Manfred’s grandfather stared into the middle distance. His pale blue eyes were watery from his coughing fit. He looked terribly sad. His pipe had gone out. The garden was overgrown. When he retired from practice fifteen years previously, he had got rid of the gardener, insisting that he could take care of the grounds himself, but ill health had rendered this impossible. Ivy had spread its tentacles across the pale yellow brick wall at the back of the garden. The wooden door that led to the woods was now inaccessible. The jamb was rotten and the pale blue paint had mostly flaked off, leaving the wood exposed to the elements.
Manfred offered to relight his grandfather’s pipe and, to his surprise, he handed to it to him. Manfred ignored the filthy look from the nurse, got it going and handed it back to him. M. Paliard nodded a curt thank you, but did not put it to his lips. Manfred had always loathed the old man, just as the old man loathed him. Now he seemed to be clinging onto life only out of spite. Even his pipe no longer seemed to provide him with any pleasure. But there was no question of discontinuing the ritual of Sunday lunch. Such a thing would upset his grandmother.
The maid appeared at the patio door and, to Manfred’s relief, announced that lunch would be served. He left the nurse to manoeuvre his grandfather and his medical apparatus into the dining room. Manfred had never got used to sitting there at the table, waited on by maids. His grandmother complained constantly about the difficulty of finding suitable staff. The current maid was Spanish. During lunch Mme Paliard constantly corrected her, addressing her in exaggeratedly childish French and then talking to Manfred about her as if she wasn’t there. Manfred kept his eyes on the food that was placed in front of him and nursed a glass of mineral water. He craved a glass of wine, but alcohol was not served at lunchtime in the Paliard household. Bertrand did not approve of drinking during the day, as he did not approve of many things. Despite this, Mme Paliard chattered breezily through lunch. Manfred suspected that she tippled in the kitchen. He did his best to contribute to the conversation, if only to prevent the meal being passed in silence. As soon as the dessert plates were cleared, he took his leave.
Later that afternoon, Manfred took his sack of washing down to the laundry room in the basement of his building. Someone had left a blouse in one of the dryers. He held it up in front of him. It was pale blue and translucent. The fabric had a pleasing grain between his fingers. It felt expensive. He could smell conditioner, lavender perhaps, a scent an older woman might favour. Manfred felt a strong desire to bury his face in the garment and inhale the aroma, but resisted for fear that its owner might come in and catch him doing so. Instead he folded the garment neatly and placed it on top of the machine.
Manfred transferred his clothes from the washing machine and set the dryer to the highest temperature. He sat down on the wooden chair next to the door and opened his book, but he was unable to concentrate. Perhaps he should go up to his apartment and fetch a hanger for the blouse. Its owner might appreciate such a gesture. But Manfred did not like to leave his clothes in the basement. It was not that he thought someone would steal them, rather that if a cycle finished, another resident might need to unload the machine, and Manfred did not like the idea of a stranger going through his clothing. It was for this reason that Manfred did his washing on Sunday afternoons when the laundry room was always deserted. Other residents presumably had better things to do with their weekends and did their washing at times more traditionally set aside for drudgery. Even so, Manfred always made sure his underwear was in a presentable condition, in case he had to unload the machine in the presence of another person.
Manfred decided against fetching a hanger. It was not as if he had carelessly discarded the blouse. He had folded it neatly and if its owner came to retrieve it while he was upstairs, he would not get credit for this act of kindness. The woman might even admire the skill with which he had folded the blouse. Manfred craned his head into the stairwell that led to the laundry room. No one was coming. He got up and folded the blouse more carefully, gently smoothing it with the palms of his hands. Then he re-took his seat and picked up his book, the same detective novel he had been reading when Gorski called.
