THE FOLLOWING DAY MANFRED ROSE at the usual time. He showered, set the coffee on the hob and dressed before sitting down to breakfast. He felt calm. He harboured no bitterness towards Gorski. If anything, it had been a relief to unburden himself. Gorski had made little or no comment as he related his story. He had betrayed no sign of judging him. Still, he was an officer of the law and it was his role to set in motion the mechanisms that the state had evolved to deal with such events. And, naturally, Gorski would use his confession to pin the business with Adèle on him as well. Manfred could hardly blame him. Would he not draw the same conclusions if he were in Gorski’s shoes? But none of that mattered much anymore.
He left the building, as he always did, at 8.15. Despite the events at the Petite Camargue, Manfred still found himself hoping to bump into Alice. Of course, he would not blame her if she were to walk straight past him. On reflection, it was better that he did not see her. He would never see her again. The thought made him sad. Instead of turning right and walking along the Rue de Mulhouse towards the bank he turned left and doubled back behind the building. Some Arabs were already loitering outside the Social Security office. He walked past the play park towards the railway station. It was a crisp, sunny morning. There were a few people around, but nobody gave him a second glance. Why should they? There was nothing remarkable about him and he had always kept himself to himself.
They would not miss him in the bank today. It would be assumed that he was taking care of his grandfather’s affairs. It was quite normal to take a period of leave following a bereavement. Mlle Givskov would relish being left in charge. The Restaurant de la Cloche was another matter. As it was market day, Marie would reserve his table in the corner for 12.30. His non-appearance would certainly be noted. Marie would pass comment on the matter to Pasteur, who would reply with his customary shrug. Next Thursday his table would not be reserved for him and someone else would take his place, most likely ignorant of the fact that they were sitting at Manfred Baumann’s table. The following week, his absence would not even be mentioned.
The station was busy with commuters. Some read newspapers. Others kept their eyes on the platform or occasionally glanced at the departure board. Nobody spoke. As Manfred arrived on platform three a train pulled in. It was for Mulhouse. Several people boarded in an unhurried fashion. The carriages were not crowded. Manfred watched the train slowly pull out, then walked to the far end of the platform where there were fewer people. He was not familiar with the train schedule at this time of day, but another train was sure to arrive presently. It did not matter to Manfred where it was going. He had chosen platform three out of habit, since this was the platform from which trains for Strasbourg departed. It would be a simple matter to step off the platform. It was, after all, an action he had carried out hundreds of time. Today would be no different.
The sun was already warm. Perhaps Manfred should have waited in the shadow of the awning or checked when the next train would arrive, but that had not been part of his plan. In any case he did not want to draw attention to himself by walking back along the platform. He took out his handkerchief and wiped a few beads of sweat from his forehead. He had always disliked standing or sitting in direct sunlight. Years ago he had formed the opinion, rightly or not, that it contributed to the onset of his headaches.
A train approached the platform opposite. Manfred felt a tingling in his stomach. Nobody got off at Saint-Louis. When the train pulled out, the platform was empty, as if a magician had pulled his cloth from a birdcage. Manfred watched the heavy steel wheels of the train slowly pick up speed as the train drew away from the station. It was stupid not to have checked the timetable. Perhaps there would not be another train along for half an hour or more. He would begin to look conspicuous. But the fact that there was still a handful of people waiting suggested that a train would be along soon. Manfred’s gaze followed the tracks beyond the station to the outskirts of the town. In the distance a factory chimney belched grey smoke into the sky. He had been waiting for some ten minutes. Mlle Givskov would be arriving at the bank.
Finally a train pulled into view. It appeared to be travelling exceptionally slowly. Manfred took a few steps back along the platform. He felt light-headed, perhaps on account of the sun. He had no idea if Gorski had any men watching him or whether they would make any attempt to intervene. It did not matter greatly. Manfred stepped up to the edge of the platform. He closed his eyes for a few moments, then felt a disturbance of air in front of his face as the train pulled in and came to a halt. Manfred opened his eyes, feeling as if he had been asleep for a moment. Then, without looking round, he opened the door and stepped onto the train. He did not hear anyone call his name or feel a hand on his shoulder.
