Night Without Stars (11 page)

But I was too shaken up for a miring and by the time my legs were holding, other thoughts were cramming in. From somewhere I got the idea of a suicide pact. Perhaps because of me things had gone amiss between Alix and Pierre, and in his temperamental way he'd decided to finish them both. It fitted with Alix's attempt to tell me something while pretending to speak to someone else. Perhaps she thought I would be in time to stop it.

“Alix! Alix!” I shouted, getting up and beginning to grope about, dreading now that I should stumble across her body. I flung open the bedroom door and went in, switching on the light from habit, felt across the bed, beside the wardrobe, by the window, moving my feet like mine detectors across the floor.

“Alix! Alix!” I shouted, going into the kitchen, knocking over a chair, feeling about the floor. There was another door beyond, but that led out of the flat. I came back wiping the sweat. The silence was unbearable. Steady, steady! Think. The whole thing's got a perfectly natural explanation. Pierre and Alix were sitting smoking, listening to the radio; Pierre had a heart attack, died suddenly; Alix panicked, ran for a doctor. Any minute she'll be back. But why not phone for the doctor? And why that oblique call?

There was one way of finding out something more, but it wasn't the way I wanted to take. It's one thing to look at a dead body for signs of the cause of death; it's another to have to feel over it.

The telephone bell rang.

It was close beside me and jerked at my nerves. I felt for the phone; stop it at once. Another table, books, telephone. But if I answered it …

Well, the thing couldn't go on ringing in that silent flat

I took off the receiver.

“Yes?”

“M. Grognard?” It was a man's voice.

“No,” I said, and cleared my throat. “ M. Grognard is not in.”

“Oh.… Very well. I'll call him later.”

“Who is it speaking please?”

But the man had rung off. I put the receiver back.

My other cigarette had got lost long since. I took out a new one and lit it standing there in the middle of the room, hoping it would steady my nerves. My voice must have sounded like a frog's. I'd got to think quickly, reason it out. Suppose something had happened between Alix and Pierre, they had quarrelled and Alix had left for good. Must get in touch with her. She would be back at her own flat. Ring now. But she had no phone in her own flat—it would mean her coming downstairs, talking in semi-public. Better to go round.

The cigarette was helping a bit; I thought, well, whatever else, Pierre can't hurt you now. It may be unpleasant, but it's only a superstition, an instinct. I went over to the settee, and by a touch here and there made out how he was lying. He'd been sitting more or less straight with his head back when I got hold of his arm, and the pull had been enough to topple him over. Now he was lying on his face across the length of the settee and a jerk would probably overbalance him on to the floor. In spite of reason, that was something it seemed better to avoid.

I stubbed out the cigarette. His head was under my hand. Sleek black hair. I let my fingers travel over it: quickly took them away. The hair was sticky with something beside pomade; a deep wound along the top of the skulk

So not much examination needed. I wasn't specially grateful. I'd wanted some comfortable, reasonable solution to pull it all back to normal again; not this.

I turned and made for the outer door, in a sudden hurry now to be gone. As the door opened I realised I'd not got my stick.

Back again, groping on the floor about the settee. Not there. God only knew what had happened to it. In that first panic it might have been dropped in any of the three rooms. I went back into the kitchen, then into the bedroom. The infuriating thing was that it might have come within an inch of one of my groping hands and still have been passed by.

A car went past outside, seemed to be stopping, accelerated away again with grating gears. That settled it: the stick would have to be left. I went out, pulling the outer door to behind me but not catching it. That was as it had been found.

The air was cool, even cold; in the flat it had been overheated, the electric fire burning away. I went down the steps with shaky knees, found myself in the quiet street. The breeze was like a tonic. I could think straight again, my mind not pushed askew. I began to walk down the street.

“Pardon me,” I said. ‘It's Mme. Delaisse on the fourth floor I want. I don't know the number.”

“Number forty-two, m'sieu. All the doors are marked.”

“Thank you. Unfortunately I'm too short-sighted to see the numbers. Would it be possible for someone to come up with me?”

