Thirty Hours with a Corpse

by Maurice Level

  It had been a gay evening at the start. Guiret and Barthe had gone by special invitation to the apartment of Roland Marousse, a wealthy merchant, who found, in common with the two students, pleasure in card-playing and gambling. It was the first of the month and both Guiret and his roommate had received their allowances. It was planned that the three of them would go together to another apartment where they would meet other acquaintances. They had expected to find Marousse alone. . . .

  Guiret, half-conscious, knew that he was breathing heavily, as he had heard Barthe breathe when he first tried to sleep, and he knew that if he could not throw off the torpor of weariness, pull himself out of the swoon that he was in, he would like Barthe go on and on until he, too, awakened with a hoarse, strangled cry.

  “No—no—no—” he muttered, and that was what he was saying when suddenly he sat bolt upright in his chair, rubbing his eyes with his palms.

  How much time had elapsed, he could not tell. Possibly he had slept for a while before the recollections started to turn into the nightmare. He listened, hoping to hear a clock strike. From the sounds below in the street it must be ten o’clock or later.

  “Armand—Armand—” he said tensely. “Wake up—someone is coming up the stairs!”

  Barthe awakened with a start of fright and Guiret tried to calm him:

  “What is there to worry about? It must be Legros. If he’s coming here who else could it be?” he asked confusedly.

  He went to the door and unlocked it, opened it wide. Then he fell back into the room.

  “Who is it?” Barthe asked, from the bedroom where he had gone as if to hide himself.

  “Marousse!” Guiret exclaimed. “What on earth has brought you here so early?”

  Marousse came into the room wearily. He seemed very tired and somewhat embarrassed.

  “I was passing. I hope I do not disturb you.”

  “No, no!”

  Marousse looked at the trunk: “You are leaving—”

  “For a short stay at Cannes. We are waiting for the concierge to bring the bill. Sit down—sit down—”

  Marousse sat down uneasily and looked around the room. “Where is Barthe?”

  “In his bedroom. He—he has a headache. Ill luck, too, when we have planned to take the train this afternoon. Armand—”

  “Don’t bother him. I know how one feels with a headache. I’m none too well myself,” Marousse said wearily.

  Guiret noticed that his usual jovial expression was lacking. He showed his age this morning. His body looked as if it had suddenly become emaciated.

  A constrained silence seemed to weigh upon them. Guiret was the first to break it.

  “Oh, Marousse,” he said, fumbling in his pocket. “Don’t let me forget that little sum of money I owe you.”

  “Never mind. Let it go,” Marousse protested. “You’ll be back, won’t you?”

  “Of course—but I want you to know that I wouldn’t leave— even for a trip without mentioning—”

  “Never mind. I cannot think or care about money. I am too much disturbed.” He broke off, waiting for Guiret to question him. Guiret did not offer to do so and he went on: “I am terribly worried. Chouchou has not come back.”

  “I have not seen her, not since she left us night before last.”

  “But—I don’t understand—”

  “Neither do I. You recall what happened. I should think you might well remember. Both you and Barthe lost so much at cards. You noticed, no doubt, that—” he hesitated, embarrassed, then forced himself to continue—”that Chouchou and I quarreled.”

  “Yes, I mean I—I thought no more about it.”

  “I was jealous, I admit. I should not have been, but I was. She was trying always to—to be alone with—well—” he lowered his voice—”with Barthe—you noticed, did you not?”

  “Yes, I did—”

  “She had won so much at cards from all of us I thought she should go on playing and I told her so—well, you know how she got angry at me in the taxi on the way home and got out and called a taxi to go to her apartment—I haven’t seen her since—”

  “But that was night before last—”

  “Yes! That’s why I am so worried. When I got to my apartment I telephoned her, you know, to find out if she was still angry. No answer. I called later, in an hour. Still no answer. You remember it was very late when we parted. I slept a little, then took a bath and changed my clothes, and telephoned again. Still no Chouchou—”

  “Perhaps she was there but did not answer the phone.”

  “That’s what I thought. I called a taxi and went to her place. The maid had not seen her. She had not been back that night. I knew she could not be shopping. She had not been back to change her clothes, and she would not go about in evening clothes in the morning. I waited a while. Ten o’clock, half past ten, then I decided to telephone her friends. No one had seen her. I went down in the street and waited for an hour before the door, watching the taxis go by, expecting, hoping every moment to see her step out.”

  “And she did not?”

  “Would I be here worrying about her if she had? You can understand that I was terribly uneasy—” Marousse seemed to be playing with words, repeating himself in an attempt to reach what he had come to say: “When night came again and the street lamps were on I lost my head completely, or I did the right thing, I don’t know. I went to the police.”

  “You did!” Guiret exclaimed.

  “What else could I do? What would anyone have done in my place? A well-dressed woman, with valuable jewels—Chouchou always carries a large sum of money on her. I have known her to go out with four thousand francs to buy a postage stamp. I am sure something terrible has happened to her—or—” He broke off and perspiration beaded his pasty forehead.

  Guiret tried to think of something to say to calm him, for his own forehead was damp at the thought of Marousse going again to the police.

