by Rumer Godden
IT WAS a morning filled with absences. That sounds contradictory, but it was the absences that made themselves felt. There were two chars-à-bancs parties for breakfast, Americans on their way from Germany to Paris, and we saw once again how hard hotel people worked. Mauricette told us that when the Brass Instruments Ball had finished it had been past one o’clock, but she, Madame Corbet and Paul had had to set to work, sweep out the dining-room and hall and lay sixty places for breakfast . . . “And they will not have coffee and rolls,” Vicky told us. “They will have grapefruit, bacon and eggs, hot rolls, jam, coffee and tea and milk.” Monsieur Armand, Madame Corbet and Mauricette had to get up at half past six; we knew that because we were woken by cries for Paul.
A long time had gone by last night before I had taken myself out of that room and got into my own bed with Joss and Willmouse. All I could think of was how heavenly warm she was.
“Well?” She had been wide awake.
Why did I not tell her what I had seen? ‘I have seen nothing, nothing at all’, that was what I was saying over and over again in my head, and aloud I said briefly, “He has gone.”
“Are you sure?”
“Quite sure.”
I had imagined myself lying awake, seeing it over and over again, but at once I had fallen asleep.
“Paul. Pa-ul. Paul!” That was Mauricette. Then came Madame Corbet’s steps and she flung open our door, ‘without knocking’, as Joss observed. Madame Corbet was too hurried to see we were three in the bed together and she did not scold us. “Have any of you children seen Paul . . . Paul Brendel?” She always spoke as if we did not know him.
It was a relief to see Madame Corbet. If she wanted Paul I could not believe he would not come. “When did you see him?” she asked.
“At the party last night,” said Joss.
“Tscha!” and Madame Corbet shut the door.
Wakened by the noise Hester and Vicky came in. We were all awake now, in spite of our late night, wide awake except Willmouse, who was fast asleep on the far side of our bed. Nor would he wake.
“Madame Corbet, Willmouse, our little brother, hasn’t woken.”
“Then wake him.”
“We . . . we can’t.”
Everyone was out of temper that morning and Madame Corbet snapped, “What is wrong with him?”
Nothing was wrong with him except that he was asleep, fast asleep, pale, but he was often pale. When we shook him his head rolled, when we opened his eyelids his eyes showed the whites. “I don’t like that,” said Hester. It certainly looked alarming. We sat him up, but he sagged back on the pillow. He was cold and breathing a little strangely. “Is he ill or asleep?” I asked.
“I don’t think you sleep when you are ill,” said Joss. “He is just . . . too asleep.”
That was what we told Madame Corbet. “Grands Dieux!” she said. “Why worry me for that? Let him sleep.”
When ten o’clock came and he had not stirred we began to worry more. The house was swarming with the Americans; they were taking snapshots of the staircase, of the place under the urn where Rita and Rex had found the skull—as it was so early and Paul had not been found, the bloodstain was left out—and there was no hope of getting anyone to look at Willmouse. Joss made up her mind. “I’m going to the hospital,” she said.
“To tell Mother?” I spoke out of my yearning; inexpressibly that morning I was longing for Mother.
“Don’t be an idiot,” said Joss. “I am going to ask Monsieur le Directeur if Willmouse is all right.”
“You could telephone.”
“I can’t in French. I don’t know how to get the number,” and Hester said, “I wish Eliot were here.”
Eliot’s was the third absence. He had gone to Paris, Mademoiselle Zizi told the Monsieur from the Police, Monsieur Dufour, who came asking questions.
I had come into the hall on my way upstairs; the chars-à-bancs had driven away, Les Oeillets was quiet again, but in the hall was Monsieur Dufour sitting on a chair, rubbing his chin with the end of his cane, his hat on one of the console tables. I was examining him out of the corner of my eye when Mademoiselle Zizi came from her room. She was in a pale-green dressing-gown, her hair twisted up, her face just as it was without rouge; she suddenly looked to me most beautiful.
“I regret I kept you waiting, Monsieur.”
“Une demi-heure,” said Monsieur Dufour, but he did not sound angry. His eyes were brown and very kind. He kept them on Mademoiselle Zizi.
They spoke in French, but I could follow them. “I wanted to see Monsieur Eliot,” said Monsieur Dufour, “but Irène says he is not here.”
