‘You recall, of course,’ he continued, ‘that before her disappearance, Adèle Bedeau was seen in the company of a young man.’
Manfred nodded.
‘This young man – an Alex Ackermann – has now come forward. He came to see me because he was rightly concerned that he was a suspect in the disappearance of the girl. He seemed sincere in his desire to provide information and, without burdening you with details, initial enquiries appear to bear out his story. There are, however, a couple of points which require clarification.’
He paused. Manfred’s mouth was dry. Gorski’s pedantic manner irritated him. Why didn’t he just come out with whatever it was he had up his sleeve? It was too late now to admit that he had seen the young man. It would appear that he was only doing so because he had been cornered. And in any case, who was to say that Gorski would believe what he had to say? Had he not already proved himself to be a liar. Now anything he said would be treated with scepticism.
Gorski resumed his seat.
‘According to Ackermann, on the Wednesday night when he met Adèle, she was in the company of another man. He described the man as being in his late thirties, about one-eighty, with short dark hair, wearing a dark suit and tie and a light raincoat.’ Gorski widened his eyes and held out the palms of his hands. ‘So you can see why I am confused.’
‘That description could fit any number of people.’
Gorski tipped his head as if to concede the point. ‘What were you wearing that night?’
Manfred did not answer. He was surprised at the number of thoughts that could flash through his mind in a short space of time. He could affect surprise: Yes, of course, I remember now! I did walk a little way with Adèle that night. How stupid of me to have forgotten! But Gorski would never fall for such a ploy. Perhaps, it was time for outrage. He was an upstanding member of the community, a professional person with not a blemish on his record, he had had enough of Gorski’s insinuations. But Manfred lacked the decisiveness for either course. Instead he just sat there, awaiting the inevitable.
‘I simply want you to admit that you saw the girl on the night in question, so that we can move on,’ said Gorski.
‘He must be lying,’ Manfred said.
Gorski shook his head slowly. ‘It would be something of a coincidence, I think you’d agree, if he invented this figure who just happened to match your description. In any case, having come forward of his own volition, why would he lie?’
‘Perhaps he wanted to throw suspicion on someone else.’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Gorski, as if he and Manfred were all of a sudden engaged in mutually trying to solve a puzzle. ‘But it’s an interesting question nevertheless: why would he lie? You’d agree, I imagine, that if a person lies they must have some reason for doing so.’
He let this last comment hang in the air for a few moments.
Manfred stared at the table. It had a chipped formica top and a metal rim. Previous visitors had scratched their names on the surface. It seemed a curious place, Manfred thought, to advertise one’s presence. Gorski sighed, leaned forward over the table.
‘After this mysterious figure walked off – in the direction of your apartment, I might add – Ackermann asked Adèle who he was. She replied that he was a customer from the restaurant and that he “gave her the creeps”.’
Manfred felt like he had been kicked in the stomach. He gave her the creeps. The phrase made him nauseous. Why would Adèle say such a thing? Their relations had always been polite, cordial even. He had never treated her with anything other than courtesy. If anything, he had gone out of his way to be pleasant in order that she would understand that he did not look down upon her as a mere waitress. On top of that, on the night in question, they had passed a few pleasant moments together and she had called him by his first name. And yet she had told this young upstart that he gave her the creeps. It did not make sense. Perhaps she had said this because in fact she felt some attraction to Manfred and had not wished to arouse the jealousy of her boyfriend. Perhaps he was the hot-headed type and would have made a scene. This tallied with the fact that when they had said goodnight, she had addressed him as monsieur, clearly in an attempt to cast their relationship in a more formal light.
Gorski had paused and was looking at Manfred, but his words had washed over him. He had obviously asked a question.
‘I’m sorry?’ said Manfred. He could hardly explain how offensive Adèle’s words were since he had previously claimed that he had no feelings one way or the other about her. If this were the case, why would he be so concerned with what she thought of him? Or perhaps Gorski had reached the same conclusion about the hurtful words Adèle had used – that there was more to their relationship than either of them wished to admit, something which would be quite understandable given the difference in their ages and standing in the community.
