Free The Erasers by Alain Robbe-Grillet Page B

it ’ s not a hotel. ”
    “ No, ” Wallas says, “ they only rent out a few rooms. ”
    Laurent goes to a shelf and picks out a ledger. After a moment of fruitless search, he asks:
    “ That ’ s strange, they ’ re not registered; are there many rooms? ”
    “ No, I don ’ t think so, ” Wallas answers. “ You see, your facts aren ’ t so exact after all! ”
    A broad smile lights up the chief commissioner ’ s face.
    “ On the contrary, you have to admire our resources, ” he says. “ The first person to sleep in this café comes to tell me about it himself, without even giving the landlord a chance! ”
    “ Why the first person? Suppose the murderer had slept there last night, what would you know about it? ”
    “ The landlord would have registered him and reported to me, as he ’ ll do for you—he has until noon. ”
    “ And if he doesn ’ t? ” Wallas asks.
    “ Well, in that case, we would have to admire your perspicacity in having found the only clandestine rooming house in town so quickly. It would even be bad for you in the long run; you ’ d be the first serious suspect I ’ ve found: recently arrived in town, living twenty yards from the scene of the crime, and completely unknown to the police! ”
    “ But I only arrived last night, at eleven! ” Wallas protests.
    “ If you weren ’ t registered, what proof would there be? ”
    “ At the time the crime was committed, I was a hundred kilometers from here; that can be verified. ”
    “ Of course! Don ’ t good murderers always have an alibi? ”
    Laurent sits down again behind his desk and considers Wallas with a smiling expression. Then he suddenly asks:
    “ Do you have a revolver? ”
    “ Yes, ” Wallas answers. “ This time I took one, on the advice of my chief. ”
    “ What for? ”
    “ You never know. ”
    “ Right, you never know. Would you show it to me please? ”
    Wallas hands him the gun, a 7.65 millimeter automatic revolver, a common model. Laurent examines it carefully, after having removed the clip. Finally, without looking at Wallas, he says in the tone of an obvious comment:
    “ One bullet ’ s missing. ”
    He hands the weapon back to its owner. Then, very quickly, he clasps his hands, separates the palms though keeping the fingers interlaced, brings his wrists together again and rubs his thumbs against each other. The hands separate and stretch; each doubles over with a faint clapping sound, opens once more and finally comes to rest on the desk, lying flat, the fingers spread apart at regular intervals.
    “ Yes, I know, ” Wallas answers.
    In making room for his ledgers, the commissioner has shifted the dossiers that cover his desk, thereby causing the piece of grayish eraser to reappear, an ink eraser probably, whose poor quality is betrayed by several worn, slightly shiny places.

     

 

     
     

    5
     
    Once the door is closed, the commissioner walks slowly back to his chair. He rubs his hands with satisfaction. So it is Roy-Dauzet who has had the body taken away! This kind of conspiracy story is worthy of the old lunatic ’ s grotesque imagination. And now he is sending his clan of secret agents and detectives all over the country—even the great Fabius and his consorts.
    Political crime? That, of course, would explain the complete failure of his own investigation—in any case it is a good excuse — but Laurent greatly distrusts the minister ’ s tendency to hysterical storytelling, so that he is delighted to see others besides himself set foot on this dangerous path. He has no difficulty imagining the mess they will be getting into: it is apparent, to begin with, that the confidential agent sent to the scene of the crime hadn ’ t heard of the hasty transfer of the body to the capital—his surprise was not made up. He seems full of good will, this Wallas; but what could he do with it? Besides, just what is his job anyway? He has not been very talkative; what does he really know about these “