time. It's only on the first Monday of each month that he gets back late. I didn't see him go out again, and yet during the night I pulled the cordon for him.'
'To let him out?'
'No, to let him in—that's just the point!'
All this thinking was sharpening her. Alice went on swinging her leg, the inspector's eyes following it automatically. It was hot. The coffee was dripping through the filter, drop by drop. It was all typical of Sunday evening, the weariness that does not come from work, the relaxed, sluggish atmosphere, and the minutes creeping past more slowly than on other days.
The girl's back ached, her feet painful in their too tight shoes. Tenants kept passing the lodge and starting lazily up the stairs. A woman opened the door.
'Didn't my mother-in-law come?'
'At three o'clock. She said she'd find you at the cemetery.'
Alice, an unlighted cigarette between her lips, was watching the inspector, and suddenly asked:
'Aren't you going to arrest him?'
The concierge turned her little eyes on the dairy-maid.
'You're a nasty girl,' she declared.
And she wasn't joking. She disapproved of the girl's luscious figure, her bare arms and dimpled chin.
'We don't know yet,' sighed the policeman, offering a match. 'We need some proof.'
The concierge's brow wrinkled as though this statement was meant for her alone, as though it were for her to unearth the desired proof.
'If he's left free, he'll do it again. One can feel it. I couldn't touch him for all the money in the world. Why, I daren't even touch his laundry when he brings it down on Wednesdays for me to give to the washerwoman.'
The inspector threw his cigarette into the coal-scuttle. He, too, was tired, tired of doing nothing, of waiting, of dividing his time between this kitchen and the Villejuif cross-roads.
'Well, take this up to him,' he said to the concierge, producing an envelope from his pocket.
'What is it?'
'A summons from the superintendent, for Wednesday. Perhaps that'll make him try something or other.'
'Must I go up?'
She was scared and yet, once the letter was in her hand, she became menacing.
'All right!'
The dairy-maid slid down from the table and made for the door. The inspector stared hard at her, pointed to the departing concierge, even put forward a tentative hand. He would have liked to be alone with her, but she pretended not to understand and went hurriedly across the courtyard, since it was freezing harder than ever and the square of sky above was silver-grey, though night had long fallen.
In the darkness of her room, kneeling on the bed to see more clearly, Alice did not hear the concierge knocking on the door of the room opposite, but she could guess when it happened from the start Mr. Hire gave. He had been busy with a pair of scissors, cutting out big squares of brown paper which lay on the table. He had taken off his collar and his socks.
Still holding the scissors, he turned towards the door and fell back a step. Then he hurried across on tiptoe and put his eye to the keyhole.
Outside on the landing, the concierge must have been growing impatient and made some remark. For Mr. Hire stood up, buttoned his jacket, and opened the door, just a very few inches, putting his hand out in such a way that he himself could not be seen. The sound of the third-floor violin came through, and that of the wireless which someone had switched on when they got home. '
His door closed again, Mr. Hire looked at the envelope, turned it in all directions without opening it; then he fetched a knife from the cupboard where the gas-ring was, and slowly slit it open, unfolded the sheet of paper.
He made no gesture. His expression did not change. He simply sat down by the table, his eyes fixed on the brown paper he had previously been cutting up. He was not hearing the cars on the road, or the violin or the wireless. He was existing in a blur of sound, a humming that might have come from the stove or from his own pulse.
Alice had left her
'To let him out?'
'No, to let him in—that's just the point!'
All this thinking was sharpening her. Alice went on swinging her leg, the inspector's eyes following it automatically. It was hot. The coffee was dripping through the filter, drop by drop. It was all typical of Sunday evening, the weariness that does not come from work, the relaxed, sluggish atmosphere, and the minutes creeping past more slowly than on other days.
The girl's back ached, her feet painful in their too tight shoes. Tenants kept passing the lodge and starting lazily up the stairs. A woman opened the door.
'Didn't my mother-in-law come?'
'At three o'clock. She said she'd find you at the cemetery.'
Alice, an unlighted cigarette between her lips, was watching the inspector, and suddenly asked:
'Aren't you going to arrest him?'
The concierge turned her little eyes on the dairy-maid.
'You're a nasty girl,' she declared.
And she wasn't joking. She disapproved of the girl's luscious figure, her bare arms and dimpled chin.
'We don't know yet,' sighed the policeman, offering a match. 'We need some proof.'
The concierge's brow wrinkled as though this statement was meant for her alone, as though it were for her to unearth the desired proof.
'If he's left free, he'll do it again. One can feel it. I couldn't touch him for all the money in the world. Why, I daren't even touch his laundry when he brings it down on Wednesdays for me to give to the washerwoman.'
The inspector threw his cigarette into the coal-scuttle. He, too, was tired, tired of doing nothing, of waiting, of dividing his time between this kitchen and the Villejuif cross-roads.
'Well, take this up to him,' he said to the concierge, producing an envelope from his pocket.
'What is it?'
'A summons from the superintendent, for Wednesday. Perhaps that'll make him try something or other.'
'Must I go up?'
She was scared and yet, once the letter was in her hand, she became menacing.
'All right!'
The dairy-maid slid down from the table and made for the door. The inspector stared hard at her, pointed to the departing concierge, even put forward a tentative hand. He would have liked to be alone with her, but she pretended not to understand and went hurriedly across the courtyard, since it was freezing harder than ever and the square of sky above was silver-grey, though night had long fallen.
In the darkness of her room, kneeling on the bed to see more clearly, Alice did not hear the concierge knocking on the door of the room opposite, but she could guess when it happened from the start Mr. Hire gave. He had been busy with a pair of scissors, cutting out big squares of brown paper which lay on the table. He had taken off his collar and his socks.
Still holding the scissors, he turned towards the door and fell back a step. Then he hurried across on tiptoe and put his eye to the keyhole.
Outside on the landing, the concierge must have been growing impatient and made some remark. For Mr. Hire stood up, buttoned his jacket, and opened the door, just a very few inches, putting his hand out in such a way that he himself could not be seen. The sound of the third-floor violin came through, and that of the wireless which someone had switched on when they got home. '
His door closed again, Mr. Hire looked at the envelope, turned it in all directions without opening it; then he fetched a knife from the cupboard where the gas-ring was, and slowly slit it open, unfolded the sheet of paper.
He made no gesture. His expression did not change. He simply sat down by the table, his eyes fixed on the brown paper he had previously been cutting up. He was not hearing the cars on the road, or the violin or the wireless. He was existing in a blur of sound, a humming that might have come from the stove or from his own pulse.
Alice had left her
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