The razor had sent his thoughts in a different direction. For a moment, he wondered whether he shouldn’t buy an attaché case to carry a few belongings in.
Because in a respectable hotel, if he arrived for the night alone, with no luggage, he might attract unwelcome attention. With an attaché case, he could pass for a commercial traveller. But then what would he do with it during the day? Put it in a left-luggage locker? Deposit it in a café?
At any rate, he had made up his mind never to sleep in the same place twice. He had noticed that if fugitives got caught, it was because someone in their proximity had suddenly been struck by a suspicious detail.
‘So, no attaché case!’ he muttered to himself, as he cleaned the razor carefully and wrapped it in a piece of newspaper.
What was more, he might run the risk of being labelled ‘the man with an attaché case’, and that simple object might be enough to give him away.
His superiority over the heroes of stories he had read in the papers, thieves, murderers, crooks on the run, was that he considered these matters in the same way that in the past he had considered the affairs of Julius de Coster’s company: coolly, with total detachment, as if they did not concern him.
In fact, he was looking for a solution to the solution, and he suddenly asked his companion:
‘Do you have to show identity papers in a hotel like this one?’
‘No, never! Sometimes they ask you for your name, to fill in the card. And about every two or three months, the police arrive in the middle of the night and wake everyone up. Especially if there’s some important foreign person passing through Paris, in case of an attack.’
Kees wrapped his shaving brush, soap and toothbrush in the same way as the razor, then put everything in his pockets, which already held his notebook and a pencil: everything he needed.
It was practical. He could go wherever he liked, sleep in a different hotel every night, maybe in different neighbourhoods in Paris. There was always the risk of the famous police raid the woman mentioned, but he calculated that that was scarcely one chance in a hundred.
‘Are you going to take me to lunch?’ she asked.
‘I’d rather not.’
‘I won’t insist. I just said it in case you might like it. So you don’t need me any more?’
‘No.’
They parted like that, on the pavement, now encumbered with street vendors and their barrows of fruit and vegetables. Popinga no longer had his wristwatch, but he could see a clock showing 12.15.
This neighbourhood suited him quite well, because it was so busy, thronged with people of all categories, and full of bars with customers spilling out of them.
‘With the three thousand francs I’ve got left,’ he calculated, ‘I’ll have enough for about a month, and by then I’ll have worked out a way to get some money.’
From that point on, he became careful with the cash he had been so free with previously, since it now had special value, like the razor in his pocket and the absence of an attaché case, as did every detail in the plan for living which he was devising.
One such detail was that he stood for an hour in front of the Paris street map, outside a Métro entrance. He had a remarkable memory for topography. The different neighbourhoods, the main thoroughfares, the boulevards, all found their place inside his head as accurately as on the map, and when he set off again, he was capable of finding his way round Paris without needing to ask directions.
He had no appetite for lunch, and went into a bar where he drank two large glasses of milk with some croissants, then was back on the boulevards in time to buy the afternoon papers which had just appeared.
Although all morning he had been pretending not to think about it, he was nevertheless preoccupied with what had happened to Jeanne Rozier, and he turned the pages feverishly, then was stupefied, vexed, and finally outraged, not to find a single line about her. Nor was there anything about himself, as if the whole story relating to Pamela was now completely forgotten, although many column inches were devoted to some obscure incident that had happened on the Paris–Bâle express.
Obviously, if Jeanne Rozier was dead, the papers would have been informed . . . So . . .
Unless . . . What if it was a trap, what if the police were keeping it quiet, hoping for him to make a false move? If only he could just see Chief Inspector Lucas, even through a window! He would have been able to get some idea. At the very least, he would have been able to see what kind of man he was, and therefore the kind of tricks he might play . . .
Well, too bad! There was one thing he could do without running much risk. Since there had been a telephone on Jeanne’s bedside table.
He went into a café, looked up Rozier in the directory, requested the number and heard a voice he did not recognize, belonging, as far as he could judge, to a woman of middle age.
‘Hello! Is Mademoiselle Rozier there, please?’
‘Who’s speaking?’
‘Tell her it’s a friend . . .’
So, that meant she wasn’t dead! There was a pause, then:
‘Hello. Can I take a message? Mademoiselle Rozier is not well, and can’t come to the phone.’
‘Is it serious?’
‘No, not very serious, but—’
Enough! He hung up and went back to sit at his table. A quarter of an hour later, he called the waiter over and asked for some writing materials.
He was in a bad temper. He thought for a long time about what to say. Finally, in a firm and legible hand, he wrote:
Dear Chief Inspector,
I beg to inform you that another event took place last night, which may have some bearing on the Popinga case. It might be in your interest to go to the apartment of Mademoiselle Rozier in Rue Fromentin, to ask her how she came to be in the state in which you will find her.
He hesitated, wondering whether he would reveal any more, then continued with malicious satisfaction, as he thought about Goin and especially his sister:
And I will take this opportunity to help the French police, which is taking such pains over me that it is only fair I should take some pains in return.
