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[pp. 243-246]
"You ought to be in pictures," said Burger. "I didn't expect this kind of resilience." He sat back on the settee looking at Richard. Then he said, "All right. Let's see if we can't refresh your memory." He got up and went to the drawer in the table and took out the photograph of the newspaper article. "There," he said, giving the photograph to Richard. "That give you any idea?"
Richard sniffed and took the photograph. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. He looked at the photograph and then at Burger. He said, "But . . ."
"You've seen that before, haven't you?" said Burger.
"Yes," said Richard. "I've seen it before. But . . ."
"One step at a time," said Burger. "Just one at a time. Where did you see it?"
"In the cellar," said Richard. "Where I do my photography." What had the bloody child been doing? he thought. How could she have let Burger get his hands on that picture?
"Where did you take the picture?"
"I didn't take it," said Richard.
"For Christ's sake!" said Burger. "You've just said you had it in the cellar."
"But I didn't take it," said Richard.
"Then how come you had it in the cellar?"
"It was given to me. I did the processing, that's all. I didn't know what was on the film until I'd developed and printed it."
"You run a little business, do you?" said Burger, gripping Richard by the wrist. "People just drop their films in on you and you process them--is that it?"
"No," said Richard. "I did this--this was a request. I don't normally. I just do my own."
"All right," said Burger, "and who requested it? Who gave you the film to process?"
"I can't . . . ," said Richard, but when Burger gave his wrist a sudden backward bend he cried, "My sister! For God's sake, don't!"
Burger stopped bending the wrist and said, "Your sister?" as if he didn't believe Richard a moment and might even burst out laughing at the idea. "Thelma?"
Richard pulled his wrist clear of Burger's grasp and said, "Yes, Thelma."
"You're really trying to tell me Thelma broke in here and took that picture? That's what you want me to believe?"
"I don't care whether you believe it or not," said Richard. "It's true. You gave her a camera, didn't you? She told me you'd given her a camera for her birthday. She got me to show her how to use it."
Burger got up. He rubbed his mouth with his hand. He poured another drink for himself and walked to the far end of the bookcase. His shoulders were hunched and he was staring at the carpet in from of him. He was thinking, "Thelma. The little girl with the gap in her teeth. Is is possible?"
"Where did you get the picture?" said Richard.
Burger looked up and said, "I don't believe you. She couldn't do it. Not at her age."
"She could do anything," said Richard. "She gave me some other pictures too."
"What other pictures?" said Burger.
"Well," said Richard. "I don't--er--they were compromising."
"Sex pictures?" said Burger.
"Look, I didn't know when I processed them what they were. I didn't know until they were developed. I didn't know she'd taken pictures like that."
"Why didn't you tell me? Why didn't you tell your mother?" said Burger. He began to have an uneasy feeling that the boy might just be telling the truth. He gave no indication that he knew Burger had seen one of the pictures.
"Can I get up?" said Richard. "My head. . . ." He had a hand across his ear.
"Have another drink," said Burger. His attitude to Richard had changed. He wasn't sympathetic, but the edge had gone from his anger as his doubts had increased. He took Richard's glass from the floor and poured another drink. "O.K.," said Burger. "Get up if you want."
Richard got up and took the drink. It tasted sweet and he didn't really like it, but it did make him feel easier. He said, "Look, Mr. Burger, I know it sounds fantastic, but I didn't take those pictures. She took them on the camera you gave her. I only developed them."
"I said why didn't you tell me?" said Burger.
"Oh, God!" said Richard. "I wish I had." He walked around the back of the settee and stood staring at the sideboard with its array of bottles and glasses. "It wouldn't have made any difference if I had, that's what I feel awful about. It's not a secret anymore and I only did what she wanted so she wouldn't tell anyone."
"What's not a secret?" said Burger. He was watching Richard standing by the sideboard in a state of self-torment. He looked genuinely disturbed, and Burger felt the first touch of sympathy creep into him. He felt sorry he had hit the boy. It had really hurt Richard, and Burger had meant it to hurt.
"We had a French girl doing the cleaning," said Richard. "She--er--we were having an affair. Thelma saw us."
"God almighty!" said Burger. "She wouldn't have?"
"Hm!" said Richard. "You don't know Thelma. Nobody knows Thelma, except perhaps me."
"But good God, boy, she's a little girl!" said Burger.
Richard thought about Burger's statement for a moment; then he said, "No, I don't think she is. She doesn't behave like a little girl. She doesn't do any of the things other little girls do. I suppose some people are just wicked. I suppose you can be born wicked. Thelma's like that."
"Wicked? At nine?"
