‘So you deny it?’ he said.
‘Of course I deny it, because it wasn’t me ... If it had been me I’d be proud to own up to it.’
Monsieur Denizet suddenly rose to his feet and went over to the door of the adjoining room. He opened it and asked Jacques to come forward.
‘Do you recognize this man?’ he asked him.
‘Of course,’ answered Jacques, somewhat surprised at the question. ‘I know him. I’ve seen him at the Misards.’
‘No, no,’ said Monsieur Denizet, ‘do you recognize him as the man you saw in the train, the murderer?’
Immediately Jacques became more reticent. He didn’t recognize him. The man in the train seemed shorter; his hair was darker. He was on the point of saying so but decided he should err on the side of caution. He couldn’t be sure.
‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I can’t say ... I assure you, monsieur, I really can’t say.’
Without further ado, Monsieur Denizet called in Roubaud and his wife and asked them the same question: ‘Do you recognize this man?’
Cabuche stood there smiling; he didn’t seem a bit surprised to see the Roubauds. He nodded quickly at Séverine, whom he had known as a girl when she came to stay at La Croix-de-Maufras. Roubaud and Séverine, however, were quite taken aback to see Cabuche. They realized that this was the man who had been arrested, the man that Jacques had spoken of earlier. It was because of him that they had been called to answer further questions. Roubaud was astonished and appalled when he saw how closely Cabuche matched the description of the imaginary killer he had invented so as to be the opposite of himself. The likeness was purely fortuitous, but it came as such a shock that he was lost for words.
‘Come, come,’ said Monsieur Denizet, ‘do you recognize him?’
‘Really monsieur, I must repeat that it was only an impression ... someone brushed past me ... Obviously, this man is tall, like the one in the train; he is fair-haired, he has no beard ...’
‘Do you recognize him?’
Faced with such a direct question, Roubaud was torn both ways; it was an agonizing decision. Eventually the instinct of self-preservation won the day.
‘I can’t be absolutely sure, but he certainly looks like him; he looks very much like him.’
At this Cabuche began to shout and swear. He had had enough of all this nonsense. He hadn’t done it and he wanted to go home. The blood rushed to his head, he thumped his fists on the desk and became so terribly agitated that Monsieur Denizet called for the constables, who came and led him away. This sudden display of violence, like a wild animal retaliating when attacked, was what the magistrate had been waiting for. He was now completely sure of himself and he showed it.
‘Did you notice his eyes?’ he said. ‘I can always tell from the look in their eyes ... the case is clear; we’ve got him!’
The Roubauds looked at each other without moving. It was all over. They were saved. The murderer was in the hands of the law. They were left feeling somewhat nonplussed and decidedly guilty about the part that they had just found themselves forced to play. At the same time they were overjoyed and quickly overcame their qualms. They smiled at Jacques and stood there, very relieved and eager to be out in the fresh air, waiting for the magistrate to give them all permission to leave. Just then the usher came in and handed Monsieur Denizet a letter.
Monsieur Denizet quickly returned to his desk and read the letter carefully, forgetting that the three witnesses were still waiting to go. The letter was from the ministry, containing the instructions he should have waited for before reopening his investigation. What was contained in the letter clearly took the edge off his moment of glory; his face gradually froze and resumed its fixed expression of seriousness. At one point he raised his head and glanced out of the corner of his eye at the Roubauds, as if something he had read had reminded him of them. The Roubauds’ short-lived joy was immediately dispelled; all their fear returned, as they sensed once again that they had been found out. Why had he looked at them like that? Had someone in Paris discovered the tell-tale note that Séverine had written to Grandmorin, those three lines of handwriting that haunted them? Séverine knew Monsieur Camy-Lamotte; she had often seen him with the President at Doinville, and she knew that he had been put in charge of sorting out the dead man’s papers. Roubaud was beginning to regret that he had not thought of sending his wife to Paris to make a few social calls on people who might be useful to them. She could at least have spoken to the Secretary-General and asked him to put in a good word for him, should the Railway Company become irritated by all the rumours and contemplate giving him the sack. They stood with their eyes fixed on the magistrate, sensing their anxiety increase as they saw his face darken. The letter had clearly disturbed him; his whole day’s work had been undone.
