As a matter of fact, the role of this marginal police force is generally quite pacific. Established originally with counterespionage as its real purpose, since the armistice it has become a kind of economic police whose chief function is to check the actions of the cartels. Subsequently, each time a financial, political, religious or other group has seemed to threaten the security of the state, the Bureau of Investigation has taken action and proved itself, on two or three occasions, to be of invaluable assistance to the government.
This time, something quite different is involved: in nine days, nine violent deaths have occurred one after another, of which at least six are definitely murders. Certain resemblances among these various crimes, the nature of the victims, as well as the threatening letters received by other members of the organization to which the nine dead men may have belonged, clearly show that it is a single case that must be dealt with: a monstrous campaign of intimidation-or even of total destruction-conducted (by whom?) against these men whose political role, though not official, is no doubt extremely important and who, for this reason, benefit…from a…
The Place de la Prefecture is a wide square bordered on three sides by buildings with arcades; the fourth side is occupied by the prefecture, a huge stone building ornamented with scrolls and scallops, fortunately few in number-in short, of rather somber ugliness.
In the middle of the square, on a low pedestal protected by an iron fence, stands a bronze group representing a Greek chariot drawn by two horses, in which are standing several individuals, probably symbolic, whose unnatural positions are out of harmony with the presumed rapidity of their equipage.
On the other side begins the Avenue de la Reine, where the skinny elms have already lost their leaves. There are very few people out of doors in this neighborhood; the few bundled-up pedestrians and the black branches of the trees give it a precociously wintry look.
The courthouse cannot be far away, for, aside from its suburbs, the city is certainly not very large. The prefecture clock showed a little after seven-ten, so that Wallas has a good three-quarters of an hour in which to explore the area.
At the end of the avenue, the gray water of an old shunting canal contributes to the frozen calmness of the landscape.
Then comes the Avenue Christian-Charles, a little wider, lined by a few elegant shops and movie theaters. A streetcar passes, occasionally indicating its silent approach by two or three quick rings of its bell.
Wallas notices a signboard showing a yellowed map of the city, a movable pointer in its center. Ignoring this point of reference, as well as the little box containing the street names on a roll of paper, he has no difficulty reconstructing his route: the station, the slightly flattened ring of the Boulevard Circulaire, the Rue des Arpenteurs, the Rue de Brabant, the Rue Joseph-Janeck which joins the parkway, the Rue de Berlin, the prefecture. Now he is going to take the Avenue Christian-Charles as far as the parkway and then, since he has time for it, make a detour to the left, in order to return along the Canal Louis V and then the narrow canal that follows his street…the Rue de Copenhague. It is this latter he has just crossed. When this circuit will have been completed, Wallas will have twice crossed the city proper from one side to the other, within the confines of the Boulevard Circulaire. Beyond, the suburbs extend for considerable distances, dense and unattractive to the east and south, but aerated, toward the northwest, by the numerous ponds of the inland waterway and toward the southwest by the playing fields, a woods, and even a municipal park adorned with a zoo.
There was a shorter way of getting here from the end of the Rue Janeck, but it was also more complicated, and the lady with the quitch-grass broom was right to send him back by way of the prefecture. The black overcoat with the disturbed face turned here and vanished into this swarm of narrow twisting alleyways. On the point of walking away, Wallas remembers that he still has to find the courthouse; he discovers it almost at once, behind the prefecture and connected with it by a tiny street that starts on the square, the Rue de la Charte. As a matter of fact, the main police station is located just opposite. Wallas feels less of a stranger in this space thus marked out, he can move about in it with less deliberation.
Farther down the avenue he passes in front of the post office. It is closed. On the enormous door, a white cardboard poster: “The offices are open continuously from eight A.M. to seven P.M.” After having turned toward the parkway, he soon comes to the canal which he follows, attracted and sustained by it, absorbed in the contemplation of the reflections and the shadows.
When Wallas enters the Place de la Prefecture for the second time, the clock indicates five to eight. He has just time enough to go into the cafe at the corner of the Rue de la Charte to eat something quickly. The place is not at all like what he was expecting: this part of the country does not look as though it cared much about mirrors, chromium, and neon lighting. Behind its inadequate windows, supplemented by the timid glow of a few wall brackets, this big cafe is actually rather mournful, with its dark woodwork and thin banquettes covered in dark imitation leather. Wallas can just barely read the newspaper he has asked for. He quickly glances down the columns:
“Serious traffic accident on the Delft road.”
“The city council will meet tomorrow to elect a new mayor.”
“The medium deceived her clients.”
“Potato production has surpassed that of the best years in the past.”
“Death of one of our fellow citizens. A daring burglar made his way at nightfall yesterday into the residence of M. Daniel
Dupont “
It is likely that Laurent, the chief commissioner, will receive him in person once he arrives, thanks to Fabius’ letter of introduction. Provided he is not offended by such an intervention: Wallas will have to present matters skillfully; otherwise he risks turning the man into an enemy or in any case losing his cooperation, which is indispensable. As a matter of fact, though the local police have shown themselves absolutely ineffectual in dealing with the eight preceding crimes-not having been able to find a single lead and even classifying two cases as “death by accident”-it seems difficult to avoid their collaboration completely: they constitute, in spite of everything, the only possible source of information concerning the supposed “killers.” From another point of view, it would be inopportune to let them suppose that the latter were suspect.
Noticing an open stationery shop, Wallas walks in for no particular reason. A young girl who had been sitting behind the counter stands up to wait on him.
“Monsieur?”
She has a pretty, slightly sullen face and blond hair.
“I’d like a very soft gum eraser, for drawing.”
“Certainly, Monsieur.”
She turns back toward the drawers that line the wall. Her hair, combed straight up from the back of her neck, makes her look older, seen from behind. She searches through one of the drawers and sets down in front of Wallas a yellow eraser with beveled edges, longer than it is wide, an ordinary article for schoolchildren. He asks:
“Haven’t you any supplies just for drawing?”
“This is a drawing eraser, Monsieur.”
She encourages him with a half-smile. Wallas picks up the eraser to examine it more carefully; then he looks at the young girl, her eyes, her fleshy, half-parted lips. He smiles in his turn.