"I suppose that sounds funny," said Richard.
"Was it after her father died?" said Burger. "They say it can have a hell of an effect on little girls, losing a father."
"No," said Richard. "That affected me. I've never said so before, but it was terrible. But not for Thelma. It didn't make any difference to Thelma. She's always been like this. Always. I suppose if you believe there's a God and a Devil and hell and all that kind of thing, then you can understand Thelma. Some people are born good a few are born--like Thelma. It doesn't matter that she's only nine. Age doesn't matter. She has a set of rules that nobody else understands. I suppose it's easier for her, being only nine. People think of her as just a little girl. It won't be so easy when she's older. People will begin to realize. I suppose I feel sorry for her."
[pp. 247-249]
"She did have some money," said Richard. "She gave me eight francs to develop and print the second film, the one from the newspaper. She never has eight francs. She's always scrounging.
Burger gave a quick laugh, but he didn't sound amused. He said, "Christ, who'd have thought it?"
"What you going to do, Mr. Burger?" said Richard. He had turned from looking at the sideboard and walked toward Burger. He looked very serious. The red marks where Burger's hand had struck him lay across his pale cheek. He still had a hand to his ear.
"Guess I'd rather see her," said Burger. "I want the negatives back before she gets up to anything else with them. Would you have dreamed . . . ?" The little bastard!" He put down his glass and ran a hand over his cropped hair as if trying to brush dust out of it. "You didn't happen to see her with a gun, did you? A revolver?"
"No," said Richard.
"Someone took one from the drawer. Some ammunition, too. It could be dangerous."
Burger felt caught in the middle of two opposing situations, and he hesitated. He must get hold of the negatives and he wanted the gun back. And he would have liked to see Thelma given a damn sound thrashing for the trouble she'd caused, particularly for what she'd done to Dorothea. Yet more important was the need to avoid any kind of publicity, anything that would draw the attention of the authorities to the real identity of himself and Dorothea. If he went to Mrs. Davies and accused Thelma with Richard's support, there was nothing to suggest that Thelma wouldn't carry out the threat in her note and tell her mother everything she knew. And Mrs. Davies's only course, the only way in which she could defend her daughter, would be to tell the police. She might in fact regard the information as being relevant to the disappearance of Elizabeth. And any police investigation of Burger and Dorothea would only bring the truth out into the open, and the truth was the last thing that Burger could afford to have publicized.
"Richard," said Burger, "do you think you could get her here? If I go to your place it'll be difficult to talk to her alone. But here . . ."
"I don't know if she'd come," said Richard. "I could try, I suppose. I could just tell her you wanted to see her."
"If you could," said Burger. "I just want the pictures. I want the gun if she's got it."
Richard said, "What about the story in the paper--the picture she took? Is it true?"
"No, it's not," said Burger. "When you're in a business the size of mine, of course you get discrepencies in the books. Anyway, there's always some guy ready to invent them if you're not there to defend yourself. Some guy with his eye on your job. It's a cutthroat business, that's why I want this thing cleared up so I can get back to the States and sort it out. But I want it kept quiet until I'm back home. You start smearing a guy and it sticks, however untrue it is."
"I'll see if she'll come," said Richard.
[pp. 251-252]
Mrs. Davies had gone to see the Harrisons, and Thelma was sitting in the living room with Uncle David. Uncle David looked very serious. He was polishing his glasses, and his eyes looked almost unclothed without them. He had lost the light tan he had acquired earlier. His skin looked as if it had lost its natural tension. When he spoke, his cheeks shook a little, as if there were no muscle in them to keep them in place.
"We really can't tell what's happened to Elizabeth," said Uncle David. "But the police will find out. They'll tell us. It does look rather serious, I must say."
"How will they find out?" said Thelma.
"Oh, they have ways," said Uncle David, as if he thought it unnecessary to go into details with Thelma.
Thelma thought he probably didn't know. She didn't think anyone would ever find Elizabeth.
"But until they find her," said Uncle David, "I don't think you ought to go anywhere by yourself."
"Why?" said Thelma.
"I think it's better," said Uncle David.
When Mrs. Davies came back, she said, "Oh, that poor woman! The doctor's been again. She hardly recognized me, they've given her so many drugs. I don't know how Mr. Harrison's standing it. If it had been Thelma, I think I'd have gone out of my mind."
"Thelma's all right, aren't you, dear?" said Uncle David. "She's promised not to go anywhere by herself. Not until we know what's happened to poor Elizabeth."
"Mr. Harrison says the police have told him they're bringing in dogs this afternoon. It looks as if they fear the worst."
