The Disappearance of Adèle Bedeau (16 page)

Manfred entered the restaurant at more or less the usual time. Lemerre and Cloutier were already there. Neither of them acknowledged Manfred as he passed. Lemerre absentmindedly shuffled the cards and spoke to Cloutier in an unusually low voice. Under normal circumstances, the Restaurant de la Cloche was the one place where Manfred felt at ease. His routine was so well-established that he did not feel, as he did elsewhere, that he had to act naturally. People generally paid him little heed. He approached the bar. Pasteur would have thought it presumptuous to set out his drink before he ordered. As he did every night, he greeted Manfred with a nod and the words, ‘The usual?' and Manfred replied, ‘The usual, yes.'

Tonight, however, those familiar nods and greetings, the very walk to the counter were challenging, as if he was walking into a bar in a foreign country where he did not speak the language or understand the customs. He felt as if he was reading a sentence from a phrasebook. Pasteur, for his part, merely nodded curtly, poured his drink and placed it on the counter before returning his attention to polishing the glasses beneath the gantry. Manfred attributed this aloofness to the fact that he was drunk. Lemerre would already have informed Pasteur of their encounter in Le Pot. Of course, it was none of Pasteur's business if Manfred once in a while took a glass in another bar, but the chilly atmosphere suggested that his nose was out of joint.

Dominique squeezed past Manfred at the hatch and carried two
steak frites
to a couple in the corner. Manfred watched her reset two tables in the mirror above the bar. She could not have been more different from Adèle. She was skinny and flat-chested. Manfred could still perceive the outline of her slim buttocks beneath her skirt. After she had placed the plates in front of the customers she remained at the table fidgeting until the couple satisfied her that they did not require anything else. As she passed through the hatch on her way back to the kitchen, she almost flattened herself against the counter in order, it seemed, to place the maximum distance between herself and Manfred.

‘How's the new girl getting on?' he asked Pasteur.

Pasteur glanced up as if he had forgotten that Manfred was there.

‘Fine,' he said.

‘Your niece, I understand?' said Manfred. He didn't know why he was trying to continue the conversation. Was it a perverse response to the curt answer Pasteur had just given or was it the effect of the alcohol he had already drunk? He felt himself slur a little on the word ‘niece'.

‘That's right,' Pasteur replied without looking in Manfred's direction.

Petit arrived and took his seat. He poured himself a glass from the carafe on the table. Manfred awaited the summons that signified the commencement of the dreadful ritual. But, instead, the three men engaged in a huddled conversation over the table. Then Pasteur carefully folded his dishtowel and without a word, walked across the restaurant and took the remaining seat at the table. Manfred was astonished. He watched the vignette unfold in the mirror above the bar. Pasteur took his place as if it was the most natural thing in the world. Lemerre placed the pack in the centre of the table and the four men cut the cards as if it was a custom they had been performing for years. None of them looked in Manfred's direction. His cheeks burned. The whole thing must have been arranged with Pasteur in advance. Even
the niece, who now took his place behind the bar, the proprietor's place, which Pasteur never gave up for anyone, must have been in on it. Not to mention Marie, who must be holed up, mortified, in the kitchen. They could not have humiliated him more if they had blatantly accused him of murdering Adèle. Of course, he should march right over to the table and demand to know what was going on. Was he supposed to just stand there for the entire evening drinking his wine as if nothing untoward had taken place?

Manfred's heart pounded in his chest. Of course, they would like nothing more than for him to make a scene, to demand to know what was going on, to start protesting his innocence. Manfred could imagine what the other customers in the restaurant would make of such a spectacle. How amusing it would be. And the four men would just sit there, cards in hand, expressions of mock innocence on their faces. Lemerre's victory would be complete. Manfred determined not to give them the satisfaction. He was under no obligation to assert his innocence to Lemerre, Pasteur or anybody else. So what if he was excluded from the infernal game! They were welcome to it. And they were welcome to their petty conspiracies. Manfred finished his glass and calmly ordered another from the girl. She poured it out and placed it in front of him. Manfred thanked her and took a sip.

