The Disappearance of Adèle Bedeau

by Graeme Macrae Burnet

  Manfred arrived at the restaurant on Avenue de Bâle at ten to seven. He had walked the back way alongside the railway line to avoid being spotted by any of the regulars of the La Cloche. The restaurant was housed in a traditional oak-beamed building. Inside, the dining room was low-ceilinged, but surprisingly large. The walls were panelled with dark wood and fitted with brass light fittings, which emitted a yellowish light. A number of oversized pot plants stood like sentries next to the various doors. The tables were covered with starched white cloths and laid with an intimidating array of cutlery and glasses. Only two other tables were occupied. Manfred was shown to a table in the centre of the room. He explained to the waiter that he was expecting someone and asked for a glass of wine.

  Manfred recognised a man at one of the other tables. He was in the construction trade and over the years had had occasional business with the bank. He acknowledged Manfred with a little bow of his head. He was with a woman and they were chatting animatedly. The man talked with his mouth full and pointed his knife at his dining companion – for some reason Manfred did not think she was his wife – who did not seem to notice his ill manners. The other table was occupied by a solitary man in a suit; probably, Manfred thought, a salesman passing through town. He had a paperback open on the table in front of him and kept his eyes fixed on the pages. Manfred wished he had asked to be seated elsewhere. He felt like an exhibit in a museum. His wine arrived. He assumed that Alice would be late and downed it in a couple of swallows before ordering a second.

  Alice arrived on the stroke of seven o’clock. She was wearing a knee-length grey wool dress, fastened around her waist with a thick brown leather belt. The waiter took her coat and showed her to the table. Manfred stood up and held out his hand.

  ‘Good evening,’ he said.

  Alice ignored his hand and kissed him on both cheeks, placing her hands on his upper arms as she did so. Manfred inhaled her perfume. It was dry and earthy like the floor of a forest before a fire. She sat down and ordered a Martini without so much as glancing at the waiter.

  ‘Well,’ she said, ‘here we are.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Manfred. He made himself smile. Alice was wearing pale red lipstick. She pursed her lips and widened her eyes, then glanced around the room. She leaned forward and whispered, ‘It’s like a morgue in here. Maybe we should go somewhere else.’

  ‘It’s fine,’ said Manfred. ‘We’re here now.’

  The idea of just getting up and leaving horrified Manfred and, worse, Alice might suggest going to the Restaurant de la Cloche. The waiter arrived with Alice’s drink and two menus bound in maroon leatherette. Ordering provided a welcome distraction from the business of making conversation. While they waited for their starters Alice lit a cigarette with a chunky brass lighter, which emitted a whiff of butane. She turned her head to the side and blew out a slow stream of milky grey smoke.

  ‘So, Manfred Baumann,’ she said, ‘what have you got to say for yourself?’

  Manfred unconsciously put his hand to his face and slowly massaged the flesh around his mouth. What did he have to say for himself? He had nothing at all to say for himself. The carpet in the restaurant was dark brown with a pattern of messy yellow whorls. Manfred felt a little dizzy. He was tempted to excuse himself and make a dash for the door, but he did not do so. Alice leaned forward a little. Her fingers played on the stem of her glass. The second hand of her wristwatch moved slowly around the dial. Her dress was snug around her breasts, which did not appear to be constrained by a brassiere. Manfred raised his eyes to Alice’s face. She appeared quite relaxed.

  ‘So,’ Manfred began, ‘you’ve only been in your apartment a few months?’ It was the only thing he could think of to say. He breathed out as if he had just put down a heavy object.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Alice.

  ‘Yes,’ said Manfred, ‘it struck me as odd that I hadn’t run into you before.’

  There was no reason to make this remark. It made him seem like the sort of busybody who liked to keep tabs on the comings and goings of his neighbours, when nothing could be farther from the truth. He only knew the names of his immediate neighbours because they were written on the little plaques on their doors and he did his best to avoid all contact with them.

  ‘And I hadn’t run into you before,’ said Alice. She widened her eyes as if this was an astonishing coincidence.

  Manfred gave a little laugh. Despite everything, the conversation was proceeding quite satisfactorily.

  ‘Do you like it?’ he said.

  ‘Architecturally?’ she said.

  ‘Living there, I meant. Do you like living there?’ said Manfred.

  Alice gave a little snort of derision through her nose. Manfred recognised the gesture from before. It gave him a sense of intimacy, as if they were lovers who knew each other’s quirks inside out. Still, it was a stupid question. What was there to say about living in a drab apartment building exactly like a thousand other drab apartment buildings elsewhere? Of course, there had been the incident with the dog faeces in the stairwell only a week earlier and there was the ongoing dispute about the need to refurbish the laundry facilities, but, even if she knew about these things, Alice would probably not deem them worthy of comment.

  Alice shrugged. ‘It was supposed to just be a stopgap. I haven’t even unpacked most of my things.’

  The starters arrived. Alice had asked for a green salad, even though it was not on the menu. Manfred ordered an expensive bottle of white wine. The waiter poured a little for him to sample before filling their glasses.

