”
Wallas would like to see it. She leads him into the bedroom: rather a large room, of the same impersonal and old-fashioned comfort as the rest of the house, stuffed with hangings, curtains, and carpets. A complete silence must have reigned in this house, where everything is arranged to muffle the slightest sound. Did Dupont wear felt slippers too? How did he manage to speak to his deaf servant without raising his voice? Habit probably. Wallas notices that the bedspread has been changed—it could not have been cleaned so perfectly. Everything is as neat and orderly as if nothing had ever happened.
Madame Smite opens the night table drawer and hands Wallas a pistol he recognizes at first glance: it is the same model as his own, a serious weapon for self-defense, not a plaything. He takes out the clip and notices that one bullet has already been fired.
“ Did Monsieur Dupont shoot at the man running away? ” he asks, although he knows the answer in advance: when Du-pont came back with his revolver, the murderer had disappeared. Wallas would like to show the gun to Commissioner Laurent, but the housekeeper hesitates about letting him take it, then she gives in with a shrug:
“ Take it with you, young man. What use is it here now? ”
“ I ’ m not asking you for a present. This pistol is a piece of evidence, you understand? ”
“ Take it, I tell you, since you want it so much. ”
“ And you don ’ t know if your employer had used it before, for something else? ”
“ What do you think he would use it for, young man? Monsieur Dupont was not a man to shoot off his revolver in the house to amuse himself. No, thank God. He had his faults, but… ” Wallas puts the pistol in his overcoat pocket.
The housekeeper leaves her visitor; she has nothing else to tell him: her late employer ’ s difficult character, the strenuous washing of the bloodstains, the criminal doctor, the continuing negligence of the telephone company … She has already repeated all this several times; now she has to finish packing her suitcases in order not to miss the two o ’ clock train that will take her to her daughter ’ s. It is not a very nice time of the year to be going to the country; still, she has to hurry. Wallas looks at his watch: it still shows seven-thirty. In Dupont ’ s bedroom, the bronze clock on the mantelpiece, between the empty candlesticks, had also stopped.
Yielding to the special agent ’ s urging, Madame Smite finally admits that she is supposed to give the house keys to the police; somewhat reluctantly she gives him the key to the back door. He will close it himself when he leaves. The housekeeper will leave by the front door, for she a lso has the keys for it. As for the garden gate, the lock has not been working for a long time. Wallas remains alone in the study. Dupont lived in this tiny room, he left it only to sleep and to take his meals, at noon and at seven at night. Wallas approaches the desk; the inspectors appear to have left everything as it was: on the blotter is lying the sheet of paper on which Dupont had written only four words so far: “ which can not prevent … ” — ” … death … ” obviously. That is the word he was looking for when he went downstairs to eat.
CHAPTER TWO
1
It is certainly the sound of footsteps; footsteps on the stairs, coming closer. Someone is coming up. Someone is coming up slowly—no: carefully; perhaps cautiously? Holding on to the banister, judging from the sound. Someone who becomes breathless from a climb which is too stiff for him or who is tired from having come a long distance. They are a man ’ s footsteps, but deliberate, muffled by the carpet—which gives them, at moments, something of a timorous or clandestine quality.
But this impression does not last. At closer range, the footsteps sound spontaneous, uninhibited: the footsteps of a relaxed man peacefully climbing the stairs.
The last
Wallas would like to see it. She leads him into the bedroom: rather a large room, of the same impersonal and old-fashioned comfort as the rest of the house, stuffed with hangings, curtains, and carpets. A complete silence must have reigned in this house, where everything is arranged to muffle the slightest sound. Did Dupont wear felt slippers too? How did he manage to speak to his deaf servant without raising his voice? Habit probably. Wallas notices that the bedspread has been changed—it could not have been cleaned so perfectly. Everything is as neat and orderly as if nothing had ever happened.
Madame Smite opens the night table drawer and hands Wallas a pistol he recognizes at first glance: it is the same model as his own, a serious weapon for self-defense, not a plaything. He takes out the clip and notices that one bullet has already been fired.
“ Did Monsieur Dupont shoot at the man running away? ” he asks, although he knows the answer in advance: when Du-pont came back with his revolver, the murderer had disappeared. Wallas would like to show the gun to Commissioner Laurent, but the housekeeper hesitates about letting him take it, then she gives in with a shrug:
“ Take it with you, young man. What use is it here now? ”
“ I ’ m not asking you for a present. This pistol is a piece of evidence, you understand? ”
“ Take it, I tell you, since you want it so much. ”
“ And you don ’ t know if your employer had used it before, for something else? ”
“ What do you think he would use it for, young man? Monsieur Dupont was not a man to shoot off his revolver in the house to amuse himself. No, thank God. He had his faults, but… ” Wallas puts the pistol in his overcoat pocket.
The housekeeper leaves her visitor; she has nothing else to tell him: her late employer ’ s difficult character, the strenuous washing of the bloodstains, the criminal doctor, the continuing negligence of the telephone company … She has already repeated all this several times; now she has to finish packing her suitcases in order not to miss the two o ’ clock train that will take her to her daughter ’ s. It is not a very nice time of the year to be going to the country; still, she has to hurry. Wallas looks at his watch: it still shows seven-thirty. In Dupont ’ s bedroom, the bronze clock on the mantelpiece, between the empty candlesticks, had also stopped.
Yielding to the special agent ’ s urging, Madame Smite finally admits that she is supposed to give the house keys to the police; somewhat reluctantly she gives him the key to the back door. He will close it himself when he leaves. The housekeeper will leave by the front door, for she a lso has the keys for it. As for the garden gate, the lock has not been working for a long time. Wallas remains alone in the study. Dupont lived in this tiny room, he left it only to sleep and to take his meals, at noon and at seven at night. Wallas approaches the desk; the inspectors appear to have left everything as it was: on the blotter is lying the sheet of paper on which Dupont had written only four words so far: “ which can not prevent … ” — ” … death … ” obviously. That is the word he was looking for when he went downstairs to eat.
CHAPTER TWO
1
It is certainly the sound of footsteps; footsteps on the stairs, coming closer. Someone is coming up. Someone is coming up slowly—no: carefully; perhaps cautiously? Holding on to the banister, judging from the sound. Someone who becomes breathless from a climb which is too stiff for him or who is tired from having come a long distance. They are a man ’ s footsteps, but deliberate, muffled by the carpet—which gives them, at moments, something of a timorous or clandestine quality.
But this impression does not last. At closer range, the footsteps sound spontaneous, uninhibited: the footsteps of a relaxed man peacefully climbing the stairs.
The last
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