The King of Fools

by Frédéric Dard

  Their slow gestures and monotonous, nasal tones were more unbearable to me than the wait that had preceded their departure.

  They went on their way. Before disappearing from view, the man looked back and gave me a parting nod of the head.

  17

  The hole was scarcely deep enough, and an oblong mound lay across the flower bed once I had covered Faulks’s body with earth. I levelled the soil as best I could. Then I walked all around the flower bed, examining it from every angle. There was nothing suspicious-seeming, and the bump that had bothered me at first looked deliberate now. Reassured, I wrapped the spade back up in its corrugated cardboard, and wondered where to dump it.

  Princes Street Gardens would be too risky. A bottle top would look out of place on these immaculately trimmed lawns. The discovery of a spade clearly destined for heavier duties than ornamental gardening might alarm the park keepers and – who knows? – lead to the discovery of the secret grave.

  I left the hated lawn, my umbrella under one arm and my spade under the other. The grass was flattened slightly where I had dragged the body, but the next burst of rain – which seemed imminent – would restore it. My shoes and trouser bottoms were covered in mud. I cleaned them as best I could before making my way back up to Princes Street. But I was eager to take a bath and change.

  On returning to the Fort William Hotel, I was surprised to find myself thinking about Marjorie without sorrow or regret. The vile chore I had just accomplished had cured me of her utterly. In truth, my ardour had cooled the day after her departure from Juan-les-Pins, only to be rekindled by her letter. It was a kind of bewitchment. Away from her, my sanity was restored.

  In the quiet street, the hotel’s gold lettering, painted on the fanlight, was all that distinguished it from the other buildings. Its discretion was reassuring. Climbing the steps, I wondered if I might snatch a few hours of sleep before continuing my adventure, for I was dead with fatigue. But I was becoming careless. I had to act. If I indulged myself now, I would end up waiting for the strike to be over, before leaving.

  The maid was washing the stone-flagged lobby floor with a bucket of water. She was kneeling, and her meagre goat’s backside pointed miserably skyward. She turned her head as I came in, and delivered an unfriendly stare.

  “Here’s your umbrella, miss. Thank you – it was most useful.”

  She made no reply, but stayed kneeling with her hands pressed flat on the soapy floor cloth. I added:

  “Where should I leave it?”

  “If you wouldn’t mind giving it to me, sir?”

  I looked in the direction of the new voice. What I saw stung me like two sharp slaps to the face. A man of average height had just appeared in the sitting-room doorway. He wore a black raincoat and held a felt hat by the tips of his fingers.

  “This way, please,” he said, standing back to let me into the small room, dominated by the television set on its stand.

  I stepped inside.

  “Inspector Brett!”

  I nodded dully, as if Inspector Brett was a lifelong acquaintance.

  The hotel proprietor was already in the room. He had been keeping the inspector company, providing as much as detail about me as he was able.

  He fixed me with a scowl of such fierce disapproval it was almost comical. The poor man looked like a bad-tempered dog straining at the leash.

  “You are Jean-Marie Valaise?” (He pronounced my name John Merry Vel-eyes).

  “Indeed, why do you ask?”

  The strangest thing was that the inspector had managed to relieve me of my umbrella, and hook it over his own arm.

  “I’m very sorry to trouble you, Mr Valaise, but I’m afraid I must ask you to accompany me to the police station.”

  I knew the form. And told myself this was it. As a student, I had sat the entrance exam to a prestigious school of engineering, and failed. I saw myself now, poring over the typed list of successful candidates. I couldn’t find my name, which should have been somewhere near the bottom, under “V”. “This is it,” I had thought to myself, and I had savoured the moment. Failure is heady stuff. Less so than victory, perhaps, but its reach is deeper by far.

  “What’s this about?”

  “I’d like to take a statement from you, regarding a certain matter.”

  “Can’t you take it here?”

  “That would be difficult, sir.”

  He radiated the calm obstinacy so characteristic of his profession. He had a prominent, bald, pink forehead, a cherry-tipped nose, red cheekbones and expressionless but obdurate features.

  “And if I refuse to accompany you?” I asked, irascibly.

