Wallas stands behind the back of the chair and looks toward the door; this is a good place to wait for the arrival of the hypothetical murderer. It would be even better to turn out the light; the special agent would then have time to see the enemy before being discovered.
From his observation post, Wallas carefully notes the location of the various pieces of furniture. He goes back to the door, presses the light button, and in the dark returns to the same place. He checks his position by resting his free hand on the back of the chair in front of him.
4
If the murderer’s trail has not been picked up, it is because Daniel Dupont has not been murdered; yet it is impossible to reconstruct his suicide in any coherent way…Laurent rubs his hands together faster… And what if Dupont weren’t dead?
The chief commissioner suddenly understands the oddities of this “wound,” the impossibility of letting the police see the “corpse,” Doctor Juard’s embarrassed looks. Dupont is not dead; it just took a little thought to realize that.
The motives of the entire story are not yet quite clear, but the point of departure is here: Daniel Dupont is not dead.
Laurent picks up his telephone and dials a number: 202-203.
“Hello, Cafe des Allies?”
“Yes,” a low, almost cavernous voice replies.
“I’d like to speak to Monsieur Wallas.”
“Monsieur Wallas isn’t here,” the voice answers, disgustedly.
“You don’t know where he is?”
“How should I know?” the voice says, “I’m not his nursemaid.”
“This is the police calling. You have a man staying there named Wallas, don’t you?”
“Yes, I reported him this morning,” the voice says.
“That’s not what I’m asking. I’m asking if this man is in your establishment. Has he gone up to his room?”
“I’ll find out,” the voice answers reluctantly. A minute later it adds with a note of satisfaction: “No one’s there!”
“All right. I’d like to speak to the manager.”
“I’m the manager here,” the voice says.
“You are. Then it was you who told an inspector that nonsense about some fictitious son of Professor Dupont?”
“I didn’t say anything like that,” the voice protests. “I said that sometimes young people came in here, they’re all ages-some young enough to be Dupont’s sons…”
“Did you say he had a son?”
“I don’t even know whether he had any! He never came in here, and even if he had I wouldn’t have stopped him from getting into every whore in the neighborhood-excuse me, Monsieur.” The voice suddenly grows gentler, making an attempt at correctness: “The inspector asked if any young people ever came in here; I said yes. Over sixteen is legal. Then he insinuated that maybe this Dupont had a son; I didn’t want to say no, so I said it was perfectly possible he had come in here to drink one day or the other…”
“All right. We’ll send for you. But from now on watch out what you’re saying; and try to be a little more polite. Monsieur Wallas didn’t say what time he’d be back?”
A pause. The other man has hung up. A threatening smile is already spreading across the commissioner’s face…when he finally hears the voice: “All he said was that he would sleep here tonight.”
“Thanks. I’ll call back.”
Laurent hangs up. He rubs his hands. He would have liked to announce his discovery to the special agent right away. He enjoys in anticipation Wallas’ incredulous astonishment when he will hear at the end of the wire: “Dupont isn’t dead. Dupont is in hiding at Doctor Juard’s clinic.”
5
“The car is here,” Juard says.
Dupont stands up and starts for the door at once. He is dressed for the trip. He has been able to put only one arm through the sleeve of his heavy overcoat, which the doctor has buttoned as well as possible over the wounded arm, which is held in a canvas sling. He is wearing a wide-brimmed felt hat that entirely conceals his forehead. He has even accepted dark glasses so that no one will recognize him; the only pair to be found in the clinic was a pair of medical glasses, one of whose lenses is very dark and the other much lighter-which gives the professor the comical look of a villain in a melodrama.
Since at the last minute Marchat refuses to do him the favor he had promised, Dupont will have to go to the little house for the papers himself.
Juard has arranged matters so that the corridors of the clinic are empty when his friend passes through them. The latter has no difficulty getting to the big black ambulance waiting in front of the door. He sits down on the front seat beside the driver-it will be easier for getting in and out without wasting any time.
The driver has put on the black hospital uniform and the flat cap with the shiny visor. Actually this must be one of the “bodyguards” Roy-Dauzet uses, more or less officially. The man, moreover, has an impressive build, a sober manner, the hard, inscrutable face of a film killer. He hasn’t opened his mouth once; he has handed the professor the letter from the minister proving that he is the man they have been expecting, and as soon as the doctor has slammed the door, he drives away.
“We have to stop at my house first,” Dupont says. “I’ll tell you where to go. Turn right…Right again…To the left…Around that building… Turn here…The second on the right…Now straight ahead…”
In a few minutes they reach the Boulevard Circulaire. Dupont has the car stop at the corner of the Rue des Arpenteurs.
“Don’t park here,” he tells the driver. “I prefer not to have my visit noticed. Drive around, or park a few hundred yards away. And be back in exactly half an hour.”
“Yes, Monsieur,” the man says. “Do you want me to park the car and come with you?”
“There’s no need for that, thank you.”
Dupont gets out and walks quickly toward the gate. He hears the ambulance drive away. The man is not a “bodyguard”: he would have insisted on following Dupont. His looks had fooled the professor, who now smiles at his own romanticism. The very existence of these famous guards is, moreover, quite uncertain.
The gate is not closed. The lock has been out of order for a long time, the key does not even turn in it, which does not prevent the latch from closing. Old Anna is growing quite careless-unless some child was playing here and opened the gate after he left-a child or a prowler. Dupont climbs the four steps up to the door, to make sure that the front door, in any case, is actually locked; he turns the heavy brass doorknob and pushes hard, adding the pressure of his shoulder, for he knows that the hinges are very stiff; since he wants to be sure of the result and mistrusts the unaccustomed movements imposed by his single good arm, he repeats the effort two or three times, yet without daring to make too much noise. But the big door is locked tight.
He has given Marchat the keys to this door, and the businessman has left without even bothering to return them. Dupont has only the key to the little glass door left; he must therefore walk around the house to the back. Under his feet, the gravel crunches faintly in the silence of the night. It was a mistake to count on that coward Marchat. He has wasted the whole afternoon waiting for him; finally he telephoned his house, but there was no one there; at quarter to seven he finally received a message that came from somewhere: Marchat was sorry, he had had to leave town on urgent business. That was a lie, of course. It was fear that had made him run away.