“He has gone to Paris, Monsieur.”
“At three o’clock in the morning.” I wondered what effect it would have on them if I had said that.
“He has a business there?”
“So I understand.”
I began to think there was some deep feeling between these two; Monsieur was warmer to Mademoiselle Zizi than she to him; she still distantly called him ‘Monsieur’.
“How did he go to Paris if his car is here?”
Now I came to think of it the Rolls was on the drive outside. It had not been there last night, but Mademoiselle Zizi was explaining. “Since yesterday Fouret’s have had it for graissage. Today Monsieur Eliot drove up with friends. Look, Fouret’s tag is on the windscreen if you wish to see it, Monsieur.”
She minds his questions about Eliot, I thought, and he does not like asking them. It makes him feel awkward. “This is a routine check on all strangers in the town, Zizi,” he said. “We have nothing against Monsieur Eliot.”
“What could you have?” asked Mademoiselle Zizi, more cold than ever, but he went quietly on with his questions.
“He stays here?”
“Is that a fault?”
“Zizi. I have to ask. Please understand.”
“You know he stays here. The whole town knows.”
“Yes,” said Monsieur Dufour. He sounded sorrowful but he went on. “He was here at the dinner yesterday evening?”
“You saw him,” said Mademoiselle Zizi.
“But he went to Paris in the day?”
“No.”
“No?” asked Monsieur Dufour.
“He was here all day,” and she flashed, “He was here in the bar writing letters. Then he took an early lunch and spent the afternoon in the cove.” Her eyes fell on me trying to make myself small. “If you do not believe me, ask this child,” said Mademoiselle Zizi.
My stomach gave a sudden unexpected heave. I thought I was going to be sick. Monsieur Dufour turned those kind brown eyes on me. “Did you see Monsieur Eliot in the cove?”
“Yes, Monsieur.”
His eyes dwelt on me a moment . . . did he guess there was something else? Then I felt a soft little touch on my elbow; it was Hester, as usual. Monsieur Dufour passed to her.
“And did you see Monsieur Eliot in the cove?”
“Yes, Monsieur.” It came out patly. I do not know how we agreed silently not to tell what else we had seen. Hester added, “He gave us money to go bathing.”
“You see!” cried Mademoiselle Zizi, then she burst out indignantly, “But why should you ask questions? You know Eliot.”
“I know him,” said Monsieur Dufour, and again he sounded sad, “but I have to make my report.”
He had picked up his hat, when Madame Corbet came out of the office. “Have you said anything about Paul?” she asked Mademoiselle Zizi.
“Paul. Ah yes!” and Mademoiselle Zizi turned to Monsieur Dufour again. “I suppose it is you we have to tell. It is Paul . . . Paul Brendel, the boy you sent me.”
“He was troublesome last night. What now?”
“Only that he seems to have gone,” said Madame Corbet.
The strange morning went on. I remember I was cold, though it was the same brilliant heat, so that even Madame Corbet, sitting in the office, had beads of sweat caught in her moustache and patches of wet on her blouse. As the day went
on the coldness seemed confirmed, inexorably, as if hope were slowly frozen out.
The doctor came to see Willmouse. Madame Corbet brought him upstairs. “Sixty people to breakfast, the dinner last night, and now they imagine illness,” she said. “These children think they own the whole hotel.”
She stood at the bedroom door while Monsieur le Directeur bent over Willmouse and listened to his breathing; he felt his pulse and then raised one of Willmouse’s eyelids and looked into his eye that still looked horrible with its rolled-up white. “He is tired out with excitement,” said Madame Corbet, “so he sleeps.”
“Il a été drogué,” said Monsieur le Directeur.
“Drogué? What is drogué?” asked Joss.
It was Madame Corbet who answered in a bewildered voice, “Drugged.”
“Willmouse?”
Monsieur le Directeur was asking if there were any sleeping tablets in the house that Willmouse could have found. “Coloured ones like sweets,” he suggested in French. “Yours?” he asked Madame Corbet. “No, you would not leave them about. Mademoiselle Zizi’s?”
“I keep Zizi’s,” said Madame Corbet. She added that it was impossible.
