The Tenth Man by Graham Greene Page A

to gag.’ He smoothed his trousers. ‘This was a gag, but not, you will say, my most successful. And yet, you know, had I been given time I would have played her in,’ he said with relish.
    ‘I still don’t know how you came here.’
    ‘Just an impromptu. I was in an inn about sixty miles from here, a place beginning, I think, with B. I can’t remember its name. A funny old boy who had been released from prison was drinking there with his cronies. He was quite a person in the place, the mayor, I gathered—you know the sort, with a paunch and a fob and a big watch the size of a cheese and enormous pomposity. He was telling them the whole story of this man who bought his life, the tenth man he called him: quite a good title, that. He had some grudge against him, I couldn’t understand what. Well, it seemed to me unlikely that this Chavel would ever have had the nerve to go home—so I decided to go home for him. I could play the part much better than he could—a dull lawyer type, but of course
you
know the man.’
    ‘Yes, you hadn’t counted on that.’
    ‘Who would? The coincidence is really too great. You
were
in the prison, I suppose? You aren’t playing the provinces too?’
    ‘No, I was there.’
    ‘Then why did you pretend to recognize me?’
    Charlot said, ‘She’s always had the idea that Chavel would turn up one day. It’s been an obsession. I thought you might cure that obsession. Perhaps you have. I’ll have to go now. Unless you want to be turned out into the rain, don’t move from here.’
    He found Thérèse back in the dining-room. She was staring at the portrait of his grandfather. ‘There’s no likeness,’ she said, ‘no likeness at all.’
    ‘Don’t you think perhaps in the eyes …’
    ‘No, I can’t see any. You’re more like that painting than he is.’
    He said, ‘Shall I lay the table now?’
    ‘Oh, no,’ she said, ‘we can’t have it in here now that he’s around.’
    ‘There’s nothing to be afraid of. You see, the transfer’s genuine. He’ll never trouble you any more.’ He said, ‘You can forget all about him now.’
    ‘That’s just what I can’t do. Oh,’ she broke out passionately, ‘you can see what a coward I am. I said the other day that everyone’s tested once and afterwards you know what you are. Well, I know now all right. I ought to shake him by the hand and say “Welcome , brother: we’re both of the same blood.” ’
    ‘I don’t understand,’ Charlot said. ‘You turned him out. What more could you have done?’
    ‘I could have shot him. I always told myself I’d shoot him.’
    ‘You can’t walk away and fetch a gun and come back and shoot a man in cold blood.’
    ‘Why not? He had my brother shot in cold blood. There must have been plenty of cold blood, mustn’t there, all through the night? You told me they shot him in the morning.’
    Again he was stung into defence. ‘There was one thing I didn’t tell you. Once during the night Chavel tried to call the deal off. And your brother would have none of it.’
    ‘Once,’ she said, ‘once. Fancy that. He tried once. I bet he tried hard.’
    They had supper as usual in the kitchen. Madame Mangeot asked peevishly what the noise had been in the hall. ‘It was like a public meeting,’ she said.
    ‘Only a beggar,’ Charlot said, ‘who wanted to stay the night.’
    ‘Why did you let him into the house? Such riffraff we get here when my back’s turned. I don’t know what Michel would say.’
    ‘He didn’t get beyond the hall, Mother,’ Thérèse said.
    ‘But I heard two of them go along the passage towards the kitchen. It wasn’t you. You were upstairs.’
    Charlot said quickly, ‘I couldn’t turn him out without so much as a piece of bread. That wouldn’t have been human. I let him out the back way.’ Thérèse sombrely looked away from him, watching the wet world outside. They could hear the rain coming up in gusts against the house, beating against the windows and