She Who Was No More (10 page)

They reached the booking office practically together, and each in turn asked for a ticket to Enghien, third single. It was five past ten by the station clock. A suburban train was waiting and Ravinel chose an empty coach. That would force the chap’s hand. He’d have to come out into the open now. Ravinel took one of the corner seats and threw a newspaper onto the opposite as though to reserve it. The man got in.

‘Is that seat taken?’

‘I’m keeping it for you,’ answered Ravinel firmly.

The man pushed the paper aside, sat down heavily, then leaned forward.

‘Désiré Merlin,’ he said introducing himself, ‘retired detective of the Sûreté.’

‘Retired? Then why…’

Ravinel blurted out the words before he’d had time to think.

‘Yes,’ said Merlin, ‘retired, and I must apologize for having followed you.’

He had very pale blue eyes, shrewd ones, which contrasted with his baggy face. He looked quite good-natured now as he sat with his elbows on his fat knees, a watch chain stretching across his waistcoat. He glanced round him, then began:

‘It was by the merest chance that I overheard your conversation at the Morgue. What you said made me think I might be useful to you. I’ve plenty of time on my hands and twenty-five years of experience behind me. I can recall dozens of cases similar to yours. A woman disappears. Her husband thinks she must be dead. And then one fine day… Believe me, Monsieur, it’s better to think twice before calling in the police.’

The train started and jogged along slowly through an obliterated landscape whose only features were a few blurred lights. Merlin tapped Ravinel’s knee and in a confidential tone went on:

‘I’m particularly well placed for carrying out certain researches, and I can do so quietly without having to report to anybody. Of course I should do nothing illegal, but there’s no reason to think…’

Quietly? Ravinel thought of the squeaking shoes and smiled inwardly. He was regaining confidence. This ex-detective had a pleasant face. Why shouldn’t he be useful? He must know his way about. In all sorts of queer places too, like the Institut Médico-Légal. His pension couldn’t amount to very much, and he was probably only too glad to stumble on a man who’d lost his wife. Perhaps he’d be able to find her.

‘You’re right—you could be useful to me. I’m a traveling salesman. I’m on the road all the week, generally getting home on a Saturday morning. And the day before yesterday, when I got there I found the house empty. I waited two days, and then this morning—’

‘Allow me to ask you a few questions,’ whispered Merlin after once more glancing round to make sure they couldn’t be overheard. ‘How long have you been married?’

‘Five years. And I can assure you that my wife has always been a most devoted—’

But Merlin held up his hand. ‘We’ll come to that later. Any children?’

‘No.’

‘Your parents?’

‘They’re both dead. In any case I don’t see how—’

‘Never mind about that. I know the ropes. Your wife’s parents?’

‘They’re both dead too. She’s got a married brother in Paris—that’s all.’

‘I see… A young woman alone a good deal… Any trouble with her health?’

‘None whatever. She had typhoid three years ago. Apart from that she’s always been in excellent health. Better than mine.’

‘At the Morgue you mentioned certain escapades as a child. Have you ever noticed any sign of—’

‘Insanity? Not the slightest. Mireille’s always had her head screwed on the right way. A bit excitable at times perhaps, a bit irritable, but no more than other people.’

‘Has she got any weapon with her?’

‘No. Though there was a revolver she could have taken.’

‘Did she take much money?’

‘None at all. That is, apparently. For she didn’t even take her bag.’

‘How much is there in it?’

‘Just a few thousand-franc notes and some change. We never have much lying about.’

‘Was she—I mean is she economical?’

‘Yes. Fairly.’

‘She might have been putting money by without your knowing it, and have accumulated quite a lot. I remember a case some years ago…’

Ravinel listened politely. He looked through the window, streaked with droplets. The fog was clearing in places. Had he been right to engage this man? He really couldn’t tell. From Lucienne’s point of view he probably had. But from Mireille’s?… There he was again! Another of those preposterous thoughts. And yet… Would Mireille resent having a private detective on her heels?

