‘First of all admit that you’re Madeleine.’
She shrugged her shoulders and they went on as before. Just like two lovers. Yet he held her arm more like a policeman who’s made his catch and isn’t taking any risks.
At the hotel, they went straight into the dining-room. Flavières simply couldn’t take his eyes off her. Under the bright lights, with her hair done like that, she looked exactly as she had the first time he had seen her, at the Théâtre Marigny. He stretched his hand across the table and squeezed her fingers.
‘Don’t you want to say anything?’ he asked.
She looked down. She was pale as death. The head waiter came up and took their order.
‘And what wine would you like?’
‘Moulin-à-Vent.’
He felt disembodied, as though Madeleine’s presence had deprived him of reality, of all substance. As he looked at her he thought sometimes:
‘It’s impossible!’
And sometimes:
‘I must be asleep.’
She hardly ate anything. Several times she began to slip into one of those reveries which he had known so well of old. He drank the whole of the bottle, deliberately, one might almost say methodically. He felt Madeleine’s hostility between them like a steel partition.
‘Come on,’ he said at last. ‘I can see you’re at the end of your tether… Do say something, Madeleine.’
She got up immediately.
‘I’ll catch you up,’ he said.
And while she fetched the key of their room, he had just time to gulp down a glass of whisky at the bar. He joined her at the lift.
The gate was shut and up they went. Flavières put his arm round Madeleine’s shoulders. He leant over, as though to kiss her, but merely whispered in her ear:
‘Confess, chérie.’
She leant heavily against the mahogany wall of the lift.
‘All right,’ she said. ‘I am Madeleine.’
SIX
Automatically he turned the key in the lock. This confession he had waited for for so long, far from making things clearer, had plunged him back into the fogs. For one thing, was it really a confession at all? She had made it with such utter lassitude! Perhaps she had said the words merely to please him, to obtain a truce. Leaning with his back against the door, he said:
‘How can I believe you?’
‘Do you want proofs?’
‘No, but…’
He was bewildered. God! How tired he was!
‘Switch off the light,’ she pleaded.
Through the slatted shutters, the street lamps threw bars of light and shade across the ceiling. Bars! Yes, the cage he had closed upon them. Flavières threw himself down on the bed.
‘Why didn’t you tell me the truth at once? What were you frightened of?’
He couldn’t see Madeleine, but he could hear her moving over by the bathroom.
‘Answer me. What were you frightened of?’
She still said nothing, and he went on:
‘You recognized me the moment you saw me at the Waldorf, didn’t you?’
‘Yes. Immediately.’
‘Then you should have confided in me at once. All this play-acting! What possessed you to behave so stupidly!’
He brought his fist down so violently on the bed that the springs answered with a metallic twang.
‘What a farce!… Do you think that was worthy of us?… And that letter!… Instead of telling me frankly to my face what happened to you…’
She came and sat beside him, feeling for his hand in the darkness.
‘I didn’t want you ever to know.’
‘But I’ve known all along…’
‘Listen… Let me explain… Though it’s terribly difficult.’
Her hand was burning. Flavières didn’t move. All his muscles were contracted. At last he was going to hear the secret—and how he dreaded it!
‘The woman you knew in Paris,’ she began, ‘the one you saw in the theatre with your friend Gévigne, the one you followed, the one you fished out of the water—that woman never died. Do you understand? I never died!’
Flavières smiled.
‘Of course not,’ he said. ‘You just became Renée.’
‘No, mon chéri, no… If only that could be true!… I didn’t become Renée: I always was Renée. That’s my real name, Renée Sourange. And it’s me, Renée Sourange, that you’ve been in love with all along.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You never knew Madeleine Gévigne. I impersonated her. I was Gévigne’s accomplice… Forgive me if you can. You don’t know how much I’ve suffered for it.’
Flavières seized her wrist roughly.