"Dogs?" said Thelma.
"Really, this waiting," said Mrs. Davies. "I think I'll make some tea."
She went into the kitchen. Uncle David held his glasses up to the light and squinted his eyes to look through them; then he put them on again.
"What dogs, Uncle David?" said Thelma.
"Special dogs," said Uncle David. "Police dogs. They're very good at finding people."
"How?"
"With their noses."
It sounded silly to Thelma. She thought: They'll never find her just with their noses.
When Richard came in, he looked at Thelma as if he didn't like her at all. She didn't care. She didn't like him. All that business with Madame Girard was silly. All that crying and things because of a servant. Men shouldn't behave like that. It was sissy.
"Hello, old chap," said Uncle David. "I say--what happened to your face? Looks like somebody gave you a swipe. You feeling all right?"
"I--I walked into a branch," said Richard. "It's all right."
"I bet it stings," said Uncle David.
"It's all right."
Richard said to Thelma, "I want to see you."
"What for?" said Thelma.
"In the cellar."
"What for?"
"It's important."
"What did Bob say?" said Thelma.
"It's important! Are you coming?"
"Oh--all right," said Thelma.
"Secrets, eh?" said Uncle David.
"Well, no," said Richard. "Not really secrets."
"Don't mind me," said Uncle David. "I was only teasing." He grinned at Richard across the table.
Thelma got up and went out onto the veranda. Uncle David called Richard back. He said, "Keep an eye on her, Richard. It looks rather serious. The police are bringing in dogs this afternoon. I think we ought to be prepared for the worst."
"You mean . . . ! Oh, God! But who on earth . . .?"
"Well, we'll see," said Uncle David.
[pp. 252-255]
Thelma was standing outside the cellar door. "It's locked," she said.
"I know it's locked," said Richard. "I keept it locked. You don't think I want you nosing about with my things."
Richard opened the door and put the light on. Thelma walked in and he closed the door behind her. He said, "Mr. Burger wants to see you."
"What for?" said Thelma.
"He wants to talk to you."
"What about?"
"How should I know?" said Richard. "He just wants to talk to you."
"I don't want to talk to him," said Thelma. "I don't like him anymore."
"Why not?"
"Just because! I don't think he's nice. Those things he was doing with Dorothea. What he's done to Elizabeth."
"What do you mean, what he's done to Elizabeth? What has he done to her?" said Richard.
"Oh, nothing," said Thelma.
"Well, what has he done? If you know something he's done, you ought to tell the police."
"I might," said Thelma.
"But what?"
"She was going to see him and she hasn't come back. I don't know what he's done with her. Anyway, I told the policeman. He knows. He'll be watching him."
Richard seized her by the wrists and turned her to face the light. "You really are a bitch! You really are! Don't you know what you've done to Burger's wife? Don't you know she's gone hysterical?"
"She's not his wife," said Thelma. "And you're hurting."
"Does it matter whether she's his wife or not? She might go mad because of what you've done! Don't you care?"
"No," said Thelma, trying to pull her wrists free of his grasp. "Stop it, you're hurting!"
"Someone ought to kill you," said Richard. "We'd be better off without you."
"So you could keep going with Madame Girard!" she cried. "So you could have Mummy all to yourself!"
"What's the use!" said Richard. He let go of her and she sat on the stool by the bench nursing her wrists. "I don't think you've any idea what you've done, have you?" said Richard. "I think you must be mad. I think you ought to be locked away and never let out again. Mr. Burger wants the pictures and he wants the gun you stole."
"I didn't steal a gun," said Thelma. "I haven't got the pictures--Elizabeth had them."
"I don't believe anything you've said," said Richard. "You lie about everything. I think Mr. Burger's telling the truth. I think you did steal the gun. I know you broke into his villa because that's where you got the newspaper picture. And I don't think Elizabeth was going to see him at all. I think you know where she is."
"I don't!" said Thelma. "I don't know anything. She said she was going to see him, and I haven't seen her since. I don't know where she is. I didn't steal anything. I'm not a liar. I'm not a thief!"
"Are you going to see him?" said Richard.
"No," said Thelma.
"Are you going to give him the pictures?"
"I haven't got them."
"I expect he'll go to the police," said Richard.
"It's not my fault," said Thelma. "I don't care."
