The King of Fools

by Frédéric Dard

  “Don’t touch me!” she gibbered, backing up against the wall.

  I nodded.

  “Ridiculous,” I sighed, as I left.

  The marmalade cat was still at large on the deserted street when I emerged. Then it saw me, and fled to its hiding place.

  16

  I wandered aimlessly, but chance is an illusion where the subconscious is concerned, and I found myself yet again on Princes Street, the eternal backbone of Edinburgh. I repeated the phrase out loud as I walked: “This man is mad! This man is mad!” More than all the rest, these words had torn me apart. Marjorie had disowned me with four little words. Why this appalling change of heart? Out of cowardice? The sight of me had terrified her. Did she think I had lost my head, to come calling at Mrs Morton’s? Or perhaps there was another reason. I terrified her because I was a murderer!

  She had buckled, all at once, and her love for me had turned to hatred. Poor Ivanhoe! Poor hero, taken for a fool!

  I was lost. Marjorie had chosen to sacrifice me. How could I be sure she would even corroborate my version of the murder? The girl on the stairs at Mrs Morton’s just now would stop at nothing to keep her freedom. Denise had warned me: every man is a hero to her sort of woman. At first…

  My British surroundings weighed heavily upon me. I felt like a prisoner already. And this damned transport strike prevented me from making a run for it! Oh to board a plane and be back in France. Hiding out in a little Paris hotel, or a village bistro.

  I crossed the street and rested my elbows on the railings overlooking the valley. Princes Street Gardens were sunk in thick, black shadow. I could hear a faint roar, like a torrent of mud rushing at the bottom of the chasm. Would that it could drag Nevil Faulks’s miserable carcass into its depths! I hated him dead just as I had hated him alive. Was his body still lying there on the lawn? Probably not. The police would be investigating his case, finding out the name of his hotel. But they would be incapable of visiting every bed and breakfast in Edinburgh in the course of a single night. News of the drama would reach Mrs Morton’s with the morning papers, and not before.

  Two choices presented themselves. To end it all here and now, or go to bed.

  I went to bed.

  I woke very early the following morning. The rain had returned, lashing my bedroom windows with renewed spite. I was soaked in sweat, and gasping for breath. The grim reality that had knocked me out cold the night before was waiting at my bedside, patient as death. I got to my feet, and swayed. My teeth were coated and rough. I plunged my head into the washbasin and treated myself to a delicious moment of icy asphyxia. Once dressed, I realized that I hadn’t shaved. It was twenty past six. Heavy with rain, the grey cloud cover smothered the daylight. I decided I would shave later. My appearance mattered little. There was no one here to seduce now.

  The Fort William’s maid was the only other person up. She was laying the dining-room tables for breakfast. A comforting smell of coffee filled the ground floor. I asked if I might have a cup, and she brought me a full breakfast, to a table at the back of the room. Humming a tune, she buffed the gleaming skirting boards with a duster while I ate. She straightened up for a moment and looked towards me, flushed from bending over for so long.

  “Lovely day!” I commented, idiotically.

  She burst out laughing, and pointed to the window overlooking a wan garden flanked by high walls.

  “Lovely rain!”

  “Do you have the newspaper?”

  “Not yet. The paper boy doesn’t come before seven.”

  I drained my cup and headed for the door.

  “Don’t you have a raincoat, sir?”

  “No.”

  “Nor an umbrella?”

  “Neither.”

  “Would you like me to lend you one?”

  An umbrella would shield my face, I decided, and make me far less conspicuous. She went to the broom cupboard and pulled a clutch of umbrellas from out of an old pot stand. Doubtless they had all been left here by former guests.

  “Pick one!”

  I took one at random.

  Its handle was sheathed in black leather.

  “Thank you. I’ll return it later.”

  “No hurry, sir.”

  This was just as well, for there was every chance she would never see it again. Perhaps the cops were waiting outside until such time as they could legally arrest me?