The latter was wistfully relating his experience. Ravinel with an effort stopped thinking about Mireille or the future. Things must take their course. So long as he didn’t have to decide…

He started. Merlin had asked him a question.

‘What?’

‘I asked if you were quite sure your wife had no papers with her.’

‘Quite. If she left her bag behind…’

The train jolted, then slowed down.

‘This is Enghien,’ said Ravinel.

Merlin stood up and fumbled for his ticket.

‘Naturally, the most obvious explanation is that your wife’s run away. If she had committed suicide, the body would certainly have been found by this time. After two days…’

That wasn’t very helpful. There certainly was a body and it had to be found. Only, Ravinel couldn’t very well tell him so.

And the nightmare began all over again. Ravinel would have liked to ask the fat man for his papers. But of course he’d be ready for that. He wouldn’t be taken unawares. On the other hand, why shouldn’t he be genuine? Wasn’t it quite natural for a retired policeman to want to earn a bit to supplement his pension? In any case it was too late. Merlin was on the platform waiting for him. There was no escape.

‘The house is only a few minutes’ walk,’ said Ravinel with a sigh.

They set off through the fog, the shoes squeaking more exasperatingly than ever. Ravinel had to make a supreme effort not to lose his nerve. For this was the trap all right. And he had stepped right into it. This Merlin…

‘Are you really a—’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Nothing… Here, this is my street. The house is at the far end.’

‘Can’t think how you can recognize the place in this fog.’

‘I’m so used to it. I’d find my way home with my eyes shut.’

‘Perhaps you’ll find something in your mailbox,’ said Merlin as they reached the gate.

He looked to see, and Ravinel took the opportunity to get indoors first, so as to remove the letter from the table and the knife which was still sticking in the door. Merlin followed.

‘A nice little house you’ve got, I must say,’ he commented. ‘Just the sort of place I used to dream of having myself.’

He rubbed his hands, then removed his hat, revealing an almost bald head and a red line left by the hatband.

‘Will you show me round?’

Ravinel took him into the dining room, after switching off the kitchen light—a matter of habit.

‘Ah! Here’s her handbag.’

Merlin opened it and emptied it onto the table. The usual things—lipstick, powder, a purse, a handkerchief, a half-consumed packet of High-Life cigarettes.

‘No keys?’

Keys? Ravinel hadn’t thought of them.

‘No,’ he said firmly.

And to head the man off further inquiry, he added quickly:

‘Shall we go upstairs?’

They went up to the bedroom. The bed still showed a hollow where Ravinel had slept.

‘Where does that door lead to?’

‘It’s just a cupboard.’

Ravinel opened it and showed the dresses hanging inside.

‘Nothing’s missing except a fur-trimmed coat. But my wife was talking of getting it dyed, and it’s quite possible—’

‘A blue suit. You said at the Morgue…’

‘Yes. That’s gone too.’

‘Shoes?’

‘All the newest pairs are there. As for the old ones, I really couldn’t say how many she had.’

‘And the other room?’

‘My study. Come in. Forgive the mess. Take the armchair
there. And while we’re here we might as well have a drop of brandy to warm us up.’

He opened a filing cabinet and took out a bottle that still contained a few tots. But there was only one glass.

‘If you’ll excuse me a moment, I’ll just run down and fetch another.’

On the whole Merlin’s presence was reassuring. The house seemed more homey now. He went downstairs, through the dining room, and into the kitchen. There he stopped dead, peering out of the window, at a shadowy figure by the garden gate.

‘Merlin!’

It must have been a ghoulish cry, for the detective came rushing down, pale in the face.

‘What is it?’

‘Look! There! Mireille!’

There was no one in the street. Ravinel knew already that Merlin was wasting his time giving chase.

Presently he returned, out of breath. He had been the whole length of the street.

‘Are you really sure?’

No. Ravinel wasn’t sure by any means. He had thought…

What exactly had he thought? He tried hard to recapture the impression, but without success. He needed to sit down in peace and quiet, instead of which here was this man fussing around and firing off questions at him. They muddled him. In any case the house was too small to contain a man like Merlin comfortably.

