The Disappearance of Adèle Bedeau

by Graeme Macrae Burnet

  They reached a knot of two couples. The men looked as uncomfortable as Gorski. Céline introduced him: ‘My husband, the great detective.’

  Gorski shook hands. He did not register the names of the guests.

  ‘Nice to meet you,’ he said to each in turn.

  Céline abandoned him to attend to some new arrivals. One of the men seemed quite pleased to have Gorski to talk to. He was in the insurance business. He asked Gorski about the rate of burglaries in the town and went on to explain how this impacted on the premiums charged to clients. Gorski watched Céline go about her duties. She was wearing a flowing green silk suit with wide trousers. The chemise was open almost to her midriff, but owing to her flat chest there was nothing obscene about it. She looked elegant. She greeted each new arrival with a great fuss. She had a habit of laying her hand on the forearm of whoever she was talking to and arching her midriff towards them, before making some witty or saucy remark. People found her charming and flirtatious.

  Gorski had met Céline in this very shop. He was twenty-five and had been a detective for only a few weeks. He had not yet got used to wearing a suit to work. His gendarme’s uniform had bestowed authority. In plainclothes you had to identify yourself. People looked at him with disbelief – he was too fresh-faced to be a detective. He practised taking out his ID in front of the mirror in his tiny bathroom. He held it unfolded at his side, then raised it slowly to shoulder height, before saying, ‘Georges Gorski, Saint-Louis police.’ He did this over and over, but still felt like he was imitating cops in films.

  Ribéry asked him to accompany him to a robbery at a ladies-wear shop on a side street next to the little park in front of the Protestant temple. It was only a few hundred metres from the police station, but Ribéry insisted on driving. He never walked anywhere. The citizenry, he maintained, expected to see a detective pull up in a car. The shop window showed a selection of corsetry and brassieres in beige and cream. Gorski had the impression that the display had not been changed in years. On the pavement Ribéry indicated with an outstretched arm that Gorski should enter first. ‘You take the lead,’ he said. A bell tinkled above the door. The wood of the jamb was splintered where the door had been forced. A woman in her mid-fifties was standing by the glass counter. She was wearing a tweed skirt, cream blouse and sensible brown shoes. Her hair was secured in a bun. The mascara around her eyes was smudged. Gorski fumbled for his ID in the inside pocket of his jacket and held it out.

  ‘Detective Gorski,’ he said, ‘and this is Inspector Ribéry.’

  He looked over his shoulder. Ribéry was carrying out a close inspection of a display of undergarments. Gorski asked a few routine questions. The cash register had simply been lifted from the counter and, as it was Friday, it had contained the entire week’s takings. Nothing else had been stolen. Mme Bettine explained that her assistant had discovered the break-in. Céline appeared from the back shop. She was about twenty, dressed in a dark blue pencil skirt and a white blouse. She was tall and slender with no waist at all and small breasts. She had a tousled mane of chestnut hair. Gorski could see the outline of her brassiere through the sheer material of her blouse. She looked at Gorski with clear green eyes. She appeared perfectly composed.

  ‘I understand you discovered the break-in,’ he said.

  ‘I arrived at about quarter to nine. The door had been pushed in.’ Her tone was matter-of-fact.

  Gorski nodded. ‘Have either of you noticed any suspicious activity in the last few days?’

  The two women looked blankly at him.

  ‘Any suspicious characters loitering outside, a customer behaving oddly perhaps? The fact that the robbery occurred when the till was full suggests that the culprits may have known something about the routine of the shop.’

  ‘You think they might have been watching us?’ said Mme Bettine. She started to snivel into a tissue she was holding. The girl made no attempt to comfort her. Neither of them had seen anything.

  Gorski nodded slowly. He explained that he would send round a fingerprint team that afternoon. In the meantime they should avoid touching any smooth surfaces.

  ‘Is that it?’ said Céline.

  ‘We’ll make enquiries in the neighbourhood. Perhaps someone heard the door being forced.’ He turned to Ribéry, who was fingering a satin nightdress. He might have been a customer looking for a gift for his wife.

  ‘Gypsies,’ he said without looking up. ‘It’ll be gypsies.’

  Gorski ignored his comment.

