They had gone to bed early as usual. She slept noiselessly; he watched her tenderly in the semi-darkness. All he did was toss and turn, irritated by the sheets and the heat of the mattress, unusually alert to the slightest murmur in the garden or the least creak on the stairs. It wasn’t his illness that kept him awake, nor was it his doctor’s last examination that afternoon.
He’d known for a while that he was being fooled. For exactly a year, when he’d come across the medical books his wife kept hidden in the attic. Then he noticed how she fell upon every little article.
He’d understood that his ‘ulcer’ had nothing to do with it, that it was the foul beast devouring him from inside.
He didn’t let on, as if he was taken in by their little story. He was looked after, made a fuss of, spared the slightest effort.
In this way they had scrounged a year of happiness, a few dozen weeks’ reprieve … Eternity in other words!
No, his sleeplessness was caused by something else, by the visit of the little cop from Toulouse and all the memories, the disgust and shame it had stirred up in him. There wasn’t a single minute he didn’t think about it. Tragic memories passed through his mind, blocking out the happier ones he was apt to dwell on. He got up. The disturbance woke his wife, who was immediately wide awake.
— Aren’t you feeling well? Would you like some chamomile tea?
Allaying her fears, he went straight to the telephone in the entrance hall. He dialled the station number Inspector Cadin had given him. The duty officer answered.
— I’d like to speak to Inspector Cadin, it’s very important.
— The Inspector isn’t in Toulouse, he went to Paris at short notice on a case.
— I don’t believe it! The ba … How can I reach him? Which hotel …?
— I’m afraid I can’t help.
He put the phone down, thought for a moment, then quickly got dressed. He got down a cardboard box from the top of the wardrobe and from the oiled rag inside it took a Browning pistol, a 1935 model, his preferred weapon. He released the magazine to load its thirteen cartridges and snapped it back in with the flat of his hand.
His wife stood in front of him in silence. There was nothing she could say.
When he’d finished checking the gun he slipped it into his jacket pocket and went to the garage.
The metallic green Mercedes started first time.
Less than ten minutes later Pierre Cazes was on the motorway to Paris. Headlights raised, speedometer fixed at 180.