  He showed no sign of anger, but removed a sheet of grey paper from his pocket.

  “I have a summons, sir. My apologies for not presenting it straight away.”

  “In that case, I’ll come with you.”

  “That seems the reasonable thing to do, sir.”

  “May I shave first?”

  It had just occurred to me that I was still carrying the muddy spade wrapped in cardboard under my arm. If I was granted permission to clean up, I might find a way to get rid of it. I regretted not hurling it into a drain, or even leaving it in a waste bin somewhere in town.

  “I should like to get this over with as quickly as possible, sir. I don’t expect it’ll take us long.”

  He was polite but firm. I had nothing to gain by insisting.

  “In that case, let’s go.”

  We passed through the door of the little sitting room, back out into the hall. The inspector stopped in surprise. I could see what had caught his eye: my muddy footprints on the stone flags. The maid was still scrubbing the floor. She hadn’t noticed the mess I had made, spoiling her work. The inspector’s gaze halted for a brief second, then followed the footprints. He reached my mud-covered shoes and sniffed once or twice, saying nothing. Then he continued along the hall to the front door, taking big strides so as not to tread in the wet. I thought, desperately, “I have to get shot of this blasted spade.”

  But how?

  By leaving it in the hall? The proprietor would find it and take it straight to Inspector Brett.

  I was outside now, standing beside the inspector with my hastily wrapped package under my arm. He still had hold of my umbrella. A reflex, surely? People were born carrying an umbrella in this country. The inspector must have forgotten it was not his.

  A big, black Jaguar topped with a blue light was parked in a neighbouring street. I was struck by this detail. Brett had chosen to park the police car here, despite the ample space in front of the hotel, to avoid attracting my attention. He clearly believed I would make a run for it at the sight of the car. And if he believed that, then he believed me guilty of a serious crime.

  A uniformed officer waited, leaning against the bonnet. He returned to the driver’s seat as we approached, and strapped a safety belt across his chest.

  Brett opened one of the rear doors. I pretended to stumble as I stepped off the kerb, and kicked my compromising package under the car. I took my seat with a relaxed air, and even allowed myself the luxury of greeting the driver. He didn’t respond, but waited for Brett to take his seat.

  The Inspector dropped into the seat beside me with a satisfied sigh. He held the camping spade across his knees.

  18

  The police headquarters building was at least four hundred years old and probably listed as a historic monument. The façade was quite beautiful. Before crossing the threshold, I admired its mullioned windows and carved cornice.

  The interior was a disappointment. The building had been gutted and fitted with large, very bright modern offices and an abundance of chrome and Formica. Inspector Brett invited me to take a seat, and removed his raincoat. Under it he wore a sad, rather crumpled brown suit with broad lapels curling slightly at the tips. He hung his raincoat and old felt hat on the coat stand then, after a moment’s hesitation, placed the umbrella and spade on his desk, as if he already considered them to
be pieces of evidence. On our journey to the station he had patted and squeezed the parcel continually as if trying to guess its contents.

  Eventually, the cardboard had split next to the blade, and the inspector had got mud on his fingers.

  He sat down. A folder lay open on his green desk blotter. It contained a single sheet of paper on which someone had scribbled a few notes. Brett ran through them before speaking.

  “Do you know Mrs Marjorie Faulks, sir?”

  “I do.”

  “And Nevil Faulks, her husband?”

  “I’ve not had the honour.”

  I detected a quiet sound, like the nibbling of a mouse. I saw a small microphone trained on me, on the desktop. Brett had just switched on a tape recorder. He saw I had noticed the mic and, for the first time since our meeting, he gave a slight smile.

  “Ah! Yes, I must warn you that anything you say will be taken down and may be used in evidence against you. Your name is Jean-Marie Valaise, is it not?”

  “You’ve already asked me that, and my answer was ‘Yes’.”

  “You live in Paris?”

  “Number 26 rue des Plantes!”

  “Profession?”

  “Sales representative, for adding machines.”

  “How long have you known Mrs Faulks?”

  I closed my eyes. I felt as if Marjorie had filled my whole existence for years.

  “I met her last week, in Juan-les-Pins.”

