The Blue Room

by Georges Simenon

  Undaunted by the stubborn silence of these country people, Inspector Mani had kept returning to the attack for however long it would take.

  ‘Shall I read you the testimony of the postmaster regarding that last letter?’

  ‘There’s no need.’

  ‘You mean that he lied, that he imagined the incident of the door left wide open?’

  ‘I don’t mean anything.’

  ‘One of the farmers you were supposed to meet that morning telephoned your house to see if you’d been delayed or were not coming. Your wife told him that you were on your way. Is that correct?’

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘Where did you go?’

  ‘I don’t recall.’

  ‘In general, you have a remarkable memory. At the Auberge des Quatre Vents, you drank, not wine or beer, but brandy. You rarely drink spirits. You had four brandies in quick succession, then looked at the clock behind the counter and appeared surprised that it was already noon …’

  He had driven very fast, hoping to get home before lunchtime. Gisèle had realized he had been drinking, and for a moment he resented her for it. Just because he had married her, did that give her the right to spend her time watching him? He had had enough of being spied on! She wasn’t saying anything, true, but that was worse than if she had scolded him.

  He was free! A free man! And whether his wife liked it or not, he was the head of the family. He was the one who earned their living, slaving away to bring them up in the world. Everything depended on him!

  She kept quiet and, at the other end of the table, so did he, glancing at her furtively now and then, a little abashed, for he knew deep down that he was wrong. He should not have had those drinks.

  ‘You know, it isn’t my fault. With the customers, it’s rude to refuse.’

  ‘That reminds me, Brambois called.’

  Why did people force him to lie? It was humiliating, and he bitterly resented it.

  ‘I didn’t have time to go to his farm because I was delayed somewhere else.’

  Now you! Now you! Now you!

  She was right there in front of him, eating he didn’t even know what, doing her best not to look at him because she could tell he was annoyed.

  What did Andrée want of him? That he kill her?

  There! He had done it. He was finally daring to confront the thoughts that had been seething in his mind. Hadn’t Professor Bigot, by drilling ever deeper with his careful questions, helped him to reach this point?

  He hadn’t told him everything, of course. Against all evidence, he still denied knowing anything about the letters.

  The fact remained: on that day, the day of the last message and the four brandies (a local 65 proof marc that burned its way down), he had asked himself that question while having lunch with his wife.

  Was this what Andrée was demanding of him? That he kill his wife?

  Abruptly, his inebriation turned maudlin: he was to blame. He felt impelled to ask for forgiveness. He reached across the table to take his wife’s hand.

  ‘Listen! Don’t be angry at me. I’m a little drunk.’

  ‘You’ll have a rest after lunch.’

  ‘It upsets you, doesn’t it?’

  ‘No, really …’

  ‘I know it does. I am not behaving the way I should.’

  He had the feeling he was going out on a limb.

  ‘Are you angry at me, Gisèle?’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘You do worry about me, admit it.’

  ‘I like it better when you’re happy …’

  ‘And you think I’m not? Is that it? Don’t I have everything? I have the best wife ever, a daughter just like her whom I adore, a beautiful house, a thriving business. So why wouldn’t I be happy? All right! I do worry about some things at times. When you’re born in a shack without electricity or running water out in La Boisselle, it isn’t all that easy to set up on your own. Think how far we’ve come since I met you in Poitiers. I was only a common working man then …’

  He talked, talked, growing more and more wound up.

  ‘I’m the happiest man in the world, Gisèle, and if anyone claims otherwise, you can tell him from me he’s lying. The happiest of men, you hear me?’

  He was weeping now, choking back a sob as he dashed upstairs to lock himself in the bathroom.

  Gisèle never said a word to him about this.

  ‘Forgive me for asking you this question yet again, Monsieur Falcone. It will be the last time. Did you receive those letters?’

  Tony shook his head as if to say that all he could do was say no. Diem expected this and turned to his clerk.

  ‘Please bring in Madame Despierre.’

  If Tony flinched, it was barely visible. In any case, he did not show the emotional reaction the magistrate expected – because for everyone in Saint-Justin, ‘Madame Despierre’ meant Nicolas’ mother, not his wife, whom no one would ever have called by that name. Andrée was the daughter-in-law or, for the older villagers, the Formier girl.

  He was wondering how the old woman could ever shed any light on the letters. He didn’t relish the idea of having to face her, but that was all. He had stood up automatically and was waiting, half turned towards the door.

  And when that door opened abruptly, he was staring at Andrée. A corpulent man with the air of a bon vivant followed her in, as well as one of the gendarmes, but Tony saw only her, only her white face, which seemed even paler against her black dress.

  She was staring at him as well, serenely, her features softened by a faint smile, and one might have thought that she was calmly taking possession of him, engulfing him.

  ‘Hello, Tony.’

  That throaty voice of hers, a touch hoarse, enveloping him. He did not return her greeting. He could not have spoken and did not want to. He nodded brusquely to her and turned towards Diem as if seeking his protection.

  ‘Remove her handcuffs.’

  Still smiling, she held her wrists out to the gendarme, and he heard the double click he knew so well.