[p. 255]
In the middle of the afternoon, with the sun blazing down from the southwest and a gentle breeze from the sea just rustling the top of the pines, the police moved with the dogs from the road toward the beach. The dogs strained at the end of the chains gripped by their handlers, so that the handlers had to lean a little backward in order to restrain them. They panted in the heat, their noses damp, their tongues lolling out. They snuffled among the loose pine needles on the forest floor, they sniffed around the bases of the trees and pushed themselves under the trailing network of brambles so that their handlers had to put their free arms over their faces to protect themselves from the thorns. Apart from the panting of the dogs and the slow shuffle of the handlers' feet over the pine-needle floor, the steady progress toward the beach was quite silent. It had a grim inevitability about it that made it ominous. One slow step after another, with the dogs snuffling, turning, pulling on the chains, and snuffling again.
[pp. 255-256]
Inspector Laporte from the préfecture at La Roche-sur-Yon walked behind the handlers. He was trim, neat, compact, intense. He carried a cane which he prodded the ground with from time to time and occasionally thrust into the growths of bramble. He stepped rather than walked, lifting each foot clear of the pine-needle floor before putting it down again, as if even in this grim situation he wished to preserve the high polish on his shoes.
To the inspector's right, the dog was pulling its handler around a large growth of brambles. The handler was driving his heels into the soft forest floor in order to control the dog, and he was gripping the chain in both hands. The dog came to an opening into the bramble clump and began to drag its handler after it. Bramble trailers pulled at the man's uniform and cut his cheeks and forehead. Little oozes of blood stood on his face and neck, and still the dog dragged him deeper into the twisting tangle of vegetation. Then the chain slackened and the dog began to snuffle under the pile of loose needles. It growled and gave a little yelp and the handler called out, "Monsieur l'Inspecteur!"
Inspector Laporte had seen the dog's behavior and was already moving across toward it. "Oui, je viens!" he said, his voice absolutely matter-of-fact. He took off his pillbox cap and used it and the cane to push aside the bramble trailers that plucked at him. When he pushed his way to the handler, the dog was sitting on it haunches with its tongue hanging out watching the handler brush aside the loose pine needles from the top of the mound. Inspector Laporte saw the small white hand and the section of blue dress that the handler had exposed, and he said, "Ça suffit!" The handler got up from his deep-knee-bend position. He was young and his face was very pale. He looked thankful that the inspector had stopped him from uncovering any more. He didn't want to see the child. Inspector Laporte put a hand on his shoulder and nodded and the two men pushed backward out of the brambles with the dog following behind.
[pp. 257-258]
Mr. Harrison waited. The room was very tiny, only large enough for the bare table and a single chair. High in one wall was a window barred with iron rods that let in a brilliant shaft of late-afternoon sunlight. He stood almost touching one stone wall with the table just in front of him. On the table was a dark blue blanket draped over the shape of a small body. Inspector Laporte nodded to the policeman holding one end of the blanket. He was watching Mr. Harrison's face. He nodded and the policeman turned back the top of the blanket. Elizabeth's face was the color of bone. The fresh pink cheeks, the sunburned forehead that Mr. Harrison remembered, had gone. It was Elizabeth, yet not Elizabeth. A model of his daughter, a mere memory. The dark hair lay carefully combed down either side of the face. Someone had treated her with tenderness and respect. Mr. Harrison put out a hand and touched the dead forehead. On such an afternoon, with the sun still hot over St. Julien and the very cobblestones in the marketplace baked with heat, Mr. Harrison found it impossible to believe that anything could feel so cold as the smooth forehead of his daughter. He lifted his hand, and the policeman drew the blanket over the face again. Mr. Harrison was looking down at the dark blue blanket. Only the coarsest features were discernible now beneath it--the stiff, upright feet, the slight development of the breasts, the nose. He would have kissed the dead face, the dead cheeks and forehead, the dark hair, but it embarassed him to do so in front of the inspector and the policeman.
[pp. 259-263]
"Madame," said Inspector Laporte, giving her a tiny inclination of the head.
He was holding out a hand indicating a chair. She sat down.
The inspector turned back to Burger and said, "Do you own a revolver, monsieur?"
"Yes," said Burger, without lifting his head from his hands.
"Can you describe it?"
"Sure. It's a Smith and Wesson Airweight. Three-eight special."
"You have a permit?"
"Yes."
"From the French authorities?"
"The American," said Burger.
"Can I see the gun, monsieur?"
"It's been stolen."
"You can't produce it?"
The policeman by the door was scribbling in a little notebook.
"Somebody broke in here and stole it," said Burger.
"Did you report it?"
"No."
"But why not, monsieur? The theft of a gun . . ."
"I don't know," said Burger. "I guess I should have."
"Yes," said Inspector Laporte. "You should have."
There was something birdlike about the quick movements of his head and eyes from Burger to Dorothea and back to Burger. A quality of pecking.