‘Are you trying to tell me that the body at the foot of the church tower…’
‘Yes. It was Madame Gévigne. Her husband had just killed her… Madeleine Gévigne was the one who died, while I remained alive… There you are! That’s the truth.’
‘It’s not. I refuse to believe it. It’s easy to say things like that now, when Gévigne’s no longer here to contradict you. Poor Gévigne. So you were his mistress—that’s what you’re telling me, is it? And you concocted that plot between you, to get rid of his lawful wife. But why?’
‘She had the money… We were intending to go abroad.’
‘Splendid! And why should Gévigne come to me and ask me to keep his wife under observation?’
‘Don’t get excited, chéri.’
‘I’m not getting excited. I’ve never been calmer in my life. Come on, tell me.’
‘To divert suspicion. You see, his wife had no reason to commit suicide. He needed someone who could come forward and say that Madame Gévigne had strange ideas, that she was convinced she had lived before, that death seemed to her of no importance, almost a game; someone who would be believed without question when he said he had already witnessed one attempt of hers to take her life… You’re a lawyer… and then… he had known you so well… he knew you’d swallow the story without a murmur.’
‘Ah! So he took me for a fool, or someone with a screw loose, did he!… What a pretty plan! So it was you at the theatre, you at the cemetery, you whose photograph was on his desk when I went to see him…’
‘Yes.’
‘And now you’ll be telling me Pauline Lagerlac never existed.’
‘Oh yes, she did.’
‘Ah! So that’s one thing you can’t deny.’
‘Please! Do try to understand,’ she sighed.
‘I understand perfectly,’ he snarled. ‘I understand everything. And I can see very well that Pauline Lagerlac’s a bit of a nuisance. She rather spoils the story.’
‘I wish it was a story,’ she murmured. ‘Pauline Lagerlac really was Madeleine Gévigne’s great-grandmother. In fact it was she who gave your friend the idea—the obsession with a strange ancestor, the pilgrimage to her tomb and to the house in the Rue des Saints-Pères in which Pauline had lived, the faked attempt at suicide, since Pauline had drowned herself…’
‘Did you say faked?’
‘Yes. To pave the way to… to the other one. If you hadn’t dragged me out, I’d have been all right. I’m a good swimmer.’
Flavières stowed his hands away in his pockets for fear of hitting her.
‘A very clever man, your Gévigne!’ he sneered. ‘He seems to have thought of everything. And when he suggested I should go to his house to meet you, I suppose he knew I should refuse?’
‘He was right. You did refuse. And afterwards I told you never to ring me up at the Avenue Kléber.’
‘That’s enough… Assuming for a moment… But what about the church tower? How could he know we’d go there?… I suppose you’ll say that you were driving, that that isolated village had already been chosen and every detail worked out, right down to the exact time, that he’d only got to ask his wife to come out with him, only got to ask her to wear such and such a dress, to please him… All the same, in spite of all you may say, I don’t believe you. Do you hear
? I don’t believe you… Gévigne wasn’t a criminal.’
‘I’m afraid he was. Admittedly there were things to be said on his side. He’d married badly. Madeleine really was… a bit ill, let us call it. He had taken her to one doctor after another, but they could never make out quite what was wrong.’