Gorski shook his head. ‘Manfred, I’ve given you every opportunity to put your version of events right. All I want to do is piece together Mlle Bedeau’s movements before she disappeared. By your own admission, on the night in question, you left the Restaurant de la Cloche shortly after the girl. You walked in the same direction, yet you claim to have seen neither Adèle nor this young man. And now Ackermann, who has never seen you before, describes a man precisely answering your description. You must recognise that I can hardly do anything other than conclude that you’re hiding something from me.’
Was it, even now, too late to revise his story?
‘I understand,’ said Manfred.
‘So you maintain that you saw neither Adèle Bedeau nor Alex Ackermann that night?’
Manfred nodded sadly.
Gorski stood up and walked towards the door. Manfred took this to mean the ordeal was over, but he merely shouted along the corridor for two cups of coffee. He sat down again, and the two men waited in silence for the coffee to arrive. Manfred stared at the names on the tabletop. Perhaps like him, these previous occupants of this room felt that they were disappearing into the netherworld of the penal system. The impulse to write a tabletop epitaph to oneself seemed suddenly less strange.
The cop with the drooping moustache brought the coffee in two plastic cups and wordlessly placed some sachets of sugar on the table. Gorski tore three open and emptied them into his cup. Manfred found it incongruous that the detective would load his coffee with so much sugar. He took a sip before resuming, leaning across the table, his face close to Manfred’s.
‘The following night, the night of Adèle’s disappearance,’ Gorski was speaking rapidly now, ‘Ackermann saw the same man pass the park at the Protestant temple, then wait in the shrubbery at the edge of the park until Adèle arrived. When they rode off on his scooter, the man ducked into a doorway, clearly in order to conceal himself.’
Manfred felt his throat tighten. He should say something. What would someone falsely accused say?
‘He must be mistaken.’
‘Mistaken?’ said Gorski. He shook his head slowly.
Manfred did his best to maintain eye contact with Gorski. Then he looked at the table. There was a wasp on the lip of his coffee cup, moving sluggishly as they always did at this time of year. Gorski pushed down on the table, his fingertips evenly spread. He had small delicate hands. The wasp dropped to the table and struggled to right itself. Gorski scraped his chair back, stood up and leant on the wall to Manfred’s right. He adopted a more conversational tone, as if they were two friends passing the time of day over a drink in a bar. That night, he informed Manfred, Adèle and Ackermann had visited what could only be described as a shebeen, where they had drunk a large quantity of alcohol and smoked joints.
‘Afterwards they went to a house party in a basement on Rue de la Gare,’ he went on. ‘To cut a long story short, they had an argument and Ackermann left. That, he claims, was the last he saw of Mlle Bedeau. From what I can gather, she later left the party alone and in a state of some intoxication.’
Manfred lowered his eyes. He took a sip fr
om the plastic cup in front of him. It tasted foul. The wasp was slowly making its way around the metal rim of the table. He was relieved that the interview had at least moved on from his own actions that night. Gorski appeared to be waiting for him to respond, but he said nothing. What could he expect him to say about Adèle’s actions on the night in question?
‘Surely you can see why I’m telling you this,’ said Gorski.
‘I’m sorry, I can’t,’ Manfred replied.
‘Rue de la Gare is not three hundred metres from your apartment.’
‘And?’
‘You say you went home directly that night.’
‘Yes.’
‘What did you do?’
Manfred thought for a few moments. ‘I read for a while, drank a whisky or two and went to bed.’
‘Watch any television?’
‘I don’t own a television.’
‘Make any telephone calls?’
‘No.’
‘Anyone call you?’
‘No’
‘Did you speak to anyone in the building?’
‘No.’
‘So, really you could have been anywhere.’
‘I was at home.’
‘But you couldn’t prove that.’
Manfred shrugged.
Gorski drained the remains of his coffee, placed the cup carefully back on the table.
‘Have you ever harboured any thoughts about Adèle Bedeau?’ he asked.