It should be possible for you to apprehend before too long a gang of big-time car thieves. This was the gang that, among other crimes, stole three cars in Montmartre on Christmas Eve.
So you would do well to station some men at night around the Goin & Boret garage in Juvisy. There would be no point in doing so tonight or tomorrow, as nothing will happen since the leader of the gang is in Marseille. But if you start watching the garage the following night, I should be greatly surprised if you did not succeed in making an arrest by 1 January.
Please believe me, Chief Inspector, to be your devoted servant
Kees Popinga
He read it over with satisfaction, sealed the envelope, wrote the address and called the waiter across.
‘Tell me, please. If I post a letter now, when will it be delivered?’
‘If it’s to Paris, tomorrow morning. But you can send it by the pneumatic tube service and it’ll get there in less than two hours.’
He was learning something every hour!
So he sent his letter by pneumatic tube, then left the district he was in, since he had deliberately used headed paper carrying the café’s name.
It was four o’clock. The weather was quite cold and a kind of fine mist had started to curl round the gas lamps. As he walked, he came to the Seine exactly where he had predicted he would, that is at the Pont Neuf, which he crossed. He was not walking aimlessly, but had a precise goal. Now that he had taken care of his business, he wanted to relax by having a game of chess.
Let’s say a stranger had arrived in Groningen knowing nobody, where would he have a chance of finding someone to play against? Only in one place, a large café near the university, frequented by students!
Why would Paris be different? So he headed towards the Latin Quarter, and then up its main street, Boulevard Saint-Michel. He was certainly a little disconcerted, sinc
e it had nothing in common with the quiet town of Groningen, but did not allow himself to be intimidated.
In a dozen cafés which he observed through the windows, nobody was playing any kind of game, and the customers sitting there looked as if they did not intend staying long.
On the other hand, glancing across the boulevard, he noticed on the first floor of a brasserie, shadows outlined against the curtains, holding billiard cues.
He felt as proud as if he had just won a game. Next moment, he felt even more pleased with himself when, after climbing the stairs, he found himself in an austere and smoke-filled room, where lamps with green shades hung over a dozen billiard tables, and where people were playing backgammon, cards or chess in other corners.
With as much solemnity as if he were back in his Dutch club, he took off his overcoat, hung it on the coat-stand, went to wash his hands in a basin, ran a comb through his hair, cleaned his nails, and then sat down next to two young men who were playing chess. Finally, he ordered a beer and lit a cigar.
It was a pity he had decided he could not go to any place more than once, because this café was exactly the kind where he would have liked to spend every afternoon! There was not a single woman in sight, which was already very satisfactory! On the other hand, there were plenty of young men, students, some of whom had taken off their jackets to play billiards.
One of the chess players was Japanese: wearing horn-rimmed glasses, he was facing a blond boy with ruddy cheeks, whose face registered every one of his emotions.
Kees, still acting as he did in Groningen, took out his gold-framed spectacles and wiped them before putting them on. After that, many minutes went by, during which time he did nothing but watch the chessboard, where all the pieces took their place in his mind, just as the streets of Paris had.
Even the smell in here, a mixture of beer, cigar smoke and sawdust, was like the club back in Groningen! Even the habits of the waiter, who kept breaking off from work to stand behind the players and watch a few moves with a disapproving air!
In circumstances such as these, Kees was capable of sitting still for hours, without uncrossing his legs, letting the ash on the end of his cigar reach three or four centimetres!
It was only towards the very end, when the Japanese player looked particularly depressed, and had been staring at the board for ten minutes without deciding on a move, that Kees flicked off the ash and said mildly:
‘You’ll checkmate him now in two moves, won’t you?’
The young man turned towards him in astonishment, but looked even more unhappy, since he had thought he was well and truly beaten. His partner was equally stupefied, since he could not see how he could possibly be checkmated, when he was on the point of winning.
There was a silence. The Japanese man put his hand out towards his castle, then pulled it back as if the piece were red hot, glancing at Popinga as if for advice, while the fair-haired player sighed, after scanning the board again.
‘Well, I certainly don’t see how . . .’
‘Will you allow me?’
The Japanese player nodded. The other young man waited, with a sceptical expression.
‘I’ll move the knight here. Now what will you do?’
The fair-haired man declared, without a moment’s thought:
‘I’ll take it with my castle.’
‘Quite right. Next I’ll move my queen forward two squares. What will you do now?’
This time, the young man could find no reply, remained somewhat lost for a moment, then moved his king one square backwards.
‘And there we are. I move my queen one more square, and it’s checkmate! It wasn’t so hard, was it?’
After this kind of exploit, he would adopt a modest expression, though his face was shining with satisfaction. The two young men were so impressed that they did not think of starting another game.
But the Japanese player, who had tried to understand the moves, finally said:
‘Would you like a game yourself?’
‘You can take my place,’ the other one told him.
