ran to staircase B, went into her own room, saw Mr. Hire's lit-up window, and Mr. Hire himself, pouring boiling water into his little coffee-pot. She had not turned on her light. She groped her way across to her dressing-table, found the bottle of eau de Cologne, and sprinkled some on her dress and hair. Still in darkness, she combed her hair and pulled up her artificial silk stockings, which were rolled over elastic bands above her knees.
Mr. Hire was laying his table: a cup, a plate, a saucer for butter, a slice of bread, and some ham.
About to leave her room, the girl hesitated again, looked at her bed, then at the lighted window. She had no need to go past the lodge. In the courtyard she was surprised by the cold, for all this coming and going had made her sweat. The staircase was the same as her own, except that the doors were painted brown, whereas those of staircase B were dark blue.
She had to stop, because a whole family was toiling up, the children in front, the mother, loaded with parcels, panting in the rear.
At last she reached the door corresponding to her own. She gave a final pat to her copper-coloured hair, a final tug to a wrinkled stocking, and knocked.
There was the sound of a cup being put down on its saucer, a chair violently pushed back. The girl smiled as she heard shuffled footsteps approaching the door. She looked down. For another second the outline of the keyhole was lit up, then something came between the door and the light behind it.
She guessed this was an eye, and smiled, drew back a step to put herself in the field of vision, and thrust forward her full bosom with a confident gesture.
V
M R . H IRE did not move. The girl could still see the eye at the keyhole, and she forced another smile and muttered, after making sure there was nobody on the stairs:
'It's me . . .'
The eye vanished, the keyhole was darkened, no doubt by the man's body as he straightened up, but there was not a sound, not a movement. The girl tapped her foot with impatience and, as the light lit up once more, bent down to it in her turn.
Mr. Hire had already withdrawn to a distance of three yards, with his back against the table, staring at the door. He had the anguished expression of a sick man awaiting a crisis and holding his breath. Could he, too, see an eye at the keyhole?
The dairy-maid was forced to go away, because someone was coming downstairs. By the time she reached the lodge she had managed to put on a smile, but her full lips betrayed disappointment all the same.
'That you, Alice?'
The concierge had her back turned, busy undressing her little daughter. The inspector, sitting beside the stove with a coffee-mill between his knees, looked inquiringly at the dairy-maid.
'Did you see him?'
She perched on the edge of the table and shrugged her shoulders, and her thighs could be vaguely glimpsed above the rolled stocking- tops.
'I bet he's mad,' she said.
And the concierge, without turning round, with a safety-pin between her teeth, said:
'A madman who knows what he's about! . . . Run along to bed, now,' she added, pushing her daughter towards the back of the lodge.
She was tired. She took the coffee-mill from the inspector.
'Thank you. That's very kind of you.'
They had grown accustomed to each other. During the fortnight the police officer had spent in watching the district, he had adopted this place as his refuge. There was always hot coffee waiting on a corner of the stove. And he sometimes brought along a bottle of wine or some cakes.
Alice swung a muscular leg and stared sulkily at the floor.
'Has my boss got back?'
'An hour ago, with her sister-in-law from Conflans.'
And the concierge, sitting down, took up the conversation at the point where she and the inspector had broken off. She put her glasses on again, and her face took on a reflective expression.
'I could swear it, you know, but I wouldn't like to say I might not be mistaken . . . That Saturday, he came home at the usual
Mr. Hire was laying his table: a cup, a plate, a saucer for butter, a slice of bread, and some ham.
About to leave her room, the girl hesitated again, looked at her bed, then at the lighted window. She had no need to go past the lodge. In the courtyard she was surprised by the cold, for all this coming and going had made her sweat. The staircase was the same as her own, except that the doors were painted brown, whereas those of staircase B were dark blue.
She had to stop, because a whole family was toiling up, the children in front, the mother, loaded with parcels, panting in the rear.
At last she reached the door corresponding to her own. She gave a final pat to her copper-coloured hair, a final tug to a wrinkled stocking, and knocked.
There was the sound of a cup being put down on its saucer, a chair violently pushed back. The girl smiled as she heard shuffled footsteps approaching the door. She looked down. For another second the outline of the keyhole was lit up, then something came between the door and the light behind it.
She guessed this was an eye, and smiled, drew back a step to put herself in the field of vision, and thrust forward her full bosom with a confident gesture.
V
M R . H IRE did not move. The girl could still see the eye at the keyhole, and she forced another smile and muttered, after making sure there was nobody on the stairs:
'It's me . . .'
The eye vanished, the keyhole was darkened, no doubt by the man's body as he straightened up, but there was not a sound, not a movement. The girl tapped her foot with impatience and, as the light lit up once more, bent down to it in her turn.
Mr. Hire had already withdrawn to a distance of three yards, with his back against the table, staring at the door. He had the anguished expression of a sick man awaiting a crisis and holding his breath. Could he, too, see an eye at the keyhole?
The dairy-maid was forced to go away, because someone was coming downstairs. By the time she reached the lodge she had managed to put on a smile, but her full lips betrayed disappointment all the same.
'That you, Alice?'
The concierge had her back turned, busy undressing her little daughter. The inspector, sitting beside the stove with a coffee-mill between his knees, looked inquiringly at the dairy-maid.
'Did you see him?'
She perched on the edge of the table and shrugged her shoulders, and her thighs could be vaguely glimpsed above the rolled stocking- tops.
'I bet he's mad,' she said.
And the concierge, without turning round, with a safety-pin between her teeth, said:
'A madman who knows what he's about! . . . Run along to bed, now,' she added, pushing her daughter towards the back of the lodge.
She was tired. She took the coffee-mill from the inspector.
'Thank you. That's very kind of you.'
They had grown accustomed to each other. During the fortnight the police officer had spent in watching the district, he had adopted this place as his refuge. There was always hot coffee waiting on a corner of the stove. And he sometimes brought along a bottle of wine or some cakes.
Alice swung a muscular leg and stared sulkily at the floor.
'Has my boss got back?'
'An hour ago, with her sister-in-law from Conflans.'
And the concierge, sitting down, took up the conversation at the point where she and the inspector had broken off. She put her glasses on again, and her face took on a reflective expression.
'I could swear it, you know, but I wouldn't like to say I might not be mistaken . . . That Saturday, he came home at the usual
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