The train remained in the station, as it always did, for a minute or two. Manfred’s heart was racing. His brow was prickled with sweat. The other passengers buried their heads in books and newspapers. A man in his fifties stared blankly out of the window, registering nothing that passed before his gaze. Probably he had been making the same journey every day for years. Manfred expected Gorski to board the carriage at any moment and escort him onto the platform. The train seemed to remain stationary for longer than usual. Perhaps the driver had received a radio message informing him that there was a fugitive on board. But the police did not come and, at last, the guard sounded his whistle and the train jolted and eased out of the station. As it cleared, first, the platform and then Saint-Louis, Manfred felt exhilarated. He sat completely still as if any movement would alert his fellow passengers to his presence. They were oblivious to the momentous events to which they bore witness.
The train picked up speed and Manfred watched farm buildings and scrubby fields flash by. And, quite suddenly, he was a fugitive from justice. He had, it appeared, evaded the clutches of the police. It was quite thrilling. All he needed to do when he reached Strasbourg was to change trains. Trains departed Strasbourg for destinations all over France, indeed, for all over Europe. Even if Gorski were to discover Manfred’s absence in the next hour or so, no one appeared to have recognised him as he boarded the train. He would be in the clear.
Of course, there was the matter of money. Manfred had in his wallet sufficient identification to make a large withdrawal from his savings account. But it would not be difficult for the police to trace the time and location of any withdrawals he made. Perhaps a freeze would be placed on his assets. The thing to do was to close his account to cash before he changed trains in Strasbourg. There was a branch of Société Générale on Rue Moll, not ten minute’s walk from the station. He could go there, take care of his business and be back at the station in half an hour. It was an additional risk, but preferable to giving away his whereabouts at a later date. Then he would board the next train out of Strasbourg. It did not matter where the train was heading; in fact, the more arbitrary the destination the better. He must not choose where he was going. He must leave it to chance. In any case, whatever his destination, he would travel on from there. At some point he could buy new clothes and get a haircut. Perhaps he would grow a beard. It was all quite simple. If a dimwit like Adèle Bedeau could disappear without a trace, surely he could do the same? Thousands of people disappeared every year. He had once read a magazine article about it. Within a few weeks he would be forgotten or presumed dead. As far as the state was concerned he would cease to exist.
Contrary to his usual practice, Manfred had not bought a ticket before boarding the train. Although it was possible to buy a ticket from the conductor, Manfred always imagined that doing so would lead to trouble of some kind. Perhaps the conductor’s machine would be out of order or it would be suspected that he was attempting to travel without a ticket. In any case, conductors often seemed disgruntled by having to issue tickets on the train and made no attempt to disguise the fact. Today, however, there was no alternative.
Manfred waited nervously for the appearance of the official. Perhaps he would have received a message to keep an eye out for a man answering Manfred’s description. A train conductor was, after all, in a minor way an agent of the state. The train pulled into Mulhouse. Manfred resisted the urge to get off. He must hold his nerve. The important thing was to put as much distance as possible between himself and Gorski.
The conductor appeared shortly after the train left Mulhouse. He was a young man, in his twenties. He wore his uniform in a slovenly manner and did not look like the type of person who was likely to carry out his duties with particular diligence. The other passengers in the carriage had all obtained their tickets before boarding and the conductor gave them no more than a cursory glance. He made rapid progress along the carriage. Manfred asked for a return to Strasbourg. There was no point advertising the fact that he had no intention of coming back. The conductor nodded and drew round the ticket machine that was slung on a thick leather strap over his shoulder. Manfred explained that he had been in a hurry and had not had time to buy a ticket at the station. The conductor did not appear in the least bit interested. He issued the ticket and counted out Manfred’s change.