‘No, no! If you like, I’ll play you both at the same time . . . You can each take a board.’
When he rubbed them together, as he did now, his hands could be seen to be smooth, a little plump, indeed, but white, shapely and delicate.
‘Waiter! Can you fetch us another chess set?’
Chief Inspector Lucas would not yet have received the letter, but by the time the two games of chess were over, he would have it in his hand and would no doubt be hastening to Rue Fromentin.
The youngsters were still intimidated, especially since Popinga, sitting on the banquette against the wall, facing them and the two chessboards, was also taking a boastful pleasure in following with his eyes a game of billiards.
He played without hesitation on both boards. His opponents took time to consider their moves, especially the Japanese student, who was determined to win this time.
‘Now how can I find a list of cafés where there’s chess?’ Popinga was thinking meanwhile.
He calculated that there must be plenty of them: while studying the map of Paris that afternoon, he had realized something. In Groningen, as in most towns, there was a centre, just the one, and the houses were grouped round it like the pulp of a fruit round the kernel.
But Kees had noted that while there are perhaps one, two or three central points in Paris, every neighbourhood also had its little centre with cafés, cinemas, dance halls and busy streets.
So someone who lived in Grenelle wouldn’t come over to Boulevard Saint-Michel to play chess, nor would someone who lived near the Parc Montsouris. Accordingly, one would only have to look, and in each district . . .
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, pretending to be embarrassed. ‘Why don’t you take your bishop back? Otherwise your queen’s threatened.’
This was to the blond young man, who reddened and stammered:
‘But I’ve played the move.’
‘Never mind, please go ahead.’
All the while the young Japanese man was glancing surreptitiously across at his friend’s board, trying not to make the same mistakes.
‘You’re students, are you? Studying what?’
‘Medicine,’ the Japanese player said.
The fair-haired boy wanted to be a dentist, which suited him on the whole.
In spite of his anxious concentration, it was the Japanese student who had to surrender first and the other one tried all the harder, but held out only a few minutes longer.
‘Can I buy you a drink?’ the young man felt obliged to say,
‘Not at all. I’ll buy you a round.’
‘But we lost!’
Nevertheless he insisted on buying their drinks, and lit another cigar as he leaned back on the banquette.
‘What you have to do, you know, is keep all the pieces in your head, never forget that the bishop protects the queen, the queen protects the knight, and . . .’
He had been almost on the point of saying ‘. . . Louis must have been contacted by Jeanne Rozier and already be on the train from Marseille. Round about now, Chief Inspector Lucas will be arriving at Rue Fromentin, where Jeanne will be wondering what’s happening. And in Juvisy, Goin will be too scared to telephone for fear of being compromised, while Rose—’
He stopped himself and went on:
‘And find out whether your opponent has a method, but don’t have one yourself. Suppose I’d had a method . . . I might have beaten one of you, but the other would have been able to notice my tactics and catch me off guard . . .’
He was so pleased with himself! To the point that when the two young men left him, with many thanks, he stayed there, cigar in mouth, fingers tucked into his waistcoat pockets, following the game of billiards from a distance and finding it hard to resist his desire to go and play that as well.
Because he would have been quite capable of having the same success at billiards as at chess, taking a cue from another player’s hands and winning fifty po
ints in a row.
What his opponents had not been able to see, the whole time they were playing, was that opposite him, on the other side of the room, there were mirrors. The lighting was low and the air was thick with the smoke from pipes and cigarettes, making Popinga’s reflection vague and mysterious, as he observed it complacently, puffing away at his cigar.
It was six o’clock by the enamelled face of the café clock. To pass the time, he took out his little notebook and thought for a long while before writing anything.
Because he had realized that he would have many hours to spend every day, even if he slept as much as possible. He couldn’t wander the streets for more than three or four hours; it was tiring and in the end dispiriting. He would have to organize some regular forms of distraction, like this one, and make them last as long as possible, so as to remain in good shape and keep a clear head.
In the end he wrote:
Tuesday 28 December. Left Juvisy via the window. Two women on train. Rue Fromentin with Jeanne. She wasn’t in laughing mood. Took care to knock her out but gently. Feel sure I’ll see her again.
Wednesday 29 December. Slept Faubourg Montmartre with woman, forgot to ask her name. She said I looked ‘the sad type’. Bought essential toiletries. Wrote to Lucas and played chess. Feeling in excellent form.
That was enough. The proof was that it helped him remember the past hours so clearly that a detail came back to him: the attaché case. He had not bought one so as not to be labelled ‘the man with the attaché case’. What was important was not to have some characteristic that was too conspicuous. And looking in the mirror, he realized that his cigar was a part of his profile. The two young men, for example, would not forget that he had been smoking a cigar! The waiter in the brasserie where he had written his letter would remember that too. He looked round and noted that out of the fifty or so customers, he was one of only two smoking cigars.
The Man Who Watched the Trains Go By Page 11