‘Look here, Ravinel…’

He had decided on his own to drop the Monsieur.

‘…Can you see me?’

He had gone out and was standing outside the gate.

He was obliged to shout to make himself heard. It was ridiculous. Anyone might have thought they were playing hide and seek. ‘I said: can you see me?’

‘No. I can’t see anything.’

‘And if I stand here?’

‘No.’

Merlin came back into the kitchen.

‘I think we must assume that you didn’t see anything at all.
After all, you’re not quite yourself. And in this fog anything can look like a person—even the gatepost.’

That was true enough, but Ravinel was certain of one thing: whatever it was, it
had moved
. He dropped into a chair. Merlin took his place at the window.

‘In any case, if you had seen someone, you couldn’t possibly have recognized who it was. Yet you cried out: “Mireille”…’

The detective turned round, jammed his chin down on his chest, and stared at Ravinel suspiciously.

‘Look here! You’re not leading me a dance, are you?’

‘I swear…’

Why did he always have to swear to people? It had been the same with Lucienne yesterday. Why were they all so reluctant to take his word?

‘Just think for a moment. If there had really been anyone there, I should have been bound to hear steps. I was at the gate within ten seconds.’

‘I’m not sure that you would. You see you were making such a noise yourself.’

‘So that’s it, is it? It’s my fault!’

Merlin’s breath came fast. His cheeks quivered. He started to roll a cigarette to regain his composure.

‘Besides I stopped at the gate.’

‘What of it?’

‘Well, if I stopped, I wasn’t making a noise, was I? I should have heard steps. Fog doesn’t muffle sounds.’

What was the good of this argument? How could he explain to the detective that Mireille could move about without taking any steps at all? Perhaps she was there all the time, perhaps
in the kitchen itself, only waiting for the intruder to go before showing herself.

Of course it was his own fault. The idea of calling in a retired detective of the Sûreté to track down a ghost! It was really a fantastic notion. How could he have seriously hoped for a moment that this Merlin…

‘There are no two ways of looking at it,’ went on the latter. ‘You had a hallucination. In your place I’d go and see a doctor and get the whole thing off my chest—my fears, my suspicions, my visions.’

He licked the gummed edge of the cigarette paper, and his eyes wandered slowly round the room as though he was trying to sense the atmosphere of the house.

‘It couldn’t be much fun for your wife here. Day after day… and then with a husband who—’

He broke off, put his hat on, and slowly buttoned up his overcoat.

‘She’s left you. That’s the long and short of it. And, to be absolutely frank, I can’t see that she’s altogether to blame.’

Ravinel winced. So that’s what people were going to think of him from now on. All because he couldn’t say: ‘She’s dead. I killed her myself.’

Really this was the last straw. He could no longer count on anybody.

‘Then we’ll leave it at that,’ he grunted sulkily. ‘How much do I owe you?’

Merlin started.

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean… And, after all, if you’re sure you saw somebody…’

Oh no! They weren’t going to go through all that again.

‘Three thousand? Four?’

Merlin threw his cigarette down on the tiled floor and stamped on it. He suddenly seemed very old, needy, and pitiable.

‘Whatever you like,’ he muttered sheepishly, looking the other way as his fingers closed on the notes. ‘I should have liked to be of use to you, Monsieur Ravinel… In fact, if anything turns up, I shall always be at your disposal. Here’s my card.’

Ravinel took him to the gate, and the next minute the man had been swallowed up by the fog. But for quite a long time the squeaking of his shoes was audible. He had been right about one thing: fog certainly didn’t blanket sounds.

Going back into the house, Ravinel shut the front door, and the silence came down on him like a pall. He almost groaned, he almost reached out to the banisters for support, for once again he felt sure something had moved. It was all very well treating him as a sick person: he knew he wasn’t suffering from delusions. And Germain. What about Germain? Hadn’t he seen her?