When Manfred examined his ticket he saw that the conductor had made it out from Mulhouse rather than Saint-Louis. Normally, Manfred would have drawn the conductor’s attention to the error, but in the current circumstances it seemed a trifle. If questioned, Manfred need only say that he had put the ticket in his wallet without looking at it. In any case, the mistake had been the conductor’s rather than his.
Countryside and towns sped past the window. Manfred was sitting, as he always did, with his back to the engine. He preferred to watch the scenery recede into the distance than loom up ahead. It gave him a sense of leaving places behind. He thought of the Restaurant de la Cloche, where Marie and Dominique would now be setting out the tables for lunch. One or two locals would be lingering over their morning coffee, a copy of L’Alsace spread on the table in front of them. The bank would now be open as normal. Carolyn would be going through his diary cancelling his appointments. Perhaps she would have thought of calling his apartment to find out when he intended to return to work. But Manfred was sure she would not do so. She was too timid for such an intrusion. He thought of his apartment. After his rent lapsed, his possessions would be cleared out and it would be rented to another occupant. It was a matter of some sadness to imagine his books and clothes being packed into boxes and most likely given away, but in the scheme of things it was a small sacrifice to make. It was part of the process of becoming a nonperson, of ceasing, to all intents and purposes, to exist.
The train was now twenty minutes from Strasbourg. Manfred began to feel anxious. Gorski must surely by now have discovered his absence. He had stated quite clearly that they would speak in the morning. Manfred pictured him pulling up outside his apartment in his dark blue Peugeot, dropping a cigarette to the pavement as he approached the building. Probably he would have brought another man, the young gendarme who had escorted him to the police station perhaps, in case Manfred made trouble. How long would he remain at the door before he became suspicious? Would he kick it in or merely make his way to the bank in the expectation of finding Manfred there? In any case, he must by now be aware that Manfred had made a break for it and would be roundly cursing himself. Manfred, for his part, felt somewhat ashamed of how he was behaving. Gorski had treated him with a degree of civility he in no way deserved and he had repaid him by fleeing in this cowardly manner. It was quite dishonourable.
The train had slowed and was pulling through the industrial suburbs of the southern flank of Strasbourg. Manfred turned his thoughts to the business of closing his account. The matter was fraught with difficulties. Manfred knew the procedure as well as anyone. Were a customer in his own branch to request such a large withdrawal, Manfred would expect the teller to summon him to supervise the transaction. And under such circumstances, Manfred would certainly enquire as to whether the client was no longer satisfied with the bank’s services. Of course, no client was obliged to discuss the motives for their financial dealings, but the closure to cash of such a large account would, at the very least, raise eyebrows. Then Manfred remembered that he had on one or two occasions met the manager of the branch on Rue Moll. He would be sure to remember him and would think it strange, outlandish even, that Manfred wished to close his account and had come to another branch in order to do so. No, the whole enterprise was out of the question. Manfred took his wallet from the inside pocket of his jacket to confirm what he already knew: he had enough cash to cover his expenses for no more than a day or two. His exhilaration of an hour before was waning. The idea that he could evade Gorski’s clutches and disappear without a trace was implausible enough, but without money it was unthinkable. What was he supposed to do? Turn to a life of crime, find some menial job in the black economy? He was hardly cut out for such things. Still, he had, without intending it, embarked on a course and he had no alternative but to follow it to its conclusion.
The train pulled into the station. Manfred was careful to conceal himself among the mass of passengers as he disembarked. Nobody checked his erroneous ticket as he left the platform. The concourse was busy. Clusters of travellers stood gazing up at the departure board, briefcases and bags at their feet. Commuters criss-crossed his path. Indecipherable announcements echoed from the tannoy. There did not appear to be any out-of-the-ordinary activity on the platform, nevertheless Manfred expected at any moment to be wrestled to the ground by a team of men, tipped off to his presence by Gorski. He would not resist. He had no desire to resist. In a way it would be a relief.