  “What I am about to say may seem brutal, Marousse, but is it not possible that Chouchou— Are you quite sure that—I mean, if she were deceiving you with someone else that would explain—”

  Marousse tapped his shoe with the end of his cane. He showed no resentment or surprise at what Guiret had said. On the contrary, after one or two attempts to speak, he seemed to agree by nodding his head.

  “Yes, I have asked myself that,” he said, after a while. “And since you are frank with me, I will be frank with you. I had the firm conviction that you know where she is.”

  “Me!” Guiret exclaimed.

  “You need not pretend with me. I am no longer a boy, I am past forty-five, neither handsome nor clever. I have nothing except money to offer a pretty young woman like Chouchou. I understand that and would excuse many things.”

  “I don’t see what you’re trying to get at,” Guiret said.

  “I am neither a fool nor blind. I tell you that I could not help noticing that Chouchou and Barthe—before he lost so heavily at cards that he was depressed—did you not notice? What I mean to say is, I would be the happiest man on earth to learn that she is alive and well. That’s how much I have suffered with worry. Even though she had come here to wait for Barthe after she left us—”

  “What a mad idea!”

  “But you would say just that even if she had. I tell you, I will not make a scene. All I want to know is that nothing terrible has happened to her, that she is here—”

  “Here—” Guiret repeated, turning pale. “No, no—I swear it.”

  “You give me your word?”

  “Yes, my word—”

  But Marousse continued to stare at the door leading to the bedrooms.

  “If it is necessary for you to convince yourself, Marousse—” Guiret said presently.

  “Oh, no,” Marousse protested, flushing. “I must believe you.”

  “But I don’t want you leaving here unless you really believe me, and there is only one way to prove—” He opened the door and indicated that Marousse might search.
>
  Deeply embarrassed but holding to his firm purpose to purchase peace of mind at all costs, Marousse stepped into the bedroom. Barthe, lying on the bed, his hand over his eyes as if to shut out the light, did not stir, and Marousse tiptoed by him to inspect Guiret’s room, which was beyond.

  “I must ask your pardon,” Marousse said to Guiret when they were again in the sitting-room. He sat down weakly on the trunk. The conviction which had whipped his courage deserted him. Guiret held himself very erect, icy in his manner.

  “I can only think the worst now,” Marousse said.

  “Wait until late tonight,” Guiret suggested. “Why make a fool of yourself if she— Anyway, if harm has already come to her what good will it do?”

  Marousse did not seem to hear him. He picked up his hat and stick and went out slowly, almost regretfully, as if he sensed that in this room there was something that should have held him back.

  “My God—” whispered Guiret, when the door had closed after him. “That time I thought we were surely gone!”

  “Yes,” Barthe said, for he had come to the doorway and was standing there weakly, as if the strength had left his limbs.

  He seemed more composed, however, and Guiret calmed himself, spurred on by what he believed to be a necessity—to tell Barthe of his plans before he could sink again into the hopeless terror that seemed always ready to engulf him.

  “If Legros is downstairs when we leave I shall direct the driver of the taxi to the East Station. I can change the order later. Whatever happens do not show surprise by a gesture or word at anything I do. There must be one head to this. Is that understood?”

  “It is understood,” Barthe agreed, and he added, thinking for the first time of his physical misery, “God, but I’m tired! If I could only snatch a little sleep.”

  “But you’ve been sleeping since daylight! We must hold ourselves in readiness. Later, perhaps, but first of all, be ready.”

  It was not long after that he heard a clock strike ten. He wound and set the clock. The minutes seemed longer with the exact knowledge of their passing.

  “I wonder why Legros does not show up?” he said after a while, and restlessly opened the door and went to the landing to look down and listen for voices. When he came back into the room he recoiled and paled, for it seemed to him that the air was already impregnated with a vague and terrible odor.

  “What’s the matter?” Barthe asked, noticing his sudden pallor. “Is anything wrong?”

  “I hope we can get away soon.”

  He cried out with joy when a few minutes later he heard Legros’ steps on the stairs. Legros knocked at the door and showed a smiling face.

  “Monsieur Guiret, here is the bill.”

  “That’s fine!”

  He went through the formality of verifying the addition, but the figures danced madly before his eyes.

  “Two thousand, one hundred and sixty-two francs is correct, is it not?” Legros asked.

  Guiret had opened his wallet. There were two one-thousand-franc bills but no change.

  “What have you got, Barthe?”

  Barthe had no change either.

  “We’ll have to get this five hundred franc bill changed,” Guiret said, and handed it to the concierge.

  “That may not be so easy around here. I may have to go to the Post Office.”

  “Well, go then—”

  “But I cannot go just now, Monsieur Guiret. You see I am alone downstairs. My wife has gone to market and I cannot leave the premises. The proprietor is very strict about that. Someone might come to look at the apartments.”

  “But we can’t wait around here until your wife gets back!”

  “You could go yourself, or Monsieur Barthe—”

  “Monsieur Barthe has a headache and I am waiting here for someone.”