  ‘I’ll let you know how the investigation progresses,’ he said. ‘In the meantime, can I suggest you take your takings to the bank on a daily basis from now on. Metal shutters also make an effective deterrent.’

  ‘Excellent work,’ said Ribéry on the pavement outside. ‘Most convincing. Not a chance of getting them, of course.’

  Gorski spent the rest of the morning questioning residents in the vicinity of the shop. He could easily have requisitioned a couple of gendarmes to do this legwork for him, but he had not yet become accustomed to wielding his newfound authority over his colleagues, most of whom were older and more experienced than he was and tended to look askance when he asked them to do anything. His quest was as fruitless as Ribéry had anticipated. People looked blankly at him and shook their heads, before pushing their doors closed in his face. The amount stolen hardly merited this expenditure of time, but he could hardly report back to the shop without carrying out a rudimentary investigation. As he exited a building opposite the shop, he spotted Céline on the pavement smoking. She saw him and waved languidly. Gorski waved back, pleased that his efforts had not gone unnoticed. At one o’clock, he gave up and went to the Restaurant de la Cloche, where he knew Ribéry would be lunching. He joined him at his table.

  ‘Any luck?’ the inspector asked through a mouthful of food.

  Gorski shook his head.

  ‘I admire your enthusiasm,’ said Ribéry, ‘but that door would have given way with one decent kick. Nobody would have heard a thing.’

  He poured Gorski a glass of wine from his pichet. Nothing more was said about the break-in. Gorski could think of no other reasonable lines of enquiry. He could ask at local bars whether anyone had been spending more money than usual, but the sum in question was not large enough to raise any eyebrows. In any case, he had already learned that bar owners did not take kindly to being questioned about the activities of their patrons and tended to be tight-lipped. It was not good for business to be seen to be too cosy with the police. Ribéry ordered a second pichet and insisted on pouring Gorski another glass.

  ‘You’ve done more than enough work for today,’ he said, filling his own glass to the brim.

  Gorski returned to the station and wrote up a report of his morning’s activities. The fingerprint team had not found anything usable. There had been plenty of prints on the glass counter, but they all belonged to the owner and her assistant. Before he returned to the shop, Gorski went to his apartment to change. It was a hot day and the light blue shirt he was wearing had large dark circles under the arms. He stripped to the waist and washed his armpits over the sink. Then he put on a clean white shirt and the same dark blue tie he had been wearing earlier.

  It was five o’clock when he returned to the shop. A joiner was on his knees in the doorway, packing away his tools. Gorski had to step over him to get into the shop. Céline was leaning against the counter.

  ‘Hello again,’ she said.

  ‘Where’s Mme Bettine?’ he said.

  ‘I sent her home,’ said Céline. ‘I couldn’t stand her snivelling anymore.’

  Gorski nodded. The girl’s comment struck him as needlessly spiteful.

  ‘I’m afraid there do not appear to be any witnesses.’

  Céline shrugged. ‘The old bag’s insured.’

  Gorski wondered if the girl was striking this attitude in an attempt to impress him, to try to appear older and more worldly than she was. The joiner stood up and indicated that he was done. Céline thanked him
and closed the door behind him. She turned the sign on the door to closed.

  ‘You changed your shirt,’ she said. ‘The other one was better. You can’t wear a white shirt with a dark blue tie. You should only wear a white shirt with a black suit.’

  Gorski was embarrassed that she had noticed he had changed.

  ‘Oh,’ he said, ‘I didn’t know that.’

  ‘That suit’s not up to much either. Maybe I should take you shopping sometime.’

  Gorski could feel himself beginning to blush.

  ‘I was wondering if you might have thought of anything else.’

  The girl smiled at him. She had a wide, attractive mouth. She leaned against the glass counter where the till had been. It was still dusted with fingerprint powder.

  ‘Are you always this diligent?’ she asked.

  Gorski shook his head slowly. ‘Not always,’ he said.

  They were only a matter of feet apart. He couldn’t think of anything else to say. Céline put a finger to her lips. It was still stained with the fingerprinter’s ink. Gorski took a step towards her. She clasped his neck and pulled his mouth towards hers.

