to start speaking ill of him now. … I was here, washing the dishes after dinner, when I heard him call me from upstairs; when I passed, I noticed the door had been opened—the one you just came in. Monsieur Dupont was on the landing—and as alive as you or I, you know—only he had his left arm against his chest and a little blood on his hand. He was holding his revolver in the other hand. I had a terrible time getting rid of the little bloodstains he made on my carpet, and it took me at least two hours to clean the bedspread where I found him lying when I came back—when I came back from telephoning. It ’ s not easy to get off, you know; luckily, he wasn ’ t bleeding much. He told me: ‘ It ’ s just a flesh wound in my arm; don ’ t worry, it ’ s nothing serious. ’ I wanted to take care of him myself, but he didn ’ t let me, stubborn as he was—I told you—and I had to go call that miserable doctor who took him away in a car. He didn ’ t even want me to hold him up, coming down the stairs! But when I got to the clinic early this morning to take him a change of linen, the y suddenly told me he was dead. ‘ Heart failure ’ that murderer told me! And he wasn ’ t any prouder than that, no indeed, young man. I didn ’ t make a fuss; still, I ’ d like to know who killed him if it wasn ’ t that Doctor Juard! For once in his life, Monsieur Dupont would have done better to listen to me …”
It is almost a note of triumph that sounds in the old woman ’ s voice. Most likely her master kept her from talking, so as not to be deafened by that terrible voice; now she ’ s trying to make up for it. Wallas attempts to put some order in this flood of words. Madame Smite, apparently, has been more disturbed by the bloodstains she had to wash off than by her employer ’ s wound. She has not checked whether it was really his arm that had been hit: moreover, Dupont had not let her get too close a look; and the blood on his hand does not prove much. He was wounded in the chest and did not want to terrify his housekeeper by admitting it. In order to deceive her, he even managed to stand up and walk to the ambulance; it may even have been this effort that finished him off. The doctor, in any case, should not have let him do it. Obviously it is the doctor who must be questioned.
“ Juard Clinic. Gynecology. Maternity Home. ” The nurse who opened the door did not even tell him to come in; she was standing in the opening of the door, ready to close it again: like a guardian afraid that some stranger would try to force his way in, but at the same time she insisted on keeping him:
“ And what is it you wish, Monsieur? ”
“ I wanted to speak to the doctor. ”
“ Madame Juard is in her office—it ’ s always Madame Juard who receives our clients. ”
“ But I ’ m not a client. I must see the doctor in person. ”
“ Madame Juard is a doctor too, Monsieur. She is in charge of the clinic, so of course she ’ s in touch with all the … ”
When he finally told her that he had no need of the clinic ’ s services, she stopped talking, as though she had found out what she wanted; and she looked at him with the vaguely superior smile of someone who knew perfectly well what he wanted from the start. Her politeness assumed a nuance of impertinence:
“ No, Monsieur, he didn ’ t say when he was coming back. Don ’ t you want to leave your name? ”
“ It ’ s no use, my name won ’ t mean anything to him. ”
He had distinctly heard: “ They ’ re all the same! ”
“ … that murderer told me … ”
On the hallway carpet downstairs, the old woman shows him the scarcely perceptible traces of five or six spots of something. Wallas asks if the inspectors who came the evening before took the victim ’ s revolver with them.
“ Certainly not! ” Madame Smite exclaims. “ You don ’ t suppose I let those two loot the house? I put it back in his drawer. He might have needed it again.
It is almost a note of triumph that sounds in the old woman ’ s voice. Most likely her master kept her from talking, so as not to be deafened by that terrible voice; now she ’ s trying to make up for it. Wallas attempts to put some order in this flood of words. Madame Smite, apparently, has been more disturbed by the bloodstains she had to wash off than by her employer ’ s wound. She has not checked whether it was really his arm that had been hit: moreover, Dupont had not let her get too close a look; and the blood on his hand does not prove much. He was wounded in the chest and did not want to terrify his housekeeper by admitting it. In order to deceive her, he even managed to stand up and walk to the ambulance; it may even have been this effort that finished him off. The doctor, in any case, should not have let him do it. Obviously it is the doctor who must be questioned.
“ Juard Clinic. Gynecology. Maternity Home. ” The nurse who opened the door did not even tell him to come in; she was standing in the opening of the door, ready to close it again: like a guardian afraid that some stranger would try to force his way in, but at the same time she insisted on keeping him:
“ And what is it you wish, Monsieur? ”
“ I wanted to speak to the doctor. ”
“ Madame Juard is in her office—it ’ s always Madame Juard who receives our clients. ”
“ But I ’ m not a client. I must see the doctor in person. ”
“ Madame Juard is a doctor too, Monsieur. She is in charge of the clinic, so of course she ’ s in touch with all the … ”
When he finally told her that he had no need of the clinic ’ s services, she stopped talking, as though she had found out what she wanted; and she looked at him with the vaguely superior smile of someone who knew perfectly well what he wanted from the start. Her politeness assumed a nuance of impertinence:
“ No, Monsieur, he didn ’ t say when he was coming back. Don ’ t you want to leave your name? ”
“ It ’ s no use, my name won ’ t mean anything to him. ”
He had distinctly heard: “ They ’ re all the same! ”
“ … that murderer told me … ”
On the hallway carpet downstairs, the old woman shows him the scarcely perceptible traces of five or six spots of something. Wallas asks if the inspectors who came the evening before took the victim ’ s revolver with them.
“ Certainly not! ” Madame Smite exclaims. “ You don ’ t suppose I let those two loot the house? I put it back in his drawer. He might have needed it again.
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