  In Saint-Justin, he had not noticed, the few times he had seen her since her husband’s death, that she was in mourning. Her face had grown plumper in prison, and her body as well, just enough to make her clothes fit more tightly. It was the first time he had ever seen her wear black stockings.

  After the gendarme left, there was an instant of uncertainty. They all stood there in the tiny office, with the sun shining directly in. The clerk was the first to sit down again, in front of his papers at the end of the table, while the fat man with Andrée remarked, surprised, ‘My colleague Demarié isn’t here?’

  ‘Monsieur Falcone does not wish him to be – unless he changes his mind, for this particular confrontation. In which case I should not have to look far, as he has informed me that he will be in the building until six o’clock. What shall it be, Monsieur Falcone?’

  The question startled him.

  ‘Do you wish me to summon your lawyer?’

  ‘What for?’

  Diem and Maître Capade then walked to the window to have a quiet discussion of some legal matters. Still standing, Tony and Andrée were hardly an arm’s length apart; he might almost have touched her. She was still gazing at him with the dazzled eyes of a child given an unexpected toy.

  ‘Tony …’

  It was barely a murmur; her lips moved simply to form his name. As for him, he looked away from her, relieved when the conversation at the window ended and the magistrate drew up a chair for the young woman.

  ‘Sit down. You, too, Monsieur Falcone. There is another chair, Maître.’

  With everyone seated, Diem rummaged through his files to pull out a small diary bound in black oilcloth, the kind sold in the grocery store.

  ‘Do you recognize this object, Madame Despierre?’

  ‘I have already told you, yes.’

  ‘That you have. I am obliged to ask you a certain number of questions that I have already put to you and I remind you that your replies are a ma
tter of record, which does not prevent you from reconsidering or correcting them.’

  Perhaps because of the lawyer’s presence, the magistrate’s manner seemed more formal than it was with Tony, almost pompous.

  ‘The notations here have mostly to do with shopping lists, appointments with the dentist or dressmaker,’ he said softly, skimming through the book. ‘This is last year’s diary, and the dates of your meetings with Tony Falcone are underlined.’

  He had no idea that this diary would play a decisive role in his fate, or that – had he known of its contents earlier – he might have escaped at least one of the accusations against him.

  ‘The last time we spoke, I asked you the meaning of these little circles I see in every month.’

  ‘I told you that they marked the dates of my periods.’

  She spoke without any false modesty. A few weeks earlier, Tony, too, had been asked equally intimate questions.

  ‘Everyone in Saint-Justin,’ Diem had told him, ‘thought Nicolas was sterile, if not impotent, and the fact is that after eight years of marriage, his wife has had no children. Dr Riquet, moreover, has confirmed that he was probably sterile. Did you know this?’

  ‘I had heard it said.’

  ‘Fine! Now remember the extremely detailed account you gave me of your meeting on 2 August in what you call the blue room of the Hôtel des Voyageurs, from which we may conclude that during your amorous encounters with your mistress you took no precautions to avoid pregnancy.’

  When he did not reply, the magistrate continued.

  ‘Did you behave the same way during your other extra-marital affairs?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Do you recall a certain Jeanne, who is a farm worker employed by one of your customers? Inspector Mani questioned her, promising that her name would not appear in the case file or be introduced in a public hearing. You had sexual relations with her three times. The first time, during the act, when she seemed frightened, you whispered in her ear, “Don’t be scared, I’ll pull out in time.”

  ‘From this I deduce that this was your habit in such situations. If you deny this, I will have other persons with whom you have had relations identified and questioned.’

  ‘I do not deny it.’

  ‘In that case, tell me why, with Andrée Despierre and with her alone, you never took even any basic precautions.’

  ‘She’s the one who …’

  ‘Did she bring up the subject?’

  No. But the first time, she had held him close when he had tried to withdraw. Surprised, he had almost asked her, ‘Aren’t you afraid?’

  There at the roadside near Bois de Sarelle, he had concluded that she would take the necessary steps when she got home. Later, at the Hôtel des Voyageurs, he had realized she was doing nothing of the sort.

  If he hadn’t immediately grasped the connection between the magistrate’s question and the accusation brought against him, he soon would.

  ‘Is that not the way you would both have behaved if you had decided to live together, no matter what happened? To be unconcerned about Andrée’s possible pregnancy, Monsieur Falcone, means that such an eventuality would have changed nothing, except perhaps to force you to accelerate your plans, isn’t that so?’

  He had left that session utterly demoralized, wondering if the magistrate had ever in his life had a mistress.

  Today, however, Diem did not seem inclined to revisit the point.

  ‘I see here, on 1 September, a cross followed by the number 1. Would you tell us what that means?’

  Still completely at ease, she looked at the magistrate, then at Tony, smiling at him in encouragement.

  ‘It’s the date of my first letter.’

  ‘Be more precise, would you? To whom did you write that day?’

  ‘To Tony, naturally.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘When my husband took the train to Triant, on 2 August, I realized that he was suspicious and I didn’t dare return to Vincent’s hotel.’

  ‘So you were no longer using the agreed-upon signal?’