“I will come up with you.” She said it grudgingly, but I was thankful it wasn't the woman who'd shouted after me last week.

“Are you—Mme. Colloni?”

“I am, m'sieu.”

“Have you had any phone call from Mme. Delaisse to-night?”

“No. Nothing at all.”

We went up and she showed me the door. I thanked her and knocked but there was no reply. I knocked twice more and found a bell and rang that. Alix wasn't at home. She hadn't got back. I waited a quarter of an hour and then gave it up. It wasn't until I was nearly home that I realised what a corner I might be in myself.

Supposing Pierre hadn't fallen in the hearth or slipped from a ladder—in fact supposing appearances were what they seemed—whom would the police be likely to suspect as a murderer? Surely a semi-blind Englishman who'd had a quarrel with the murdered man a few days before, whose stick was found on the scene of the crime, who'd probably got bloodstained hands or bloodstained clothing—which might already have been noticed—and who had obligingly left fingerprints on practically every polished surface in the flat.

I got home and went up and mixed a stiff brandy. I needed it. I couldn't hold the glass steady.

Ought to have rung the police. As soon as I found Pierre I ought to have rung the police. Because of Alix I'd hardly thought of it. All the time I'd felt, she'll explain, she'll explain. Well, she hadn't If she didn't ring or come soon …

I went to bed about one. Through the night I kept thinking I heard the phone or someone knocking. Twice I dreamed Pierre Grognard was sitting in the chair by the bed waiting for me. I kept waking up in a sweat saying: “God, it's dark!” Then I'd rub and rub at my eyes, trying to see.

It was bad to get tangled up in a thing like this when I was at such a disadvantage. If Alix wanted my help I wanted to be there, not groping about in the darkness half a mile away. She might still be somewhere in the flat dead like her fiancé. This was the worst thought of all. Once I nearly got up and went back to the flat to see if the door was still ajar, to see if there was still time to make another search.

It came light at last and I got up and had a bath and shaved. It was still early, but I couldn't rest and picked up the receiver to try Pierre's flat but I put the phone down again. By now almost certainly the police would be there. No point in tying myself up still more. Whatever had happened one ought to go slow. After all, my stick was not an unusual one, it carried no name or initials; the quarrel and the fingerprints might just not connect up.

Breakfast and the morning papers. It had all happened too late for these. After the meal I went out, bought another stick and went round to the shoe-shop.

She was not in her usual corner.

“Yes, monsieur? Can I help you?”

“I'm looking for Mme. Delaisse.”

“Our assistant? I'm sorry, Mme. Delaisse is on holiday.”

“Holiday? How long for?”

“I think it is ten days. It started from Wednesday, I know.”

“She wasn't here yesterday?”

“No, monsieur.”

“Thank you.”

Stand in the street for a minute in the sun. She wasn't here yesterday. I walked slowly across the town to her apartment. After trying the fourth floor and getting no answer I found Mme. Colloni again.

She said: “No, m'sieu, Mme. Delaisse is away.”

“Oh, you've seen her since last night, then.”

“No, m'sieu, she wrote to me. She has gone on a holiday.”

“I should be very much obliged if you could tell me where she has gone.”

“I don't know, m'sieu. She writes from Grasse.”

“You mean the letter was posted from Grasse?”

“Of course.”

“When you saw her last she didn't tell you she was going on a holiday?”

“Oh, I knew she was thinking of it. She has gone away to get married, you see.”

“Married …”

“Yes. She was a widow, you understand.”

“Oh, yes, I know that.”

The woman didn't say any more, but I couldn't leave it like that. I let her see that they were hundred-franc notes in my hand.

“Does she mention the name of her husband?”

“No, m'sieu.”

“When was the letter posted in Grasse?”

“Yesterday afternoon.”

“And it was delivered here this morning?”

“Yes, this morning.”

I couldn't make the thing out at all. “ If she should come back unexpectedly, would you ring me at this number? It's specially important. I'II make it worth doing.”