  “Under what circumstances?”

  “She got into the wrong car, and was sitting in mine by mistake.”

  “And you saw her again after that?”

  “At the casino, by pure chance.”

  “And then?”

  “She had left her beach bag in my car – she came to my hotel to fetch it.”

  “And then?”

  “And then that’s all! Why all these questions, Inspector?”

  Thanks to the microphone, I felt I was addressing an invisible audience rather than one police officer. I was caught in the midst of a great, ghostly circle.

  “Mrs Faulks has lodged a complaint against you, Mr Valaise.”

  “What!”

  “She claims that you have followed her persistently since that meeting on the Côte d’Azur. You have disrupted her marriage. You have even issued threats against her husband.”

  A new Marjorie altogether stood before me now: treacherous and calculating. A thorough-going bitch! She had decided to place the blame for her husband’s murder squarely on me. Her Machiavellian plan left me feeling quite sick; I was too weak even to bear her any ill will. I thought of the beach in Juan-les-Pins, of Denise, of meals in the restaurant with its wooden deck that smelt like a floating lido, of my hot hotel room overlooking the garage.

  I had given up all that for an idiotic dream. I had lost everything, believing myself in love with that half-crazed girl.

  I had made no reply. Brett persisted:

  “So, what do you say?”

  “It’s a lie.”

  “In that case, why write her this love letter?”

  He removed a sheet of typed paper from a drawer in his desk and explained:

  “This is the English translation of your letter. The original is at our laboratory, as I speak.”

  They had had a busy morning. Almost as busy as mine!

  “It’s true I was in love with Mrs Faulks, but I deny persistently following her, Inspector.”

  “Do you deny calling at her lodgings last night, at around one o’clock?”

  “No, but—”

  “You told the proprietor that Mr Faulks had asked you to give his wife a message, did you not?”

  “That was a ruse, so that she would let me in.”

  “Why did you want to be let in at that hour?”

  I had no idea what to say. Why put up a fight? I was sinking fast.

  “You knew that Mr Faulks was not at Mrs Morton’s lodging house?”

  “No, not at all!”

  “And yet you claimed you had come with a message from him.”

  He observed me impassively, and I stared at the red hairs on the backs of his big hands, placed flat on the folder. He lacked that alert, cat-like expression so often attributed to police officers. Doubtless he was a conscientious man who accomplished his work without passion, his chief weapon being his implacably logical mind.

  I cleared my throat.

  “I didn’t know that Mr Faulks had come to Edinburgh with his wife.”

  “Indeed?”

  “I had no idea.”

  “And yet Mrs Faulks claims that you approached her while she was out walking with her husband.”

  “She’s lying.”

  “Why would she be lying?”

  “I have no idea, but she’s lying!”

  “Why would she have lodged a complaint against you?”

  “I should like to know.”

  “You never saw the Faulkses together?”

  “No.”

  “You did not arrange to meet Mr Faulks at the corner of Frederick Street and Princes Street at around 11 p.m.?”

  I was dumbstruck now. Up to this point, Marjorie’s treachery had followed a certain logic. I understood her plan perfectly: to make me look like a crazed tormentor. Clearly, she believed that by reporting me to the police she was covering herself and heaping all the blame on my head. But why the devil was she complicating things with this ridiculous story about a meeting arranged long after Nevil had been murdered? The whole thing was beyond my comprehension, and it bothered me quite as much as the still unformulated accusation hanging over me.

  “I never arranged to meet Mr Faulks.”

  “In that case, what were you doing last night, on the corner of Princes Street and Frederick Street?”

  “I was waiting for Mrs Faulks. She was the one who arranged the meeting. She didn’t come, and that’s why I went around to her lodgings. I was worried.”

  “When did she contact you to arrange the meeting?”

  “She asked a barman to call me. At twenty to eleven.”

  “According to her landlady, Mrs Faulks stayed in her room all evening.”

  “Listen here, Inspector, it seems to me that Mrs Faulks is a scheming bitch and Mrs Morton is a mad old woman.”

  “You’re making a very serious accusation, Mr Valaise. Mrs Morton is the widow of Colonel Morton, who served with great distinction in the last war.”

