Bird in a Cage

by Frédéric Dard

  Mme Dravet retreated to the hall.

  “Your eyes are fresher than mine, so tell me, do you think Ferrie would have the slightest suspicion if he came up here?”

  I closed my eyes for a moment to clear my vision, and then opened them on the new décor.

  “No, he could not possibly. The copycat effect doesn’t come from the shape of the lounge, but from the tree, the trolley, the gramophone. Mme Dravet, I sincerely believe you have pulled off the perfect crime. Even if the police discover it wasn’t suicide but murder, they will never be able to pin it on you.”

  She still had the plastic slipcase in her hand and was fanning her cheek with it.

  “What are we going to do with this?”

  “Give it to me, I’ll go and lose it in the church.”

  “You think that’s safe?”

  “Of course it is. It’s the kind of thing people always hand in to the police, whether they’re honest folk or not. Someone will be eager to get a reputation for being a good citizen by turning it in.”

  I stuffed it into my pocket. I now had two difficult tasks ahead of me. One, to take my leave of Mme Dravet; two, to get out of the building without being seen by a policeman who could be out there keeping watch.

  “Are there any other ways out of the bindery?”

  “There’s a door from the office to the street.”

  “Do you think the police know about that exit?”

  She shrugged her shoulders.

  “If the police have the building under surveillance, they are bound to be aware of all the access points.”

  I was at a loss. If they were on the lookout, then I would wreck the whole plan by going out.

  On the other hand, I couldn’t stay at J. Dravet & Co. forever more!

  After a moment’s thought, my companion mumbled:

  “But there is a third exit.”

  “Where is it?”

  “It’s a kind of chute that’s used for rolls of paper. Yes, that’s the solution. The police can’t know about it. It comes out in a wide cul-de-sac where lorries can back in so as not to obstruct traffic. Come on…”

  I took a last look around. Some people, when they wake up, are sorry to leave their dreams behind, even if they’ve been nightmares. I was in the same boat.

  We went down the staircase this time. On the first-floor landing I paused for a moment, as if to say farewell to the little girl asleep in the flat.

  We went into the bindery, a bright, well-lit place littered with scraps of paper. It had a wholesome smell of labour and, despite my weariness, I felt a great will to work surge up in me. I would look for a job first thing in the morning.

  “You see, here it is.”

  The chute door consisted of twin cast-iron shutters, with a huge bolt to close them by. It was at the top of a cement slipway. I pushed one of the panels. It was quite wide enough for me to get through.

  “Well, there we are,” she murmured as she took my arm. “This is the parting of our ways. In the circumstances, I don’t think it would be quite appropriate to say ‘thank you’.”

  “There’s no right word. What happened was in another place with other rules.”

  We looked at each other with sweet sadness that hurt but also comforted us both.

  “I don’t know if we’ll ever see each other again,” she said, closing her eyelids.

  “I hope we do, with all my soul, as you know.”

  “I think we have to let some time go by…”

  “So do I. You know where I live and I know where you live. There’s no reason we shouldn’t meet again one day.”

  I left the factory without another word, and pulled the trapdoor shut behind me. It made a very fulsome and vibrant sound as it closed. I heard the screech of the great bolt, and the vast sadness that came upon me at that point signalled the fact that I was once again entirely on my own.

  12

  You Never Can Tell

  There was nobody at the cul-de-sac exit. Nor was there anyone on the street. Our fears had been unnecessary and our precautions uncalled for. The police had swallowed the suicide story.

  This Christmas morning was sinister—overcast, with a cold breeze sure to bring snow. The area felt dead and the few passers-by who hurried along close to the walls to keep out of the wind had faces even more grey than the sky.

  I was absolutely shattered. The only thing in my mind was to have a wash and climb into a warm bed. My murky labours in the Dravets’ basement had crumpled and soiled my clothes. I could see my reflection in shop windows and it wasn’t an encouraging sight. I looked as limp and washed-out as the flags you see flying on public monuments.

  I looked over my shoulder several times, but there was nobody on my tail. I remember having a dizzy spell from the view down a completely empty avenue with trees pruned right down to the trunk, looking like the stumps of amputated limbs.

  This time my building depressed me less than before. It had put on the cheerful face it used to have in the old days, the way it looked when I came home from school.

  I looked for the pot of geraniums on the windowsill of our flat. The pot was still there, but not the geraniums. The plant must have died after Ma, for want of care.

  I strode up the wooden staircase. I wasn’t taken aback any more by the smell of bleach and dusty carpets. I opened the door to “home”, the old dwelling that was chock full of my memories. There was one for each of my moods.

  I dashed to the sink to wash, because that was the most urgent thing, but the sight of the brass tap all green with tarnish reminded me that there was no water in it any more. A hotel would be a better bet. Only it would look suspicious if I turned up at such an hour without any luggage. So I put a clean shirt and suit in a suitcase. Ma had mothballed my clothes in plastic slipcovers to await my return. They were obviously out of fashion now, but I was glad to get them back.

