The Accident on the A35

by Graeme Macrae Burnet

  He tore open a box and handed Gorski a stapled pamphlet entitled The Bundschuh Conspiracy. ‘No publisher has ever been interested in my work,’ he said. ‘My ideas are too controversial. It is my contention that the so-called Twelve Articles were in fact written by the Catholic hierarchy in order to legitimise the suppression of the peasantry.’

  Gorski nodded seriously. He handed the pamphlet back to Weismann, but he waved it away. ‘Please keep it,’ he said. Then added sadly: ‘I have boxes of them.’

  Gorski thanked him. He took his notebook from the pocket of his jacket.

  ‘My apologies, Inspector, I must have been boring you.’

  Gorski assured him that he had not. ‘Nevertheless—’ he said. He turned the pages of his notebook. They contained no more than the notes he had made at the scene of the accident. Weismann now hastily cleared some papers from two chairs.

  ‘I must apologise. I have forgotten my manners. I’m not used to entertaining guests.’

  Gorski accepted the seat he was offered.

  ‘And I must offer you a drink, Inspector.’

  Gorski thanked him. Weismann produced a bottle of schnapps from the floor behind the desk. A pair of mismatched glasses were located on the window sill. Weismann gave them a cursory wipe with his shirtsleeve. He poured two measures and handed one to Gorski. Gorski took it and carefully set it on the floor by his feet. Weismann sat down. He knocked back his drink and appeared visibly revived.

  ‘I wanted to go back to the first time you saw Maître Barthelme,’ Gorski said.

  ‘The first time?’ said Weismann. His left leg was twitching and he placed his hand on his thigh to calm it.

  ‘Yes,’ said Gorski. ‘It’s important to establish how long he had been visiting Mademoiselle Marchal.’

  Weismann wrung his hands and cast his eyes towards the ceiling. ‘I’m not sure I could say with any certainty,’ he said. ‘Inspector Lambert was very clear that I shouldn’t testify to anything I was unsure of. That I should stick to the facts.’

  ‘That is sound advice,’ said Gorski. ‘But even if you can’t recall the precise occasion when you first saw Maître Barthelme, perhaps you could say how long ago it was.’

  Weismann looked troubled. Clearly he did not want to give an answer that might discredit his evidence. ‘I saw him on the night of the murder. Isn’t that all that matters? Inspector Lambert did not seem concerned with these details.’

  Gorski smiled patiently. ‘Which is precisely why he has asked me to go over them with you. My colleague would be the first to admit that he’s sometimes guilty of taking a rather gung-ho attitude, but as these are questions the examining magistrate will put to you, it’s important that we’re prepared for them.’ He used the first person plural advisedly. ‘I’m sure, as a historian, you understand the need to build a case from a solid evidential base.’

  Weismann seemed pleased with this comparison. ‘Yes, of course,’ he replied. ‘But even so, it’s hard to recall.’

  ‘Nevertheless,’ Gorski said, adopting a breezy tone, ‘would you say it was a matter of months or a matter of years?’

  ‘Some years, I suppose,’ Weismann said vaguely.

  Gorski nodded and made a little note in his book. ‘It’s just a question of building up as full a picture of their relationship as possible.’

  ‘Their relationship?’

  ‘If, as you say, Maître Barthelme was a frequent visitor, then that would constitute a relationship, wouldn’t you say?’

  Weismann made a face. It seemed likely that he did not have much expertise in the sphere of human relationships. He decided it was time to refill his glass. Gorski had not as yet touched his drink.

  ‘Of course, Mademoiselle Marchal had so many visitors I couldn’t be sure. In any case, it’s possible that he’d been visiting her long before I ever saw him.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Gorski. He smiled reassuringly. ‘Please understand, Monsieur Weismann, I’m not trying to trip you up. It’s simply a question of making sure that you’re clear in your own mind about what you saw.’

  He tapped the page of his notebook with his pen.

  ‘Now, this might be important,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘In any case, you’re sure to be asked about it: on the night in question, when you saw Maître Barthelme enter Mademoiselle Marchal’s apartment, what led you to go to your front door? You can’t just have happened to be there.’