‘What sort of thoughts?’
Gorski fixed him with his gaze. ‘You know what sort of thoughts, carnal thoughts.’
Manfred could hardly tell Gorski that he spent his evenings surreptitiously spying on her and often went home and masturbated thinking about her heavy breasts and wide behind.
‘Certainly not,’ he said, ‘I have nothing but respect for Mlle Bedeau.’
‘So you think it would be disrespectful to have sexual thoughts about a woman?’
Manfred felt besieged. ‘I don’t think about Adèle Bedeau that way.’
‘Are you a homosexual?’
‘No,’ said Manfred.
‘Some people seem to think you are.’
This came as no surprise to Manfred. He had heard whispers to this effect in the bank. Lemerre often liked to taunt him with such insinuations. He could all too clearly imagine the hairdresser gleefully telling Gorski that he was that way inclined.
‘I’m not queer,’ he said.
‘A pity that,’ said Gorski, ‘since it’s unlikely that a homosexual would be involved in crime like this.’
‘A crime like what?’ said Manfred. He raised his voice slightly. Gorski ignored his question.
‘What about women?’ he went on. ‘Do you have a lover?’
Manfred thought of Alice. He felt suddenly that he would never see her again.
‘No,’ he said.
‘But a man of your age has needs.’
‘I take care of those,’ said Manfred. He had started to grind his back teeth.
‘In what manner?’ Gorski’s tone was affable, curious, as if he was enquiring about an innocuous hobby.
Manfred clamped his jaw firmly shut. He wanted to cry out for Gorski to stop. He could not bear this relentless delving into his business. His fingernails whitened as he gripped the table.
‘Has Adèle Bedeau ever been in your apartment?’
The suggestion came so out of the blue that Manfred exhaled sharply. He attempted to pass off his response as laughter.
‘I’m glad you find this amusing, Manfred,’ Gorski went on. ‘The last time this girl was seen alive was in the vicinity of your apartment. You have consistently lied about seeing Mlle Bedeau on the two nights in question, leading me to conclude that there is something in your relationship with her that you wish to conceal.’
‘I have no relationship with Mlle Bedeau.’
‘Then why lie about it?’
Manfred said nothing.
‘Did Adèle Bedeau visit your apartment in the early hours of Friday morning?’
‘No,’ said Manfred. ‘She has never been in my apartment. She doesn’t even know where I live.’
‘Very well,’ said Gorski. He shook his head slowly, as if Manfred had disappointed him. Then he pushed himself off the wall he had been leaning against and left the room. Manfred exhaled. His heart was pounding. Slowly his breathing subsided. He wiped the sweat from his forehead with his handkerchief. Things were getting out of hand. He felt nauseous.
The officer from the reception desk appeared and asked Manfred to follow him. They walked back along the corridor leading to the reception area. The policeman pressed a buzzer and held the door open for Manfred.
‘Am I to wait?’ Manfred asked.
The policeman shook his head. ‘You’re free to go.’
Manfred stood bemused in the reception area for a few moments. Plainly Gorski was toying with him. He hesitated before exiting. Nobody intervened. He came to a halt on the pavement at the foot of the steps. His hands were shaking. The late afternoon air was still hot. He felt conspicuous in front of the police station, but the few passers-by paid no attention to him. Why should they? There was nothing out of the ordinary about him. He was just a man wiping his brow on a warm day. He stepped to the side of the pavement to allow a woman in North African dress and her three children to pass.
Fifteen
MANFRED LOOKED AT HIS WATCH. It was quarter past four. The bank would still be open. He should go back to work to put a stop to any gossip. He could say that he had been called in to identify a witness or something of that sort. He could even make light of the experience. That was what an innocent man would do – go back to work as if nothing untoward had occurred. Or perhaps an innocent man would be so shaken by the experience of being hauled into a police station that he would duck into the nearest bar and down a good measure of alcohol to calm his nerves. Manfred set off along the street in the opposite direction from the bank.