  “A person can be a colonel’s widow and still be stark, staring mad!” I thundered, angrily. “I’ve had enough of this, Inspector! Marjorie Faulks claims I’ve been pestering her, does she? She wants to pass me off as an obsessive lunatic? I’ll prove to you I’m not. Can you read French?”

  “Very badly!”

  “Well, get your translators to translate this, written in Marjorie’s own hand. I received it four days ago in Juan-les-Pins.”

  I produced my wallet and took out the passionate letter that had prompted my journey to Scotland.

  I congratulated myself on having kept it. I would thwart the bitch’s plan now.

  The inspector seized the sheet of paper. Then he pressed a button on his intercom.

  “Ask Morrow to come in, will you?” he said quietly.

  A moment later, a tall, thin devil with an appalling squint entered the room. Brett held the letter out to him and asked him to translate it. The new arrival spoke perfect French: he translated the letter almost instantly. The inspector listened, resting his chin on one of his large hands. It was impossible to read his thoughts; he maintained a doggedly impassive expression, with even a touch of polite boredom, as when friends ask their small son to entertain on the piano. When the reading was finished, Brett took my letter and slipped it into his folder.

  “I’ll return it to you later, Mr Valaise. Do you have the envelope?”

  “No, I threw it away.”

  He sniffed, then turned to his colleague.

  “Thank you, Morrow, that’ll be all for now.”

  We were alone aga
in. Alone with the microphone, capturing and betraying my every sigh.

  “I’m going to ask you to wait a moment in the next room, sir. If you’d like anything to eat, just ask my men.”

  He pressed the intercom again and delivered his instructions. A uniformed officer entered the room.

  “This way, sir.”

  I was following obediently, when Brett’s voice rang out.

  “Oh! Mr Valaise, one more thing…”

  He had just torn open the cardboard wrapping around the spade. Lying across his desk, the object took on an appalling significance.

  “Would it be indiscreet of me to ask why you carry a muddy spade with you when walking about town?”

  “I found it.”

  It was a terrible answer, and I was ashamed at how pathetic it made me seem.

  With a small jerk of the head, Brett instructed the officer to take me away.

  The next room was much smaller than the inspector’s office. It was furnished with two tables and a row of steel-framed chairs, like the seating in a cheap cafeteria. Two telephones and a typewriter stood on one table. On the other lay a pile of technical magazines about the British motor industry. The officer told me to sit down and asked if I wanted anything to eat or drink. I said I didn’t. At this, he sat down at the typewriter, excused himself and continued typing a great many copies of a text written very small on sheets of flimsy paper. He was young, and applied himself to his task.

  I leafed through the magazines. I didn’t feel like reading in English, and stared instead at the photographs of cars. The magazines were already out of date, and the vehicles they featured looked old-fashioned.

  The door opened and Brett walked through, holding the spade in one hand. He smiled as he crossed to the opposite door. Just before leaving the room, he turned.

  “Oh! Mr Valaise, did I mention that Nevil Faulks failed to return to his lodgings last night?”

  19

  Since arriving in Scotland, I had spent my time waiting. To me, Edinburgh was a drab purgatory where I must expiate my sins by waiting for a bell to ring, or someone to arrive. The hours piled up around me. I persisted in hoping life would return to its normal pace, but still it stagnated, and I sank like a man caught in a stinking swamp. I have no idea how long I sat at the table with the dog-eared magazines full of all the despondent solemnity of the British Isles. They even smelt of Britain. I was aware of the comings and goings in Brett’s room; and in the corridor, the sound of voices and telephones. There was the drone of traffic outside too, and the heavy clank of buses. My guard didn’t seem to have been ordered to keep constant watch on me. Often, he stepped out of the room, leaving me alone. At one point, he disappeared into Brett’s office and returned with a spool of tape. He threaded the spool onto his own machine. It contained my interview with the inspector. The officer used a foot pedal to start and stop the reel, phrase by phrase. His fingers flew as he typed our conversation on his brand-new typewriter, but he showed no interest in what he was transcribing. I even wondered whether he was aware that I was one half of the dialogue.