In an attempt to appear inconspicuous, Manfred strode purposefully across the concourse. He would go to the bank, after all, but withdraw only a modest amount of money, enough to see him clear for a week or two. He could worry about the long term later. The only thing he need think about at this juncture was to make good his flight. Manfred slowed his pace. Two gendarmes were standing by the entrance to the station. They did not appear to have seen Manfred. He changed course and headed towards a kiosk which nestled beneath the departure board. Manfred watched the gendarmes for a few minutes from behind a newspaper stand. They did not appear particularly vigilant. Indeed, they seemed more interested in appraising the women who walked by than scanning the crowd for fugitives. Still, Manfred did not want to risk walking right past them. He bought a newspaper and moved towards the centre of the concourse, keeping the cops in his peripheral vision. They were a good twenty metres away. One of their radios crackled into life and the younger one spoke briefly into it. But they did not move from their post. Gorski must by now have gone to the station in Saint-Louis. It would be the first place he would look and he would surely call ahead to Strasbourg with a description of his quarry.
Manfred had to board a train without delay. He raised his eyes to the departure board. It was now 10.43. The next train was for Munich. Manfred rejected this. It was too risky to attempt to cross the border. The next three trains were local. That was no use either. The fifth was an express to Paris. Manfred’s heart leapt for a moment. How easy it would be to disappear in such a metropolis. He could keep his head down for a few days and then, when things had settled down, move on. He had nothing but the clothes he was standing in and the few banknotes in his wallet, but, Manfred told himself, that was the way it had to be: that in order to disappear he had to leave everything behind. But Paris would be a mistake. The capital was the first place Gorski would expect him to go. After the Paris train was the 10.53 for Basel via Saint-Louis.
Manfred looked anxiously towards the entrance. The two gendarmes were now making a leisurely circuit of the perimeter of the station. The terminal was quieter now and he felt exposed in the middle of the emptying concourse. He opened his copy of L’Alsace and held it in front of his face. Perhaps tomorrow it would carry a picture of his face above a caption reading, Fugitive sought in connection with disappearance of Saint-Louis waitress.
Manfred glanced out from behind the paper. The two cops were now standing directly beneath the departure board, next to the kiosk. The smaller of the two, who had spoken into his radio, was looking directly at him. He was young and fresh-faced and was growing a moustache, in an attempt, Manfred thought, to make himself appear older. Manfred held his gaze for a moment. His heart was beating rapidly. It was not clear whether he was observing Manfred or merely happened to be looking in his direction. Then the older of the two, who had been perusing the headlines of the day’s papers, nudged him and they moved off towards the centre of the concourse. Manfred folded his newspaper and started to walk towards the platform where, at any moment, the Munich train would pull in. It was all he could do to prevent himself from breaking into a sprint.
A FEW MOMENTS AFTER 10.49 a crowd of onlookers gathered midway along platform nine and on the platform opposite, appearing as if from nowhere like pigeons around scraps of food. Some stepped forward to look down onto the rails, before turning away with their hands over their mouths. Those at the back craned their necks to catch a glimpse of what had occurred. The two duty cops pushed their way to the front of the crowd and stood for a few moments transfixed like the others, before remembering their official role in proceedings. They turned, as one, with their arms spread and began to shepherd the crowd back towards the concourse. The older one spoke into his radio. Further passers-by continued to gather at the back of the crowd and those who were already there provided them with accounts of what had happened.
‘He was sprinting towards the train, then he tripped and fell onto the tracks.’
‘No, he threw himself, he definitely threw himself,’ said another.
‘I saw the whole thing,’ said a third man. ‘He walked quite calmly along the platform and then stepped off. It was as if he was sleep-walking.’
The driver of the train was helped from the cabin. He was shaking his head, ashen-faced. Later, at the inquest, he would testify that he had not seen the man until he had stepped in front of the train and that he had had no chance whatsoever of applying the brakes in time. The station manager, having been alerted to the incident, arrived on the scene and with the assistance of a gang of railway employees began to cordon off the two platforms. The incident would cause a great deal of disruption to the day’s timetable. The crowd of onlookers reluctantly began to disperse. When he had been assured that it was safe to do so, the younger of the two gendarmes climbed down onto the tracks and began to search through the victim’s pockets for identification.