7
‘A little courage!’ Mr Hire repeated to himself.
He was weaving through the crowd, mumbling, ‘Sorry … Sorry …’
It was raining buckets, and it was no longer a question of how to slip in between people but of how to manage one’s umbrella in a crowd of umbrellas. On the tram, Mr Hire had to dangle his from the end of his outstretched arm because the silk was so thoroughly drenched.
‘A little courage!’
The detective was sitting in front of him – not the short one with the beard, but the one who was always in the concierge’s kitchen – and Mr Hire looked at him without flinching. The bell rang, and the tram set off towards Paris. Despite the dreary weather and the scowling faces, Mr Hire stuck out his chest just as he had the night before, when he was bowling, and sat up very straight on his seat. Beneath thick, inky eyebrows, his eyes were set in the kind of threatening glare usually reserved for children who are misbehaving. When the conductor came by, he pulled off his glove, took his wallet from his pocket and extracted his carnet of tickets, his movements slow and solemn.
‘A little courage!’
At Porte d’Italie, he bypassed the Métro in favour of the bus, where he sat in first class while the detective stayed on the platform. The closer he got to his destination, the more he was overcome with impatience and giddiness. At Place du Châtelet, he literally tumbled out of the bus and ran the whole length of Quai des Orfèvres.
‘A little courage!’
It was only in the vast, dusty stairwell of Police Headquarters that he unfolded the letter summoning him for the following morning and looked at the name of the commissioner.
‘Commissioner Godet, please?’ he said an instant later, addressing the young office clerk.
‘Have you been summonsed?’
‘Yes … No … Give him my card.’
An hour went by. At the far end of a corridor that seemed to throb like a drum – full of people who were always walking around, stopping and starting again, opening doors, then walking off again – five people sat waiting in a window-lined room furnished with green armchairs. Then there were seven, then only six, then three, then five again. From time to time the bailiff would come asking for someone, but it was never Mr Hire.
‘You haven’t forgotten me?’
No! The bailiff shook his head at Mr Hire and went up to whichever young woman had most recently arrived.
‘You were asking to see Mr Godet? Please, follow me.’
It didn’t matter. Mr Hire surveyed the room with an air of importance, his briefcase under his arm, then camped out under a picture of policemen who had died for their country.
The bailiff returned at last, motioned with his chin and walked the length of the corridor without checking to see if Mr Hire was behind him. He opened a door, and vanished. A man was bent over a mahogany desk, signing forms, and didn’t even raise his head as he said, ‘Shut the door. Sit down.’
He continued to sign the papers, while Mr Hire, the briefcase on his knees, forced himself for the last time to stick out his chest.
‘What do you want?’
‘I am summonsed for tomorrow.’
‘I know. And?’
He was still signing. He hadn’t lifted his eyes once and must not have even known what his interlocutor looked like.
‘I thought that the best thing to do would be open and straightforward …’
The commissioner cast him a look that lasted a good ten seconds – an indifferent look, with only the slightest hint of surprise.
‘You confess?’ he said simply, and went back to his writing.
Mr Hire exerted a superhuman effort and spoke, with an air of someone who had nothing to fear: ‘I came here myself to talk man to man, and man to man I give you my word of honour that I am innocent, and that I have never seen this murdered woman. We’re wasting precious time, you and I. For three days now, your detectives have been following me, rifling through my drawers, and …’
‘Hold on a minute!’
The commissioner raised his head, his eyes still preoccupied with the work he was doing.
‘Would you like for your cross-examination to take place today?’
‘I have been trying to tell you …’
‘In that case, do you require the presence of a lawyer?’
‘Since I am innocent, and I am going to explain to you …’
The commissioner pressed a button. Mr Hire opened his mouth, but he was shushed. The door opened.
‘Come in, Lamy. Sit down and take notes.’
The office was littered with papers, and every now and then the commissioner would pick one up at random and read it attentively, but this didn’t prevent him from speaking.
‘Tell me, Mr Hire, what were you doing on the night of the crime?’
‘I was at home, in my apartment, as I am every evening. I went to bed and …’
‘Are you in a position to prove it?’