  Gorski’s only previous sexual experiences had occurred during the summer he spent labouring on a farm before his final year at school. One afternoon, he was creosoting the doors of an outbuilding. It was very hot and the fumes from the chemicals had made him feel nauseous. The daughter of one of the farmhands appeared at his side. She was an olive-skinned girl of fourteen or fifteen, with dark hair and brown eyes. Her name was Marthe. She might have been watching him for some time, but Gorski had not noticed her. Without saying anything, she pushed open the door Gorski was painting and went inside. Gorski followed. It was cool and dark in the barn. Yellow slats of sunlight stabbed through the gaps in the wooden walls. Marthe pulled up her chemise and placed Gorski’s hands on her large breasts. Gorski squeezed them then lowered his mouth over a brown nipple. Marthe undid his trousers, pushed him to the floor and squatted over him. She ground her groin mechanically against him, gasping melodramatically. Gorski found the experience quite painful. (Later, he learned to spit on his hand to lubricate his member.) He came almost immediately, the smell of creosote in his nostrils. Marthe finished and climbed off him. She fixed her clothing, then asked Gorski if he had a cigarette, which he did not. She shrugged and left the barn.

  Similar encounters occurred regularly for the rest of the summer. Gorski was left with the impression that sex was easy to come by and not the great mystery that people made it out to be. Marthe was matter-of-fact after the act. There was never any need to get dressed afterwards since they never actually removed their clothes. Gorski started to buy cigarettes and sometimes they would lie next to each other for a few minutes and smoke.

  When Gorski returned to school it was with a certain swagger. He felt a great superiority as he listened to his classmates’ comic accounts of their attempts to seduce girls. Around his female classmates, he adopted an off-hand, aloof manner, which did not produce the results he hoped. Towards the end of the year, after drinking a bottle of wine at a house party, he talked a girl into going upstairs with him. She was a tall, Germanic-looking girl called Jeanet Hassemer whom he had admired for months. They found a bedroom. Without preamble Gorski took the girl’s hand and pushed it down the front of his trousers. The girl pushed him away and ran from the room. When he went downstairs a few minutes later, another boy punched him in the face.

  In the years that had passed since his experiences with Marthe, Gorski had not so much as kissed a girl. He found that women became guarded when he told them that he was a policeman and consequently he became awkward in their company.

  Céline undid the buttons of her blouse and unclasped her brassiere. She had prominent dark nipples. She rucked her skirt up around her waist and pushed Gorski’s hand between her legs. Gorski slipped his index and middle fingers inside her and she pressed her groin against the heel of his hand. Gorski bit her neck and massaged her modest breasts. Céline ground her sex against his hand with increasing vigour. Her breathing quickened and then suddenly subsided. Gorski let his fingers slip out of her. Her face was flushed. Gorski was glad nothing more was required of him. He had spent himself almost as soon as he had touched her breasts. He hoped his emission would not seep through his trousers. Céline pulled down her skirt and fastened the buttons of her blouse. Gorski took out a packet of cigarettes and offered one to her.

  ‘We’re not supposed to smoke in here,’ said Céline. ‘Mme Bettine says it make the clothes smell.’ She seemed suddenly much younger. Her hair was disarrayed. They went outside and smoked.

  Gorski knew from the outset that he was out of his depth. Céline’s father, Jean-Marie Keller, was a wealthy businessman and a bigwig on the town council. On their first date Gorski took Céline to what he imagined was the best restaurant in Saint-Louis. He felt uncomfortable in the place, with its starched white tablecloths and elaborate array of cutlery. Céline was twenty minutes late. Gorski tried to affect a nonchalant attitude as he waited, drinking a glass of beer. Only two other tables were occupied and Gorski felt that the waiters were mocking him. He had bought a new dark grey suit for the occasion and, remembering Céline’s dictum about white shirts, had chosen a mustard-coloured one.

  ‘What a funny place,’ said Céline on her arrival. She did not apologise for being late. Her family, she told him, only ever dined out in Strasbourg. A waiter took her coat and she ordered a gin and tonic. When her drink arrived, Gorski ordered one as well. The waiter bowed his head slightly. Céline barely touched her food. Gorski took this as a sign of sophistication, but he could not bring himself to leave anything on his own plate.

  Céline talked a lot about her father. Perhaps, she said, he would be able to help Gorski in his career. She asked how long he planned to stay in the police.

  ‘I’ve only just made detective,’ said Gorski. He could not resist adding that he was the youngest detective ever appointed in Saint-Louis.