  The parked cars were all empty. The wet, grey street looked like a port town on a stormy morning. The wind gusted violently, causing passers-by to stagger sideways in alarming fashion. The bookshop on Princes Street wasn’t yet open, but a man was selling newspapers in its entrance. I bought one of the Edinburgh dailies. A bold headline stretched across the page: “Strikes: No Solution.” Hurriedly, I scanned the front page in search of another, more sensational story. But there was no mention of murder. And nothing in the other papers either. I bought another, just to be sure. It contained the same news as the first, and nothing more, presented in the exact same way, virtually word for word. So the corpse had not been discovered when the papers went to press. I tossed both dailies into a metal waste paper basket fixed to a lamp post.

  My first day as a murderer. What was I to do? I couldn’t flee. I was chained to this city by the lack of any form of transport. I couldn’t join Marjorie: I was nothing but a hateful murderer in her eyes now. My inertia oppressed me. The blackened buildings suffocated me, and it seemed as if every passer-by trickling with rainwater was a policeman coming to overpower me. Thoughts of suicide gnawed at my mind, and I found the temptation hard to resist. There are times when the urge to die is as fierce as the urge to live. As implacable as a wave of slumber engulfing the mind and senses. But how to die? Even a desperate man may shrink from the act. I have always dreaded pain, because I have never truly felt it. But the imagination of it is compelling.

  Then an idea came to me, and I felt a great rush of excitement, akin to real joy: I would go to the police and tell them everything. What possible good could come of wandering the streets of this miserable city, waiting for a bobbie to lay his hand on my shoulder? Yes: I would turn myself in and tell them everything. Everything! There would be no problem proving the revolver belonged to Nevil Faulks! The Scottish jury would be receptive to a plea of legitimate self-defence. On the other hand, I knew they would take a dim view of adultery. Passion, a mitigating circumstance at home in France, would be an aggravating factor here in Britain.

  I crossed the main junction on Princes Street and approached the officer directing traffic. He was wearing a white raincoat, and a plastic cover over his cap.

  “Could you show me where the main police station is, sir?”

  The city’s police headquarters were in the Old Town, across the valley. The officer was even kind enough to tell me the best bus route to take. But I was in no hurry. I intended to walk, keeping well hidden under my borrowed umbrella. I just needed to know where to go. I had all the time in the world now. The raindrops clattered on the taut silk, as loudly as on a tin roof.

  The bottoms of my trousers were soaked, and my thin summer shoes were taking in water. I wandered slowly down a gently sloping path, towards the theatre. In the pouring rain, the huge stage resembled the hangar of a private flying club, discovered unexpectedly at the edge of a field. Wet bunting hung limply from the podium.

  I couldn’t resist taking a look at the lawn. I was powerless to do otherwise. What murderer fails to return to the scene of his crime? Morbid curiosity drove me to make the detour. I skirted the building and took the pinkish path leading to the hollow where I had killed Faulks. It all seemed as unreal as ever. It occurred to me that I had never owned an umbrella, and I felt awkward clutching the leather-bound handle. I held it tipped forward slightly in front of me, so that my field of vision extended for just a couple of metres. The proprietor of my hotel in Juan-les-Pins would have joked, in his fine, flowery accent, that “I was keeping myself waiting”.

  And so I was. Doubt offered some s
mall respite: I was walking to the police station, but delaying the moment of my arrival. By the same token, I was approaching the scene of the drama, but determined to put off discovering the body – or its absence – for as long as possible.

  I recognized the freshly dug flower bed, in the shape of a star. The soil was rich and dark, with a slight bluish tint. A few steps more. I stood still. I moved the umbrella aside, like a tightrope walker correcting his balance. There was the corpse, trickling with rainwater. And the revolver, wet and shining, lay at his side in the grass. I couldn’t help but reach out to touch Nevil Faulks’s leg. Was I hoping for some miracle? He was stiff as a log. The bullet had traversed his skull from front to back, and behind his head an appalling, dark purple mess matted his hair.

  I left my umbrella upturned on the grass. The rain came in short gusts now: a filthy drizzle that plastered my face.

