Free Dirty Snow by Georges Simenon Page B

Frank!”
    She seemed reassured, but at the same time even more frightened. She had lost her immobility. Her mind was beginning to work again. She trotted off down the hall, toward the kitchen, where Frank noticed a wicker armchair with an orange cat curled up in a ball on a red cushion.
    She seemed to be talking to herself, or praying, her bony limbs rattling about in her baggy old clothes.
    Was she just stalling? She cast a furtive glance at Stan, probably wondering if it wouldn’t be easier to rouse his pity.
    â€œWhat do you need them for? When I think about my poor brother, he used to be so happy to show them to you, he used to hold them up to your ear and make them strike one after the other, and I always had candy for you … There’s no candy to be found anymore … You can’t find anything … I’d be better off dead …”
    She began to cry, the way she always did, but it could be just a trick.
    â€œThe watches!”
    â€œHe moved them from place to place, with all the things going on. He’s been dead a year and you never knew! If he were here, I’m sure …”
    What was she so sure of? It was too absurd. It was time to put an end to it. Adler must be getting impatient and would be likely to leave without them.
    â€œWhere are the watches?”
    She still found time to poke at a log in the fireplace and turn her back on him, intentionally he was sure, before spitting out, “Under the tile …”
    â€œWhich tile?”
    â€œ You know perfectly well . The cracked one. The third.”
    Stan stayed in the kitchen to watch the old woman while Frank went to look for something to pry the tile loose. She had offered him coffee. Frank vaguely heard her saying, “He used to come almost every day, and I always had cakes for him in that box over there.” Then she added, lowering her voice as if she hadn’t been talking to a man with a handkerchief tied around his face, “My Lord, monsieur, can he have become a robber? And armed, too! Is the pistol loaded?”
    Frank had found the watches, all in their cases, covered with old sacking. He called out sharply, “Stan!”
    It was over now. They only had to leave. Stupidly, the old woman stammered, “You don’t think he’d like a cup of coffee?”
    â€œStan!”
    She clung to them, following them into the hall.
    â€œOh Lord, who ever would have thought! I who …”
    They only had to leave, to go back to the car that was waiting two hundred yards away. Even if she could shout loud enough to rouse the neighbors, it wouldn’t matter, since there wasn’t a car in the village that had any gas, and the telephones didn’t work at night.
    He cracked open the door and saw the square bathed in moonlight, without a trace of life. He said to his companion, “You go on ahead …”
    And the other knew what that meant. The old woman had seen Frank’s face. She knew him. There were times when you could count on the protection of the Occupation forces. Other times, you never knew why, they wouldn’t lift a finger to help you, and the police were quick to take advantage. No matter how well you thought you knew them, their behavior remained a mystery.
    No one was safe.
    Stan started walking away, holding the sack full of watches in his arms. You could hear the crunching of the hard snow.
    The door closed behind him. He must have heard a dull report. Then the door opened again. He saw a rectangle of yellow light that narrowed before disappearing altogether.
    Footsteps came up to him. A hand out of the darkness took hold of the sack again.
    Then, just before reaching the car, while there were still only the two of them, Stan said, “An old woman!”
    His remark found no echo, and in the car Frank passed back his pack of cigarettes and curtly ordered, “Back to town.”
    He was going to have a bad time, but he knew it wouldn’t last