montreal and Ottawa. To put it bluntly, you’ve had it. Now that we’re face to face again, you’ll understand my dilemma: it’s you or me. It’s the logic of battle. And since I’m the one who is holding you, my dear banker, your time is up. You can say your prayers, as long as they’re brief …”
I see him decompose before my eyes. No doubt he’s trying to get out of this and reverse the situation. This time, though, I’m the one holding the weapon and I’m very comfortable in this position. If I feel relaxed, it’s simply because I’ve got the upper hand. In a way I’m savouring my advantage.
“Look … Please. Let me explain …”
“… explain how you collaborate with the RCMP and its big sister the CIA; and how you regularly contravene article 47b of the Swiss federal constitution to gain access to the bank accounts of certain anonymous investors. Sure, go ahead and explain. I’m all ears.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Monsieur. Believe me, the truth is sadder and certainly less mysterious. At the chateau this morning I put on a show for you. I played my part … I repeat: the truth is rather depressing. What can I tell you? I’m seriously ill. For weeks now I’ve been living like a fugitive …”
“Don’t tire yourself. I know you’re going to talk nonsense to try to gain some time. But it’s not working.”
“I’m not making this up, I swear. It’s the truth. I swear, on the heads of my children!.. Yes, I have two children, two little boys. And I haven’t seen them for weeks. They’re in Belgium. I abandoned them. I ran away. Couldn’t face up to my problems any more. It was the bankruptcy: I didn’t know what to do. And I panicked. One night I wrote a letter to my wife, confessing everything, then I took off without seeing her again, like a coward. My wife didn’t have enough to live on for a week. I boarded the express train to Basel. And I thought that once I was there, where no one knows me, I could steal some money and send it to my wife …”
Listening to his story I feel giddy. H. de Heutz seems so overwhelmed and genuinely moved that I let down my guard. Yet it’s obvious that he’s having a joke at my expense. This entire cock-and-bull story bears a strange resemblance to the one I told him this morning at the Château d’Echandens when I was unilaterally disarming him. Right now H. de Heutz is spinning exactly the same convoluted yarn. It’s plagiarism. Does he really think I’ll swallow it?
“I’m not lying. I went to Basel first. I thought that with my Mauser, I’d work miracles and become a high-class thief overnight: impeccable, polite with cashiers, unpunished to the end. I thought all I’d need was this weapon and my despair, and in a few days I’d make my fortune and send money orders to my wife. I lived in that state for a few days but I never stole anything, never sent a penny to my wife. Every day I’d think: ‘Today’s the day. Today, I’ll succeed.’ And I’d tell myself that soon, when I was rich, I’d bring my wife and children to Switzerland. We could settle here happily, rent a villa in the mountains in the Val d’Hérens near Evolène. I know a wonderful spot around there. I want to live there with my wife and children. You can’t imagine how I long to see those boys. I don’t even know if my wife’s been able to get her hands on any money. When I left Liège I had debts, a mass of debts she didn’t know about. Could she have grown discouraged and killed herself, after strangling the children? I’m afraid. I don’t know what to do. I wonder if I’ll ever see my two little boys again. They probably expect me to turn up at dinner-time every evening. When I was in Liège, I always came home from the office at the same time. They must be asking their mother when I’ll be back, and she must be telling them that I’ve gone away for my work or that I’m dead. It would be good, actually, if she told them I’d died in the war and that I would never come back to play with them …”
“Do you think I’m an idiot, Monsieur de Heutz? Do you think you can distract me with that fairy tale? And on top of everything else you’ve got the gall to serve me up the same story I told you this morning … Really, you’re piling it on a little too thick for my liking, to say nothing of the fact that you’ve got absolutely no imagination!”
As I say that, he bursts out sobbing with such sincerity that it’s unsettling. H. de Heutz really is crying like a sorrowing father, like a man who’s overwhelmed by pain and doesn’t have the strength to face up to life. But I keep reminding myself that this pathetic individual is recounting a soap opera for the sole purpose of escaping (but how?) from the trap where I’m holding him. My job is to stay alert in this preposterous competition and to remember that only one design underlies his performance: to divert my attention, dull my reflexes, instill just enough doubt in me to make me relax my vigilance for as little as a fraction of a second, and to take advantage of it. I constantly have to refute my distress at the sight of him so despondent, his face distraught with emotion and bathed in tears. The man is an impostor: F.M. de Saugy, von Ryndt, H. de Heutz: they’re one and the same person. H. de Heutz is an enemy I’ve brought here for just one reason: to shoot him in cold blood. Nothing in the world must divert me from my plan. Nothing! Particularly not this parade of emotions being put on by our Africanist. In all sincerity, I acknowledge that H. de Heutz is a consummate artist. He has a diabolical gift for falsifying what is plausible; if I weren’t on guard, he’d have roped me in, maybe even convinced me that he’s my brother, that we were destined to meet and understand each other. Really, I’m dealing with the devil.
“All right. This performance has gone on long enough. Don’t wear yourself out over nothing. I don’t believe one word you’ve told me …”
“I have no reason to make anything up. I know that it’s over for me and that in a few seconds — at the time you’ve chosen — you’ll kill me like a dog. I don’t want to live in any case, I haven’t got the strength …”
And with that he starts to cry again desperately. Though I consider him to be the last of the liars, a contemptible tool of the counter-revolution, I have to acknowledge that he really is crying; I can see it.
“I’ll never see my children again; I don’t want to, I don’t deserve to … The last time I was with them, I cried. That’s the image they have of their father. I was distraught. I’d lost my job but I hadn’t told anyone yet. I couldn’t even tell my wife. I’d already started hanging around the banks, waiting for I don’t know what — a miracle maybe. And I’d begun to follow people in the street, imagining that at some point the opportunity would present itself to strike them down and grab their wallets stuffed with money. I thought about nothing else, but when the time came to act, I was numb. Kill me! It’s the best thing that could happen to me. I beg you. Shoot me. For pity’s sake …”