And Jeanne Rozier knew that! As did Goin! As did the head waiter at Picratt’s! And the woman who had left at midday had also noticed it.
So if he did not wish to become ‘the man who smokes cigars’, he would have to take up something else, a pipe or cigarettes, and it was with reluctance that he decided to do so, since his cigar was almost a part of himself.
Having made the decision, he acted immediately, crushed out what remained of the cigar, and filled the ridiculous pipe he had bought in Juvisy.
By now, Chief Inspector Lucas must surely be at Rue Fromentin, carrying out his investigation, questioning the concierge and probably the two tenants whom he had met in the corridor. It would be amusing to phone him and say:
‘Hello? Chief Inspector Lucas? Kees Popinga here! What do you think of the leads I’ve given you? Don’t you see, I’ve given you some clues and I’m being a good sport!’
But that was too dangerous. He had a suspicion that telephone conversations could be tapped, which however did not prevent him having a little fun. There was a phone-booth in a corner of the café. He obtained some tokens and telephoned three newspapers, the ones that had published the longest articles about him. When he got through to the third, he even asked by name for the reporter who had signed the article.
‘Hello . . . Kees Popinga attacked another woman last night in Paris! You can check that by going to number 13, Rue Fromentin . . . Yes . . . What did you say?’
At the other end, a voice was repeating:
‘Who’s speaking? Is that you, Marchandeau?’
The reporter must have taken him for one of the newspaper’s regular informants.
‘No, this is not Marchandeau. It’s Popinga himself speaking! Good evening, Monsieur Saladin. And try not to write any more rubbish in your paper; in particular, stop saying I’m a maniac . . .’
He picked up his hat and coat, went downstairs and made his way, still on foot, towards a neighbourhood he had selected for the night, near Bastille.
This was the only way to do it: keep changing not only the restaurant or hotel, but also the class of establishment. He was prepared to swear that since he had now twice spent the night at hotels of a certain category, the police would be looking for him in similar hotels. And he would also be prepared to swear that this very evening, Chief Inspector Lucas would be searching most of the rooming-houses of that type in Montmartre.
Just as the two young chess players would be expecting him to try the same gambit twice.
So he had decided to go to the Bastille area, eat supper from a fixed-price menu at four or five francs, and sleep in a ten-franc hotel.
And he had not yet made up his mind whether he would sleep alone or whether, as he had twice before, he would find a bedfellow.
He thought about this as he went along Rue Saint-Antoine. He was aware that that could be at least as dangerous as the attaché case or the cigar. He imagined the police instructions saying:
Habitually spends the night in a cheap hotel with a woman he’s picked up.
And the police would be watching all the places frequented by streetwalkers.
That would be unwise, he concluded.
And indeed it would be unwise to play chess in a different place every day, since that too would be added to the description that would circulate:
Spends his afternoons playing chess in brasseries in Paris and the suburbs.
At any rate, that would be how he would have drawn up the instructions if he were in Lucas’ place, nor would he omit to mention that in the wanted man’s pockets would be found a razor, shaving brush, soap and toothbrush!
And what if a version of this description were to appear in every newspaper in Paris?
He was walking through the crowd, past the illuminated shop windows, and had to smile as he imagined the consequences of such a notice.
In the first place, in all the cafés where chess was played, the customers would be eyeing each other suspiciously, and perhaps during their game the waiter would be searching their coats, especially grey coats, to check that they contained no razor or shaving brush.
As for the women walking the streets . . . they would suspect all their clients of being Popinga, and Kees felt sure there would be many reports to the police.
‘No, I mustn’t,’ he told himself once more.
And yet he was already tempted to become this character he had described. He resisted the temptation, tried to keep a cool head, and decided that for a change after dining he would go to a cinema.
He ordered the five-franc menu in a cheap restaurant, but ended up paying eleven, since he couldn’t resist the extras. He was served by waitresses in white aprons, and he really wondered what the one attending his table might think of him. Out of curiosity, he left her a tip of five francs.
She would surely be astonished, and look hard at him, and soon connect this man in grey, with a foreign accent, with the sex maniac the papers were talking about.
But no, not at all. She put the money in her pocket and carried on with her work, as if he had given her fifty centimes or two francs!
The cinema was across the road: the Saint-Paul. He went into a box, since he had no wish not to be seen. Here the usherette was dressed in red, rather like the bellhop in the Carlton Hotel in Amsterdam.
He tried the opposite experiment. He did not give her a tip at all, and she merely walked off muttering something, taking no more notice of him.
It was the limit! It was as if they were forgetting all about him! As if there were a conspiracy of silence around him.
Jeanne Rozier had not complained to the police. The papers were not mentioning the investigation, Goin was lying low. Louis was still in Marseille and the woman from that morning would simply think of him as the sad type, like so many she had met!
In Groningen, he never went to the cinema, because Mama considered it a vulgar form of entertainment and in any case in the winter they went to the Thursday subscription concerts, which was quite enough in the way of distractions.