It struck him that Gorski must surely be having him watched. Having come close to accusing him, as he just had, of having something to do with Adèle’s disappearance, he would hardly let him walk free from the station without placing him under surveillance. Manfred stopped abruptly and looked around. Nobody ducked into a doorway or appeared to suddenly avert their gaze. There were no men in dark glasses leaning against lampposts reading newspapers. Of course, these were stereotypes. It could be anyone – the woman across the road scolding her son, the teenager loitering at the kiosk, the man looking out from inside the door of the travel agent’s waiting for customers. More likely, it would not be any single individual, but a whole team. Perhaps Gorski had already asked those who knew him to keep an eye on him and report back if he behaved strangely. He must act naturally. All along, his mistake had been not to act naturally. He kept walking. He must behave exactly as he would if he were not being watched. It should not be too difficult. Did he not, after all, already live his life as if he was constantly being watched, as if he expected at any moment to be challenged to explain his actions or to answer charges unknown? Did he not fully expect everyone around him to be called at any time to give evidence against him?
He passed a side street and then, as if on the spur of the moment, double-backed and turned into it. It was a quite ordinary road with houses that opened directly on to the pavement. An old woman in a headscarf with an overweight lapdog on a leash approached on the opposite side, but otherwise the street appeared to be deserted. Manfred looked over his shoulder. Nobody was following him. In the next street was a seedy-looking bar that he occasionally passed. He had never been inside, but it had always held a certain attraction for him. He turned the corner and entered the place, as he had secretly known he would since he left the police station. It was dark and cool inside. There was a smell of indeterminate meat and dark tobacco. The walls, ceiling and even the light in the place were the colour of mustard. Behind the counter hung the drinks tariff and a calendar with pictures of half-naked women. Nobody s
o much as glanced in Manfred’s direction. He quickly surveyed the room before taking a table next to the wall. The proprietor appeared, wiping his hands on his apron.
‘Monsieur?’ His manner was neither friendly nor unfriendly.
Manfred ordered a glass of red wine and then, as the proprietor turned away, changed his order to a carafe.
‘A carafe, it is,’ the man said.
The carafe and tumbler arrived without ceremony. Manfred filled the glass to the brim and downed it. The wine was cheap and had a metallic tang, but it was like having a cool compress placed on his brow. Manfred refilled his glass and took another long swallow. He closed his eyes for a few moments, letting the alcohol take its soothing effect. Then he rolled his head back on his shoulders. His hands were still shaking slightly.
Three men in workman’s overalls were standing at the counter, arguing about immigration. The proprietor dropped the odd comment into the conversation as he went about his business. At another table a single man in a slightly shabby suit was reading a newspaper and drinking a white wine. He suddenly raised his eyes and caught Manfred looking at him. He nodded a short greeting and returned his attention to the paper. He did not appear to recognise Manfred, nodding merely as one afternoon drinker to another. Manfred felt a sudden sense of liberation. Here he was nobody. If he got up and left, no one would even notice, far less comment. He meant nothing at all to anyone in the bar.
Manfred imagined throwing it all in with the Restaurant de la Cloche. He could come here to Le Pot instead. Of course, within a very short time the proprietor would learn his name and start to greet him with the words ‘The usual?’ or perhaps even set out his carafe as soon as he stepped through the door. The men who stood at the counter would quickly come to regard Manfred as too good for them, on account of his choosing to sit at a table – the same table every day – rather than drink at the bar. Before long they would have come up with a nickname that they would use behind his back. No, this anonymity was inevitably short-lived. The only way to preserve it would be to constantly drift from bar to bar, but Saint-Louis was not large enough to sustain such a practice for long. Soon he would lapse into some sort of routine, of visiting certain bars on certain nights. What Manfred needed was to get out of Saint-Louis for good, to head to a city like Strasbourg or Paris where one could drink every night in a different bar for the rest of one’s life. The idea was intoxicating. And yet there was no question of actually upping sticks and doing such a thing, at least not while this business with Adèle was hanging over him. It would look as if he was absconding.
The Disappearance of Adèle Bedeau Page 15