Impossible, but it had happened. Standing at the foot of the bed with Joss I knew it was not impossible. Unwillingly I knew more. While they had been talking I had seen that supper tray again and the grenadine and heard Eliot’s voice saying smoothly, “He liked the drink.” But why? I thought giddily, why? Then I remembered how Eliot had suddenly and inexplicably ordered Willmouse to bed when Willmouse had done nothing to deserve it. But . . . and I remembered. Willmouse had been talking . . . about the motor-bike. I almost said it and clapped my hand to my mouth.
That must have been noticeable, for they all saw it.
“What now?” groaned Madame Corbet. “Truly, these children!”
I had to pretend it was toothache. “She looks pale,” said Monsieur le Directeur wearily. “Open your mouth.” He looked along my teeth. “She had better go and see Dupont,” he said to Madame Corbet. “These,” and he tapped two teeth, “look to me as if they should come out.”
As the day went on it grew heavier; by ‘it’ I mean this thing I was trying not to know. I was behaving like an ostrich with its head in the sand, but every now and then the head would be pulled out; I hastily burrowed it back into the sand again.
Willmouse woke in the afternoon, but he was drowsy and stupid and his voice was thick. Joss telephoned the hospital, Madame Corbet getting through for her, and Willmouse was given hot tea. He immediately fell asleep again, but he was warmer.
Joss stayed with him, and Hester and I wandered out along the river. We tacitly agreed we should not go and see Mother; I could not have trusted myself near her. We avoided the cove and between us was a weight of silence. Even to Hester I could not speak of what was in me, and as if she felt a barrier she did not speak either, which was remarkable for Hester, until we came out on the towing-path, when—“Look,” she said, “the Marie France is gone.”
“It had to go sometime,” I said. It did not seem important, but there seemed a curious blankness on the river where the little barge had been.
We went in to goûter, getting it ourselves. Mauricette was leaning on Monsieur Armand, reading the paper over his shoulder. “That is why Monsieur Dufour came asking about Monsieur Eliot,” she said in French, but I was beginning not to notice if people spoke in French or English. I had been cutting a piece from a baguette and I stopped with the bread in my hand. “Why?” I asked.
“Vol de diamants, à Paris,” read out Monsieur Armand. “Coup de main audacieux dans le quartier de l’Etoile. Le malfaiteur s’enfuit avec cent millions de francs de diamants.”
“Diamonds?” I asked, and, “What does it mean?” asked Hester.
“Only that there has been a robbery,” I said.
“Tell her,” said Monsieur Armand, giving the paper to me to do my translation. “Now, nicely, for your sister.”
Painfully I began: “An armed . . . Qu’est-ce que c’est ‘malfaiteur’?” I asked Monsieur Armand.
“Gangster,” said Monsieur Armand, who went to the cinema.
“Armed gangster steals one hundred . . . million . . . it is million?” I asked.
“Million,” confirmed Monsieur Armand.
“One hundred million francs’-worth of jewels and escapes. Once a month Mademoiselle Yvonne Lebègue, secretary to Monsieur Roger Dixonne, a diamond . . . merchant,” I read, stumbling over the unfamiliar words, “whose offices are in the Rue La Fayette, ninth ar . . . what is that?”
“Neuvième arrondissement,” explained Monsieur Armand, which left me none the wiser.
“Collects pierres precieuses . . . precious stones, chiefly diamonds, from a colleague in the Place du Trocadéro. On Friday, towards three-fifteen, Mademoiselle Lebègue was being driven on her way to the Rue La Fayette through the Rue Dumont d’Urville by Jean Sagan, Monsieur Dixonne’s chauffeur. She had with her . . . un lot spécial . .. special lot of . . . qu’est-ce que c’est ‘pierres taillées’?” Mauricette pretended to cut sharply with a knife. “Oh, cut stones! . . . valued at about one hundred million francs in a small . . . qu’est-ce que c’est ‘une mallette d’aluminium’?”