  Céline asked what business Gorski’s family was in and he told her that his father was now retired. She talked amusingly about working in Mme Bettine’s shop, impersonating the customers and ridiculing the old-fashioned stock. She was only doing it to gain experience, she said, as she intended to go into business herself one day. After the meal, they stood awkwardly outside on the pavement.

  ‘Mummy’s picking me up at ten,’ she said.

  Gorski was taken aback. Being picked up by her mother did not square with the precocious girl he had encountered in Mme Bettine’s shop. He wondered how old Céline actually was. They had fifteen minutes to kill. They walked slowly towards the park outside the shop where she had arranged to be collected. They sat down on the low wall.

  ‘Don’t you want to kiss me?’ Céline said.

  ‘What if your mother sees us?’

  Céline laughed. ‘She won’t mind.’

  They kissed, but mechanically, and Gorski broke it off. Céline smiled at him.

  ‘Next time, we should go out in Strasbourg,’ she said.

  Gorski felt elated that there was going to be a next time. Céline’s mother pulled up in a bottle green Mercedes. She waved cheerfully at the couple. Gorski stood up and returned her greeting, feeling rather foolish. Céline gave him a peck on the cheek and told him to call her.

  Gorski telephoned the shop a few days later. He asked Céline if she would like to get together again. They could go to Strasbourg, if she liked. Céline laughed and said she had only been joking. She said she was free on Sunday afternoon. Gorski agreed to pick her up at two o’clock. In the meantime, he took to walking past Mme Bettine’s shop at every opportunity, hoping to catch a glimpse of Céline smoking on the pavement outside.

  That Sunday, Gorski pulled up outside the Keller house in his battered Fiat. There was a long gravel drive and two Mercedes were parked outside. To the side of the house was a series of outbuildings. Gorski got out and rang the doorbell. Céline’s mother opened the door. She was wearing
jeans and a sweatshirt. Her hands were dirty from gardening.

  ‘You must be Georges,’ she said. ‘We’ve heard a lot about you. Céline tells us you’re soon to be head of Saint-Louis police.’

  Gorski laughed. ‘I’m just starting out,’ he said.

  ‘And modest as well,’ said Mme Keller. Gorski was surprised that Céline had been boasting about him to her parents. She called up the stairs to Céline and they stood waiting in silence for a few minutes. Céline came down the stairs in a summer dress with large buttons up the front, fastened at the waist with a thin brown leather belt. Gorski immediately thought how easy it would be to access. Mme Keller asked what they were up to.

  ‘I thought we might go to the Camargue. For a walk,’ said Gorski. The Petite Camargue was a small nature reserve some kilometres north of the town.

  ‘How lovely,’ said Mme Keller cheerfully. ‘Watch out for snakes.’ She gave a mock shiver.

  They got into the car and drove off. Gorski had brought a rug and put a bottle of wine and two glasses wrapped in newspaper in a canvas knapsack. They walked for half an hour before finding a spot overlooking the lake. Gorski laid out the rug. The sun filtered through the foliage above them and made dappled patterns on their skin. Céline was quiet. Gorski poured two glasses of wine. He downed his first glass too quickly and poured himself another. Céline put hers on the ground next to the rug. It spilled and the wine soaked into the earth. She lay back and closed her eyes. Gorski was lying on his side next to her, leaning on his elbow. He put his hand on her bare leg and moved it under her dress. Céline did not protest. Then he undid the buttons at the top of her dress. She was not wearing a brassiere. Lying on her back, her breasts completely disappeared. Her clavicles protruded through her skin, as thin as wishbones. Gorski kissed her and stroked her breasts. Céline parted her legs a little. Gorski unfastened his trousers and climbed onto her. He got inside her and managed to sustain two or three minutes of thrusting before he ejaculated. Céline clutched the back of his neck. Afterwards he took off his shirt and lay on his back next to her. The sun was warm on his skin. He could hear the rustling of the leaves in the breeze and the lapping of the water of the lake. Céline lay with her dress open and rumpled around her waist. Gorski could not help smiling to himself as he thought of his animalistic fumblings with Marthe, with her rolls of puppy fat, great flopping breasts and peasant smell. Céline could not have been more cool and elegant. Even her body, like that of a skinny boy, seemed a study in good taste and restraint.