carried on the family tradition,
talking to his son about our Uncle Gedeon, who had become by now quite a
legendary figure. He provided a theme for bedtime stories, and all sorts of
adventures were attributed to him. Naturally he was fabulously rich, and when
one day he came back to France—”
“I understand. He
died out there?”
“In a hospital in
Cleveland. It was then we found out he had been really a porter in a
restaurant. It would have been too cruel to tell the boy that, so the legend
went on.”
“Did he believe in
it?”
It was Olivier who
answered. “My brother thought he didn’t, that he’d guessed the truth but wasn’t
going to spoil the game. But I always maintained the contrary and I’m still practically
certain he took it all in. He was like that. Long after his schoolfellows had
stopped believing in Father Christmas, he still went on.”
Talking about his
son brought him back to life, transfigured him.
“But as for this
note he left, I don’t know what to make of it. I asked the concierge if a
telegram had come. For a moment I thought Andre might have played us a
practical joke, but I soon dismissed the idea. It isn’t much of a joke to get a
boy dashing off to a station on a freezing night. Naturally I dashed off to the
Gare d’Austerlitz as fast as I could. There I hunted high and low, then
wandered about, waiting anxiously for him to turn up. Andre, you’re sure he
hasn’t been—”
He looked at the
street plan on the wall and at the switchboard. He knew very well that every
accident was reported.
“He hasn’t been run
over,” said Andre. “At about eight o’clock he was near the Etoile, but we’ve
completely lost track of him since then.”
“Near the Etoile?
How do you know?”
“It’s rather a long
story, but it boils down to this—that a whole series of alarms were set off by
someone smashing the glass. They followed a circuitous route from your place to
the Arc de Triomphe. At the foot of the last one, they found a blue-check
handkerchief, a boy’s handkerchief, among the broken glass.”
“He has
handkerchiefs like that.”
“From eight o’clock
onward, not a sign of him.”
“Then I’d better
get back to the station. He’s certain to go there, if he told me to meet him
there.”
He was surprised at
the sudden silence with which his last words were greeted. He looked from one
to the other, perplexed, then anxious.
“What is it?”
His brother looked
down at the floor. Inspector Saillard cleared his throat, hesitated, then
asked, “Did you go to see your mother-in-law last night?”
Perhaps, as his
brother had suggested, Olivier was rather lacking in intelligence. It took a
long time for the words to sink in. You could follow their progress in his
features.
He had been gazing
rather blankly at the Inspector. Suddenly he swung around on his brother, his
cheeks red, his eyes flashing. “Andre, you dare to suggest that I—”
Without the
slightest transition, his indignation faded away. He leaned forward in his
chair, took his head in his two hands, and burst into a fit of raucous weeping.
Ill at ease,
Inspector Saillard looked at Andre Lecœur, surprised at the latter’s calmness,
and a little shocked, perhaps, by what he may well have taken for
heartlessness. Perhaps Saillard had never had a brother of his own. Andre had
known his since childhood. It wasn’t the first time he had seen Olivier break
down. Not by any means. And this time he was almost pleased, as it might have
been a great deal worse. What he had dreaded was the moment of indignation, and
he was relieved that it had passed so quickly. Had he continued on that tack,
he’d have ended by putting everyone’s back up, which would have done him no
good at all.
Wasn’t that how
he’d lost one job after another? For weeks, for months, he would go meekly
about his work, toeing the line and swallowing what he felt to be humiliations,
till all at once he could hold no more, and for
talking to his son about our Uncle Gedeon, who had become by now quite a
legendary figure. He provided a theme for bedtime stories, and all sorts of
adventures were attributed to him. Naturally he was fabulously rich, and when
one day he came back to France—”
“I understand. He
died out there?”
“In a hospital in
Cleveland. It was then we found out he had been really a porter in a
restaurant. It would have been too cruel to tell the boy that, so the legend
went on.”
“Did he believe in
it?”
It was Olivier who
answered. “My brother thought he didn’t, that he’d guessed the truth but wasn’t
going to spoil the game. But I always maintained the contrary and I’m still practically
certain he took it all in. He was like that. Long after his schoolfellows had
stopped believing in Father Christmas, he still went on.”
Talking about his
son brought him back to life, transfigured him.
“But as for this
note he left, I don’t know what to make of it. I asked the concierge if a
telegram had come. For a moment I thought Andre might have played us a
practical joke, but I soon dismissed the idea. It isn’t much of a joke to get a
boy dashing off to a station on a freezing night. Naturally I dashed off to the
Gare d’Austerlitz as fast as I could. There I hunted high and low, then
wandered about, waiting anxiously for him to turn up. Andre, you’re sure he
hasn’t been—”
He looked at the
street plan on the wall and at the switchboard. He knew very well that every
accident was reported.
“He hasn’t been run
over,” said Andre. “At about eight o’clock he was near the Etoile, but we’ve
completely lost track of him since then.”
“Near the Etoile?
How do you know?”
“It’s rather a long
story, but it boils down to this—that a whole series of alarms were set off by
someone smashing the glass. They followed a circuitous route from your place to
the Arc de Triomphe. At the foot of the last one, they found a blue-check
handkerchief, a boy’s handkerchief, among the broken glass.”
“He has
handkerchiefs like that.”
“From eight o’clock
onward, not a sign of him.”
“Then I’d better
get back to the station. He’s certain to go there, if he told me to meet him
there.”
He was surprised at
the sudden silence with which his last words were greeted. He looked from one
to the other, perplexed, then anxious.
“What is it?”
His brother looked
down at the floor. Inspector Saillard cleared his throat, hesitated, then
asked, “Did you go to see your mother-in-law last night?”
Perhaps, as his
brother had suggested, Olivier was rather lacking in intelligence. It took a
long time for the words to sink in. You could follow their progress in his
features.
He had been gazing
rather blankly at the Inspector. Suddenly he swung around on his brother, his
cheeks red, his eyes flashing. “Andre, you dare to suggest that I—”
Without the
slightest transition, his indignation faded away. He leaned forward in his
chair, took his head in his two hands, and burst into a fit of raucous weeping.
Ill at ease,
Inspector Saillard looked at Andre Lecœur, surprised at the latter’s calmness,
and a little shocked, perhaps, by what he may well have taken for
heartlessness. Perhaps Saillard had never had a brother of his own. Andre had
known his since childhood. It wasn’t the first time he had seen Olivier break
down. Not by any means. And this time he was almost pleased, as it might have
been a great deal worse. What he had dreaded was the moment of indignation, and
he was relieved that it had passed so quickly. Had he continued on that tack,
he’d have ended by putting everyone’s back up, which would have done him no
good at all.
Wasn’t that how
he’d lost one job after another? For weeks, for months, he would go meekly
about his work, toeing the line and swallowing what he felt to be humiliations,
till all at once he could hold no more, and for
Similar Books
