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[pp. 204-206]
He turned the bend and ahead of him, throwing up a cloud of sandy dust, was a pale blue Rover. It was driving down the center of the track. "God almighty!" said Burger. He turned the Mercedes to the right of the track. At the same time the other driver saw him, slowed right down, and swung to his right. The two cars crawled toward one another. The driver of the Rover was leaning across toward Burger and waving his arm. It was Harrison, and when Burger drew level with him he said, "Can you hold it a minute? I've got the police behind me. They want a word with everybody."
Dorothea began to bit her top lip. She didn't look across at Harrison. It was as if she hadn't realized that the car had stopped and that Harrison and Burger were talking.
"Why, sure," said Burger. "Just dropping down to Les Sables for an hour. My wife's not too well. Thought she might appreciate a change."
"I think they want a word with all of us," said Harrison.
"Well, of course," said Burger. "Only too glad to help. Sorry she's still missing. Thought you were giving her another hour."
"It's my wife," said Harrison. "She's pretty worried. She said we oughtn't to wait any longer."
"Sorry," said Burger. He could hear Dorothea beginning to whimper beside him. She was sniffing. It sounded as if she'd begun to cry again. He put out a hand toward her without turning away from Harrison, and she seized it in both her hands and clung to it.
"I don't know what's become of her," said Harrison. He sounded almost resigned to the idea that something had become of Elizabeth.
"I sure am sorry," said Burger. He put the car back into gear and said, "Tell them we'll be back by four."
"Well, I really think . . ." said Harrison.
When Burger looked away from Harrison and up the track, he saw the black Renault drawing up behind the Rover. The doors opened and two policemen got out. One of them stood by the Renault and waved his arms to Burger. Burger put the Mercedes in neutral and switched the engine off.
The second policeman waved Harrison on, and the Rover rolled down the track toward the villas. The policeman gave a little smile to Burger, saluted, and said, "Monsieur." When he looked inside the car and saw Dorothea he said, "Madame." He was in his thirties. He was very neat and dark and his cheeks looked polished. He smelt of aftershave lotion. He moved with precise little gestures as if he was absolutely sure of his position and the extent of his authority. He leaned a little toward Burger and said, "Parlez-vous français, Monsieur?"
"I don't speak French," said Burger. "Non comprendo."
"Ah," said the policeman. "You--er--are staying in one of the villas?"
"Yeah, sure," said Burger.
"Perhaps you would return," said the policeman. He had the tips of his fingers resting on the sill of the car door. They were small fingers, beautifully manicured. On one of them he wore a broad gold ring.
"My wife's not well," said Burger. "I was taking her for a run around. Just an hour or so, that's all."
The policeman shook his head. "A child is missing," he said. "A little--er-- girl. You will understand we have to make inquiries." He gave a little shrug and tapped a finger on the metal sill. "If you will go back and wait, we will come and visit you in the villa. It will be necessary to see your papers and ask one or two questions. Hm?"
"Sure," said Burger. "If she's really missing--of course."
The policeman gave a little nod and stood up. Burger started the car, and the policeman waved him backward down the track.
[pp. 209-210]
As long as he walked, with his long loping stride and his hands pushed deep in his trouser pockets, Richard could control his feelings. He walked northward out of St. Julien and onto D80. He walked toward Les Sables and then across the marsh road to L'Ile d'Olonne. And all the time he was torn between a yearning and impossible desire for Madame Girard and an absolute hatred of her. He could still hear that tinkling laugh of hers, directed not so much against himself as against the whole absurd idea of anyone having such a depth of feeling as he had expressed. It wasn't him, Richard, but love itself she was laughing at. It was a laugh that made him ashamed of his feelings.
The wind was dying. Perhaps it only blew on the coast and not as far inland as the marsh. Or perhaps the pine forest took the strength out of it and gave it a kinder edge. It was hot. The sun glistened on the stretch of marsh. The sky was the color of steel. He passed a gate over which a man, dressed in blue overalls and wearing a cap, leaned. The man didn't speak or nod. He watched Richard stride past him. He had a look of mild amusement on his face, as if the sight of a young man walking in the afternoon heat at such a pace was somehow slightly comic. Richard didn't care. He knew his eyes must be red and he could feel the sweat trickling down his face and neck, but he didn't care. "Peasant," he muttered. "Peasant, peasant, grinning peasant!"
At St. Martin he turned again toward the coast and walked down the west side of the marsh. His walk had slowed. The earlier emotions that had driven him on despite the heat had softened. The conflict was less violent. Somehow the vigorous physical activity had produced the start of a reconciliation within him. He could see the wound without any longer being totally identified with it. He could view it as something slightly to one side of himself, something that no longer corroded the absolute core of his life.