At the Saint-Paul cinema, Popinga sensed a feverish kind of atmosphere. He was not yet acquainted with this kind of popular picture house where over a thousand people were crammed together, eating oranges and sucking lemon drops.
Behind him, there was a balcony and when he turned round he could see hundreds of faces illuminated by the glow from the screen, which impressed him.
What if someone were to cry out suddenly:
‘That’s him! The Amsterdam maniac, the man who . . .’
In the surrounding boxes, by contrast, sat plump women in fur coats, young women with soft pink hands, stolid men, all the prosperous shopkeepers of the neighbourhood.
During the intermission, he felt a kind of vertigo, and did not dare mingle with the crowd heading for the bar and cloakrooms. He watched the advertisements and one for furniture reminded him how they had bought their own in Groningen, and Mama had ordered catalogues from all over Holland.
And what would she be doing now, Mama? What would she be thinking? She was the only person who had spoken of an attack of amnesia, no doubt because they had once read in the Telegraaf a serial story about the Great War in which a German soldier who was traumatized had forgotten even his own name, and had returned home after ten years to find his wife had remarried and that his children did not recognize him.
And what about Julius de Coster? While drinking himself under the table at the Petit Saint-Georges he had said a great deal, but he had been clever enough, in spite of that, not to reveal where he was going. From what Popinga knew of him, he would not be in Paris, but more likely in London, where he felt more at home. He had no doubt put away a nest-egg there under an assumed name, and would be using it to create another business and make more money.
As the crowd returned to their seats, the lights dimmed and a mauve glow covered the screen, while the orchestra played a very sentimental and languorous tune, which touched Popinga. He clapped wildly like everyone else, but on the other hand he
did not like the big picture, which was about a lawyer and professional secrecy.
Not far from him, a fat woman in a mink coat, the best-dressed person in the boxes, kept saying to her husband: ‘But why doesn’t he tell the truth? He’s an idiot.’
Then it was time to go, the slow shuffle towards the dark cold tunnel of the empty street, where the shops were shut and cars were moving off.
Popinga had spotted a hotel at the corner of Rue de Birague, a hotel which from its appearance would be cheap and uncomfortable.
What proved it was the kind of place he wanted was that, not fifty metres away, a woman’s silhouette was standing in the shadows.
Should he take her with him? Or not? Of course, earlier, he had decided . . .
But it didn’t matter. The police couldn’t be on his trail yet.
The truth was that he did not like to be alone at night, nor especially to wake up in the morning and find himself alone. If it happened, he was reduced to looking at himself in the mirror and pulling faces, asking himself:
‘What if I had a mouth like that? Or a nose like that?’
Very well! One more time. Just the one! If only to discover what kind of woman could be picked up in this dark Rue de Birague! He thrust his hands into his pockets, looking casual, and exactly when he expected it, a timid voice whispered:
‘Coming with me, dear?’
He pretended to hesitate, turned round and saw by the light of the gas lamp a young, thin, pale face, a flimsy coat, and unkempt hair poking out from under a beret.
‘She’ll do,’ he decided.
And he followed her. He knew now how it was done. They went past a desk where a large placid-looking woman was playing patience.
‘Number 7,’ she declared.
Ah! Number 7 again!
There was no separate bathroom, but a curtain in front of a china wash-basin. Popinga, without looking at his companion, was already setting out his shaving tackle.
‘You want to stay the night?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Ah!’
This did not seem to please her. But that was too bad!
‘You’re not from round here, then?’
‘No, not at all.’
‘You’re a foreigner?’
‘What about you?’
‘I’m from Brittany,’ she said, taking off her beret. ‘You’ll be kind to me, won’t you? I saw you coming out of the cinema just now.’
She was talking for the sake of it, perhaps to please him, and indeed it made the room seem more homely, while he proceeded meticulously to get ready for the night, checked that the bed was clean enough and lay down with a sigh of ease.
Someone whose expression he would have liked to see now would be Lucas’s wife. What might the inspector be saying about him, as he got into bed? Because after all, like everyone else, he would have to go to bed sooner or later!
‘Shall I leave the light on?’
She was so skinny that he preferred to look away.
8.
On the difficulty of getting rid of old newspapers and the usefulness of a fountain-pen and a wristwatch
There was almost nothing to write in the red notebook that morning:
Real name Zulma. Gave her 20 francs and she didn’t dare object. Sighed while I got dressed: I’m sure you prefer fatter girls. If you’d said, I’d have brought my friend along.
Dirty feet.
He also noted that he needed to buy a watch, since while he could look at clocks on buildings or in cafés when he was outside, it was awkward not to know the time first thing in the morning.
He was surprised now, for example, to find himself out on the street at eight in the morning, his ears having been deceived by the bustle of an early-rising neighbourhood.
As Zulma walked away in her green coat, too broad-shouldered for her slight figure, Popinga approached a newspaper stall and had something of a shock.