It was a long, long evening. At regular intervals Dominique took a fresh carafe to the table by the door. Slowly the restaurant emptied of diners until the only customers were Manfred and the card players. The clatter of dishes and cutlery from the kitchen died away. The only remaining sound was of the players' bids. There was none of the usual banter between hands. Even Lemerre refrained from his usual provocations. By the time Manfred neared the end of his bottle, he was aware that he was swaying slightly. His back had become painful from the effort of standing rigidly at the bar. He finished his bottle and asked for the bill. The waitress placed it on the counter and Manfred paid, leaving, for once, a generous tip in the pewter salver. He did
not blame her for her part in his humiliation. Probably she had little idea of the significance of the plot in which she had been an accomplice. She accepted the tip with a barely audible thank-you and gave Manfred what he interpreted to be an apologetic smile.

Manfred took his raincoat from the hanger and clumsily put it on. Then he turned and walked unsteadily towards the exit. The men kept their eyes conspicuously on their cards as he passed.

M
ANFRED WOKE WITH A HEADACHE
. His mouth was dry and he reached for the tumbler of water he kept on the bedside table. It was not long before the events of the previous evening returned to him. He felt a kind of numbness. He lingered in bed a few minutes longer than normal, listening to the sounds from behind the apartment building, the clunk of car doors closing and engines being started, the faint murmur of birdsong. It was quite normal, but Manfred experienced it as if his head was submerged in water. Everything was muffled.

He sat up and drank the remains of the glass of water. His clothes lay on a crumpled heap on the floor rather on the chair where he normally left them neatly folded. A horizontal slat of sunlight crept in at the foot of the window where the blind did not quite reach the sill. A paperback lay on its spine on the floor, its pages fanned out. He must have knocked it off the bedside table. Manfred felt a sudden sensation that he was not
in
his room, but instead standing outside looking on, as if he was a detective leafing through photographs of a crime scene. Then quite suddenly, he saw himself in the room, bare-chested, propped up against two pillows and he had a strong sense of being watched. Manfred shook his head and dismissed the idea. The feeling must merely be the effect of having drunk, the previous evening, three times as much as he normally did. Nevertheless, when he got
out of bed, contrary to habit, he put on a robe to walk the few steps along the passage to the shower room. He felt like an actor playing the role of himself. The headache did not worry him. It was dull and throbbing, quite unlike the migraines which felt as if shards of glass had become lodged in his skull. He found some aspirin in the bathroom cabinet and swallowed three tablets, before splashing cold water on his face.

He turned on the shower and stepped into the cabinet before the water reached a comfortable temperature. He imagined a surveillance team making derogatory remarks about the size of his penis. The drumming of the water on the floor of the cabinet was comforting and he was glad when the glass began to steam up. He turned his face to the water and held it there, close to the showerhead. He must put these silly thoughts from his mind. Of course, the technology existed to place people under surveillance in their homes, and no doubt such technology was at the police's disposal, but the idea that Gorski would have gone to the trouble of breaking into his apartment and fitting concealed cameras was ridiculous. Sketchy as Manfred's knowledge of the law was, such an operation would surely entail the consent of a magistrate, not to mention the manpower required to install the equipment and monitor the footage. Surely, even if the law permitted it, Gorski would not go to such lengths. On the other hand, perhaps it was precisely this operation which had necessitated his removal to the police station the previous day. Gorski would have had to be certain that Manfred would not suddenly arrive home during the installation of the equipment.

Manfred concentrated on the business of his shower. He shampooed his hair and used a rough loofah on his back before taking the showerhead from its bracket and washing away the lather from the crevices of his body. He stepped out of the cabinet and dried himself. He resisted the temptation to put his robe back on, instead wrapping a clean towel around his waist. He wiped the steam from the mirror above the wash-hand basin. His skin was grey and his eyes were bloodshot. He had
inherited his father's rapid growth of stubble and he enjoyed the ritual of transforming his face each morning. This morning, however, his skin felt loose and his hands were shaking slightly so that he had to take great care not to cut himself. He patted his face dry and walked back along the passage to the kitchen, still with the towel around his waist. He set a pot of coffee on the hob and looked out of the kitchen window over the children's play park. Perhaps Gorski's men had taken an apartment in the building opposite and were photographing him through an oversized telephoto lens. The thought caused Manfred a wry smile. The only rooms that overlooked the play park were the kitchen and the bedroom, and he rarely bothered to raise the blind in the bedroom.