He stood between the forest and the marsh. He stood with his thin arms over the top rail of a gate, looking westward over the dark pines to the Atlantic. Far away were the white sails of little ships and far beyond them the steel-blue distance where sea blended into sky. In the forest lay the villas, with Mrs. Davies perhaps complaining that his lunch was ruined and wondering what Uncle David was doing in London all by himself. And beyond the villas the stetch of pale sand with the big striped umbrellas and the girls lying on their backs in bikinis and smelling of Ambre Solaire. He thought of Madame Girard with her beautiful body and quick, provocative smile and suddenly he knew that he would get over it. He could see a point in the future at which the thought of her would still fill him with pleasure but no longer with pain. He would think of her perhaps as a foreigner living in a foreign country, growing old in a little town on the edge of the rolling Atlantic, someone he had known a long time in the past. But he wouldn't think of her any longer with passion and trembling desire. Time, he knew now, would bring him through.
"Damn you, Lucienne!" he muttered. But it was an oath tinged only with regret and nostalgia. It wasn't any longer a curse from the heart.
[p. 211]
He turned down the track toward the beach. As he reached the police car, a policeman put up his hand and said, "Un moment, monsieur."
Richard said, "What is it? I live here."
"Perhaps you have not heard," said the policeman. "A little girl is missing. We shall ask you to help us."
[p. 212]
Richard said, "Somebody's missing. A little girl. I thought . . ."
Thelma grinned. She said, "It's Elizabeth. They can't find her."
"How long?" said Richard.
"All day," said Thelma. "I expect she'll turn up. Mummy was furious with you for not coming home to lunch."
"I don't care," said Richard.
"And Bob's been looking for you. He wants to see you."
"What about?"
"I don't know. I told him you weren't here. Did you see Madame Girard?"
"Mind your own business."
[pp. 212-213]
When she saw Richard, Mrs. Davies said, "Where have you been, Richard? You cause me more worry than Thelma ever does. If only you'd say where you're going. If only you'd warn me that you're likely to be out for lunch."
"I didn't know I was going to be out," said Richard.
"You haven't seen Elizabeth, have you?"
"No," said Richard.
"Poor Mrs. Harrison thinks she's got lost."
"She couldn't have got lost," said Richard. "Where is there round here to get lost?"
"Richard, she's only nine. At nine it's possible to get lost anywhere. Mrs. Harrison's waiting here until she turns up. I'm going to phone Uncle David and ask him to come from London."
"What for?" said Richard. "What do you want him to come for? What can he do?"
Mrs. Davies looked at Mrs. Harrison. Mrs. Harrison didn't appear to be listening. She had a cup of tea in her hand and it had gone cold. Mrs. Davies put a hand on Richard's arm and said quietly, "Richard, I want a word with you."
Richard followed her into the kitchen. Mrs. Davies said, "Really, Richard, you might use your imagination. I couldn't tell you in front of Mrs. Harrison when she's worried out of her mind about Elizabeth. But there is Thelma, you know. I mean, whatever it is that's happened to Elizabeth, it might happen to Thelma as well. Suppose there's somebody--some man in the area. . . . If one little girl's disappeared, others might follow. I'm not letting Thelma out of my sight. Now, I'm not saying anything has happened to Elizabeth. I'm quite sure it hasn't. But if if has . . ."
"Thelma can take care of herself," said Richard.
"Thelma's independent and she's self-assured, but she's still only nine. Only just nine. I'm asking Uncle David to come if he possibly can because I don't feel I can manage by myself."
"You could have asked me," said Richard. "I could have helped."
"You're only a boy," said Mrs. Davies. "It's good of you to offer, but we do need a man. At least Thelma will take some notice of Uncle David."
[pp. 214-218]
When Richard came down, Inspector Laporte said, "Monsieur," and gave a little nod of the head and pointed to one of the armchairs.
Richard sat down.
"We are--er--making inquiries about a little girl who is missing," said Laporte. "Elizabeth Harrison. Did you know her?"
"Not really," said Richard.
"But you had seen her?"
"Yes. She had long hair and she was staying in the next villa. She was a friend of Thelma's. I didn't really know her."
"Have you seen her today?"
"Well--no, I don't think so. Not today," said Richard.
"You came back here only a short time ago?"
"Yes."
"And where had you been?"
"Walking," said Richard.
"All the time?"
"Yes."
The policemen looked at one another.
"Surely--the heat. Didn't you find it very hot?"
"I didn't notice," said Richard.
"Which way did you walk?"
"Into St. Julien, then across the marsh, then up to St. Martin."
"And you didn't find it hot?"
"Well, I suppose it was," said Richard. He began to feel uncomfortable. He began to realize they thought he was hiding something. He said, "Well, yes. It was hot. I remember I was sweating."
"And who did you see on this walk?"
