Authors: Alain Robbe-Grillet
Cautiously he turns around
and tiptoes into the bedroom to
get the revolver he has kept, since the war, in the drawer of his night table. But just as he is slipping off the safety catch, he feels a sudden qualm: he is not going to fire at his own son, after all; it
’
s only to frighten him.
Back in the hallway, the weight of the revolver in his hand seems unrelated to the fear that ran through him a minute earlier; by comparison this sudden fear vanishes altogether: why should his son have come tonight? Moreover, Dupont is not afraid of him. He puts the gun in his pocket. Starting tomorrow, he will have the house doors locked at nightfal
l
.
He turns the doorknob and opens the study door. Jean is there waiting for him.
He is standing between the chair and the desk. He has been reading the papers there. Another man is standing in front of the bookcase, to one side, his hands in his pockets—obviously a bad type.
“
Good evening,
”
Jean says.
His eyes are bright, both arrogant and apprehensive; he must have been drinking again. His mouth grimaces in a parody of a smile.
“
What are you doing here?
”
Dupont asks coldly.
“
I came to talk to you,
”
Jean says.
“
That
’
s (gesture of his chin) Maurice
…
he
’
s my attorney (another grimace).
”
“
Good evening,
”
Maurice says.
“
Who let you in?
”
“
No one,
”
Jean says.
“
I know the house.
”
Which means:
“
I
’
m a member of the family!
”
“
Well, you can leave the way you came,
”
the professor says calmly.
“
It
’
s just as easy: you know the way.
”
“
We
’
re not leaving just yet,
”
Jean says;
“
we came to talk-to talk business.
”
“
We
’
ve already exhausted the subject, my boy. Now you
’
re going to leave.
”
Dupont walks toward his son with a determined expression;
he sees the boy
’
s eyes fill with fear
…
fear and hatred
…
He
repeats:
“
You
’
re going to leave.
”
Jean picks up the first thing he finds within his reach: the heavy paperweight with sharp edges. He brandishes it, ready to strike. Dupont steps back and puts his hand on his revolver.
But Maurice has seen the gesture and is already in front of Dupont, quicker to take aim himself:
“
Let go of that and take your hand out of your pocket.
”
After that no one speaks. With his dignity at stake, Dupont feels that he cannot obey this contemptuous treatment in front of his son.
“
The police are coming,
”
he says.
“
I knew you
’
d be here waiting for me. Before coming in I telephoned from the bedroom.
”
“
The cops?
”
Maurice says.
“
I don
’
t hear anything.
”
“
It won
’
t be long, don
’
t worry.
”
“
We have time enough to get things straight!
”
“
They
’
ll be here any minute.
”
“
The telephone
’
s been cut for two days,
”
Jean says.
This time, Dupont
’
s anger is too much for him. Everything happens in a flash: the professor
’
s sudden movement to take out his gun, the shot that hits him full in the chest, and the young man
’
s shrill cry:
“
Don
’
t shoot, Maurice!
”
But the chief does not seem convinced. He dares not reject his assistant
’
s hypothesis out of hand, for you never know: suppose that happened to be what happened, what would he
look like then? Then too, the obscurities and contradictions of the case have to be interpreted one way or another
…
What bothers him about this theory is that it involves—accuses, actually—people too highly placed, whom it can only be dangerous to affront—whether they are innocent or guilty. He says:
“
We aren
’
t accustomed here
…
we aren
’
t accustomed in the
Executive Information Service to work on suspicions as vague
as that
“
He would like to add, by the way, some nasty joke about the Bureau of Investigation, and the
“
great Fabius,
”
but he decides to restrain himself: this may not be the right moment.
In the hope of discouraging his assistant, at least temporarily, from the slippery path onto which the latter wants to lure him, he proposes to send him on an assignment to the scene of the crime: there he could deal with the local police functionaries and with the doctor who has received Professor Dupont
’
s testimony along with his last breath; he could also discover whether the victim
’
s residence furnishes any new clue; he could
…
But the assistant shakes his head. It is quite futile for him to waste his time in that gloomy provincial town, half asleep in the North Sea fog. He would find nothing there, absolutely nothing. It is here, in the capital, that the drama has been acted
…
that the drama
is being
acted.