At length, he dropped the letter on his desk and sat for a while, lost in thought, gazing at the Roubauds and at Jacques. Then, with a shrug of resignation and as if speaking to himself aloud, he said, ‘Well, we shall see! We shall have to look at it all again ... You may go.’
But as the three of them were leaving the room, Monsieur Denizet decided that there was one more thing he needed to know. Even though he had been specifically instructed to proceed no further without prior agreement, he felt he must clarify a crucial issue raised in the letter which seemed to invalidate his own theory of the murder.
‘Please wait a moment,’ he said to Jacques. ‘I have one further question I would like to ask you.’
Outside in the corridor, the Roubauds stopped. The doors on to the street were open, but they could not bring themselves to leave. Something held them back; they needed to know what was happening inside the magistrate’s office and they found it physically impossible to walk away until they had learned from Jacques what other question he was being asked. They walked frantically up and down the corridor until their legs ached. Eventually they came and sat down on the bench where they had waited so long already. They sat in silence, feeling sick with worry.
When Jacques reappeared, Roubaud stood up stiffly.
‘We thought we would wait for you,’ he said. ‘We can go back to the station together. What did he ask you?’
Jacques looked away, embarrassed, as if he were trying to avoid Séverine’s eyes, which were fixed on him.
‘He’s not sure about it any more,’ he said at last. ‘He’s floundering. He just asked me if there weren’t two people involved. When I was questioned at Le Havre, I mentioned a black shape holding down the victim’s legs, and he asked me about that. He seems to think it was just the travelling rug. Anyway he sent for the rug, and I had to tell him whether that was what I saw. I told him that it could have been.’
The Roubauds were shaking. The law was after them; one word from Jacques and they were done for. There was no doubt he knew they had done it, and sooner or later he would talk. They left the law courts in silence, Séverine walking between the two men. When they were in the street, Roubaud said, ‘By the way, my friend, Madame Roubaud has to spend a day in Paris on business. I’d appreciate it if you could help her find her way around; she may need someone to accompany her.’
V
At eleven fifteen, spot on time, the signalman at the Pont de l’Europe sounded the regulation two blasts on his horn to announce the arrival of the express from Le Havre as it emerged from the Batignolles tunnel. It came clattering over the turntables and ran into the station with a short toot on its whistle, a squealing of brakes, smoke pouring from its chimney and dripping wet from the teeming rain that had been falling steadily since it had left Rouen.
Even before the porters had unlatched the carriage doors, one of them swung open, and Séverine jumped out on to the platform without waiting for the train to stop. She had been sitting at the rear of the train, and in order to get to the engine she had to dash down the platform through the sudden invasion of passengers who were climbing out of the carriages laden with parcels and surrounded by children. Jacques stood on the footplate waiting to take the engine back to the sheds, while Pecqueux cleaned the brasswork with a rag.
‘I’ll see you in the Rue Cardinet at three o’clock,’ she said, standing on tiptoe. ‘Is that all right? I need to speak to your boss. I have a message for him from my husband.’
Such was the scheme devised by Roubaud. Séverine was to convey his thanks to the Batignolles shed foreman for a favour he had done him. This would allow her to spend time in the company of Jacques and would give her a chance to strengthen their acquaintance and exercise her charm on him.
Jacques, black with coal dust, soaked to the skin and utterly exhausted after battling against wind and rain, stared at her blankly and made no answer. He had been unable to refuse Roubaud as the train was leaving Le Havre, but the thought of finding himself alone with Séverine disturbed him, because he now knew that he desired her.
‘Is that all right?’ Séverine repeated, smiling and looking at him sweetly, attempting to overcome the surprise and the faint sense of disgust she felt at seeing him so filthy that she hardly recognized him. ‘I’m counting on you.’
She placed her gloved hand on one of the iron handrails and attempted to lift herself on to the footplate. Pecqueux obligingly warned her to be careful.
‘I wouldn’t come up here,’ he said, ‘you’ll get yourself dirty.’
Jacques had to give her an answer, but he sounded far from enthusiastic.
‘All right,’ he said, ‘I’ll see you in the Rue Cardinet ... provided I don’t get washed away in this bloody rain! Damned weather!’
She felt really quite sorry for him, seeing him in such a pitiful state.