  Weismann screwed up his face. ‘As I explained before, I often mistook the sound of Mademoiselle Marchal’s buzzer for my own.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ said Gorski, as if he had forgotten this detail. ‘And did you open the door or just look through the peephole?’

  ‘I looked through the peephole,’ he replied, as if this was somehow shameful. ‘As I could see that the visitor was not for me, there was no need to open the door.’

  ‘So before I came up, you must have heard me press your neighbour’s buzzer?’

  ‘As a matter of fact, I did,’ he said.

  Gorski nodded. He had done no such thing.

  ‘I also need to ask about your own relationship with Mademoiselle Marchal.’

  ‘I had no relationship with her,’ Weismann said sharply. He had already finished his second measure of schnapps.

  ‘You must have encountered one another in the stairwell now and then.’

  ‘Now and again, perhaps,’ said Weismann, ‘but I would hardly describe that as a relationship.’

  ‘Surely you must have exchanged a few pleasantries?’

  ‘In passing only.’

  ‘So you would not describe her as a friend?’

  ‘I would not.’

  ‘You never, say, invited her to your apartment?’

  ‘Of course not. Why should I?’

  ‘She was an attractive woman. What could be more natural for a bachelor like yourself than to invite her in for a cup of coffee or a little glass of schnapps? I daresay, if I was in your position, I might have tried my luck.’

  ‘Well, I didn’t,’ said Weismann.

  Gorski nodded placidly. ‘And you are a handsome fellow yourself. Did she never invite you across the landing?’

  ‘Certainly not.’

  Gorski sighed, as if the truth had suddenly dawned on him. ‘Ah,’ he said, ‘perhaps you are not that way inclined?’

  ‘I’m not sure I understand what you mean,’ said Weismann.

  ‘Monsieur Weismann, I can assure you that your sexual inclinations are of no consequence to me.’

  Weismann stood up. ‘I’m not sure I see any purpose in continuing this conversation,’ he said.

  Gorski remained in his seat. ‘My only interest is in understanding why an eligible fellow like yourself would have no interest in such an attractive neighbour.’

  ‘I’m not a pansy,’ he said. He had grown quite agitated.

  Gorski nodded slowly. ‘Of course not,’ he said. ‘Forgive me.’ He suggested that Weismann sit down.

  The historian filled his glass for a third time. His hands were shaking. Gorski didn’t say anything for some moments.

  ‘You must excuse me for putting these questions to you,’ he said. ‘I assure you that it’s only to ensure your evidence is completely watertight. We don’t want to let any discrepancies get in the way of a successful prosecution.’

  Weismann resumed his seat. ‘Of course not,’ he muttered.

  ‘So, just to be absolutely clear, you have never set foot in Veronique Marchal’s apartment?’

  ‘Never.’

  Gorski nodded as if he was now satisfied. He took his own glass of schnapps from the floor and, holding it delicately between his thumb and middle finger, drained the contents. He then took a plastic evidence bag from the pocket of his raincoat and dropped the glass inside. Weismann watched him.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind if I keep hold of this,’ he said. ‘It’s a mere formality. There is an unidentified print on a glass in Mademoiselle Marchal’s apartment. This will help us to eliminate you from our
enquiries.’

  ‘But that’s impossible,’ Weismann blurted out, ‘I—’ He clamped his hand over his mouth.

  ‘Yes, I know,’ said Gorski, nodding slowly. He stood up and pushed the glass into the pocket of his coat. Weismann sat forward in his seat with his head in his hands. Gorski felt a little sorry for him. He wondered if the historian might be tempted to take his own life. He showed himself out of the apartment.

  Outside in the street, he took the glass from his pocket and dropped it into a litter bin. On the way back to his car, he went into a bar, ordered a beer and put in a second call to Schmitt from the old-fashioned cabin in which the telephone was located.

  Twenty-three

  Raymond set off in the direction of Le Convivial. His walk quickly turned into a run. He felt unsteady on his feet, as if he had been drinking. His head hurt. It was getting dark and he had to shield his eyes from the headlights of passing cars. He had no idea what he was going to do. He felt murderous. They had conspired against him, the lot of them: his father, Irene, Gorski, Yvette, Delph. Delph most of all. He felt a sudden fury towards her. How could she not have known? What an idiot he had been to allow himself to be drawn in!

