Out of the Dark by Patrick Modiano

to spell it for me: BEHOUST .
    'I'm sorry,' I said. 'But I thought Dr. Robbes had moved away. There's another name on the list of tenants.'
    And I pointed at it, and Cartaud's name.
    'He's a colleague of Dr. Robbes …'
    I saw the wariness come back into his face. He said:
    'Good-bye, monsieur.'
    And he quickly closed the door behind him.
    Outside, I decided to walk to the métro stop at the Gare Saint-Lazare. The suitcase really wasn't heavy at all. The boulevard was deserted, the façades of the buildings were dark, and from time to time a car passed by, headed for the Place de I'Étoile. It might have been a mistake to knock on the concierge's door, since he would be able to give my description. I reassured myself with the thought that no one ­not Cartaud, not the ghostly Dr. Robbes, not the concierge of number 160 – could touch me. Yes, what I had done – entering a strange apartment and taking a suitcase that didn't belong to me, an act that for someone else could be quite serious – was of no consequence for me.
    I didn't want to go back to the Quai de la Tournelle right away. I climbed the stairs in the train station and came out into the huge lobby known as the Salle des Pas Perdus. There were still many people heading toward the platforms of the suburban lines. I sat down on a bench with the suitcase between my legs. Little by little I began to feel as though I too were a traveler or a soldier on leave. The Gare Saint-Lazare offered me an escape route that extended far beyond the suburbs or the province of Normandy, where these trains were headed. Buy a ticket for Le Havre, Cartaud's town. And from Le Havre, disappear anywhere, anywhere in the world, through the Porte Océane …
    Why did they call this the Salle des Pas Perdus, the room of lost steps? It probably took only a little time here before nothing meant anything anymore, not even your footsteps.
    I walked to the buffet restaurant at the far end of the lobby. There were two soldiers sitting on the terrace, each with a suitcase identical to mine. I nearly asked them for the little key to their suitcases so that I could try to open the one I was carrying. But I was afraid that once it was open the bundles of banknotes it contained would be visible to everyone around me, and particularly to one of the plainclothes officers I had heard about: the station police. Those two words made me think of Jacqueline and Van Bever, as if they had dragged me into an affair that would expose me to the menace of the station police for the rest of my life.
    I went into the buffet restaurant and decided to sit down at one of the tables near the bay windows overlooking the Rue d'Amsterdam. I wasn't hungry. I ordered a grenadine. I kept the suitcase clasped between my legs. There was a couple at the next table speaking in quiet voices. The man was dark-haired, in his thirties, with pockmarked skin over his cheekbones. He hadn't taken off his overcoat. The woman also had dark hair and was wearing a fur coat. They were finishing their dinner. The woman was smoking Royales, like Jacqueline. Sitting next to them, a fat black briefcase and a leather suitcase of the same color. I wondered if they had just arrived in Paris or if they were about to leave. The woman said in a more audible voice:
    'We could just take the next train.'
    'When is it?'
    'Ten fifteen.'
    'OK,' said the man.
    They were looking at each other in an odd way. Ten fifteen. That was about when Jacqueline would call me at the hotel on the Quai de la Tournelle.
    The man paid the check and they stood up. He picked up the black briefcase and the suitcase. They passed by my table, but they took no notice of me at all.
    The waiter leaned down toward me.
    'Have you decided?'
    He was pointing at the menu.
    'This section is reserved for diners … I can't serve you just a drink …'
    'I'm waiting for someone,' I told him.
    Through the bay window I suddenly saw the man and the woman, on the sidewalk of the Rue d'Amsterdam. He