‘The concierge will tell you …’
‘As a matter of fact the concierge claims that you came back at around 7:10, as usual, but that you must have gone back out because you needed to be let back in during the night.’
‘That’s impossible!’
He was still smiling.
‘I had absolutely no reason to go out. And as for killing a woman …’
He looked nervously at the young man, who was writing everything down.
‘So, nobody can testify that you were at home?’
‘Well … No!’
He was already defeated. Face purple with rage, he cried, ‘I want to be completely honest. That’s why I came here. I didn’t kill anyone. I know who committed the crime, but I can’t tell you. Do you understand my situation? Man to man, I wanted to …’
‘Let’s not get complicated, Mr Hire. Come to think of it, your name isn’t Hire.’
He held out another piece of paper.
‘Your name is Hirovitch.’
‘Hirovitch, but known as Hire. My father was already known as Hire.’
‘He was Polish, from what I see. Born in Vilna.’
‘Russian. A Russian Jew! At that time, Vilna belonged to Russia.’
So much for courage, so much for explaining things man to man. From that moment on, he responded to the questions with the terrified humility of a schoolboy under interrogation.
‘Well then, Mr Hirovitch. A moment ago, you talked of your word of honour. I notice here that, first of all, your father – who was a tailor on Rue des Francs-Bourgeois – declared bankruptcy. You were born on the Rue des Francs-Bourgeois, weren’t you? And your mother was originally from … wait a minute …’
‘She was Armenian.’
It was all too true. It pained Mr Hire not to be able to explain.
‘An investigation of his bookkeeping accounts has proved that your honourable father, in addition to his profession as a tailor, occasionally acted as a moneylender.’
How could he possibly describe the little shop on Rue des Francs-Bourgeois, its smell of cloth and tailor’s chalk, and the single room behind it where they had to live, with the gas lamp on all day – and above all Hire the elder, so upstanding, so dignified, who abided so scrupulously by the strict tenets of the Jewish religion? He may not have been French, but neither was he Russian. He spoke only Yiddish, and Mr Hire’s fat Armenian mother, yellow as a quince, had never been able fully to understand him.
Bankruptcy? Moneylending? Old Mr Hire hardly sewed one suit a year from virgin cloth. He took in old clothing. He made children’s outfits out of the legs of old trousers. And sometimes, he would accept pawnshop tickets as payment.
In the final years his mother had become so swollen she could hardly move. Every evening father and son had to lift her on to her bed.
‘I assure you, detective chief inspector …’
‘Hold on a minute. You chose to live in France. Therefore, you are French. But you were excused from military service because you had a weak heart.’
He scoured Mr Hire with his eyes. He seemed to be measuring the width of his shoulders, appraising the fullness of his chest, assessing the softness of his flesh.
‘Not what you would call ill, but …’
‘What did you do after the bankruptcy, when your father died?’
The inspector looked bored and kept rifling through his papers, which he would read during Mr Hire’s replies.
‘I sold clothing in a shop on Rue Saint-Antoine.’
‘Yes, you were a tout. You stopped pedestrians on the street and tried to persuade them to go into the shop. Would you like to tell me why you left this profession that was, at the very least, honourable?’
Mr Hire blanched as if he were being forced to admit to a crime.
‘In the winter, I would get cold, and …’
‘There are others who were cold but remained honest.’
‘But I …’
‘You are forgetting, Mr Hire, that you spent six months in prison on charges of indecency.’
He said nothing. What more could he say? There was no point. But he did not avert his eyes from the inspector. On the contrary, they remained fixed on him, like the eyes of a beaten animal, full of wonder at the cruelty of man.
‘And here you are six years ago, established as an editor on Rue Notre-Dame-de-Lorette. I say “editor” … I mean, you specialized in short, more or less genteel books of erotica, as well as what are called in the business “works of flagellation”. One of these landed you in court and got you six months. But none of that matters. The publishing house existed before you got there. You bought the business for 3,000 francs. Would you like to give me an idea where those 3,000 francs came from?’
He didn’t move, didn’t try to speak.
‘Eight days earlier, you were freezing on the pavement of Rue Saint-Antoine, earning barely enough to eat. The business was paid for in cash.’