  Off I went again, carrying the scuffed old suitcase with a clasp that kept on springing open. I walked fast because I was in a hurry to find a resting place. I was going to treat myself to a room with a bath. I would have a very hot bath and then lie naked in bed and sink into blessed oblivion.

  I was crossing the square in front of the church when I remembered I had Ferrie’s registration card in my pocket. I’d almost forgotten about it. I took it out discreetly and dropped it on the pavement next to a tree. As I went on my way a voice hailed me:

  “Hey there, sir! You’ve dropped something!”

  I turned around slowly, feeling merely irritated by this nuisance. It reminded me of an American movie I had seen in prison, the story of a guy who never managed to get rid of something he wanted to lose. It was full of unbelievable set-ups. Every time he left the object somewhere, some outside event obliged him to take it back. In the end he found himself at home unwrapping the package in a temper, only to discover it wasn’t the same thing he’d started off with.

  The man who’d hailed me was fairly stout. He was wearing a black loden, a grey hat with an upturned brim, and had an empty cigarette holder stuck between his teeth.

  I pretended to be surprised.

  “You mean me?”

  He came right up to me, apparently delighted to be doing a good deed for his fellow man. People say most humans are evil, but it’s not true, the world is full of altruists.

  He picked up the slipcase himself.

  “I saw it fall out of your pocket. It is yours, isn’t it?”

  “Oh, yes! Thank you so much…”

  I smiled as I put out my hand to take the registration card. But instead of giving it to me, the man glanced at it and then slipped it into his own pocket.

  I didn’t understand why he was behaving so illogically.

  He turned over the lapel of his loden. Underneath was a brightly burnished badge showing he was a member of the Paris police.

  “Follow me, Herbin.”

  I had to react, to say something.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “No, but we
can explain.”

  He put up his arm and a car pulled up. I didn’t see where it came from. Presumably it had been tailing the policeman at a distance. It was an old Frégate with dented wings. The driver was a man in a parka with a narrow-rimmed green felt hat.

  “Get in!” the policeman in the loden commanded.

  “But on what grounds? What right do you have…?”

  He didn’t waste any time explaining. He just gave me a hefty thump in the back that toppled me forward into the vehicle. I tripped over my poor suitcase and ended up on my knees on the torn rubber floor mat.

  The loden man seated himself beside me on the rear bench with a grunt of relief. The car moved off.

  Nobody said anything. I tried to sort it out in my mind. Had I been followed all the way from the Dravets’? I was sure I hadn’t been. Absolutely certain. On the other hand, I did now recall seeing this big black car parked opposite the building where I lived.

  Yes, they’d put a watch on my place. Luckily!

  I had to understand why the police had taken these measures if I was going to get myself out of the hole I was in. It wasn’t complicated. The detectives wanted to get hold of “the other witness”, that’s to say, me. And that was child’s play for them, since I’d stupidly given my name to Ferrie when we’d been introduced in the switch lounge. In addition, he knew which street I lived in. Hadn’t I had him pull up almost in front of my building?

  Over the last few hours the police had made some inquiries. They’d found out who I was and where I came from.

  I told myself to keep calm. I wanted to remain hopeful.

  They were going to ask me where I’d spent the night and especially where I’d found Ferrie’s registration card.

  The Frégate came to a halt at the foot of a set of grey steps. Over the door there was a flag just like the one I had compared myself to a few moments before.

  “Keep moving!”

  An office corridor with policemen standing round paying no attention to me and talking among themselves about their Christmas parties and their kids.

  An office, wooden benches, wall posters, green shades, a smell of ink, mouldy paper, sweat…

  “Sit down!”

  Apart from the thump they’d given me at the start, they weren’t treating me roughly. I hung on, believing it would work out. When danger is right in front of you, it’s less scary.

  Now, let’s see, I spent the night in local bars. Most of them were packed, which would account for nobody noticing me. As for that damned registration document… Well, I found the card in Ferrie’s car. I thought the slipcase had come out of my own pocket and didn’t notice my mistake until much later.

  I just had to stick to my guns, come what may.

  They had nothing on me.

  I said it to myself over and over again as if trying to make myself believe it. If I were truly convinced of it, I would manage to get myself out of this sticky situation.

  I thought about Mme Dravet. I was sorry not to have asked her what her first name was, it would have been more convenient to think about her that way. I’d never met anyone so surprising. She had ferocious willpower and an astounding presence of mind, and yet I knew she was a weak and lost soul. We were birds of a feather, she and I.

  The detective in the loden was talking about his children’s toys to a colleague who was re-rolling a broken cigarette in a second piece of gummed paper. For them, it was still Christmas Day, despite having to deal with a new case. At home they had a tree, sweets, lights, joy, children shouting, and a sliver of all that came with them into this dismal place.

  “Herbin!”

  The other detective, the one in the parka, motioned me into an office.

  A man of about fifty with a comical bald patch that made his scalp look like it was made of cardboard was sitting behind an official desk piled high with paperwork. He had a big nose that was quite circular and a tuft of black moustache beneath it.

  He pointed me to a chair upholstered in leather that bore scratch marks made by fingernails.