"No one," said Richard.
"No one? No one at all in--er--perhaps fifteen kilometers?"
"No," said Richard. He wasn't going to tell them about Madame Girard because it had nothing to do with them and nothing at all to do with Elizabeth's disappearance.
"Monsieur," said Laporte. "If we are to believe your story, it really is necessary for you to tell us if you saw anyone."
"Oh, Richard," said Mrs. Davies. "Don't be so stubborn. You must tell them if you saw anyone. If you don't tell them, they'll only think you're hiding something."
"Please, madame," said Laporte.
"No," said Richard.
"Was it the little girl--Elizabeth?" said Laporte.
His companion was scribbling in his notebook, standing to Richard's side. Richard moved in the armchair and said, "No. I've told you I haven't seen Elizabeth all day."
"But you did see someone?"
"Yes," said Richard. "Someone."
"Who?"
"I can't tell you. I'm not going to tell you." He put his head in his hands and stared at the floor.
"But you must."
"For goodness' sake, Richard!" said Mrs. Davies.
"Madame!"
"But he's only making it look terribly suspicious," said Mrs. Davies.
"Please, madame," said Laporte firmly. "I must ask you to let him answer the questions himself."
"But you can see what he's doing. He's my son! Richard, tell them. Please!"
"Oh, God!" said Richard, getting up out of the armchair and walking to the window. "All right. I don't care! I went to see Madame Girard!"
"Madame Girard!" said Mrs. Davies, looking totally confused.
"She used to work for us," said Richard. "Now she's with a German in the Avenue des Pins. I went to see her because I love her and because I couldn't keep away from her."
"Love her?" cried Mrs. Davies. "Richard, what absolute nonsense are you talking?"
"Madame, I shall have to ask you to leave the room if you do not stop interrupting. We are conducting an inquiry into the disappearance of a little girl. It is a very serious matter. Now be so good as to keep quiet."
Inspector Laporte looked very annoyed, and Mrs. Davies said, "Very well. But he doesn't realize that by lying to you . . ."
"I'm not lying!" said Richard. "If you hadn't been blind, you'd have known ages ago. Thelma knew. I thought everybody knew."
Mrs. Davies sat with her hands together on her lap. She was too shocked to say anything more. She looked at Richard with infinite disapproval as if she had never really seen him before.
The policemen exchanged a few words with one another. They nodded. "Madame Lucienne Girard?" said one of them.
"Yes," said Richard.
The policemen looked at one another and nodded, as if Madame Girard was already well known to them. Then Laporte said, "She is your mistress?"
"Was," said Richard.
"And now she is living with this German?"
"Yes. His name's Meyer."
"Ah, yes," said Laporte. "Herr Meyer. From Stuttgart."
"I don't know where he's from," said Richard. "I don't care."
"And Madame Girard can--er--corroborate your story?"
"She can tell you I went to see her. Yes--if that's what you mean."
"And you saw her before or after your walk to St. Martin?"
"Before," said Richard.
"And she upset you and so you made the walk?"
"Yes," said Richard.
"She doesn't want to see you anymore?"
"No. The German's been giving her presents. I can't give her presents, so she doesn't want me," said Richard.
The policemen looked at one another again and nodded. They looked as if they understood the problems of a young man in love.
"I'm sorry," said Inspector Laporte. "It was necessary to know if your story could be--er--supported by a witness. I must ask you, of course, not to leave the area for a few hours. Until we have made more inquiries."
[p. 220]
What was childhood if it wasn't innocence? That was the whole problem of the world--it corrupted childish innocence. Wasn't that what the whole of religion was about: how to preserve natural innocence?
[pp. 220-221]
The thought was a great comfort to her. She took Thelma by the hands and crouched down beside her. "Darling," she said, earnestly. "I don't want to worry you and I don't want you to be frightened, but something may have happened to Elizabeth, and I don't want you to leave the villa. Nearly everyone in the world is nice and kind, but you know there are a very few people who are not. You don't always know who they are. You can't always tell just by looking at them. So I don't want you to talk to anyone and I don't want you to leave me until Elizabeth's been found."
"Suppose they never find her?" said Thelma.
"Oh, they'll find her," said Mrs. Davies. "The police always find people, but not always straightaway. Now you'll promise me, won't you, darling?"
Thelma nodded and said, "I promise, Mummy."
[p. 220]
"I wish to Christ," said Burger when the police had gone, "that you'd lay off that stuff, Dolly!"
He took the half-empty bottle of Courvoisier from her and put it on the mantelshelf. He looked at her for a moment, then walked the length of the room, turned, and walked back again. How long, he was wondering, was she going to hold up under this kind of pressure? She wasn't built for it. He went to the window and stood with his hands in the hip pockets of his pants, staring through the pines to the sea. . . .