  They say prayer can tear our thoughts from the things of this world. If so, I prayed a long while before the mortal remains of Nevil Faulks. I envied this deserted body. I recalled the phrase uttered by Roman gladiators: “We who are about to die…”

  I was about to die. What jury would be so merciful as to acquit me of this murder? None, in truth. I knew that. I pictured a British courtroom, with its bewigged magistrates. They terrified me, like creatures from another planet.

  They could not judge me – I was not of their kind!

  A strange confrontation indeed, between the murderer and his victim, here on this expanse of lawn. The imposing castle soared overhead, with its battlements and towers, its cannons trained in scorn on the New Town, its heraldry room, its treasury, its chapels, one of which was hung with threadbare battle standards. This evening, or tomorrow, perhaps, the police would organize a reconstruction of events, but a living man would lie here, in the dead man’s place. A man who, after the shot was fired, would get to his feet and return home, to one of the city’s snug houses, where the light of day barely enters.

  For the love of Marjorie! The phrase sounded like the title of a cheap paperback romance. With a pastel-blue cover, and fancy English-style lettering. “For the Love of Marjorie!”

  Had I acted in legitimate self-defence? I tried to analyse my thoughts and deeds in the heat of the drama. Nevil was squeezing his wife’s throat; strangling her. I was holding the weapon. I could have shaken Marjorie free without killing her husband. A blow to the nape of his neck with the butt of the handle would have been enough to release his grip. But no: I had quite deliberately pointed the barrel of the gun into his face. And unhesitatingly, I had pulled the trigger. This was murder, fair and square. Four or five seconds of premeditation were all it took. I was undone.

  I stared around me, just as I had yesterday after firing the shot. Like yesterday, Princes Street Gardens were quiet. In the distance, very far off, I saw two gardeners busying themselves around a flower bed. A third was pushing a motorized mower, its sputterings echoing across the valley. A pair of lovers were walking near the floral clock – office workers, no doubt, stealing their fill of kisses and heated declarations in this discreet spot, before heading off to work. I picked up my umbrella and walked away.

  “What sort of spade, sir?”

  I hadn’t chosen one yet, and shrugged evasively.

  The ironmonger, an old man with a bald head and purple nose, considered me through an antique monocle.

  “For what purpose is it, sir?”

  I could hardly tell him I would be using it to bury a gentleman in a flower bed in Princes Street Gardens.

  “Camping,” I replied.

  “I see!”

  He went to fetch two spades from a rack. Solid tools crafted in thick metal, with a short shaft ending in a triangular handle. They differed in size only. I chose the smaller of the two and he made me a fine parcel, all wrapped in corrugated cardboard. It was an insane plan, but since the beginning of this whole business I had followed the path of madness at every turn. Standing in rapt contemplation of Nevil Faulks’s corpse, I had decided that if I could delay the discovery of the body for another forty-eight hours, I could perhaps get back to France despite the strike. A far-fetched itinerary took shape in my mind: I would hitch-hike to a port on the west coast, and charter a fishing boat to take me to Ireland. There would be no strike there and I could catch a train to Shannon, the international airport, a stopover for long-haul transatlantic flights. Forty-eight hours’ respite. Perhaps not even that… Thirty hours would do it. Rather than hitch-hike, I could buy a motorcycle. Safer. How long would it take to reach Glasgow?

  Emerging from the ironmonger’s store I was surprised to see the weather had turned almost fine. The sky had cleared and rays of sunshine threaded the few, friendly-looking clouds. The streets were suddenly filled with people.

  Nearing the cadaver, my blood turned to ice. A young mother and her little daughter of three or four were approaching, chatting happily. The child held its mother’s hand and paused from time to time to gather daisies from the edge of the lawn. The woman wore a grey raincoat with epaulettes, and her red hair shone through a transparent rain cap.

  She would see the body. She couldn’t fail to see it. I crouched down beside Nevil.

  “Shouldn’t be lying in the damp grass like that, old man! That’s a short cut to rheumatism, that is.”

  I laughed – a poor, thin laugh with less cheer than the creak of a rusty weather vane. The woman and child passed by. They stared at the corpse.

