Free She Who Was No More by Pierre Boileau Page A

I’m glad I’ve run into you. I was wanting to see you.’
    ‘What can I do for you?’
    ‘It’s that lavoir of ours. I’m worried about it. One day it’s going to fall on our heads.’
    ‘What? That shed at the end of your garden?’
    ‘Yes. If you’ve got a moment to spare you might have a look at it now. Only last weekend, my wife was saying—’
    ‘The thing is, I’ve got to get to the yard.’
    ‘Come on. The yards can wait for you. And we’ll have a glass of Muscadet. There’s nothing like starting the day on Muscadet. And I’ve some pretty good stuff. I get it direct from the grower, who’s a friend of mine.’
    Goutre allowed himself to be persuaded. He got into the car.
    ‘But I mustn’t be long. Tailhade’s waiting for me…’
    They had only a few hundred yards to go, past villas of fussy architecture. Nothing was said. When Ravinel drew up in front of Le Gai Logis he gave a toot on his horn.
    ‘Don’t get out. My wife’ll come and open the gate.’
    ‘She may not be up yet.’
    ‘At this time of day? Go on! Most of all on a Saturday.’
    He tried to smile, gave another long toot.
    ‘The shutters are still closed,’ remarked Goutre.
    Ravinel got out of the car. ‘Mireille!’ he called.
    Goutre got out too.
    ‘Funny! I told her I was coming. I always let her know when I can.’
    Ravinel opened the gate. The clouds were thinning out, leaving transient streaks of blue.
    ‘St. Martin’s summer,’ sneered Goutre.
    Then he added:
    ‘You’re letting your gate rust, Monsieur Ravinel. It badly needs a coat of red lead.’
    A newspaper was stuck halfway into the mailbox that was perched on one of the gateposts. When he pulled it out, a postcard came with it.
    ‘Hallo! Here’s my card,’ he muttered. ‘Mireille can’t be here. Must have gone to see her brother. I hope nothing’s wrong. He hasn’t been in good shape since the war.’
    He walked up to the house.
    ‘I’ll join you in a moment. Just going to take my things off. You know the way.’
    There was a musty smell in the house. He switched on the hall light, which was fitted with a pink silk lampshade that Mireille had made herself, with the aid of instructions she had read in a magazine. Goutre remained standing on the lawn.
    ‘Go on,’ Ravinel called out. ‘I’ll catch up with you.’
    He loitered in the kitchen so as to allow Goutre to get there first. He heard him saying:
    ‘Fine endives you’ve got here. You’ve got green thumbs all right, I must say.’
    Ravinel followed him leaving the front door open. He lit a cigarette to help him keep his composure.
    Goutre had already reached the lavoir. He went in, and Ravinel stopped dead, incapable of advancing another step. He could hardly breathe.
    ‘Monsieur Ravinel…’
    Goutre was calling him. In vain Ravinel tried to make his legs move. They wouldn’t. What was he to do? Shoutfor help? Burst into tears? Goutre reappeared standing in the doorway.
    ‘I say, have you seen this?’
    At last Ravinel’s limbs were released. He ran forward. ‘What? What is it?’
    ‘Good heavens, you don’t need to take it like that. It’s not beyond repair. Look at this.’
    He led Ravinel in and pointed to a beam. With his foot-rule he scraped the wood and it fell in powder.
    ‘Rotten. Rotten right through. We’ll have to take it out altogether and put a new rafter in.’
    Ravinel stood with his back to the water. He hadn’t the courage to turn round and look.
    ‘Yes… I see… Quite rotten…’ he stammered lamely.
    ‘Then there’s this board…’
    Goutre turned. Not so Ravinel. He went on gazing at the roof, the rafters of which seemed now to be turning like a huge wheel. A sickening feeling—he thought he was going to faint.
    ‘The cement’s all right,’ went on Goutre, quite naturally, ‘but the woodwork. What can you expect. Everything wears out in time.’
    The fool! With an immense effort Ravinel turned round. He dropped his cigarette. The stream was in front