Authors: Alain Robbe-Grillet
In saying this, she gives him an almost mournful half-smile, as if she did not often have the daily papers at her disposal or else did not have time to read them. Her voice is like her face, gentle and faded. Wallas is an old relative come to pay a call, on her visiting day, afte
r a long absence: he is telling
her about the death of a mutual friend, whose loss she laments with well-mannered indifference. It is five in the afternoon. In a little while she will offer him a cup of tea.
“
It
’
s a very sad story,
”
she says.
Wallas, who is not here to receive condolences, puts the question in precise terms: the position of her window might have allowed her to see or hear something.
“
No,
”
she says,
“
I didn
’
t notice anything.
”
She is very sorry.
Hadn
’
t she at least noticed some prowler, some suspicious-looking types she could identify: a man in the street, for instance, who might have been paying abnormal attention to the house?
“
Oh, Monsieur, no one ever walks through this street.
”
Many people walk along the parkway, yes, at certain times: they walk fast and disappear at once. No one comes along this street.
“
Still,
”
Wallas says,
“
someone had to come last night.
”
“
Last night…
”
It is obvious she is searching her memory.
“
Yesterday was Monday?
”
“
It might just as well have been the day before too, or even last week: apparently their work was carefully prepared in advance. Even the telephone was out of order: it might have been a case of sabotage.
”
“
No,
”
she says after a moment
’
s thought,
“
I didn
’
t notice anything.
”
Last night a man in a raincoat tore something out at the
gate. It was hard to see because it was getting dark. He stopped
at the end of the spindle-tree hedge, took out of his pocket a
small object which might have been pliers or a file, and quickly
stuck his arm between the last two bars to reach the top of the
gate inside It only took half a minute: he pulled his hand
out immediately and went on his way, with the same casual gait.
Since this lady assures him she knows nothing, Wallas is ready to say good-bye. It would obviously have been surprising if she had happened to be at her window at just the right time. Besides, on thinking it over, did this
“
right time
”
ever exist? It is rather unlikely that the murderers have come here in broad daylight to plan their attack so calmly—to inspect the premises, make a false key, or dig trenches in the garden to cut the telephone lines.
The first thing he has to do is get in touch with that Doctor Juard. Afterward, if no clue turns up there and if the commissioner has not learned anything new, the other tenants in the building could be questioned. The slightest opportunity must not be neglected. Meanwhile, he will ask Madame Bax not to give away the little story he used as an excuse to the concierge.
To prolong this rest period before continuing his wanderings, Wallas asks two or three more questions; he suggests different noises that might have caught the young woman
’
s attention, unconsciously; a revolver shot, footsteps running on the gravel, a slamming door, an automobile starting up suddenly
…
But she shakes her head and says with her strange smile:
“
Don
’
t tell me too many details; you
’
ll end up making me think I saw the whole thing.
”
Last night a man in a raincoat did something to the gate and since this morning you cannot hear the automatic buzzer when it opens. Yesterday, a man
…
No doubt she
’
ll end up telling him her secret. Moreover, she does not exactly know what it is restraining her.
Wallas, who since the sta
rt of the conversation has been
wondering how to ask her politely if she has been watching much from her window recently, finally stands up.
“
May I?
”
He walks over to the window. It was in this room that he saw the curtain moving. Now he reconstitutes the image which, on the spot and from such close range, does not seem the same any more. He raises the material in order to see more clearly.
From this new angle, the house in the middle of its meticulous garden looks as though it were isolated by the lens of an optical instrument. His gaze shifts to the high chimneys, the slate roof—which in this part of the country strikes a note of preciosity—the brick front ornamentally framed by two field-stone courses which are also echoed, above the windows, by projecting lintels, the arch over the door and the four steps of the stoop. From the street level one cannot appreciate so fully the harmony of the proportions, the rigor—the necessity, one might say—of the whole structure, whose simplicity is scarcely disturbed—or on the contrary, accentuated—by the complicated grillwork of the balconies. Wallas tries to decipher some pattern in these intertwining curves, when he hears the slightly bored voice behind him declaring, as though it were an insignificant thing without any relation to the subject:
“
Last night, a man in a raincoat…
”
At first, Wallas did not believe in the truthfulness of a recollection so belated. Somewhat confused, he turned around toward Madame Bax: her face was still as calm, with that expression of polite exhaustion. The conversation continued in the same mundane tone.
When he expressed a certain discreet surprise at her repeated assertions that she had noticed nothing, the young woman replied that one always hesitates before handing a man over to the police, but from the moment she learned it was a question of murder, she had dismissed her scruples.