‘Of course! And of course it’s easy to think up explanations afterwards. The tower—no difficulty about that. Gévigne was there, up at the top, waiting for you, having already killed his wife and disfigured her sufficiently to make the face unrecognizable. He knew I had no head for heights and would never get past that door if it meant climbing out on to the cornice. Then, when you joined him, he had only to chuck the body overboard while you screamed. And then you peeped out and watched me go up to the body, which was dressed exactly as you were, the hair done the same way and tinged with henna… Oh yes, I can invent explanations too!… When you saw me go off…’
He was panting. The story was drilling its way into his brain, gaining plausibility from a hundred details that fitted in. He went on, muttering to himself:
‘I ought to have raised the alarm, called in the police. Gévigne counted on that, counted on my making a statement describing the suicide. But I didn’t. I didn’t want once again to advertise my physical weakness. That’s where Gévigne slipped up. He didn’t foresee my silence, the silence of a man who has already allowed another to die in his place for the same reason…’
Flavières was quite right there: the plan had gone wrong. He recalled his visit to the flat in the Avenue Kléber, Gévigne’s obvious terror (for of course he too was condemned to silence) and those words of his over the telephone the next morning: ‘I was right, you know. She’s killed herself… The police have started an enquiry… All the same, I’d have liked you to be with me…’
A last desperate attempt to get Flavières to play his part. And his lie about the face not being disfigured. He knew Flavières hadn’t been able to look at it. Since those horrible precautions had been superfluous, better to say nothing about them!… Yes, his silence had ruined the plan, and the police had started poking their noses into Gévigne’s matrimonial affairs. The motive was plain as a pikestaff: she held the purse-strings… and he couldn’t possibly produce an alibi, since he’d been in the church tower at the time… Some peasants had come forward to say they had seen a couple in a car. The Talbot with Gévigne and his wife: that was obvious now… And then Gévigne had been killed.
Renée was quietly crying, her head buried in the pillow. And Flavières suddenly realized that this was the end of everything. With his eyes open he had been living through a nightmare… So this woman who shared his room was Renée… Perhaps she had lived in the same building as Gévigne, and that was how he had got to know her… Weakly, she had agreed to play her part in the plot, and now, years later, out of weakness again, out of a sort of fatalism, she had consented to have an affair with the poor little lawyer who had been their dupe. No… No… He would never admit it. She had merely trumped up this story to get rid of him, because she didn’t love him… For she had never loved him, neither in the old days nor…
‘Madeleine,’ he murmured beseechingly.
She dried her eyes, pushed back her hair.
‘I’m not Madeleine,’ she said.
And then, with his teeth clenched, he seized her by the throat with both hands.
‘You’re lying,’ he groaned. ‘You’ve never stopped lying… But can’t you see that I love you, that I’ve always loved you—right from the start—because of Pauline, because of the cemetery, because of your dreamy eyes… A love like a marvellous tapestry—on one side it told a wonderful legend, on the other… I don’t know… I don’t want to know… But when I first put my arm round you I knew you were to be the only woman in my life… Madeleine… And our drives in the country together—don’t you remember them? And the flowers, the Louvre, the lost country… Madeleine! I beg you—tell me the truth.’
She no longer moved. Painfully Flavières removed his fingers from her neck, and with a trembling hand switched on the light. Then he uttered a cry which brought people running out of their rooms into the corridor.
Flavières no longer wept. He looked at the bed. Even without the handcuffs, he would have kept his hands folded. The detective had just finished reading Dr. Ballard’s letter to his colleague at Nice.
‘Take him away,’ he said.
The room was full of people, but no one made a sound.
‘May I kiss her?’ asked Flavières.
The detective shrugged his shoulders. Flavières went up to the bed. The dead girl looked so slim lying there, and written on her face was an immense peace. Flavières bent over and kissed her forehead.
‘I shall wait for you,’ he said.
Pierre Boileau and Thomas Narcejac met at an awards dinner. Narcejac was receiving the 1948 Prix du roman d’aventures, which is awarded for the best detective novel of the year in France, and which Boileau had already won ten years earlier. They got talking, and several years later, their first collaboration was published.
They wanted to try and develop a new type of crime fiction. They were tired of British who-dunnits and hardboiled American private eyes—they wanted to create a new style of mystery with the victim at its centre, albeit a victim who might not know they are a victim, and might even be a murderer! They went on to form an extraordinarily successful partnership, with Boileau supplying the fiendish, almost fantastical plots, and Narcejac the crucial characterization. As Boileau himself said, Narcejac “humanizes the most extraordinary situations… He turns a witch or a ghost into someone you might meet on the Metro”. And, much like Hitchcock’s bomb that must never explode, Boileau-Narcejac had one golden rule: the protagonist can never wake up from their nightmare.