  “Why’s that man lying down?” asked the little girl.

  “I expect he’s tired, Sally. He’s been running!”

  They moved along at a snail’s pace. I feared the woman would have second thoughts and come back to take a closer look at the man lying flat on his stomach in the wet grass. But she had forgotten him already, too distracted by her little girl. When they had gone, I set to work. There was nothing complicated about it. I simply had to make a big enough hole in the soil that had been dug over for the flower bed. Big enough to take Nevil Faulks’s body. I worked furtively, digging with the frenzied haste of a fox terrier. The wet soil clung to the spade. I created a sort of ditch, piling the earth to either side. Every twenty seconds I stopped work to look around me. The gardens were beginning to fill with crowds of idlers.

  An elderly couple approached, carrying two folding chairs. They settled on the lawn about twenty metres from me, and set out their picnic. The sun made a swift, sudden appearance, radiant between two clouds. The damp lawns glistened. I opened my umbrella and placed it above Nevil’s shattered head, so that he looked like someone stretched out asleep. What was Marjorie doing, all this time?

  Was she waiting it out, or had she lost her nerve and told everything to the police? What I was doing now would lead to my inevitable conviction. To bury a body was a wicked act indeed. After this, how could anyone accept that I had killed this man in self-defence?

  The elderly couple had a dog on a lead. A vile, white mutt with black patches. Once they were settled, the man let the dog run free. After a few circuits of the lawn, the dog trotted over to the corpse, barking. It had a wall eye and was truly one of the vilest mutts that ever lived. The woman shouted herself hoarse, calling him back, but the dog was having none of it. In vain, I tried to push him away with my toe.

  Seeing his wife’s lack of success, the man brought himself over. He was small, with sparse teeth and the look of a retired gentleman’s valet. His chin and nose made close acquaintance. He brandished the lead with a threatening air, but the animal was completely unmoved.

  “Here, Pudding! Have you quite finished?”

  He seized the dog by the collar. The catch clicked shut and he dragged the frightful mutt away. The dog’s hind leg kicked at the handle of the umbrella. The fragile silk canopy rolled over, almost completely uncovering Faulks. It was an appalling moment. The old chap was struck by my friend’s odd position and absolute stillness.

  “Is he ill?” he asked.

  I found the strength to smile, with a knowing
wink.

  “A drop too much of the whisky! We were drinking all night at my place, and I wanted him to get some air before going back to his wife. She’s not a very accommodating woman.”

  “But he’s fast asleep!”

  The old man drew back his lips, revealing his white, empty gums.

  “You should cover him over. It’s not wise to lie there, in the wet grass.”

  He moved away, dragging the now silent dog. I was terrified he would bend down and see the hideous wound frothing at the back of Nevil’s neck. I feared he would look to his right and see my camping spade planted in the earth, in the flower bed. Above all, I was afraid he would notice my stricken expression. Fortunately, he was very elderly indeed. He had eyes for no one but the frightful Pudding, and his lady wife.

  The hole was big enough. But how to drag the body into it without being seen by the little old couple? I would have to wait until they left. Sitting cross-legged just a few centimetres from the dead man, I chewed some blades of grass to calm my febrile state. From time to time, I pushed Faulks with my foot, moving him slightly so that my neighbours on the lawn would think he had shifted in his sleep. Two interminable hours passed in this way. I could feel myself taking leave of my senses. The sun seemed to ricochet slowly among the clouds. It disappeared, then returned, then sank from view again almost immediately. The lawn brightened and darkened. The umbrella cast a crooked, dark circle over Faulks’s torso, and the shadow faded, then reformed. I began to feel sleepy. I forgot where I was or what I was doing there. I wanted to nod off. I was about to close my eyes when reality gave me a violent poke and I started awake like a man who dreams he is falling into the abyss.

  “Will you be quiet, Pudding!”

  I looked in their direction. They were leaving. The dog was barking again, but cheerfully now. The old lady was clutching the lead while the man folded the chairs and slipped his arm underneath their backrests, to carry them home.