“Very well, m'sieu. Thank you very much.”

I waited till the afternoon and then sent out for the evening papers. Larosse read them to me. Because I couldn't tell him what to look for I had to sit patiently while he went through the French government crisis and all the other stuff. He drew a complete blank.

I said: “But is there no local news? No murders, suicides, weddings, or births to make it all more interesting?”

He chuckled and went on picking out bits; but it was perfectly plain by now that there was nothing about Grognard in the papers.

I waited in then until seven o'clock, hoping against hope for a message of some sort.
Had
she phoned last night? How could she have phoned if she was in Grasse? Had I mistaken the voice or the message? At seven I went out and had a meal, then walked to the square where the busses start. One left at eight-thirty for Cap Ferrat. This would do as it would pass through Villefranche.

I hadn't been to the Café Gambetta on my own, but it was easy enough to find. The bus stopped on the main road, and you went straight down towards the quay, took the second on the left, and followed straight along till you came to the steps.

It had been a lovely day, though I hadn't been in a mood to appreciate it. Now in the evening a nightingale was beginning to warble. The scents were particularly clear: the hot sun had warmed the earth, and in the cool everything was fresh and fragrant. One could picture the harbour glimmering and glinting in the evening light, the long curve of the bay, the mountains behind.

I went along pretty cautiously because Villefranche is a bit of a death-trap for the non-seeing or the unwary. You're always coming to a step or two or a sudden dip in the cobbles or a sharp angle in the streets. It must have been about nine or just after when I walked up to the Café Gambetta. It was quieter than usual, and in the outer room there was only the usual four in the corner playing cards and two or three men at the bar.

“M'sieu?” said the boy behind the bar.

It didn't sound the usual voice.

“Is it Francois?” I said.

“No. My name is Raoul.”

“You're new here, aren't you?”

“No, m'sieu. I've been here for some time.”

“Is Mère Roget in?”

“Mère Roget, m'sieu? Who is she?” The four in the corner had stopped playing. I put my hand gently

on the bar.
“Go and tell Mère Roget that Giles Gordon wants to see her.”
He sounded puzzled. “But m'sieu, I know no Mère Roget. You

are mistaken.”
I said: “Go and fetch Armand Delaisse, then. Ask him if his sister

is here.”
He said again, but in a more impatient tone: “You've made a

mistake, m'sieu. No one of that name lives here. Can I get you

something to drink?”
I turned to the man playing cards. “ Isn't this the Café Gambetta?”
“No, m'sieu. This is the Café des Fourmis.”
A couple of them said it together. Strange voices.
“This is the Rue St. Agel?”
“No, m'sieu. The Rue Carnot”
What a fool. To think yourself so clever getting here. “I beg your

pardon. I've mistaken the street.”
I moved away from the bar. Even the floor seemed familiar.
I said to the men at the table: “Could you direct me to the Rue

St. Agel? Is it the one below this?”
There was silence. Then one of them said: “ I've never heard of

the Rue St Agel, m'sieu. Is it in Villefranche?”
“It certainly is. The Café Gambetta is on the corner.”
Another said: “ I've lived in Villefranche all my life and never

heard of either.”
“Thank you very much.” I turned into the street.
Just for a minute my head swam. It all seemed so lunatic. That

people shouldn't know of the Café Gambetta, people who were

natives of the place. In a bit I should be asking if this was Villefranche.

They were lying—it couldn't be anything else. A clumsy device,

and not hard to show up. I walked away a few yards, bit at the

handle of my stick, then walked farther off, to the other end of

the street. There I drew back against the wall and waited. When

perhaps five minutes had passed I came out again and listened for

the next passer-by.

Two women were coming up from the direction of the harbour. They were talking away at a great rate about the price of meat.

I said: “ Forgive me, I'm short-sighted. Could you tell me the name of this street?”

They stopped in mid-spate. One said: “ Rue Carnot, m'sieu.”

That shook me up.

“And the café down there on the corner?”