The spin cycle ended. Manfred removed his clothes from the machine and folded them into his laundry sack. There was not room to dry clothes in his apartment and he disliked the slovenly appearance of clothes hanging on radiators. He wondered if he should wait for the woman to return to retrieve her blouse, but perhaps she had not yet noticed it was missing. Manfred decided that he would take the blouse to his apartment and leave a note on the dryer saying that he had done so. He was pleased with this plan. He bundled the remaining clothes into his sack without folding them, laid the blouse on top and, not wishing to meet the woman coming out of the lift, took the back stairs to his apartment. Manfred found a piece of paper and pencil and sat down at the kitchen table to compose the note. He must make it sound casual. There was no need for an elaborate explanation. Rather he should make it sound as if his decision to take the blouse to his apartment had been made without thinking, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. After three or four false starts, he settled for the most neutral wording he could think of: Blouse found in dryer. Please contact Apartment 4F. Then he signed it, Manfred Baumann.
Manfred took the stairs back to the basement. The light was on in the basement stairwell. He could hear someone moving around in the scullery. There was a woman bending over the dryer. She was wearing jeans, a faded blue T-shirt and baseball boots. She had yellow blonde hair, tied in a ponytail. She did not hear Manfred approach.
‘Excuse me,’ he said softly.
She jumped and turned round.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Manfred, ‘I didn’t mean to startle you.’
‘Too late,’ said the woman. She was slim, in her late thirties or early forties. She had pronounced cheekbones and a pale complexion. Her eyes were grey and a little lined. Manfred had never seen her before. She returned her attention to the washing machines, opening the doors and whirring the cylinders.
‘Are you looking for your blouse?’ Manfred asked.
‘My blouse, yes,’ she said.
‘I’ve got it,’ said Manfred. ‘I found it in the dryer.’ He handed her the note as if to corroborate his story. ‘I didn’t want to leave it down here, in case someone went off with it. It looked expensive.’
The woman looked at him suspiciously and then read the note.
‘Thanks,’ she said in a tone wholly lacking in gratitude.
Manfred stood for a moment, not sure what to say.
‘Shall I fetch it for you?’
He wanted the woman to say that she would accompany him. There was something attractive about her.
‘That would be good,’ said the woman, ‘thank you.’ She smiled. ‘Sorry, it was nice of you to…’ She glanced at the note, before adding, ‘Manfred.’
Manfred’s heart was pounding in his chest. ‘Or you could come with me?’ He jabbed his thumb towards the stairwell.
The woman shrugged and followed him. Manfred told himself to say something, no matter how banal. If he didn’t say something quickly, the entire journey to his apartment would be passed in painful silence.
‘Have you lived here long?’ he said.
‘Sorry?’ said the woman. She was a few steps behind him and the stairwell echoed with their footsteps.
‘Have you been in the building long?’ Manfred repeated. ‘I haven’t seen you before.’
They reached the metal door at the top of the basement stairs. Manfred held it open and the woman went through. She pressed the button for the lift and the door opened immediately. They got in and Manfred pressed the button for the fourth floor. The lift was small and the woman stood at Manfred’s shoulder. They were almost touching. The lift clattered into action. The woman smelt of the same scent that he had detected on the blouse. It wasn’t lavender, it was something less floral, more earthy.
‘I was saying I haven’t seen you before,’ Manfred said
. He kept his eyes on the numbers above the door.
‘I’ve been here a few months,’ said the woman. ‘Since February.’
‘I see,’ said Manfred. It was a stupid thing to say. I see. What was that supposed to mean? It sounded like he was interrogating her, as if he intended to use this piece of information to contradict her at a later date. When the lift reached the fourth floor, Manfred got out first so that the woman would not have to squeeze past him. They walked along the corridor in silence.
‘Here we are,’ he said, when they reached the door.
‘4F,’ said the woman, proffering the note she was still holding.
‘Would you like to come inside?’
The woman stepped into the passage and waited as Manfred went into the kitchen to fetch the blouse. He returned and handed it to her.
‘You folded it. Thank you,’ said the woman. She seemed surprised and not displeased.
‘I would have ironed it if I’d had time,’ said Manfred.