‘I had someone backing me.’
‘Who?’
‘I would prefer not to tell you who. Someone asked me to take care of the business for him. I was his manager.’
‘And you’re the one who went to prison? Perfect! Of course, you were released one month short of the end of your term because you were such a good little boy. So, what did you do then?’
Another piece of paper was placed before the inspector’s eyes.
‘A dirty bit of legal swindling. The old trick of a hundred francs a day without quitting your job, and a box a paints. You seduce poor people with your ads, and since after all you do send them something for their money, you can’t be prosecuted. Tell me, Mr Hire or Hirovitch, what was that about coming here to give me your word of honour?’
‘I didn’t kill anyone. You’ve got to understand that I didn’t kill anyone. I don’t need money, and …’
‘Slow down! There’s no evidence that the young woman was murdered for her money. And we do see, from time to time, certain lonely gentlemen who suddenly turn to …’
Mr Hire had stood up, white as a sheet, unable to breathe.
‘Sit down. I haven’t arrested you yet. One question: do you have many women friends? Would you be able to give me the names of two or three of them, one even?’
He shook his head.
‘Don’t you see? For years you’ve been publishing filth for perverts. You have no wife, no mistress. I know what you’re going to tell me. I’m familiar with the house that you visit from time to time. But – and this is the point – the ladies of that establishment find you strange, disconcerting. The tenants in your building call back their little girls and even their boys when they are playing too close to you. Would you like to sit down at the table, Mr Hire? A word of advice: go and see a lawyer. Tell him your little story. He will arrange for a psychological examination, and …’
His mouth open, Mr Hire tried in vain to protest.
‘You have nothing more to say to me today, correct? Sign this affidavit. You may read it over.’
The inspector rang the bell. He asked the office clerk, ‘Anyone else to see me?’
‘No.’
And he walked out first, while the young detective held a pen out to Mr Hire with total indifference.
‘Your hat is on the chair.’
‘Thank you … Sorry …’
In Mr Hire’s basement office on Rue Saint-Maur, there was a small mirror, and Mr Hire looked at himself in it, under the light, afraid he might discover something abnormal. But no! He had his mother’s dark-brown hair. His moustache was finely curled, his lips well defined and ardently pink. He was a little fat, limber even so – the best bowler in the club.
He thought of his father, sitting evenings on the doorstep of the shop on Rue des Francs-Bourgeois, his slim hands stroking his long white beard. He had been as thin and sallow as a prophet – always serious and deliberate, capable of talking to himself for hours at a time, in a low voice, while sitting at his sewing table.
And this was a dishonest man? If you could believe that, what else would you believe?
And Mr Hire, feeling limp, his soul empty, mechanically packed up forty-two packages, complete with mailing labels and postage forms.
When he returned at 7.10, the concierge, who had been out in the hall, retreated quickly into her apartment without acknowledging him. A young boy who was climbing the stairs in front of Mr Hire broke into a run, pounding with both fists on his parents’ door.
Mr Hire lit the fire, wound his alarm clock and one after another, in proper order, performed his daily routines. While the water was being heated for coffee, he set the table, swept up the crumbs that had fallen on the floor the night before and even looked for an old nail with which to dig out the dirt that had settled in a crack between the wooden floorboards.
The sounds were the same as on other days, with the addition of the rain that was trickling down a gutter next to the window. The baby upstairs must be sick; the doctor had paid a visit, and there was whispering on the landing and in the stairwell – the father wanted to know the truth, and he had tried to corner the doctor, following him all the way downstairs.
Mr Hire did the dishes and sharpened his two knives with emery cloth. Ten times he passed by the dressing table; ten times he looked at himself in the mirror, suspiciously, forcing himself to smile so he could see what his smile looked like, then gazing sternly into space.
Finally he sat down, as tired as if he’d bowled for an entire day. But he couldn’t stay seated either, and he walked over to his wardrobe and took out a cardboard box which he set down on the table, dumping out its contents.
These consisted of old papers and old photos, and, in a folder held together with a red rubber band, some treasury bonds.
There was a knock at the door, followed by a woman’s voice: ‘It’s me!’
