Free Dirty Snow by Georges Simenon

come to see him every Sunday, in summer at least—he remembered her big white straw hats. There wasn’t a more beautiful woman in the world. His wet-nurse, every time Lotte came, would cross her red hands over her stomach in an ecstasy of admiration.
    Lotte didn’t always come alone. Five or six times there had been a man with her—a different one each time, with a reserved air, at whom she glanced uneasily. She’d say with affected gaiety, “And this is my Frank!”
    It never seemed to work out, for one reason or another. When she put him in school in town as a boarder, Frank had understood, and begged her not to come see him anymore in the visitors’ parlor, although she always brought him presents.
    â€œBut why?”
    â€œNo reason.”
    â€œHave your little friends said something to you?”
    â€œNo.”
    She wanted him to be a doctor or a lawyer. It was an obsession.
    Luckily the war had come and the schools closed for a few months. When they reopened, he was past fifteen.
    â€œI’m not going back to school,” he announced.
    â€œWhy, Frank?”
    â€œBecause.”
    He never knew whether it was because he reminded her of someone, but even as a small boy he had noticed that when he assumed a certain expression, his mother wouldn’t insist. As if terrified, she would let him have his way.
    His “closed” expression, she always called it.
    Since then, life had been so complicated for everyone that Lotte didn’t mention his education again. They had got into the habit of saying, “Later, when it’s all over.”
    And it went on. And he was a man now. It wasn’t so long ago that, during an argument in which he was the calmer of the two, he had tossed back at her, quite calmly, with his eyes like two pinpricks, “Whore!”
    Now just as calmly he ordered Adler, “Stop.”
    A little off the square. There was a street to the right where a car wouldn’t be noticed. Anyway, there was no one around. Hardly any lights shone in the windows, since the villagers kept their shutters tightly closed. You could scarcely imagine any life going on inside. The windows of the school were dark, too. How many panes of glass in those five windows had he broken with a ball!
    â€œComing?” he said to the man in the back.
    And the latter, rough but friendly, replied, “Call me Stan.” Then, slapping his empty pockets, he added, “Your pal said not to bring anything. That right?”
    Frank had his automatic, which was enough. Adler would wait for them in the car.
    â€œYou sure?” Stan asked, trying to catch his eye.
    Adler sneered as if disgusted and said, “That’s what I’m here for!”
    The snow crunched under their feet more noisily than in town. Gardens could be made out behind the houses, pine trees, hedges silvered with ice. The Vilmos house was to the right, set back a little from the square.
    The house showed no light, but the rooms where they lived were in the back.
    â€œLet me handle this.”
    â€œFine.”
    â€œWe may have to frighten them.”
    â€œSure.”
    â€œWe may have to get a little rough.”
    â€œOkay!”
    It was years since he had been here, but it was impossible for his feet not to follow in his old footsteps. The watch-maker Vilmos and his watches, and his famous garden, these were perhaps his most vivid childhood memories.
    Even before reaching the door, he seemed to recognize the smell of the house, which had always had old people in it, since as far as he was concerned the watchmaker Vilmos and his sister had never been young.
    Frank took a dark handkerchief out of his pocket and tied it around his face below his eyes. Stan was about to protest.
    â€œYou don’t need one. They don’t know you. But if you like …”
    He handed him a similar handkerchief; he had thought of everything.
    He still remembered Mademoiselle Vilmos’s