Free Missing Person by Patrick Modiano, Daniel Weissbort Page A

which was burning my fingers, in the ash tray.
    "Did we meet before we came to live here?" I said tentatively.
    "Yes. Two or three times. In your hotel..."
    "What hotel."
    "Rue Cambon. The Hôtel Castille. Do you remember the green room you had with Denise?"
    "Yes."
    "You'd left the Hôtel Castille because you didn't feel safe there ... That was why, wasn't it?"
    "Yes."
    "It really was a strange time ..."
    "What time?"
    She did not answer and lit another cigarette.
    "I'd like to show you some photos," I said.
    From the inside pocket of my jacket, I pulled out an envelope which I was never without now and in which I had put all the photos. I showed her the one of Freddie Howard de Luz, Gay Orlov, the unknown young woman and me, taken in the "summer dining-room."
    "Do you recognize me?"
    She had turned to look at the photo in the sunlight.
    "You're with Denise but I don't know the two others..."
    So, that was Denise.
    "You didn't know Freddie Howard de Luz?"
    "No."
    "Or Gay Orlov?"
    "No."
    People certainly lead compartmentalized lives and their friends do not know each other. It's unfortunate.
    "I have two more photos of her."
    I handed her the tiny passport photo and the other with her leaning her elbows on the railings.
    "I've already seen that photo," she said ... "I think she even sent it to me from Megève ... But I don't remember what I did with it now ..."
    I took the photo from her and looked at it closely. Megève. Behind Denise was a small window with wooden shutters. Yes, the shutters and the railings might well belong to a mountain chalet.
    "That journey to Megève really was an odd idea," I announced suddenly. "Did Denise ever tell you what she thought of it?"
    She was studying the little passport photo. I waited for her to answer, my heart beating hard. She raised her head.
    "Yes .. . She spoke to me about it... She told me that Megève was a safe place... And that you could always cross the border ..."
    "Yes... Of course..."
    I did not dare continue. Why am I so diffident and apprehensive, when it comes to something that means a lot to me? She too - I could tell from her look - would have welcomed some explanation. The two of us remained silent. Finally, she took the plunge:
    "But what did happen at Megève?"
    She put this question so urgently that for the first time I felt discouraged, and even more than that, desperate, the kind of despair that overwhelms you when you realize that in spite of your efforts, your good qualities, all your goodwill, you are running into an insurmountable obstacle.
    "I'll tell you about it... Another day..
    There must have been something distraught in my voice or my expression, because she squeezed my arm as though to console me and said:
    "Forgive me asking you indiscreet questions ... But... I was a friend of Denise …"
    "I understand ..."
    She had got up.
    "Wait a moment..."
    She left the room. I looked down at the patches of sunlight on the white wool rugs. Then at the parquet and the rectangular table, and the old mannequin which had belonged to "Denise." Surely, I must finally recognize one of the places where I had lived.
    She returned, holding something in her hand. Two books. And a diary.
    "Denise forgot this when she left. Here . . . you have them..."
    I was surprised she had not put these souvenirs in a box, as Styoppa de Dzhagorev and the former gardener of Freddie's mother had done. Indeed, it was the first time in the course of my investigations that I had not been given a box. This thought made me laugh.
    "What are you laughing at?"
    "Nothing."
    I studied the covers of the books. One showed the face of a Chinaman, with a moustache and bowler hat, looming out of a bluish fog. The title: Charlie Chan. The other cover was yellow and at the bottom was a design of a mask and a goose quill. The book was called, Anonymous Letters.
    "Denise simply consumed detective novels..." she said. "There's this too ..."
    She handed me the little crocodile-skin diary. "Thanks."
    I opened