She had just finished cleaning up at the shop, and her hands were still red and moist.
‘Can I come in and say hello?’
She had thrown a coat over her shoulders to cross the courtyard, and she let it slide on to a chair.
‘Did they bother you again today?’
She spoke with a familiar, easy tone. Walking up to the table, she saw the photographs and picked one out, raising her eyes to meet his.
‘What is it?’
‘But where are you?’
There were fifty students in four rows framed by green plants. All were wearing their Sunday best. Some held themselves stiffly, chin up; others looked at the camera warily, full of mistrust.
‘Here,’ said Mr Hire, pointing.
She giggled.
‘That’s you?’
Laughing nervously, Alice couldn’t help but compare the photograph to Mr Hire.
‘How old were you?’
‘Eleven.’
Eleven years old! And yet hardly a child. But not an adult, either! Even at first glance he stood out from the others in the photograph.
He wasn’t any taller than the rest, but he was so fat that there was nothing childish about him. His bare calves were enormous and a little crooked, the knees drowning in fat. He had a double chin, and the eyes in his doughy face were sad and immobile.
He couldn’t possibly have played with the other kids on the playground or playing field – couldn’t have had anything to do with them at all, really: already he was an old man, deep in thought and short of breath.
‘So, you’ve lost weight.’
It was true. As he grew older, Mr Hire slimmed down to an average kind of corpulence. Now all that he shared with the portrait was that strange softness, with his shapeless bulges and weirdly distinct lips set in an out-of-focus face.
‘No. I inherited it from my mother.’
He didn’t look at the girl. He didn’t look back at the mirror. Twice, he stuck his hand out to collect the photograph.
‘Do you have any more?’
He did have others, but he hid them, slid them quickly into an envelope, leaving nothing on the table but the folder in its rubber band.
She was so close to him that he could see the reddish down on her nape. Suddenly, he blurted out: ‘I’ve thought it through. There’s only one solution: would you like to go away with me?’
She slowly turned her head, bewildered, and looked at him without speaking. And with nervous hands he flicked off the rubber band, opened the folder, and spread the treasury bonds out on the table.
‘They’re worth 80,000 francs. They will keep accruing …’
It had happened so simply, so unexpectedly, that he himself was thrown, staggered. This was the most extraordinary moment – the culminating point of his life. What followed took place solemnly, without emotion. Alice sat on the edge of the table. She placed her hands on his shoulders.
‘You poor man!’
‘What?’
‘Nothing! I would love to. It’s not as if my life here is so great. But …’
‘But what?’
And she walked across the room, picked up the alarm clock and set it down in a different spot.
‘First off, Émile wouldn’t let us go. He would find us in the end. He would stop at noth—’
‘I’ve thought of that. We have nothing to fear from him.’
She opened her eyes wide and waited, absolutely still, for him to continue. And Mr Hire, who was replacing the bonds into the folder, explained in a halting voice, ‘Suppose we both go to Switzerland, separately. Once we are across the border, we send a telegram.’
‘To the police?’ she cried, bounding to her feet.
He continued as if nothing had happened.
‘Yes. They arrest him. After the trial, we come back, and …’
Alice was trying to restrain herself. She stared wildly at the floorboards while struggling to bring her breathing under control. She could see the two slippers, and the bottom of Mr Hire’s trousers. Her mouth filled with saliva. She swallowed twice. Finally she was able to lift her head and show him something like a smile.
‘I don’t know yet,’ she said, under her breath.
‘It’s the only solution. I’ve thought it over. Now, you should think it over too.’
He took a step towards her, picked up her hand with both of his, which were hot and moist.
‘Do you trust me? I think I could make you happy.’
She couldn’t speak. Her hand at the end of her arm was dead. Her pupils were dilated as she looked at him.
‘We could live in the country …’
His hands climbed up her naked arm, all the way to the crook of her elbow. Mr Hire moved closer.
‘Sleep on it …’
And suddenly, he pressed his cheek against the girl’s shoulder. She could see him in the mirror, his eyes closed, a faint smile on his parted lips.
‘Don’t say no right away!’
It was the warmest part of his cheek, the part where the pink spot was, that touched Alice’s skin.