  He reached the junction where Delph had ambled so nonchalantly across the road. It was busy with late afternoon traffic. He recalled the grubby scene in the backroom of Johnny’s, his risible attempts to thrust his limp penis between his sister’s legs. He rested his hand against a lamp post and doubled over. His stomach convulsed, but nothing came up. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. It would be a simple matter to step off the kerb in front of a passing truck. Raymond imagined the sound of brakes, the impact of the cab on his ribcage, his skull cracking against the radiator. Then an easeful slump to the ground. The texture of tarmac on his cheek, a pool of dark blood forming around his head. Voices in a gathering crowd shouting for an ambulance to be called. The driver protesting that there was nothing he could do: the kid had just stepped out in front of him.

  The motion of the passing vehicles made him dizzy. He turned away from the road. The young man who had followed him onto the train was twenty metres or so behind, lingering outside a shop on the corner of Rue de Manège. As soon as Raymond had seen him making an inept attempt to conceal himself on the platform at Saint-Louis, he recalled Gorski’s promise to keep an eye on him. Then he remembered the young cop who had driven his mother and him to the mortuary. He looked quite different in his civilian clothes, but Raymond was sure it was him. Raymond had waited until the very last moment to board the train. The young cop had followed suit, abandoning all pretence that he was not trailing him. Once in Mulhouse, Raymond had not looked over his shoulder again. So what if he was followed? If anything, it only heightened his sense that things were coming to a head.

  He stepped off the kerb. A car braked sharply. The driver mouthed an expletive through the windscreen. Raymond gazed blankly at him and continued across the carriageway. He looked back across the road. The young cop was nowhere to be seen. Raymond paused on the opposite kerb, then spotted him tentatively picking his way through the cars. When he was sure that he had seen him, Raymond turned and ran along Rue de la Sinne until he came to a halt on the opposite side of the street to Le Convivial. He paced the pavement. What exactly did he intend to do? He wished he had never found the scrap of paper in his father’s desk, never come to Mulhouse, never set eyes on Delph. He realised that he could—if he chose—continue along Rue de la Sinne, get on a train to Saint-Louis and return to the house on Rue des Bois as if nothing had happened. But that was out of the question. Something had happened. And it had happened without any exertion of will on his part. One thing had simply followed from another. And now here he was, pacing the pavement outside a bar that, until a few days ago, he would never have had the nerve to enter.

  It was impossible to see beyond the reflections on the plate-glass windows of the bar. Raymond patted the pockets of his jacket and realised he had left his cigarettes on Irene’s kitchen table. He checked his satchel. It contained only his book and the knife. The young cop was only a short distance behind.

  Raymond crossed the street and pushed open the glass door of the bar. The regulars were congregated around the tables by the door, just as they had been on his previous visit. Delph was nowhere to be seen. Raymond approached the counter. Dédé welcomed him with the curt upward nod of his head with which he greeted all his customers.

  Raymond asked for a packet of Gitanes.

  Dédé fetched the cigarettes and placed the box on the counter. He eyed Raymond impassively. ‘Been in the wars?’ he said.

  Raymond looked blankly at him. Dédé gestured towards the graze on his forehead. Raymond instinctively raised his fingers to his brow.

  ‘I fell down some stairs,’ he said.

  ‘That’s what they all say,’ said Dédé drily.

  Raymond climbed onto a stool with some difficulty. He was swaying slightly. He could not just pay for the cigarettes and leave. He asked for a beer. Dédé weighed up whether to serve him. Then he shrugged to himself—what did he care if the kid was drunk?—and poured the drink. Raymond attempted to remove the cellophane from the packet of cigarettes, but his hands were shaking too violently to complete the task. When Dédé placed his beer on the counter, he took the packet and wordlessly unwrapped it. Raymond thanked him. He took one out and managed to light it. He swivelled on his stool and looked outside. The young cop was standing on the pavement. It pleased Raymond that whatever was going to happen would be witnessed; that there would be an official record which he was sure would absolve him of all responsibility.