  “My wife will not be gone long. Surely in half an hour—”

  “But we’ll miss our train.”

  “We could gain time this way,” the concierge suggested. “I could take your baggage down now and leave it in the corridor. And coming back from getting the change—that is, after my wife returns so that I can go—I could call a taxi.”

  “Leave the trunk downstairs in the corridor?”

  The thought of that seemed to lay an icy hand upon both of the men. Only when they watched it did they feel relatively secure. It seemed to them that peril commenced the moment they ceased to watch it. When that time arrived they must be speeding away in the opposite direction.

  “Why not?” Legros asked, and it was then that Guiret realized that he had spoken aloud.

  “Because even then there might not be time.”

  Legros shrugged. Barthe started to pace the floor. Guiret tried to think of something to say to reassure him, although he himself felt that he was perilously near the breaking point. What if the nervous tension that held him together should suddenly desert him at the decisive moment! Already he could see that one could not definitely plan on anything. There were always unexpected delays.

  Legros left and went downstairs and Guiret turned to Barthe:

  “You see how well I’m planning things? I told him that we were leaving soon. That’s to give us plenty of time and also so that he won’t know where we are going. Our train does not leave for two hours. We have plenty of time.”

  “Too much time. Let’s get some air. He is downstairs waiting for his wife. He did not clean yesterday because we are giving up the rooms, so why should he want to clean today until we are out?” In the chaos of his thought a single idea persisted, to get out of the room away from the trunk, which he did not wish to see but upon which, in spite of himself, his gaze was constantly fixed.

  “You should not make me waste my breath to repeat to you that we should not budge a foot from here until things are settled and we can leave for good. A single false word or gesture—”

  “What have I said now?” stammered Barthe. “Did I speak a-again?”

  “Do you not know whether you speak or not?” Guiret questioned loudly, then lowered his voice: “Someone is coming.”

  “More than one, too.”

  “Well, we aren’t the only persons living in the house.”

  Nevertheless he found himself counting the steps, heard them cross the landing, then started counting again. Strangely enough he had never thought of it before, but now he remembered that there were twenty-three steps. When the last footstep resounded under the heels, Guiret reached for a bottle that was near, half-filled with brandy. His hand closed convulsively over the neck. He stood against the wall by the door. Someone rapped. He did not speak. A second rap, then a voice:

  “Open up. I happen to know you’re there.”

  “Who is it?” Guiret asked through the door.

  “Marbois, sheriff’s officer.”

  “Sheriff’s officer!”

  “A judgment was given against you on the sixth of December. I am here at the request of Messieurs Bardier and Gordane, Tailors. Will you be kind enough to let me in?”

  With a sigh of relief Guiret put the bottle down and opened the door.

  Marbois entered followed by his man.

  “It is three thousand, six hundred and sixteen francs and that includes costs,” he said. “Can you pay it?”

  “No, Monsieur,” Guiret said firmly, with a warning glance at Barthe.

  “Then I must make an attachment.”

  “All right. Do so.”

  Marbois sat down at the table, took out a sheet of stamped paper and a fountain pen.

  “The furniture here, it is yours?”

  “Not all of it. The bed, the table, the chairs, you cannot touch. You know that. They are our tools of work. The rugs, the draperies, the pictures and the bookcases are ours.”

  The assistant commenced his inventory in a high-pitched voice:

  “A bookcase with glass doors, bronze lamp, Chinese rug—”

  “But—” Barthe began nervously.

  Guiret scowled at him and he did not spe
ak again until the sheriff’s officer and his man had gone into the bedroom.

  “But we have money to pay.”

  “Don’t be stupid! What would be left for us, then? We must buy the three tickets, and then there’s our living expenses where we’re going.”

  “That’s right.”

  Marbois came back into the living-room briskly. “Will you sign this, please?”

  Guiret took the pen in a steady hand. He was about to write his name when the officer interrupted him.

  “Wait a moment, we’ve forgotten something.”

  “What?”

  “This trunk.”

  “But that is our trunk.”

  “I know that. But will you be kind enough to open it?”

  “Will I—what?”

  “Open it.”

  “Why?” Guiret asked.

  “How do I know that it does not contain property that should he inventoried?”

  “There’s nothing there except our books, our papers. They constitute our tools of work and cannot be attached.”

  “That is true, but I must assure myself.”

  “I give you my word, Monsieur.”

  “Don’t waste time. Let’s get at it.”

  “But I say—did you not hear what I told you? It contains our personal belongings—” Guiret’s tone was that of a man who would not tolerate that his word should be questioned.

  The officer took a pompous voice now: “If my presence here and my insistence on doing my duty annoys you, you can get rid of both by paying.”

  Guiret drew himself erect proudly: “I have no lessons to take from you, Monsieur.”

  “I ask you for the last time, will you open it?”

  “And if I refuse?”

  “I am here to take legal judgment. I will go to the Commissioner of Police who will doubtless authorize me to return with a locksmith.”

  “All right, do that!” Guiret said angrily, playing for time. “Before the police I will do what is necessary. But I forbid you to so much as put your hand upon it.”