[pp. 223-224]
Burger went over to Dorothea, took her by the arm, and helped her up from the sofa. She didn't protest. She clung to his shoulder with her free hand and let him lead her upstairs and undress her and put her to bed. She was saying, "Bob, I'm sorry. Bob, don't leave me," over and over again, and sniffing to stop her nose running. When he had covered her up, he gave her a kiss on the forehead and she said, "Where are you going? What are we going to do?"
"I don't care about the police," said Burger. "We're getting out. It doesn't matter if we have to leave every goddamn thing we possess. It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter about the car. We can get another car. What's important is us. You and me, Dolly."
"Oh, Bob . . . ," said Dorothea, putting out a hand from the bedclothes and stroking his forearm covered in golden hairs. She looked so very vulnerable with her blue eyes wide open and brimming with tears, and a look of such intense pleading on her face. He brushed the hair away from her forehead and suddenly got up.
"But there's that little bastard with the photographs. Richard. We can't leave him here with those. We can't stop the police taking whatever line they've decided on, but by Christ we can stop him helping them."
[pp. 239-240]
Burger came to the door of the villa. He looked at Richard for a moment, standing there with his long arms limp as his sides, then he said, "Better come in. Better sit down."
Richard sat down and looked around the room. Burger closed the door behind him and dropped the latch. He walked across the room in front of Richard. He moved as if he was caged, as if he had been walking in some narrow confined space for hour after hour and felt the need to smash the constriction and get out. He exuded constrained physical power. He was ramming one fist rhythmically into the palm of the other hand. He turned and said sharply, "You want a drink?"
"Thanks," said Richard. "Have you any Scotch?"
"Sure," said Burger, turning two glasses the right way up and screwing the cap off the bottle. "How'll you take it?"
"I'm not sure," said Richard. "How do you drink it?"
"Straight, on ice, with dry ginger--any way you like."
"Dry ginger, please," said Richard.
Burger got a bottle of dry ginger out of the fridge and poured some into each of the glasses. He gave one glass to Richard and lifted his own. "Bung ho, or whatever you limeys say," said Burger.
Richard looked at him, standing with his back to the fireplace. He didn't quite understand the implications of the remark. He said, "Cheers." He took a sip, let it rest in his mouth for a moment, swallowed it, and said, "It's got a sweet taste."
"Yeah, sweet," said Burger. He walked across the room, then sat down heavily in an airchair facing Richard. He leaned toward Richard and pointed at him with his glass. He said, "You know what, you scab-assed little bastard, I ought to kick the living crap out of you here and now!"
The sudden savage fury with which Richard spoke shocked Richard. His face and neck flushed and then paled to a parchment yellow. His mouth opened and closed, but he said nothing. He could think of nothing at all to say because the attack was so unexpected. He thought for a moment that Burger was about to get up out of the armchair and batter him with his fists. The hand that Burger was point with was shaking. so that a trickle of whiskey ran down the side of it and on to his big hairy hand.
[p. 241]
Burger leaned further forward and took hold of Richard's arm. He gripped it so that it hurt. The drink that Richard was holding began to slop over the rim of the glass. He tried to pull his arm free, but Burger was holding it too tightly. He said, "Mr. Burger, you're hurting!"
"See here," said Burger more quietly, "if I wanted I could pull it clear out of the socket." He sounded as if he meant it.
Richard said, "I don't understand anything you've said."
"Well, now, that's too bad," said Burger. "Because until you do, you're not leaving this room. I've got all day. I've not visits planned and nobody's visiting me."
"Please," said Richard, still trying to free his arm. The expression on his face showed how much Burger was hurting him.
Suddenly Burger let go, and Richard put down his drink and rubbed his arm. He was furious, yet on the verge of tears. It was not so much the pain as the frustration at being faced with Burger's fury without in the least knowing its cause.
[p. 242]
"I can see you're very angry, Mr. Burger," said Richard. "I know that. I know you're angry with me. But honestly, I don't know why. I don't know what you think I've done."
"Jesus, you innocent little punk!" said Burger. He drank his drink and swung the glass easily between his finger and thumb. "Well, all right, then," he said. "Let's just take it from the beginning. You broke in here, now you admit that, don't you?"
"Broke in? I didn't break in anywhere."
"Don't lie, boy! I'm as liable to break your back as not. You left marks, you left sand under the bed, you pulled this room to pieces. You remember pulling the drawers out? You remember tossing the books on the floor? You remember taking a can of Coke out of the fridge? You remember lying under that bed and listening to everything we said, then getting onto the garage roof when we'd gone? You remember that, boy, don't you?"
"I don't know what you're talking about, Mr. Burger. I've never been in here before. I've never been in the bedroom or the fridge or any other place in your villa. Why would I want to? I'm not a thief."
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