The woman smiled kindly as she might to a child who had done well. She was quite beautiful.
‘Thanks again,’ she said and turned to go.
Manfred audibly drew breath. ‘Can I offer you a coffee?’ he said. ‘Or a cup of tea?’ He did not know why he had added the offer of tea. Manfred did not drink tea and did not keep any in the house. The woman pursed her lips and looked at him for a moment, as if she was evaluating him.
‘I’d better not,’ she said. ‘Another time perhaps.’
‘Of course,’ said Manfred. The woman stepped into the corridor.
Manfred closed the door gently behind her and exhaled slowly. He felt he had acquitted himself well. He went into the kitchen and started sorting through his laundry. The woman had appeared to actually consider accepting his invitation. I’d better not. The phrase suggested that she would have liked to accept, but she was unable to. Perhaps she was married and thought it would be improper to accept his invitation, that they would be engaging in something illicit. Or perhaps she had merely meant that she did not have time. In any case, she had not flatly refused. She had implied, clearly implied, that it was beyond her control and given a different set of circumstances, she would have accepted. And then, as if things were not already clear enough, she had added, Another time perhaps. Manfred had not detected any note of sarcasm in her voice. Of course it was difficult to imagine how ‘another time’ might come about, but even so he felt quite elated by the exchange. He should have asked her name. And he should buy some tea.
Manfred fetched the ironing board from the kitchen cupboard, plugged in the iron and sat down at the table, waiting for it to warm.
Six
WHEN MANFRED ARRIVED AT the bank on Monday morning, the staff were talking animatedly about the disappearance of Adèle Bedeau. Mlle Givskov, the senior teller, was voicing the opinion that girls these days were asking for trouble the way they ran around. If this girl had got herself into trouble, she probably only had herself to blame. Mlle Givskov had been taken on by M. Jeantet a year or so after Manfred joined the branch. Her presence made Manfred uneasy and he kept his distance from her. Manfred bid the staff good morning and hurried past into his office. A few minutes later Carolyn brought in his coffee. She was a nice girl, nineteen years old, rather plain and slow, but with a cheerful disposition. Manfred liked her. She never seemed to be trying to impress him as some other new members of staff did.
‘Terrible, isn’t it,’ she said, ‘this business with the girl.’
‘I’m sure it’ll turn out to be nothing,’ said Manfred, a little brusquely. He had no wish to be drawn into a discussion of the matter.
Carolyn placed his coffee on the desk. Manfred looked up from the papers he had been studying. She looked a little crestfallen. He had no wish to snub her. She was sensitive to such things. Once, she had burst into tears when Manfred had pointed out a minor error in a transaction.
‘She’s only been gone a couple of days,’ he said. ‘She’s probably just gone off with some boy.’
Carolyn appeared to take Manfred’s theory very seriously. ‘There was no mention of any boyfriend in the paper,’ she said.
‘People don’t always advertise such things.’ He immediately regretted the remark. It made him sound like someone who routinely engaged in deception or at least expected others to do so. Because Manfred did not socialise with his staff or talk about himself, he was aware that his personal life was the subject of conjecture. He had overheard some of the girls speculate that he was homosexual. Sometimes when he came out of his office, the room fell silent. At the annual Christmas lunch, people jockeyed to avoid sitting next to him. It was the same at the biannual gatherings of local branch managers. When the time came to mingle informally, Manfred found himself on the margins, unable to break into any of the groups that congregated around the room.
‘Did you know her?’ Carolyn asked.
‘By sight,’ said Manfred. ‘I have lunch in the restaurant where she worked.’ It was about as revealing a statement as he had ever made to her. He realised he should not have used the past tense. It implied he had some knowledge that she would not be returning to work.
‘What is she like?’ asked Carolyn, anxious to have some inside information to share with her workmates. ‘She looks very pretty in the picture in the paper.’
‘Are we going to be doing any work today or are the wheels of the banking industry going to grind to a halt because some girl has disappeared for five minutes.’