‘You poor thing!’ she said, speaking to him as if he had been braving the elements just for her. ‘There was I all warm and dry! I was thinking of you all the time. What a terrible storm! I can’t tell you how frightened I was! I was so glad to think it was you bringing me here this morning and taking me back tonight on the express.’
These little confidences, well-meaning as they were, only served to make Jacques all the more uneasy. It came as a relief when a voice shouted: ‘Right away! You can back her out!’ He promptly gave a tug on the whistle, and Pecqueux motioned to Séverine to stand aside.
‘I’ll see you at three o’clock,’ she called.
‘All right,’ he said, ‘three o’clock.’
As the locomotive reversed out of the station, Séverine left the platform, which was by now empty. She walked out on to the Rue d’Amsterdam and was about to open her umbrella when, to her relief, she saw that it had stopped raining. She walked down the street to the Place du Havre, stopped for a moment to deliberate on what she should do next and decided that it would be best to have some lunch. It was twenty-five past eleven. She went into a little restaurant at the corner of the Rue Saint-Lazare and ordered fried eggs and a chop. She ate slowly, ruminating on all that had happened over the last few weeks. She looked pale and drawn. There was no sign of her usual charming smile.
The day before, two days after the interview with the examining magistrate in Rouen, Roubaud, deeming further delay dangerous, had decided to send his wife to Paris to speak with Monsieur Camy-Lamotte, not at the ministry but at his private address in the Rue du Rocher, a large town house situated next door to that of Grandmorin. Séverine knew that he would be in at one o’clock,
1
so there was no rush. She sat preparing what she was going to say and trying to imagine how he might respond, in order to give herself more confidence. The day before, a further cause of anxiety had arisen which had made her journey to Paris even more urgent; they had heard through gossip at the station that Madame Lebleu and Philomène were telling everyone that the Company intended to dismiss Roubaud because it considered him a liability. Worse still, Monsieur Dabadie, when asked if it was true, had not denied it, which lent added weight to the rumour. It had become urgent that Séverine come to Paris as soon as possible to put their case and enlist the support of the Secretary-General, as they had done previously with the President. This was the ostensible reason for her trip, but behind it there lay something more compelling - a burning, insatiable desire to know if they had been found out, a desire so overpowering that it will drive a criminal to give himself up rather than continue in uncertainty. Ever since Jacques had told them that the prosecution now seemed to think that two people were involved in the murder, the Roubauds suspected that their crime had been discovered, and the uncertainty was driving them to distraction. They were wearing themselves out imagining one thing after another - perhaps they had found the letter, perhaps they had managed to work out their movements on the day of the crime. At any minute, they thought, someone would come with a search warrant or a warrant for their arrest. The strain was becoming unbearable; the least little things appeared threatening. They were beginning to think that it would be better to be found out rather than go on living in a state of continual panic; they would at least know where they stood, and their anxiety would be at an end.
2
Séverine finished eating her chop. She had been deep in thought and woke up with a start to find herself sitting in a restaurant. There was a bitter taste in her mouth. She couldn’t swallow her food. She didn’t even want any coffee. She had eaten slowly, but it was still barely a quarter past twelve when she left the restaurant. She had another three-quarters of an hour to kill! Usually, when she came to Paris, she loved being in the city and walking around the streets. But today she felt lost and frightened, wishing she had done what she had come to do, and that she could run away and hide. The pavement was by now almost dry. A warm breeze blew away the last of the clouds. She walked down the Rue Tronchet and arrived at the flower market on the Place de la Madeleine. It was a typical March flower market, with primroses and azaleas in full bloom, flaunting their colour in the pale light of a late-winter afternoon. For half an hour Séverine walked round the market, surrounded by this precocious flowering of spring, lost in her thoughts. Jacques was an enemy whom she must disarm. She had spoken with Monsieur Camy-Lamotte, and everything had gone well. All she needed to do was persuade Jacques to remain silent. It would not be easy. She began to imagine all manner of romantic scenarios and discovered that, far from increasing her fatigue and anxiety, it had a pleasantly soothing effect. Suddenly she noticed the time, on a clock in one of the market stalls - ten past one! It brought her back to reality with a jolt. She had achieved nothing. She hurried off towards the Rue du Rocher.