sounds familiar.”
The bookseller began to search his shelves, systematic and diligent.
“Do you know who published it?”
“Sorry, I don’t.”
“The name Heutz does ring a bell …”
It was already half-past two when I resolved what my next move would be. I put my hand in my pocket, pretended I was combing through the history books, and counted my keys without showing them. I’d made my decision. Then, noting that the bookseller was having more trouble than I was tolocate something by H. de Heutz, I thanked him for his efforts. Out of courtesy, I picked up the first book that came to hand, Greene’s
Our Man in Havana
, and paid for it, already anxious to get outside and swing into action. On the sidewalk of the Grande-Rue, I looked in vain for a taxi. Then I set out resolutely towards the station. Before I even got there, I hailed a taxi, which stopped.
“To the chateau!”
Giving that order let me regain full possession of my strength. Slumped on the seat, I was thinking with salutary certainty that I was on my way to a positive result, at one masterstroke getting rid of H. de Heutz and then, free as the breeze, joining K on the terrace of the Hôtel d’Angleterre. A few minutes later the taxi stopped at the gate to the Necker estate. To allow the driver time to turn around and head back towards the village, I pretended to be studying the decrepit front of the chateau and the wrought-iron gate that kept people out. As soon as I could no longer see the taxi, I started walking like a solitary stroller along the narrow road that turns sharply to follow the edge of the forest. There was no one around. The rustling of leaves, the song of the birds and of the wind from the moraine filled the pastoral silence of nature. Then the small blue shape of the Opel came into sight through a clump of trees. I stopped briefly, alert for any strange rustling that would warn of an enemy presence. But there were no false notes in the smooth murmur of this beautiful summer day. Cautiously, I took a few steps in the forest and found myself back in the place that I’d fled just a few hours earlier. The trunk of the car was still open, the door was swaying feebly in the wind. I closed it, unable to do so silently. I had no trouble spotting the proper key, which I inserted in the ignition to get the little Opel on the road.
The key chain held four keys in all: now I’d just have to try the three others in the lock of the Château d’Echandens. One of them would surely give me access to the chateau, towhich I’d decided to return. A search, even a hasty one, would certainly tell me something and perhaps I’d make some discoveries that would help us unmask our enemies. Moreover, by gaining admittance to the chateau I would thwart all the expectations of H. de Heutz, who might suddenly materialize in my sights, a perfect target, paralyzed with stupor. I just had to take one precaution as I entered the grounds: conceal the blue Opel perfectly, preferably in the garage, since that was where the other person had got into the car that had escorted me to Geneva, following me at the very moment when I was going to kill H. de Heutz. Since then, H. de Heutz and his blonde associate must have been looking for me with something resembling rage. They’ll come back to their chateau for some peace and quiet eventually, with no idea that it’s in their stronghold that I’ve taken refuge. My strategy can only disconcert them: of its kind it’s a small masterpiece. The Prussian blue Opel cabriolet will serve as my Trojan horse to beleaguer the enemy citadel. I, revolutionary agent twice caught off guard, had in a sense disguised myself as H. de Heutz, arrayed in his blue cuirass, outfitted with his false identities, and bearing his heraldic keys. And in that guise I was about to gain admittance to the grand salon where I too will turn my back on the Dents du Midi that were illuminated this morning beyond the big French doors. One thing is
The bookseller began to search his shelves, systematic and diligent.
“Do you know who published it?”
“Sorry, I don’t.”
“The name Heutz does ring a bell …”
It was already half-past two when I resolved what my next move would be. I put my hand in my pocket, pretended I was combing through the history books, and counted my keys without showing them. I’d made my decision. Then, noting that the bookseller was having more trouble than I was tolocate something by H. de Heutz, I thanked him for his efforts. Out of courtesy, I picked up the first book that came to hand, Greene’s
Our Man in Havana
, and paid for it, already anxious to get outside and swing into action. On the sidewalk of the Grande-Rue, I looked in vain for a taxi. Then I set out resolutely towards the station. Before I even got there, I hailed a taxi, which stopped.
“To the chateau!”
Giving that order let me regain full possession of my strength. Slumped on the seat, I was thinking with salutary certainty that I was on my way to a positive result, at one masterstroke getting rid of H. de Heutz and then, free as the breeze, joining K on the terrace of the Hôtel d’Angleterre. A few minutes later the taxi stopped at the gate to the Necker estate. To allow the driver time to turn around and head back towards the village, I pretended to be studying the decrepit front of the chateau and the wrought-iron gate that kept people out. As soon as I could no longer see the taxi, I started walking like a solitary stroller along the narrow road that turns sharply to follow the edge of the forest. There was no one around. The rustling of leaves, the song of the birds and of the wind from the moraine filled the pastoral silence of nature. Then the small blue shape of the Opel came into sight through a clump of trees. I stopped briefly, alert for any strange rustling that would warn of an enemy presence. But there were no false notes in the smooth murmur of this beautiful summer day. Cautiously, I took a few steps in the forest and found myself back in the place that I’d fled just a few hours earlier. The trunk of the car was still open, the door was swaying feebly in the wind. I closed it, unable to do so silently. I had no trouble spotting the proper key, which I inserted in the ignition to get the little Opel on the road.
The key chain held four keys in all: now I’d just have to try the three others in the lock of the Château d’Echandens. One of them would surely give me access to the chateau, towhich I’d decided to return. A search, even a hasty one, would certainly tell me something and perhaps I’d make some discoveries that would help us unmask our enemies. Moreover, by gaining admittance to the chateau I would thwart all the expectations of H. de Heutz, who might suddenly materialize in my sights, a perfect target, paralyzed with stupor. I just had to take one precaution as I entered the grounds: conceal the blue Opel perfectly, preferably in the garage, since that was where the other person had got into the car that had escorted me to Geneva, following me at the very moment when I was going to kill H. de Heutz. Since then, H. de Heutz and his blonde associate must have been looking for me with something resembling rage. They’ll come back to their chateau for some peace and quiet eventually, with no idea that it’s in their stronghold that I’ve taken refuge. My strategy can only disconcert them: of its kind it’s a small masterpiece. The Prussian blue Opel cabriolet will serve as my Trojan horse to beleaguer the enemy citadel. I, revolutionary agent twice caught off guard, had in a sense disguised myself as H. de Heutz, arrayed in his blue cuirass, outfitted with his false identities, and bearing his heraldic keys. And in that guise I was about to gain admittance to the grand salon where I too will turn my back on the Dents du Midi that were illuminated this morning beyond the big French doors. One thing is
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