Dirty Snow by Georges Simenon Page A

brilliance of his eyes, and the violence of his gestures immediately made obvious. He almost knocked over his chair when he sat down. His cigar smelled wonderful. It was even better than the ones he usually smoked, and he always bought the best available.
    â€œI’ve just had dinner with the commanding general,” he announced in a low voice.
    After that he was silent to let the meaning of his words sink in.
    â€œI brought you back your knife.”
    â€œThanks.”
    He took it without looking and dropped it into his pocket. He was too preoccupied with his own doings to think much about Frank. But remembering their conversation yesterday, he asked out of politeness, “Did you use it?”
    Frank had returned to Timo’s the night before, after it happened, for no other reason than to show Kromer the pistol he had just acquired. He had shown it to Sissy. There were a good many people he would have shown it to willingly, and yet, without quite knowing why, he answered, “I didn’t get the chance.”
    â€œPerhaps that’s just as well. Tell me—you don’t know where I could find some watches, do you?”
    No matter what Kromer talked about, he always seemed to be discussing important and mysterious matters. He was the same way with everyone he knew, the people with whom he ate and drank. He seldom mentioned names. He would whisper, “Someone very high up. You understand, very, very high up …”
    â€œWhat kind of watches?” Frank asked.
    â€œOld ones, preferably. Piles of them. Watches by the shovelful. You don’t get it, huh?”
    Frank drank a lot, too. Everybody drank a lot. First of all, obviously, because they spent most of their time in places like Timo’s. And because good drinks were scarce, hard to find, and fantastically expensive.
    Unlike most people, Frank’s face never got red, he never spoke in a loud voice, never waved his arms. Instead his face turned paler, his features more pointed, and his lips so thin that they looked like a line drawn by a pen across his face. His eyes would grow small, with a hard, cruel light in them, as though he hated the whole human race.
    That was probably true.
    He didn’t like Kromer and Kromer didn’t like him. Kromer, who so easily took on a genial, cordial manner, didn’t like anyone, but was ready to humor people who admired him, keeping his pockets full of all sorts of things, rare cigars, cigarette lighters, ties, and silk handkerchiefs, that he would offer when least expected.
    â€œGo on, take it!”
    Frank would have trusted Timo sooner than Kromer. And he noticed that Timo didn’t place too much confidence in Kromer, either.
    Kromer did a lot of trafficking, of course. Some of his deals got talked about, and he filled you in on the details because he needed you, and in that case he would hand over a very fair share of the profits. He had lots of connections among the Occupation forces. That, too, was profitable.
    Exactly how far did he go? How far would he be capable of going if he had to, if his interests were at stake?
    No, Frank wouldn’t mention the automatic. He preferred to discuss watches, because the word had awakened memories in him.
    â€œIt’s for the person I just mentioned, the general. Do you know what he was just ten years ago? A worker in a lamp factory. He’s forty now and a general. We drank four bottles of champagne between us. Right away he began talking about his watches. He collects them. He’s crazy about them. He claims he has several hundred. ‘In a town like yours,’ he said to me, ‘where there have always been a lot of rich bourgeois, officials, people with independent incomes, there must be piles of old watches. You know the kind,’ he said, ‘made of silver or gold with one or more cases. Some of them strike the hour. Some of them even have little people that move around … ’”
    While Kromer was