  ‘That’s right. Tony had been quite shaken when he saw Nicolas on Place de la Gare. I didn’t want him to keep fretting because he thought some drama might be taking place.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘He might have thought there had been violent scenes between me and my husband, that Nicolas had told his mother and that they were making life difficult for me, or who knows what, when in reality I had managed to come up with a plausible explanation for my presence at the hotel.’

  ‘Do you remember what you wrote?’

  ‘Perfectly. “Everything is fine.” I added, “Don’t be afraid.”’

  Diem turned towards him.

  ‘Do you still deny this, Monsieur Falcone?’

  Andrée turned to him in perplexity.

  ‘Why would you deny it? Didn’t you get my letters?’

  He was baffled, even wondered if she might actually be unaware of her situation and not suspect the trap into which they were leading her.

  ‘Let’s continue. Perhaps you will soon change your mind. Second cross, 25 September this time. What did the second letter say?’

  She did not need to search her memory. She knew the letters by heart, the way he knew everything that had been said in the blue room on that afternoon of 2 August.

  ‘It was simply a greeting. “I haven’t forgotten. I love you.”’

  ‘Let me point out that, according to your own recollection, you did not write “I haven’t forgotten you” …’

  ‘No. I hadn’t forgotten.’

  ‘What hadn’t you forgotten?’

  ‘Everything. Our love. Our promises.’

  ‘The 10th of October was three weeks before your husband’s death. During an earlier interview, you provided the text of this third letter: “Soon! I love you.” What did you mean by “soon”?’

  Still imperturbable, she replied, first darting a reassuring glance at Tony.

  ‘That we would soon be able to renew our rendezvous.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I had succeeded in allaying all Nicolas’ suspicions.’

  ‘Wasn’t it rather that you knew he would not live much longer?’

  ‘I have already explained this to you twice. He was very ill, and might well have lingered on for a few years – or suddenly passed away, and his mother and I had just been reminded of that by Dr Riquet, a few days earlier.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘When he had had one of his fits. They were becoming more frequent, and he was having increasing trouble with his digestion.’

  Tony listened in disbelief. At moments he found himself thinking that Diem, Andrée and her lawyer, nodding his head in approval, had banded together to put on this show for him. The questions flooding his mind should have been asked by the magistrate – who was taking pains to avoid them!

  ‘We now come to 29 December. The New Year is around the corner. A small cross in your diary.’

  She immediately provided the text of her message.

  ‘“Happy Our Year.”’

  With a touch of pride, she added, ‘I spent a long time coming up with that. It might not be good French, but I wanted to emphasize that this year would be ours.’

  ‘What did you mean by that?’

  ‘Have you forgotten that Nicolas was dead?’

  She was the first to mention this, placidly, with that same unnerving composure.

  ‘You mean that you were free?’

  ‘Obviously.’

  ‘And in that case, there was no longer anything to prevent the coming year from being yours, meaning yours and Tony’s?’

  She nodded, more coolly self-satisfied than ever. Once again, instead of challenging her assertions, Diem let them stand and picked up another diary, similar to the first.

  Only now did Tony realize that he was not the only one to have spent long hours in this room over the past two months. His lawyer had, of course, informed him of
the arrest of Andrée, ten or twelve days after his own. She had been interrogated, obviously, but he hadn’t really thought about what that meant. He had never imagined that her testimony could have as much weight, if not more, than his own.

  ‘There is one letter left, Madame Despierre, the shortest but most significant one, consisting of only two words.’

  Andrée crowed defiantly, ‘“Now you!”’

  ‘Would you explain to us, as clearly as possible, what you meant by that?’

  ‘Isn’t it plain enough? As you said yourself, I was free. Once I was out of mourning …’

  ‘Just a moment! Was it because you were in mourning that you did not resume your meetings at the hotel after your husband’s death?’

  ‘That was part of it, but also because I was in litigation with my mother-in-law, and if this had led to a lawsuit, our liaison might have been damaging to me.’

  ‘So you did not set the towel in the window after All Saints’ Day?’

  ‘Once.’

  ‘Did you see your lover?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you go up to the room?’

  ‘I undressed as usual,’ she announced boldly, ‘convinced that he would come.’

  ‘Was there anything you needed to talk over with him?’

  ‘If there had been, I wouldn’t have waited there naked.’

  ‘Did you not have any matters to discuss with him?’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Among other things, how he was going to get himself free.’

  ‘That had been decided long before.’

  ‘On 2 August?’

  ‘That wasn’t the first time.’

  ‘You’d agreed that he would get a divorce?’

  ‘I’m not sure that exact word was used, but that’s what I understood.’

  ‘Do you hear that, Falcone?’

  Turning to him, she opened her eyes wide.

  ‘You haven’t told them?’

  Then she turned back to the magistrate.

  ‘I don’t see what’s so extraordinary about this. People get divorced every day. We love each other. I loved him already when I was just a little girl and if I resigned myself to marrying Nicolas, it was because Tony had gone away, and I was convinced he would never return.

  ‘When we found each other again, we both realized that we belonged to one another for ever.’