The door is open. The light is on. The drawer of the night; able is wide open. The revolver is no longer there.
Wallas picks up the receiver. Number 124-24. “It’s a direct line.” The ringing at the other end of the line is interrupted at once.
“Hello!” a distant voice says.
“Hello, this is Wallas, it’s…”
“Oh good, I just tried to call you. This is Laurent speaking. I’ve made a discovery-you’ll never guess! Daniel Dupont! He isn’t dead at all! Do you hear me?” He repeats, separating each syllable: “Daniel Dupont is not dead!”
Then who said the telephone in the house wasn’t working?
EPILOGUE
In the dimness of the cafe the manager is arranging the tables and chairs, the ashtrays, the siphons of soda water; it is six in the morning.
The manager is not altogether awake. He is in a bad mood; he has not had enough sleep. Last night he wanted to wait until his lodger returned before locking up; but it was no use keeping awake so late, for he finally closed up all the same and went to bed without ever having seen that damned Wallas come in. He has decided that his lodger was arrested, since the police were looking for him.
Wallas has come in only this morning-ten minutes-ago-looking tired, his face drawn, hardly able to stand up. “The police called, they’re looking for you,” the manager has said as he opened the door for him. Wallas is not affected by the news; he has merely answered: “Yes, I know; thanks,” and he has gone straight upstairs to his room. Too polite to be honest. It was a good thing he had waited until six to come in: if the manager had not been up, he certainly wouldn’t have got out of bed to let him in. Besides, he’s not going to take any more lodgers, it’s too much trouble. It will be a piece of luck if this one doesn’t make trouble with all his problems.
The manager has no sooner put on the light in the cafe than in comes a little man in shabby clothes, dirty hat and an overcoat too… It’s the same one who came yesterday morning at the same time. He asks the same question as the day before:
“Monsieur Wallas, please?”
The manager hesitates, not knowing whether his lodger will find it more disagreeable to be disturbed at this moment or to miss the man who has been looking for him the last twenty-four hours. From his face, the latter does not look as if he had very good news.
“He’s upstairs, just go straight up. It’s the room at the end of the hall on the second floor.”
The little man with the woebegone face heads for the door indicated, at the rear of the cafe. The manager had not noticed yet how silent his footsteps were.
Garinati closes the door behind him. He is in a narrow hall illuminated by a vague light from the ground-glass pane above another door-opening onto the street. The staircase is opposite him. Instead of walking toward it, he follows the hallway to the door-which he opens noiselessly. He finds himself out on the sidewalk again. Wallas is upstairs, that’s all he wanted to know.
Today he won’t let him get away; he will be able to give Bona an account of his every movement. He has only too well deserved his chief’s censure and contempt these last few days. As a consequence Bona had preferred not to mention to him the execution of Albert Dupont, the wood exporter that “Monsieur Andre” had performed last night. A good job, apparently.
But Garinati’s own work has not been so bad as he had thought, after all. He has had to see his victim’s body with his own eyes to be quite certain of his death. He had been getting ideas. The shot he fired at the professor was a deadly one all right.
Bona will be annoyed when he finds out (he always finds out, sooner or later) that Garinati, instead of following the special agent, has spent the night making dangerous expeditions through all the hospitals and clinics in town, looking for the corpse of Daniel Dupont.
He has seen the dead man with his own eyes. It is the last mistake he will have made. From now on he will not be so stupid about losing his confidence in Bona. He will obey his orders without hesitation. Today: follow Wallas like a shadow. It isn’t very hard.
And it won’t be very long: Wallas will leave the city by the first train. He is sitting on the edge of his bed, his elbows on his knees, his head between his hands. He has taken off his shoes, which were hurting him; his feet are swollen from so much walking.
This sleepless night has exhausted him. He has accompanied the chief commissioner everywhere, for Laurent had at once taken charge of the case again and resumed all his duties. Several times, during their nocturnal rides, Wallas fell asleep in the car. Now that he had recovered the missing corpse, Laurent was, on the contrary, quite at ease: he has displayed an energy which his one-day colleague scarcely expected from him-particularly after eight-thirty, when he learned of the murder of the millionaire exporter.
Wallas, on the other hand, has no longer concerned himself with anything. He has stayed on because no one had told him to leave.
When he telephoned the Bureau, Fabius himself answered. Wallas has reported on his case and asked if he could be transferred back to his old department. This was taking the initiative, for he certainly would not have been kept on at this delicate post after such an unfortunate incident. Since the court does not need him for the moment, he will return to the capital during the morning.
In his extreme exhaustion, snatches of his wasted day still come back to torment him: “…and if, at that moment, I had thought about…and if I had…” He chases away these obsessions with an impatient shake of his head. Now it is too late.
Forty-three multiplied by one hundred-fourteen. Four times three, twelve. Four times four, sixteen. Sixteen and one, seventeen. Forty-three. Forty-three. Two. Seven and three, ten. Four and three, seven. Seven and one, eight. Eight and one, nine. Four. Four thousand nine hundred two. There is no other possible solution. “Four thousand nine hundred two…that’s not so good, my boy. Forty-nine square centimeters of surface: you need at least fifty, you know.”
Only one centimeter-all he was missing was that ridiculous space.
He still has two tiny millimeters left over. Two last tiny millimeters. Two square millimeters of dream…It isn’t much. The glaucous water of the canals rises and overflows, covers the granite quays, overflows the streets, spreads its monsters and its mud over the whole city…
Wallas stands up: if he stays here without moving, he will really go to sleep. He tries to take his comb out of his inside jacket pocket, but his gestures are clumsy and in grasping the case he drops his wallet, out of which several papers fall. His carte d’identite shows him that face that once was his; he walks over to the dresser to see himself in the mirror and compares the image with the photograph: lack of sleep, aging his features, has re-established the resemblance. Besides, it would be no use changing this photograph, he need only let his mustache grow out again. He doesn’t really have a narrow forehead, it’s only that his hairline is low.
Putting the papers back in the wallet, Wallas cannot find the return train ticket. He looks to see if it is not still on the floor near the bed; he then searches through all his pockets; he looks through the wallet once again. He remembers having seen the ticket there during the day. He must have dropped it while taking out some money. It was also the only proof of the exact time of his arrival in the city.
On the telephone, Fabius did not have the dramatic reactions Wallas feared. He only half listened to his agent’s account. The chief was on a new lead: now it was the next crime, tonight’s, that was supposed to occur in the capital, according to him, at least.