Their first collaboration, She Who Was No More, appeared in 1952 and, so the story goes, Alfred Hitchcock was desperate to acquire the film rights. He was beaten to it by Henri-Georges Clouzot but moved heaven and earth to get the rights to Vertigo when it was published in 1954. Little did he know that Boileau-Narcejac had actually written it with him in mind!
So, where do you go from here?
If you enjoyed Vertigo’s hallucinatory plot and relentless tension, then you should take a look at She Who Was No More—Boileau-Narcejac’s first book, and a classic thriller in the same mind-bending vein as Vertigo.
If you feel like something a little different, why not get hold of a copy of Soji Shimada’s The Tokyo Zodiac Murders, the strangely brilliant, and utterly gruesome, locked-room puzzle that kicked off the Japanese honkaku “logic mystery” tradition?
AVAILABLE AND COMING SOON FROM PUSHKIN VERTIGO
Augusto De Angelis
The Murdered Banker
The Mystery of the Three Orchids
The Hotel of the Three Roses
Piero Chiara
The Disappearance of Signora Giulia
Boileau-Narcejac
Vertigo
She Who Was No More
Alexander Lernet-Holenia
I Was Jack Mortimer
Leo Perutz
Master of the Day of Judgment
Little Apple
St Peter’s Snow
Soji Shimada
The Tokyo Zodiac Murders
PUSHKIN PRESS
Pushkin Press was founded in 1997, and publishes novels, essays, memoirs, children’s books—everything from timeless classics to the urgent and contemporary.
Our books represent exciting, high-quality writing from around the world: we publish some of the twentieth century’s most widely acclaimed, brilliant authors such as Stefan Zweig, Marcel Aymé, Antal Szerb, Paul Morand and Yasushi Inoue, as well as compelling and award-winning contemporary writers, including Andrés Neuman, Edith Pearlman and Ryu Murakami.
Pushkin Press publishes the world’s best stories, to be read and read again. Here are just some of the titles from our long and varied list. For more amazing stories, visit www.pushkinpress.com.<
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THE SPECTRE OF ALEXANDER WOLF
GAITO GAZDANOV
‘A mesmerising work of literature’ Antony Beevor
BINOCULAR VISION
EDITH PEARLMAN
‘A genius of the short story’ Mark Lawson, Guardian
TRAVELLER OF THE CENTURY
ANDRÉS NEUMAN
‘A beautiful, accomplished novel: as ambitious as it is generous, as moving as it is smart’ Juan Gabriel Vásquez, Guardian
BEWARE OF PITY
STEFAN ZWEIG
‘Zweig’s fictional masterpiece’ Guardian
THE WORLD OF YESTERDAY
STEFAN ZWEIG
‘The World of Yesterday is one of the greatest memoirs of the twentieth century, as perfect in its evocation of the world Zweig loved, as it is in its portrayal of how that world was destroyed’ David Hare
JOURNEY BY MOONLIGHT
ANTAL SZERB
‘Just divine… makes you imagine the author has had private access to your own soul’ Nicholas Lezard, Guardian
BONITA AVENUE
PETER BUWALDA
‘One wild ride: a swirling helix of a family saga… a new writer as toe-curling as early Roth, as roomy as Franzen and as caustic as Houellebecq’ Sunday Telegraph
THE PARROTS
FILIPPO BOLOGNA
‘A five-star satire on literary vanity… a wonderful, surprising novel’ Metro
I WAS JACK MORTIMER
ALEXANDER LERNET-HOLENIA
‘Terrific… a truly clever, rather wonderful book that both plays with and defies genre’ Eileen Battersby, Irish Times
SONG FOR AN APPROACHING STORM
PETER FRÖBERG IDLING
‘Beautifully evocative… a must-read novel’ Daily Mail
THE RABBIT BACK LITERATURE SOCIETY
PASI ILMARI JÄÄSKELÄINEN
Vertigo Page 16