  “Albert Herbin?”

  He had his eyes on a set of pencilled notes and didn’t raise them to speak to me.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Released the day before yesterday at dawn from Baumettes prison in Marseilles?”

  I corrected him.

  “No, yesterday morning.”

  Then I worked it out. My grasp of time had got a bit hazy because of the two nights in a row without sleep.

  “Pardon me, you’re right. It was the day before yesterday.”

  “How did you come up from Marseilles?”

  “On the night train.”

  “And since then?”

  I shrugged. He was looking straight at me now. He had a peaceable look and calm eyes, but there was a dangerous glint at the back of them.

  “I went back to my mother’s home. Then I enjoyed being out and free.”

  “In what way?”

  “The only way there is: I wandered round the streets, I dropped into bars, I looked at the new cars that had come out since I’d been inside. The world changes in six years, you know. Catching up is hard to do.”

  “You went to Midnight Mass?”

  We were getting to the point. He didn’t really want to beat about the bush.

  “Indeed I did.”

  “During the service, a lady was taken ill?”

  “Yes… Mme…”

  I pretended to be trying to remember the name.

  “Drevet, or Dravet, right?”

  “Yes.”

  He raised his voice when he gave me this assent. It was a provocative assent.

  “Did you tell the people who took her out of the church that you were acquainted with her?”

  “Absolutely not! I said I knew where she lived, that’s not the same thing!”

  “And how did you come to know her address?”

  “That’s easy. On a walk round the area, I saw her coming out of her place with her little girl. I haven’t seen a woman or a child in six years. These ones were pretty so I noticed them. And in church I recognized them, that’s all.”

  “Didn’t you in fact follow them to the church?”

  “No.”

  “It appears that while in prison you were not an attender of religious services.”

  “So what?”

  “But as soon as you’re out the first thing you do is go to church.”

  “Midnight Mass is a spectacle for lots of people! And that particular church is ‘my’ church! I went in search of my childhood…”

  He batted his eyelids. He understood completely, and I could feel he was a bit taken aback because of the Christmas atmosphere that alters things and people a bit.

  “All right. And then?”

  “I took the lady and her daughter back to their home along with another obliging gentleman who happened to be there.”

  “Next?”

  I could hear a slight noise behind me and I turned round to look. The man with the parka was taking down notes on a large sheet of paper.

  “We escorted Mme… er…”

  “Dravet!”

  He wasn’t taken in and guessed I was only pretending not to remember…

  “… Mme Dravet up to her flat. We had a drink in her lounge while she put her child to bed. When she came back in she realized she’d left her handbag at the church. So we went out again and I asked the driver to drop me off near my place.”

  He picked up the plastic slipcover and waved it at me.

  “And this?”

  “Ah yes. When we left Mme Dravet’s I dropped my key in the car. I picked it up and scooped that up along with it. I thought it was mine and…”

  Wrong track! I could see a gleam in my interrogator’s eyes that brought me to a halt.

  He didn’t believe me! He didn’t just think I was lying, he had proof!

  “So you claim that you picked up this registration card in Mr Ferrie’s car?”

  “Yes.”

&
nbsp; “You’re quite sure?”

  “Yes.”

  All of a sudden he relaxed, slackening the tension in his whole substantial body. He leaned back in his chair and stared at me with an insulting grin.

  “You are lying, Herbin.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  He brought his fat hand down hard on the leather-topped desk.

  “Yes, you are. I’ll prove it to you…”

  He turned to the detective in the parka and ordered:

  “Bring in Ferrie.”

  The leather-coated man came into the office. He was still wearing his coat and came forward with a deferential bow. He smiled kindly as he saw me.

  “Oh! Hello, Herbin. Quite a hoo-ha, isn’t it!”

  I didn’t move, and he looked at the detective with an astonished air. The bald man was waving his registration card.

  “Ah! You’ve got it back!” Ferrie exclaimed. “You see, I was right!…”

  “One moment, Mr Ferrie,” the detective interrupted. “Would you please tell Mr Herbin where your registration card was?”

  Ferrie looked embarrassed.

  “Ah, well, it’s not very clever, but when we were at Mme Dravet’s that evening, I secretly put the card under the sofa cushion. I… Well, boys will be boys, Herbin! You know how it is. I thought it would give me an excuse to come back to look for it later on that night. A little lady all on her own at home might be a golden opportunity… for a temporarily unattached man… As you were there too, I didn’t dare chat her up openly. If I’d known that she was going to ask to go out again and then stay with me, obviously I… And especially if I’d had any inkling that when we got back…”

  I braced myself to smile at him. But I was turning to ice.

  “When we found her husband’s body, the bloody card went plain out of my mind. But when I got home and saw my van in the garage, it came back to me. So I went to these gentlemen to explain…”

  The chief inspector clicked his fingers.

  “Thank you, Mr Ferrie. You may go now.”

  Ferrie was taken aback and just stood there with his mouth open for a moment. Then he nodded his head and backed out of the room.

  The chief inspector put his hands together on the edge of the desk.