  Alice, it transpired, had moved into the building following the breakdown of her marriage. She talked almost uninterrupted for the rest of the meal, pausing only to top up her glass or take the occasional mouthful of food. Her husband, Marc, ran a large concrete firm. They met when Alice’s stationery company won the contract to supply his firm with letterheads and other goods. Marc was twelve years older and Alice had been flattered by his attention. Shortly after they married, Marc’s firm began to supply various large government projects, which entailed a lot of travel. They both had affairs and – Alice shrugged – after a while it became apparent that they were sharing a house, but weren’t really married anymore. It was all perfectly amicable. There were no children to complicate matters. ‘I’m not the maternal type,’ Alice said. They still met for dinner once or twice a month and had even taken to sleeping together now and then. Alice mentioned this last detail without a hint of self-consciousness, but the thought of Alice engaged in the sexual act brought the colour to Manfred’s cheeks. He put his glass to his face to disguise the fact.

  Manfred found himself building up a healthy loathing for this successful man with his easy way with women. He probably wore ostentatious jewellery and spoke in a loud voice in restaurants. He did not like the idea of Alice continuing to see him and the fact that they persisted in sleeping together was certainly not healthy.

  Alice paused and looked at Manfred, as if she had almost forgotten he was there. During her monologue he had confined himself to nodding and the occasional ‘I see.’ They had ordered a second bottle of wine. Alice had consumed her share, but Manfred felt quite drunk. Alice excused herself and Manfred took the opportunity to pay the bill.

  They walked back along Rue de Mulhouse. Alice put her hand in the crook of Manfred’s arm. He was not sure if this was a sign of affection or merely to steady herself.

  They passed the little park where Adèle had met her friend. Some people were gathered on the pavement outside a shop on a side street. It was not late. Lemerre and his cronies would still be at their table by the door of the Restaurant de la Cloche. Manfred wondered what Lemerre would have to say if he could see him walking home with a woman on his arm. Something obscene, no doubt. The streets were deserted, as they always were at this time of night. They reached the apartment building. Manfred unlocked the door and they stood in the foyer.

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘thank you for a very pleasant evening.’<
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  He had decided that he would take the stairs and allow Alice to take the elevator. It would be less awkward to part here in the foyer.

  ‘How about a nightcap?’ said Alice.

  ‘A nightcap?’ Manfred repeated.

  ‘Why not?’ she said. She prodded him playfully on the arm.

  Manfred could think of no plausible reason to refuse.

  ‘Where?’ he said.

  She shrugged. ‘Your place? My place is a mess. Half of my stuff is still in boxes.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea,’ said Manfred, but she was already leading him to the elevator. Manfred got in and pressed his back against the grooved metal of the tiny box. Alice stood with her shoulder touching his. The smell of her perfume mingled with alcohol and cigarettes.

  Alice led the way along the corridor to Manfred’s door.

  ‘4F,’ she said.

  ‘Perhaps we should go to a bar,’ said Manfred. ‘I’ve only got whisky.’

  ‘Whisky’s fine,’ said Alice, ‘I like whisky.’

  Manfred unlocked the door and led Alice along the passage to the kitchen. They stood by the table.

  ‘I’ll fetch another chair,’ said Manfred. He unlocked the door to the balcony where three folding chairs were stored.

  ‘Why don’t we sit in the living room?’ she said.

  Manfred was about to object, but Alice was already on her way. Manfred went into the bedroom to fetch the whisky from the bedside table.

  ‘My apartment is exactly the same layout,’ she called. He returned to the kitchen to get glasses. Alice had switched on the lamp next to the sofa and was standing in front of the wall of books, which were arranged more or less alphabetically. Manfred stood in the doorway with the bottle and glasses in his hand.

  ‘That’s a lot of books for a bank manager,’ said Alice. She appeared impressed. ‘Quite the enigma, aren’t you, Monsieur Baumann.’

  Manfred could not help feeling a thrill when she used his name like this. He had a sudden vision of a future with Alice. They would become lovers. They would maintain their separate apartments, but at weekends they would spend time together, going for country walks or whatever it was that lovers did. Without it ever being mentioned, it would become known at the bank that he had a lover. The whispers about his sexual orientation would come to an end. He would no longer spend every evening drinking at the counter of the Restaurant de la Cloche, exchanging awkward remarks with Pasteur. Lemerre and his cronies would look at him with newfound respect. But he knew, of course, that none of that would happen.

  Alice sat on the sofa. She took off her shoes and curled her feet beneath her thighs. Manfred poured out two measures of whisky and handed one to Alice. He sat down on the armchair.

  ‘How long have you been here?’ she asked.

  ‘Eighteen years,’ he said. ‘It was supposed to be a stopgap for me as well.’

  She laughed. She rummaged in her bag for her cigarettes and lit one. Manfred got up and fetched an ashtray from the kitchen, relieved to be out of the room for a moment. Alice smiled a thank you when he placed the ashtray on the table in front of her.

  ‘This is nice,’ she said. She appeared to find Manfred’s discomfort amusing.

  The building was completely silent. Alice put her elbow on the arm of the sofa and rested her chin on her hand.

