Free Dirty Snow by Georges Simenon Page A

cakes, like nothing else that he had ever eaten, tasteless, thick, decorated with pink-and-blue sugar. She always kept them in a box with pictures from the adventures of Robinson Crusoe on it.
    And she insisted on calling him “my little angel.”
    Vilmos must be over eighty now, his sister around seventy-five. It was hard to tell exactly, since children have a different way of judging age. For him they had always been old, and Vilmos had been the first person he had ever seen who could remove all his teeth at once, since he wore dentures.
    They were misers, brother and sister, each as bad as the other.
    â€œShould I ring the bell?” asked Stan, who was uneasy standing there in the deserted square under the moonlight.
    Frank rang, surprised to find the bell rope so low, when once he had had to stand on tiptoe to reach it. He held his automatic in his right hand. His foot was ready to keep the door from closing, like the first time he had gone to Sissy’s. Footsteps could be heard inside, a sound like in a church. He remembered that, too. The hall, long and wide, with dark walls and mysterious doors like those of a sacristy, was paved with gray tiles, and two or three were always loose.
    â€œWho is it?”
    It was the voice of old Mademoiselle Vilmos, who was afraid of nothing.
    â€œThe priest sent me,” he replied.
    He heard the chain being pulled back. He pushed his foot against the door as it opened, his pistol at his waist. He said to Stan, who suddenly seemed awkward, “Go on!” Then to the old woman, “Where’s Vilmos?”
    God, how tiny and gray she was! She clasped her hands and stammered in her cracked voice, “But, my good sir, you know very well he’s been dead for a year.”
    â€œGive me the watches.”
    He remembered the hallway, the dark-brown wallpaper that was supposed to imitate Cordova leather and where traces of gold were still visible. The shop was to the left, with the workbench where Vilmos used to sit, bent over his watches, the little jeweler’s glass with the black rim screwed in his eye.
    â€œWhere are the watches?” He added, nervously, “The collection.” Then, raising the automatic, “Get it now!”
    Could it all go wrong? He hadn’t foreseen that Vilmos might be dead. With him it would have been easy. The watchmaker was such a coward that he would have given up his watches without a word.
    The old bag was made of different stuff. She had seen the automatic, all right, but you felt that she was still looking for a way out, that she wouldn’t give in, that she would fight to the end, taking her last chance.
    Then he heard a voice, Stan’s—Frank had forgotten about him. From deep in his throat, he drawled, “Maybe we could help her remember.”
    He must have done this before. Kromer obviously hadn’t chosen a novice. Maybe he hadn’t been entirely sure about Frank.
    The old woman had flattened herself against the wall. A pitiful yellowish-gray lock of hair hung over her face. She had held out both arms, her hands flat against the imitation-leather walls.
    He repeated almost mechanically, “The watches …”
    He hadn’t had much to drink and yet things seemed to be happening as if he were drunk. Everything was blurred, confused, with only certain details standing out, exaggeratedly clear: the lock of yellowish-gray hair, the hands flat against the wall, the old hands with their big blue veins …
    Usually so deliberate, he must have moved too quickly turning to say something to Stan, and the handkerchief slipped down. Before he could pull it up over his face, she exclaimed, “Frank!” Adding immediately—it was really too ridiculous—“Little Frank!”
    He repeated, his voice hard, “The watches!”
    â€œYou’ll find them. You always got what you wanted. But don’t hurt me—I’ll tell you … Oh God! Frank! Little