He dressed, combed his hair and put on his watch. Back in the kitchen he laid out two croissants in a basket, butter and jam, a plate and a knife. He poured the coffee into a large bowl and sat down at the table. As he ate his breakfast, he looked around the room. There was no sign of his apartment being disturbed, but there was no shortage of places in which a camera could be hidden. Manfred was tempted to get up and start squinting at the light fittings and air vents. But it would be impossible to institute a search thorough enough to convince himself there were no devices in the apartment, and, in any case, would the very fact that he was searching for them not be interpreted as a sign of guilt?

It was 8.07. Manfred forced himself to finish his breakfast at his usual pace and left the apartment, as he always did, at 8.15. He paused at the bank of mailboxes in the foyer. Some leaflets were sticking out of the slat of Alice's box. It was curious that they had only once encountered each other in the morning. Manfred was quite sure he would have noticed her. And now it appeared that Alice's mailbox had not been emptied. Probably there was a quite innocent explanation. Perhaps she had gone away or had simply grown tired of discarding the accumulated junk mail.

Outside, Manfred scanned the street for Alice's sports car. He had not noticed what make it was, but he was sure he would recognise it. Instead of turning right and walking towards the bank, Manfred retraced the route he had followed the morning he had met Alice. Most likely she always parked her car behind the building. Perhaps residents even had designated parking spaces, but Alice's car was not there. Manfred reprimanded himself for snooping around in this way. Still, as he headed towards the bank, he could not shake the thought that it was strange that he had never once seen Alice before he found her blouse in the dryer. The more Manfred thought about how they had met, the more suspicious it seemed. The fact that he had happened to bump into her only days after the incident in the laundry room seemed too much of a coincidence. Then there was the absurd charade of her finding his gauche conversation amusing. Manfred cursed himself for having been taken in. He had even secretly congratulated himself on being in possession of a certain charm. What a vain, naive fool he was! And worse, he had actually begun to harbour feelings for her. Since they had met, his mood had lightened at the thought of her. And that all this had occurred while the business with Gorski was going on had not caused Manfred even a moment's pause. When one pieced the thing together it became quite clear that Alice must have been planted by the police in order to inveigle her way into his confidence. Gorski must have a very low opinion of him if he thought he would fall for such an obvious set-up.

Despite this, as he walked to the bank, Manfred could not resist the temptation to scan the streets for Alice's car. Part of him still wanted to catch a glimpse of her. A brisk breeze rattled the papery leaves of the trees which lined the street. Manfred buttoned his raincoat. To the east, the sky was darkening. The aspirin had had no effect on his headache. Manfred kept his eyes trained on the pavement and quickened his pace. At the bank, he was greeted by silence. The staff made no pretence of continuing their conversation. Perhaps they had assumed he would not appear that morning
and that the next they would hear of him would be from the front page of
L'Alsace
. Manfred did not bother to bid them good morning. He called Carolyn into his office and had her bring him some coffee. It was an aberration from his routine. Normally he waited for her to bring him a cup midway through the morning, but in the current circumstances, it seemed a trifle.

Carolyn looked at him with concern and asked if he was all right. Manfred snapped that he was fine and immediately regretted his harsh tone. When the girl returned with his coffee, he apologised and explained that he had a headache. Carolyn nodded and slunk out of the room as if she was afraid to turn her back to him.

Manfred spent the morning staring blankly at the documents on his desk. It must have been quite obvious that he was not doing any work. Manfred reminded himself of his resolve to act naturally, but his thoughts about Alice had thrown him off kilter. The more he thought about it, the more bloody-minded he felt. He went over and over their encounters in his head and the more he reflected, the more he concluded that it could be nothing other than a conspiracy. The timing and details – the fact, for example, that she had been wearing the pale blue blouse on the morning he had met her – and most of all the idea that a woman like Alice Tarrou would be interested in him, all contended against his desire to believe that she was unconnected to the investigation. Manfred had come across such plots in many a novel. It seemed an unlikely tactic for a provincial police force to employ, but the evidence spoke for itself. His headache increased. Everything he had said to Alice would have been reported back to Gorski, including his ill-judged comments about Juliette. Despite his previous resolve to follow his routine, he decided that he should not have come to work. What would have come of it? What if he had disappeared just as Adèle had done? The bank would still have opened. After a few days, head office would send someone to replace him. There would be some gossip, then it would all be forgotten.
He
would be forgotten.