On the other hand there was Lucienne. She had seen Mireille’s dead body. And she was a doctor. Didn’t that prove conclusively that Mireille was dead? Well then?

Ravinel pinched himself and looked at his hands. There was no possibility of mistake: a fact is fact. He went back into the kitchen. The clock had stopped and that gave him a sort of bitter satisfaction. It supplied another confirmation—for would a mentally sick man notice a thing like that? Once again he stared out of the window. Perhaps it would happen again.

His eye caught something—a little splash of white in the mailbox. He went out again and approached cautiously as
though stalking a butterfly. A letter. And that fool of a Merlin hadn’t noticed it.

Ravinel opened the box. No, it wasn’t a letter. Just a piece of paper folded in two on which was written:

It was only a scribble in pencil, but there was no doubt about one thing, none whatever: it was in Mireille’s handwriting. When had she written it? Where? On her knee? Against a wall?… As though Mireille had a knee! As though a wall could offer resistance to her touch! The paper, however—that was real enough, a sheet that had been hastily torn from a block, so hastily that part had been left behind. There had been a printed heading, but all that had come away was Rue Saint-Benoît. Just the street. No number.

Ravinel spread the sheet out on the kitchen table. Rue Saint-Benoît. His forehead was burning, his thoughts in a turmoil, but he mustn’t give way. He must keep tight hold of himself. He would. He was determined to.

The first thing was to have a drink. That would help. There was an unopened bottle of brandy in the cupboard. He looked in vain for the corkscrew. Never mind! Seizing the bottle he brought the neck down sharply on the edge of the sink. Some of the brandy splashed onto the floor, but he didn’t bother about that. He filled a glass and drank half in one gulp.

He seemed to swell. A burning sensation, as though molten lava were welling up within him. Rue Saint-Benoît. He’d got it
now. It was the address of a hotel. It couldn’t be anything else. In that case he must find it. Whether or not it would do any good was a question which could be left to answer itself. For the moment he must find it—that was all that mattered. Of course she couldn’t have taken a room there. That didn’t alter the fact that she was putting him on the track of it. She was sending him there. Perhaps it was there that she would make the definite sign for him to cross over and join her.

He filled his glass again, spilling more, but he had more important things to think about than that. He felt as though he were advancing towards a kind of religious initiation.

I’m terribly sorry I cant explain yet…

Quite understandable. There were secrets that couldn’t be imparted without certain preliminaries. Particularly as she had only been in possession of them herself for a few days. Perhaps she had hardly had time to grasp their significance.

She was coming back that evening, was she? But that didn’t mean that he was simply to sit and wait for her. On the contrary. She had taken the trouble to deliver that note; she had given him the name of a street. That wasn’t accidental. It couldn’t be. It had a meaning, and what it meant was that something was expected of him. They had each to make an effort to reach the other—he mustn’t leave it all to her.

Poor Mireille! How well he understood her now. She wasn’t angry—not in the least. She was happy in that unknown world where she was waiting for him, and her one wish was that he should share her joy. And there he was, frightened out of his wits! And there was Lucienne who could only think of the body! The body simply didn’t count, though the people of this world were so obsessed by it they couldn’t see beyond
their noses. Lucienne was a materialist whose mind was shut to all that was unseen. Like everyone else for that matter. Like Merlin for instance.

All the same it was odd he shouldn’t have found the letter. Wasn’t that solid enough? Or was it only visible to certain people?

It was after two. Ravinel went and opened the garage. He’d think about lunch later. Food: that was another thing that didn’t really matter. He started up the engine and backed out the car. The fog had changed color. It was now blue-gray, as though darkness were already falling. He shut the garage again, as a matter of habit, then drove off.

A strange journey suspended in the clouds. For there was no solid ground, no road, no houses, nothing but wandering lights, floating like himself in a world of cold, damp smoke. It was hard going, and Ravinel felt heavy and dull. A vague nameless pain gnawed at his guts. At last he reached Saint-Germain des Prés, where he parked the car and made for the Rue Saint-Benoît.