Mauricette seized a saucepan and tapped it to show me. “Oh, aluminium case.” I had not known cases could be of aluminium. “. . . which she placed under her feet in the car, a large Mercédès. When the Mercédès was almost . . . à la hauteur de la rue . . . at the top of the street near the PTT, a small light-blue car, parked on the right side of the road, drew out suddenly and stopped . . . in a cross? Oh, crosswise! . . . across the road, forcing the Mercédès to stop. At the same time a man appeared by the car, swung open the door by Mademoiselle Lebégue, seized the case, slammed the door and was gone. It was so quickly and quietly done that the chauffeur did not see him at all and, though there were many people on the pavement, no one realised what had happened until Monsieur Sagan jumped out . . . aux cris de ‘Arrêtez cet homme! Arrêtez-le!’ . . . crying ‘Stop that man! Stop him!’, and they heard Mademoiselle Lebégue’s cries. Meanwhile the small car had driven off. Monsieur Sagan ran through the crowd, but there was no sign of the thief, who must have . . . very well known . . .” I translated literally, “known Monsieur Dixonne’s habits to be able to organise this attack in less than two minutes.”
“Ah ça! Par exemple!” cried Monsieur Armand, full of admiration. “C’est un peu fort!” He added wisely, “La femme était dans l’coup.”
“What woman was in it?”
“La secrétaire,” said Monsieur Armand and nodded.
Mauricette said they would catch the thief, the police had the number of the small car. Monsieur Armand said the driver was probably just an accomplice and the car was surely stolen; they would find it presently. “On verra bien, you will see,” he said, and I went on reading, “This is the third time there has been one of these . . .” I stumbled.
“Hold-ups,” said Monsieur Armand.
“. . . in this quarter. Paris police are looking for a man of thirty-five or thereabouts, tall, slim, dressed in thin trousers and a green jacket. The swiftness and . . . au . . . audacity lead them to think it is the work of an experienced thief, perhaps the international bandit Allen, who was behind the jewel raids in Cannes last year, whom all efforts by the police failed to catch.” I read on, “What is . . . une grand enquête?” I asked.
“Cherchant partout,” said Mauricette.
“Oh! Searching everywhere,” and Mauricette said, “Même Monsieur Eliot.” She laughed as she said it but I did not laugh. Searching everywhere. Even for Eliot! My mind seemed to give a sharp click.
The newspaper said they were checking all foreign people in a radius of Paris and Mauricette was teasing us. “Vous deux, Mademoiselle Cecil et Mademoiselle Hester, et ma p’tite Vicky, ma p’tite reine,” and she picked up Vicky and danced with her. Then she stopped and pointed out a picture in the newspaper to me.
&nbs
p; We were in the kitchen where everything was familiar—Monsieur Armand, Mauricette, the pots and pans; even the flies crawling on Monsieur Armand’s forehead seemed homely, almost dear; but now everything seemed to slide together into a blur behind the picture of a man and I spelled out the headline above it: “ ‘I have seen him and shall know him again,’ says Inspector Jules Cailleux of the Sûreté Générale, who is handling the case. ‘This time we shall get him.’ ”
I took the newspaper up to Joss. “Inspector Cailleux? He was the one at Dormans,” said Joss.
“Yes, on that day . . .” I broke off. I still did not like to mention that day to Joss, but Hester said, “When Eliot was queer.”
There was a silence. Then I brought out huskily, “Perhaps he was queer because he did not want Inspector Cailleux to see him.”
“Don’t imagine things,” said Joss sharply, but the sharpness told me she was imagining too.
“Willmouse, wake up. Wake up! Willmouse!”
It was next morning. Late the night before Willmouse had stirred, smiled and woken again. Madame Corbet must have been worried because she came straight up to him and he had had hot soup, some bread and butter, had smiled at us and gone back to sleep. In the night I had heard him rustling. He wanted to go to the Hole and I had taken him. Surely now he must be awake enough to talk . . . or not to talk, I thought desperately.
All night I had pondered, conning over these difficult bits and pieces. Why I? I thought, why should it be I? People are not sent what they cannot bear; Mother had said that in the train, but that was about pain. I could have borne a pain, but this, this horrible knowledge that was in me I could not bear. It’s imagination, I said, pushing it out of sight. At all costs, I thought, that was what I must do, refuse it, keep it down, be silent, not talk not let Hester talk, or anyone else. “Willmouse, wake up!”
He opened his eyes. “Have I been asleep?” asked Willmouse.
“Can you understand me?” I said.
“Why not?” He was astonished.
“I want you to promise me something.” My tone must have been very solemn, for his eyes were as big as an owl’s as he looked at me.