“
He thinks I
’
m afraid,
”
the chief realizes; but he doesn
’
t care. He says, quite casually:
“
Sometimes you go through hell and high water to find a murderer
…
”
“
…
far away,
”
his assistant continues,
“
when all you need
t
o do is stretch out your hand.
”
“
Don
’
t forget that the crime took place up there, even so
…
”
“
It took place up there the way it could have taken place and, as a matter of fact, as it
takes place
anywhere, very day, now here, now th
ere. What actually happened in Pr
ofessor Dupont
’
s house
the evening of October twenty-
sixth? A replica, a copy, a simple reproduction of an event whose original and whose key are elsewhere. And tonight, once again, as every evening
…
”
“
That
’
s still no reason for neglecting whatever clues we could find up there.
”
“
What would I find up there, if I went? Nothing but reflections, shadows, ghosts. And tonight, once again
…
”
Tonight a new copy will be discreetly slipped under the door, a correct copy duly signed and notarized, with just what it needs in the way of misspellings and misplaced commas so that the blind, the cowardly, the stone deaf can go on waiting and reassuring each other:
“
It can
’
t be really the same thing, can it?
”
To try to persuade his chief, the assistant goes on:
“
We
’
re not the only ones concerned with this case. If we don
’
t act fast enough, we run the risk of finding another service pulling the rug out from under us
…
maybe the great Fabius himself, who will pass himself off as his country
’
s savior once again
…
and get us all arrested, if he finds out we knew the
truth and concealed it
…
You
’
ll be accused
”
of complicity, you
can be sure of that.
”
But the chief does not seem convinced. He growls between his teeth, with an expression of suspicion and doubt:
“
. .. the truth
…
the truth
…
the truth
…
”
Madame Jean glances cautiously toward the post office
.
Everything is calm along the parkway.
But everything seemed just as calm before, and yet some thing happened, here, fifty yard
s away, at the corner of the Rue
Jonas. It had already begun in September—otherwise the commissioner would not have sent for her this afternoon. Probably she was taking part in their shady deals without even knowing it. In any case, she didn
’
t get anything out of it.
She certainly gave the man letters, without thinking twice about it: she had enough trouble checking the numbers on the cards, without examining the faces of the people who handed them to her. He might even have come often: the little Dexter girl obviously knew him well. He said he wasn
’
t the one, of course, and Madame Jean wasn
’
t going to say anything different! They
’
re big enough to get out of it by themselves. Yet she had proof of the fact that he really was the one: if he was so eager to find another post office this morning, it was because he couldn
’
t go back to that one, where he would have been recognized right away.
When she saw him again, after lunch, he was so tired that he had fallen asleep over his table. What had he been doing all morning long? Something else besides sending a telegram, that was sure. And why was he loitering around here again?
A doctor, Emilie said—maybe. He
’
s well dressed; he looks important. Madame Jean tries to imagine Wallas with the heavy glasses described by the old maid; actually it makes him into quite a likely doctor. Which obviously does not keep
h
im from being a criminal.
“
There are some funny doctors around here, you know.
”
That
’
s the truth. And who don
’
t know much: the epidemic proved that. But this one
’
s sly. He
’
s even managed to put the
c
ommissioner in his pocket: a little more and he
’
d have been
r
unning the investigation!
He sounded so cocky when he ans
wered the little Dexter girl that the poor thing didn
’
t dare say mother word. They don
’
t have much chance of finding the
g
uilty man now.
Madame Jean thinks about
this strange turn of events in
which the guilty man himself takes charge of the investigation. Since she cannot make any headway in so confusing a supposition, she deliberately turns her eyes away—and begins thinking about something else.
A tremendous voice fills the hall. Projected by invisible loudspeakers, it bounces back and forth against the walls covered with signs and advertisements, which amplify it still more, multiply it, reflect it, baffle it with a whole series of more or less conflicting echoes and resonances, in which the original message is lost—transformed into a gigantic oracle, magnificent, indecipherable, and terrifying.