Carolyn looked hurt. ‘Sorry, Monsieur Baumann,’ she said and left the room. Manfred had told her that she could call him by his first name when they were alone in his office, but she never did.
At lunch Manfred had the special, as he always did on Mondays. He was anxious to stick to his routine from now on. There would be no repeat of his erratic actions of the previous week – the second glass of wine, the changing of his order, his ridiculous comment about Adèle’s appearance. From now on he must avoid attracting attention to himself. He must not give people cause to think that he had been behaving oddly.
A new waitress was working the tables by the window. She was small and skinny and kept her short hair neatly secured in a clasp. She moved hurriedly between the tables and kitchen, and looked constantly as if she was about to drop the plates she was carrying or upset some glasses. Manfred did his best to avert his eyes from her.
Marie arrived at his table and took his order. She looked a little tired.
‘Terrible business,’ she said.
‘I’m sure it’ll turn out to be nothing,’ said Manfred.
Marie frowned. ‘That cop doesn’t seem to think so,’ she said. ‘Seems that someone saw Adèle with a man on a motorbike the night she disappeared.’
Manfred pursed his lips and nodded slowly. He didn’t know what to say. ‘Do they know who he is, this man?’ he said eventually.
‘That cop has been in here asking questions,’ she said. ‘He seemed to think it was significant.’
‘I daresay,’ said Manfred.
He ate his soup in silence, absentmindedly turning the pages of his newspaper. He shouldn’t have mentioned a boyfriend to Carolyn. It made it seem as if he had foreknowledge of the development, which of course he had. He should learn to keep his mouth shut. The atmosphere in the restaurant was subdued. Pasteur lurked behind his counter. Manfred wondered if he was surreptitiously watching him, keeping an eye on him to see if he was acting strangely. Gorski must have spoken to everyone at the restaurant. The thought made him uneasy.
Marie brought his Pôtée Marocaine. He had finished his wine, but he resisted the desire to order another, instead pouring himself a glass of water from the carafe on the table. The Pôtée Marocaine consisted of a pile of couscous, a merguez sausage, a chicken leg and piece of indeterminate meat, served with a dish of sharp sauce. Manfred saw Pasteur nod a greeting towards the door. He looked over his shoulder and saw that Gorski had come in. He walked over to the bar and shook hands with Pasteur over the
counter. There seemed to be some kind of understanding between them. Marie hovered by the hatch as the two men engaged in a brief conversation. Gorski turned, Manfred thought, to leave, but instead threaded his way through the tables to where he was sitting. It was clear he had known that Manfred would be here.
He stood with his hands on the back of the chair opposite Manfred and smiled a humourless greeting.
‘Mind if I join you?’ he said.
Manfred spread his palm towards the empty chair to indicate that he did not object. He could hardly refuse. Gorski took off his raincoat and folded it across his lap as he took his seat. This suggested, to Manfred’s relief, that he did not intend to stay long, or at least that it was not his intention to order lunch. Manfred looked past Gorski’s shoulder towards the counter. Marie had disappeared into the kitchen and Pasteur was conspicuously polishing glasses, even though for the previous fifteen minutes or so he had been standing around doing next to nothing.
‘Don’t let me interrupt your lunch,’ Gorski said.
Manfred had laid down his cutlery. He disliked dining in company. Gorski made no pretence of being surprised to find Manfred here, that it was somehow serendipitous.
‘Something was puzzling me,’ he began, ‘I was hoping that you might be able to clear it up.’
Manfred nodded.
‘Something in connection with the disappearance of Adèle Bedeau.’
‘Yes?’ said Manfred.
‘It seems that on the night of her disappearance, Mlle Bedeau was seen riding through town on the back of a scooter with a young man.’
Manfred looked at his food.
‘It’s significant because this is the last time anyone saw her. It seems that she left the restaurant, met this young man and rode off with him. Obviously, it’s important to ascertain exactly what her movements were on that night.’
The Disappearance of Adèle Bedeau Page 5