  ‘So what about you, Manfred?’ Her dress was stretched tightly around her breasts.

  ‘What about me?’

  ‘Tell me about yourself.’

  ‘There’s nothing to tell.’

  ‘Come on,’ she said, as if cajoling a tongue-tied child.

  Manfred sipped his whisky. He was beginning to feel nauseous. A car passed outside. He averted his eyes from Alice’s breasts. He was terrified that Alice was going to attempt to seduce him. He was not so naive as to be unaware of the events that were expected to ensue from a ‘nightcap’.

  ‘Have you ever been married?’ she asked.

  Manfred shook his head. He wished Alice would stop asking questions.

  ‘There must have been someone,’ she said playfully. She took a slug of whisky.

  Manfred topped up her glass. She smiled, a little apologetically, as if she realised he did not want to talk about himself, or perhaps as if she realised that the whole evening had been a mistake. Manfred suddenly had the impression that she was about to get up and leave.

  ‘I was in love once,’ he said.

  ‘Oh,’ said Alice. She suddenly perked up.

  ‘It was a long time ago,’ said Manfred. ‘She was very beautiful.’

  ‘What happened?’

  Manfred looked at her.

  ‘She was murdered.’

  Alice clasped her bottom lip in her teeth. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said.

  Manfred shook his head. He had a sudden urge to tell her the whole story, to spare her no detail about what had happened that summer. But he said nothing. He swilled the whisky round in his glass. Someone in an adjoining flat turned on a television.

  They drank the rest of the whisky in silence. Alice’s toenails were painted red. Manfred imagined kneeling at her feet and kissing them. After a while, Alice said she should be going. She put on her shoes.

  ‘We should do this again sometime,’ she said. ‘Why don’t we do something on Sunday?’

  Manfred was so relieved that she was leaving that he nodded agreement. At the door, she reached up and clasped the back of Manfred’s neck and kissed him. Manfred kept his hands by his sides and then placed them on her hips. He could feel the grain of the fine wool of her dress with his fingertips. When they parted, she put the back of her fingers to her lips and widened her eyes. Manfred did not know what to say. Alice said she had better go and Manfred watched her disappear along the corridor.

  Thirteen

  IT WAS THE EVENING OF Céline’s autumn show at the boutique. Gorski had been instructed to be at the shop by seven o’clock when the guests would start arriving. He stopped off at Le Pot on the way. He drank a glass of beer and then ordered a second. A succession of patrons drifted through the bar for a post-work nip, among them the corpulent hairdresser from the Restaurant de la Cloche who had been so venomous about Manfred Baumann. Thankfully he did not spot Gorski at his table in the corner. Gorski dreaded the twice-yearly ritual of Céline’s show, but there was no question of not attending. He was expected to mingle with the guests and display the fine manners Céline had taught him.

  Céline insisted that Gorski kept his wardrobe up to date. On more than one occasion, he had overheard remarks being passed at the station about his ‘dandyish’ outfits. White shirts were banned. These were for clerical workers and waiters, groups even lower in Céline’s elaborate social hierarchy than policemen. ‘Just because you’re only a cop doesn’t mean that you can’t dress properly,’ she liked to tell him. ‘I can’t have the husband of the owner of Céline’s going around looking like a vagrant.’ She often used the phrase ‘only a cop’ and it never failed to rile him as, he assumed, was intended. When called upon to introduce him at one of her gatherings, Céline was in the habit of pulling an apologetic face when informing people of her husband’s profession. Gorski would pretend that he had not seen it, but inside he seethed. A couple of drinks were required to gird himself for the evening. Gorski imagined Céline’s face if she could see him now, sitting in this pleasingly grotty dive with the lowlife of the town. The thought gave him a moment’s grim amusement.

  He arrived at half past seven. Céline was at the back of the shop talking to a woman he did not recognise. She shot him a poisonous look. Gorski smiled at her and waved as if nothing were amiss. Clémence was standing nearby with a tray of champagne. Gorski pulled a face: Am I in trouble? She widened her eyes and nodded: You sure are! There were about thirty people in the shop, bunched in little knots. Gorski made his way over to Clémence. She was wearing a black skirt and pale yellow blouse, as were the two other girls Céline had requisitioned to act as waitresses – or hostesse
s, as she insisted on calling them. She looked nice. To Céline’s chagrin, she generally refused to wear anything other than jeans and T-shirts.

  Gorski took a glass of champagne from her tray.

  ‘How bad is it?’ he asked.

  ‘You are in deep shit,’ said Clémence. ‘Deep, deep shit.’

  Gorski clicked his tongue, then knocked back the champagne and took another glass.

  ‘This is good stuff,’ he said. ‘You tried it?’

  ‘Just one.’

  ‘You’ll need more than that if you’re going to get through tonight,’ he said.

  Clémence laughed, then darted her eyes in the direction of her mother. Céline was making her way over. She smiled her most charming smile, took his glass from him and placed it back on Clémence’s tray. She took him by the elbow and steered him across the room. ‘Try not to embarrass me any more than you already have,’ she stage-whispered.