There remained the more likely explanation: Madame Bax concealed, beneath her calm exterior, a little too much imagination. But she seemed to divine this impression, and to give more weight to her testimony she added that at least one other person had seen the malefactor: before the latter had reached the parkway a man who was obviously drunk came out of the little
café
—about twenty yards to the left—and took the same direction, staggering slightly; he was singing or talking to himself in a loud voice. The malefactor turned around and the drunk man shouted something to him, trying to walk faster to catch up with him; but the other man, without paying any more attention to him, went on his way toward the harbor.
Unfortunately Madame Bax was unable to furnish a more detailed description: a man in a raincoat with a light gray hat. As for his impromptu traveling companion, she thought she had passed him frequently in the neighborhood; in her opinion, he was probably well known in all the bars in the vicinity.
Leaving the building by the second exit, the one to the Rue des Arpenteurs, Wallas crossed the street to examine the gate: he was able to verify the fact that the automatic buzzer had been twisted to prevent contact when the gate was opened; this job, executed at arm
’
s length, seemed to him to have been the work of uncommon muscular strength.
Looking up, he glimpsed, once again, behind the mesh of embroidered net, the figure of Madame Bax.
“
Hello,
”
Wallas says as he closes the door behind him.
The manager does not answer.
He is motionless, at his post. His massive body is leaning on his arms, spread wide on the counter where his hands grip the edge, as though to keep the body from springing forward
—
or from falling. The neck, alr
eady short, vanishes completely
between the raised shoulders; the head hangs, almost threatening, the mouth slightly twisted, the gaze blank.
“
Cold enough for you this morning?
”
Wallas says—to say something.
He walks over to the cast-iron stove that looks less disagreeable than this mastiff confined, for safety
’
s sake, behind his bar. He holds out his hands toward the glowing metal. For the information he needs, he would probably do better to look elsewhere.
“
Hello,
”
a voice says behind him—a drunken voice, but full of good intentions.
The room is rather dim and the wood-burning stove, which draws badly in cold weather, thickens the air with a bluish haze. Wallas has not noticed the man before. He is slumped over the rear table, the only customer in the
café
, happy to find someone to talk to at last. He probably knows that other drunkard Madame Bax referred to as a witness. But now he is staring at Wallas, opening his mouth and saying with a kind of thick-tongued resentment:
“
Why didn
’
t you want to talk, yesterday?
”
“
Me?
”
Wallas asks, surprised.
“
You think I don
’
t recognize you?
”
the man exclaims, his face lighting up with a cheerful grimace.
He turns around toward the bar and repeats:
“
He thinks I don
’
t recognize him!
”
The manager, his eyes blank, has not moved.
“
You know me?
”
Wallas asks.
“
Of course I do, my friend! Even though I didn
’
t think you
were very polite
“
He counts carefully on his fingers
“
It
was yesterday.
”
“
No,
”
Wallas says,
“
you must be making some mistake.
”
“
He says it was a mistake!
”
the drunk shrieks toward the manager.
“
Me, a mistake!
”
And he bursts into the thunderous laughter.
When he has quieted down a little, Wallas asks—to get into the spirit of the thing:
“
Where was it then? And what time?
”
“
What time, don
’
t ask me! I never know what time it is
It was still dark. And it was here, going out
…
here
…
here
…
here
…
”
With each new
“
here
”
his voice gets louder; at the same time, the man makes a series of huge vague gestures toward the door with his right arm. Then, suddenly calmer, he adds in almost a whisper, and as though to himself:
“
Where else would it be?
”
Wallas despairs of getting anything out of him. Still the pleasant temperature of the room keeps him from leaving. He sits down at the next table.
“
At this time yesterday I was over a hundred kilometers from here
…
”
Slowly the commissioner begins rubbing his palms together again:
“
Of course! Don
’
t good murderers always have an alibi?
”
A satisfied smile. The two plump hands come to rest on the
desk, fingers wide apart
“
What time was it?
”
the drunk asks.
“
When you said.
”
“
That
’
s just it, I didn
’
t say!
”
the drunk exclaims triumphantly.
“
You pay for the round.
”
Funny joke, Wallas thinks. But he does not budge. The manager now looks at him reproachfully.
“
It
’
s all a lie,
”
the drunk concludes after a pause for laborious reflection. He examines Wallas and adds scornfully:
“
You don
’
t even have a car.
”
“
I came by train,
”
Wallas says.
“
Oh,
”
the drunk says.