A short street, fortunately. Ravinel started down the left-hand side, and almost immediately came to the first hotel, a small residential one with no more than twenty-five keys hanging up behind the reception desk.

‘Can you tell me if there’s a Madame Ravinel staying here?’

A cool, critical look. For he was unshaven and carelessly dressed. It wasn’t surprising if he didn’t inspire much confidence. All the same the register was consulted.

‘No. There’s no one of that name here.’

‘Thank you.’

The second hotel, a little more luxurious but still modest. No one at the desk. He went into a small empty lounge. A few wicker chairs, a plant in a pot, a few dog-eared timetables on a low table. Retreating, he called out: ‘Is anyone there?’

His voice echoed strangely. He could hardly believe it was his own. They certainly seemed pretty casual in this hotel. Not only could people walk in and out freely, but anyone could ransack the drawers of the desk if he felt inclined to.

‘Is anyone there?’

A sound of dragging feet, in slippers. An old man with watery eyes emerged from behind the scenes. A black cat circled round him, rubbing against his legs, its tail erect and trembling.

‘Can you tell me if there’s a Madame Ravinel staying here?’

The old man held his hand up to his ear.

‘Madame Ravinel.’

‘Yes, yes. I heard you.’

He shuffled up to the desk onto which the cat promptly jumped. It sat there staring at Ravinel with half-closed eyes, while the man put on some metal-rimmed glasses and began turning over the pages of the register.

‘Ravinel… Yes. The name’s here all right.’

The cat’s eyes were now reduced to tiny slits. After trying various positions, it coiled its tail round in front over its white-spotted feet. Ravinel undid his raincoat, then his jacket and thrust a finger inside his collar.

‘I said: Madame Ravinel.’

‘Exactly! I’m not deaf. Madame Ravinel—Here you are.’

‘Is she in?’

The man took off his spectacles and with his watery eyes studied the set of pigeonholes for letters, which served also as key board.

‘Her key’s there. She must be out.’

Which key was he looking at?

‘Has she been gone long?’

The old man shrugged his shoulders.

‘If you think I’ve got time to keep an eye on everybody. They come and go, and it’s no one’s business but theirs.’

‘Have you seen Madame Ravinel?’

The man stroked the cat thoughtfully, his eyes wrinkling.

‘Let me see now… Still young, isn’t she? And fair. With a fur collar on her coat…’

‘Has she spoken to you?’

‘Not to me. My wife booked her in.’

‘But you’ve heard her speak, I suppose?’

The old man blew his nose and wiped his eyes.

‘From the police, are you?’

Ravinel was taken aback.

‘No. No. She’s… she’s just a friend… I’ve been looking for her for the last few days. Did she have any luggage?’

‘No.’

The tone had become curt. But Ravinel risked one more question.

‘Have you any idea when she’ll be back?’

The old man shut the book with a slam and put his spectacles back into a case that had gone green with age.

‘There’s no knowing. Least of all with her. When you think she’s out she’s in. When you think she’s in she’s out. Afraid I can’t tell you anything about her.’

‘Just a moment. Can I leave my card for her?’

He pulled one out of his wallet, and the man put it in the pigeonhole of No. 19. Ravinel left and plunged into the first café he came to. His mouth seemed like leather.

He sat down in a corner.

‘Cognac.’

Was she really there? From what the man said, he didn’t seem any too certain of her existence. When he thought her in one place, she’d be in another. And no luggage, nothing tangible to confirm her reality. It fitted in with the rest. What would that old dodderer say if he knew what sort of a visitor he had taken in? Of course Ravinel ought really to have talked to the man’s wife. She was the one who had actually dealt with Mireille. But it was like that all along the line. At first sight the evidence seemed overwhelming, but when you looked closer it turned out to be slightly oblique.

Ravinel paid for his drink and went back to the hotel, which was only a few steps away. Once again there was nobody about. His visiting card was still there, with the key of No. 19 hanging just above it. He crept up on tiptoe, holding his breath. Cautiously he unhooked the key, making sure it didn’t click against the attached number plate.