At lunch, Pasteur did not look up from behind the counter when Manfred entered the Restaurant de la Cloche. Dominique arrived at his table and Manfred ordered the
andouillette
as he always did. Most of the tables were occupied, but there was little of the normal hubbub of a lunchtime service. Was the curiously subdued atmosphere on account of his presence? He was sure the eyes of the room were upon him, but whenever he looked up from his food no one was looking in his direction. Nevertheless, Manfred sensed that the occupants of the restaurant would breathe a collective sigh of relief when he left. Pasteur did not glance in his direction for the duration of the meal and when he paid his bill, no reference was made to the events of the previous evening. It was the proprietor's part in his exclusion from the game that most wounded Manfred. He had always thought of Pasteur as an ally. It was true that he did not greet him with any special warmth or favour him over other customers. But he had on occasion shot Manfred a conspiratorial look when Lemerre was behaving unpleasantly. It was a meagre foundation upon which to construct a friendship, but Manfred had, nevertheless, thought of Pasteur as his friend.

All the same, as Manfred walked back to the bank, his mood lightened a little. It was a bright day and no one so much as glanced at him. It was not, Manfred told himself, because people were avoiding his gaze, but simply because there was nothing exceptional about him. His headache had subsided and his earlier thoughts about Alice seemed silly. It was absurd to think that Gorski would have gone to so much trouble to entrap him. He had met Alice only the day after Gorski had first visited him in his apartment. Manfred smiled at how ridiculous the idea that Alice was working for the police had been. Of course, there had been a degree of chance to their encounters, a degree of chance which could, when one enumerated it, make the whole thing seem highly improbable, but was that not always the case when two strangers met?

In his office Manfred took the telephone book from the bottom drawer of his desk. There was no harm in setting his mind to rest once and for all. All he had to do was call all the stationery firms in town and ask for Alice Tarrou. If Alice's story was not true, there would be no entry for her company in the directory. It was as simple as that. Manfred flicked through the pages. There were no stationery companies listed in Saint-Louis. He found two printing companies. That was almost the same thing. Manfred picked up the receiver, then hesitated before calling the first number. He did not know if Tarrou was Alice's married or maiden name. Perhaps she still used her ex-husband's name at work. He would just ask for Alice. He would recognise her voice if she came on the line. Then he could just hang up.

He dialled the first number. It rang for some time before a gruff male voice answered.

‘May I speak to Alice?' said Manfred.

‘Alice who?' the man said.

Manfred hesitated. ‘I'm not sure of her second name,' he said. ‘I wrote it down, but I seem to have lost the slip of paper.'

‘You've got the wrong number, pal,' said the man. ‘There's no Alice here.'

Then he hung up.

Manfred replaced the receiver. His heart was beating a little faster. He tried the second number. This time a young woman answered and told him that no one called Alice worked there. Manfred apologised for troubling her. He ran his hand over his chin. It had the texture of sandpaper. Was it possible, after all, that Alice had concocted the story of the stationery company? He realised that she had not said that the firm was located in Saint-Louis. He looked again in the directory. Two stationer's and three printing firms were listed in Mulhouse. Manfred dialled the first number. A girl answered.

‘I wondered if I could speak to Alice,' said Manfred.

‘Alice isn't here,' said the girl. ‘Can I help you?'

Manfred paused. He could hardly ask the girl what Alice's surname was. ‘No,' he said, ‘it's a personal matter. Will she be back later?'

‘I'm not sure,' said the girl. ‘If you give me your number, I'll get her to call you.'

‘That's all right,' said Manfred, ‘I'll try again later.' Then he put the phone down.

He spent what was left of the afternoon going over the conversation in his mind. There was nothing distinctive about his voice, but the girl was sure to mention that a man had called. Would Alice guess it was him? Perhaps she would think nothing of it, but Manfred did not wish her to know he had been snooping on her, that he had called her office in order to verify what she had told him. That was not how normal people behaved. On top of that, the whole exercise had been futile. Unless he did call back, which he had no intention of doing, he had no way of knowing that it was the same Alice. It was a common enough name.