All the papers were finally talking about him, across two or three columns on the front page! They had not printed his photograph, lacking any that differed from the one published already, but they displayed pictures of Jeanne Rozier and of her bedroom.
He had to restrain himself from buying every one of them and hurrying into a café to read them.
It was difficult to remain cool, when there were columns and columns devoted to him, carrying many opinions about him, no doubt of various kinds. Around him, passers-by were coming up to the news stand, buying a paper, just one, before hastening down into the Métro.
He chose three dailies, the most important ones, and went to sit in a bar on Place de la Bastille. Nobody would have suspected the turmoil going on inside him as he drank his café-crème and read and re-read the articles, sometimes with delight, sometimes with disgust, but always at fever pitch.
How was he going to manage in practical terms? He had decided to keep these articles, but on the other hand, he couldn’t walk about with dozens of newspapers in his pockets.
He reflected for a while, then went downstairs to the washroom where, with his penknife, he cut out all the passages concerning him. Then he had to get rid of the mutilated pages, and concluded that the only way was to throw them into the lavatory, which took him about half an hour, since the wodges of paper were hard to destroy. He had to keep pulling the flush, wait every time for the cistern to fill up again, so that when he went back upstairs to the bar, they thought he must be unwell.
A change of tactics was called for, he resolved, with respect to the twenty or so other newspapers which he bought in the course of the day, always in threes, so as not to attract too much attention.
He read the first three in a bistro on the corner of Boulevard Henri-IV and the Seine embankment, then he threw the unwanted pages into the river.
For the next set, he found another café, on the Austerlitz embankment this time, then proceeded along the Seine, in several stops, until he reached Quai de Bercy.
Since there was no comfortable place to sit in that district, he returned for the afternoon to the neighbourhood around Gare de Lyon, where he found the kind of brasserie he liked, and at two o’clock, having taken a seat sheltered by the stove, he set to work, after buying a fountain-pen, as he had left his behind in Groningen.
If he had made this outlay – eighty francs for the watch, thirty-two for the pen – it was because he had a serious task in front of him, and experience had shown him that it was no good trying to write with the pens provided in cafés.
He simply asked for some paper, then he began in small regular handwriting: he knew this would take a long time and he didn’t want to weary his wrist:
Dear Sir,
This letter was addressed to the editor in chief of the principal Parisian daily, the one that had devoted almost three entire columns to him, and had also sent a correspondent to Holland for two days. If Kees chose this newspaper, it was not simply because of its wide circulation, but because it was the only one to have printed an intelligent headline:
Pamela’s killer taunts the police, and alerts them to a fresh crime that had gone undetected
He had plenty of time. He could take trouble over his sentences. The stove was roaring like the one in Groningen, and the tables were filled by quiet customers waiting to catch their trains.
Dear Sir,
First of all, I would ask you to forgive my poor French, but I have had little opportunity to practise it, these recent years in Holland.
Now imagine that in every newspaper, people who do not know you at all rush into print to tell the world that you are ‘like this’, or ‘like that’, when it is not true, and you are completely different. I am sure you would dislike it, and would wish to make the truth known.
Your correspondent went to Groningen and questioned people there, but either those people could not have known the truth, or they were telling deliberate lies, or in some cases gave him false information inadvertently.
I wish to set the record straight, and will begin at the begi
nning, since I hope that you will publish this document, in which every word is the unvarnished truth, and which will demonstrate how a man can be the victim of what other people say.
In the first place, your article refers to my family. It does so through the testimony of my wife, who declared to your correspondent:
‘I cannot understand what has happened, and there was no sign of this before. Kees came from an excellent family: he received a very good higher education. When we were married, he was a calm and thoughtful young man, who wanted only to set up home. Since then, and for sixteen years, he has been a good husband, a good father. His health has always been perfect, though I should say that last month, when there was ice on the ground, he slipped and hit his head. And perhaps that is what has precipitated this trouble in his mind, and some kind of amnesia. Certainly he cannot have been aware of what he was doing, and cannot be held responsible for his actions . . .’
Kees ordered another coffee and was on the point of asking for a cigar, when he remembered his decision and, with a sigh, packed a pipe, re-read these few lines and set about refuting them.
Now, my dear sir, this is what I have to say on the subject:
1. I do not come from an excellent family, but you will understand that my wife, whose father was a burgomaster, prefers to say so to journalists. My mother was a midwife and my father was an architect. Only it was my mother who provided the family income. My father, if he went to see clients, spent his time chatting and drinking with them, because he was too jovial and sociable by nature. After that, he would forget to draw up an estimate, or he would overlook some detail in the work needed for the project, so he was always in financial trouble.
He didn’t give up hope. He would sigh:
‘I’ve been too kind!’
But my mother saw it very differently, and not a day went by, as I recall, without a scene at home: they became violent quarrels when my father had had too much to drink, and my mother would scream to my sister and me:
‘Take a look at this man and try never to be like him! He’ll drive me to my grave!’
The Man Who Watched the Trains Go By Page 12