  He made a mental effort to properly take in his surroundings: the torn corners of the playbills plastered to the two pillars that informally divided the room; the singes on the floorboards by the bar where customers had ground out decades of cigarettes; Dédé’s habit of stroking his little beard between his thumb and forefinger; the slow movement of the clock on the wall. The old man with the wattle entered the bar and shuffled to the counter. His slippers made a sound on the floor like wood being sanded. Raymond could hear the wheeze of his shallow breathing. Dédé placed a glass of rum on the bar. The old coot stared at it for some moments, both hands gripping the brass railing of the bar as if summoning a reserve of strength, then knocked it back. He delved in his trouser pocket for a coin and slapped it noisily down on the counter. He turned to Raymond and looked him up and down with a disdainful expression, then left without a word. Raymond’s gaze followed him out of the bar. The regulars resembled an audience awaiting the curtain of a play. The pockmarked man who had given Raymond directions was among them. He nodded a greeting. Only the two chess players, intent on their game, seemed oblivious to Raymond’s presence. The clock ticked towards the hour.

  Delph emerged from the door marked WC Femmes.

  ‘Hello, Raymond,’ she said. ‘What brings you here?’ She did not seem disconcerted to see him.

  Despite everything, Raymond felt a pang of desire in his groin. ‘I need to talk to you,’ he said.

  She glanced at the beer on the counter.

  ‘So you’ve recovered from the tomates?’ she said. ‘You were very drunk.’ She tutted slowly, shaking her head in mock disapproval.

  Raymond stared at her uncomprehendingly. How could she behave as if nothing untoward had occurred? But there it was: she was the consummate actress. Perhaps the whole thing was an elaborate charade. Her address had been planted in his father’s desk for Raymond to find. Delph—perfectly cast—had been cued to exit the apartment building at exactly the right moment. And the knife: of course the knife had been set out where he would see it. The philatelist’s shop was likely no more than a set. Raymond half expected his father to emerge from behind the bar, still in the make-up he had been wearing on the slab in the mortuary, and the participants would laughingly take their curtain call. What a lark it had all been! But, of course, that was nonsense. Everything that had occurred was all too real. Raymond became more an
d more agitated.

  Delph was looking at him with a perplexed expression. ‘What have you done to your head?’ she asked.

  ‘I fell down the stairs outside your apartment,’ said Raymond. There did not seem any point in hiding the truth. ‘I paid a visit to your mother.’

  Delph widened her eyes, making her squint more pronounced than ever. ‘You did what?’ she said.

  ‘I wanted to see you, so I went to your apartment,’ he said.

  At this point, Dédé gave a theatrical cough. ‘Much as I hate to interrupt the course of true love,’ he said, ‘but our patients require their prescriptions.’ He gestured towards the customers by the door.

  Delph seemed relieved by the distraction. She took up her tray and began to clear the tables. Raymond turned back to the counter. He observed Delph in the mirror behind the bar as she exchanged her usual greetings with the regulars. He drank his beer. Delph returned and recited the orders to Dédé as she unloaded the empties onto the counter. He, in turn, removed the glasses and cups to the sink and started setting out the drinks. Delph placed these on her tray. This was their little routine. Delph was close enough for Raymond to smell the peppery aroma of her sweat. He felt a sudden desire to kneel in front of her and bury his face in her sex. He leaned back on his stool, inhaling deeply. Delph moved off with her tray of drinks, pointedly ignoring him.

  Raymond asked for another beer.

  Dédé looked at him impassively. ‘I think you’ve had enough already. Time to clear off.’

  Raymond stared at him defiantly, but he simply returned to his chores. When Delph returned to the counter, Raymond reiterated his desire to speak to her.

  ‘If you’re so desperate to talk to me, come back at ten,’ she said.

  ‘I need to talk to you now,’ he said with greater urgency.

  Dédé looked up from the drink he was preparing. ‘Did you not hear what I said, kid? Time to pay up and shove off.’

  Raymond slid off the stool and took a step towards Delph. A look of what might have been fear passed across her eyes, but she stood her ground, her right hand resting on the counter. In his peripheral vision, Raymond was aware of the regulars by the door shifting in their seats to get a proper view of what was going on. Even the chess players looked up from their game. Raymond glanced at the clock on the wall. Barely ten minutes had passed since Delph’s appearance.