"Do you know who broke into your villa?" said the inspector, his head cocked slightly on one side.
"Sure, I know," said Burger. "Thelma--little girl down toward the beach in one of the villas."
"Thelma?" said Inspector Laporte. He sounded almost amused at the idea. "The little girl at the Davieses' villa?"
"Yes," said Burger.
"Monsieur, that little girl is nine years old. Do you really suggest that she broke into your villa and stole your revolver? Do you expect me to believe that?"
"I don't give a damn what you believe," said Burger. "That's what happened."
Dorothea started to get up from the chair. She said, "I don't understand. What's happened?"
Inspector Laporte waved her back into the chair and said, "Madame--the little missing girl--Elizabeth. She has been found. She has been murdered."
"Jesus, no!" said Dorothea. She spoke in a whisper and sank back into the chair. She didn't look as if she fully understood what Laporte had said.
"Her brother told me," said Burger. "Her brother Richard. He said she'd broken in. That's how I know."
"But whyt would a little girl break in and steal your revolver?" said Laporte.
"I don't know," said Burger. "I guess she's just a bastard. I guess she just wanted to cause trouble."
"You don't like her?"
"No."
"Did you feel the same way about the other little girl, monsieur? Elizabeth? Did you dislike her?"
"I didn't know her," said Burger. "What the hell you trying to suggest?"
Inspector Laporte took out an envelope. He opened it, took out the photographs that he had found in Elizabeth's pocket, and laid them on the table. "Perhaps you would look at these, monsieur," he said.
Burger got up. He looked at the pictures. Three of them were of the newspaper story; the rest showed himself and Dorothea in the woods. He felt all resistance running out of him. The police knew everything about them. There was nothing that could be denied. He said, "Where did you get them?"
"On the body," said Inspector Laporte. "She had them in her pocket."
"What about the negatives?" asked Burger. The minute he'd spoken, he wondered why he'd asked such a question. This dapper little gendarme had the prints. They were more than enough to tie Burger and Dorothea in with the fraud back at Jackson, Brown.
"We'll find them, monsieur," said Laporte. "But for the moment the important question is, how did the little girl get the pictures in the first place? I mean"--he tapped two or three of the pictures showing Burger and Dorothea-- "these are a little compromising, don't you think?"
"Thelma took them. She has a camera."
"You saw her?" There was a touch of amusement in Laporte's disbelief, as if he thought that Burger really should exert himself to make up a more credible story.
"Her brother told me--Richard."
"This young man is really very knowledgeable!" said Inspector Laporte.
"He did the processing for her. He has a darkroom under the villa. He told me. For Christ's sake, go and ask him!"
"Oh, we will," said Laporte. "Tell me, monsieur, in your opinion, why would a little girl take such pictures?"
"She was using them to blackmail us," said Burger.
"Thelma?"
"Both of them."
"Really!" said Inspector Laporte. He looked at the policeman with the notebook. The policeman gave a little shrug. Laporte raised his eyebrows. "Blackmail. Such surprising little girls. And this blackmail--what form did it take?"
"They sent a note. They wanted a hundred francs. I paid them."
"Ingenious! You have the note?"
"No."
"Where is it?"
"I burned it," said Burger.
"Unfortunate," said Inspector Laporte. "And since one of them is dead, it is now your word against the other little girl's--hm? Against the little nine-year-old?"
"I guess so," said Burger.
"Well!"
"What are you going to do?" said Burger.
"Take you with us--of course," said Inspector Laporte.
"Do you have an extradition arrangement with the States?"
"Extradition? Pourquoi? I mean, what would be the significance of such an arrangement, monsieur?"
"Well, for Christ's sake, can we be sent back to the States to face a charge of fraud?"
"Fraud?" said Laporte. "Oh, my dear monsieur! Such surprising naiveté! You may swindle all Wall Street as far as I am concerned. I know nothing about fraud. I am arresting you for the murder of the little girl."
"Murder!" cried Burger. "Why, you dull-witted little bastard!"
"Dorothea screamed, "No! Bob--it's not true!"
"Madame, monsieur," said Laporte, with a little inclination of the head. "The little girl was shot. The bullet was fired from a Smith and Wesson Airweight which we found near the body. You own such a gun but you cannot produce it. The little girl was carrying photographs of you which are--er-- compromising. You say yourself she and her friend were using them to blackmail you. I mean--monsieur--put yourself in my position."
"Look, I told you--!" shouted Burger.
"I think," said Inspector Laporte, "it would be better if we were to continue our discussion at headquarters. . . . "
Dorothea's screaming broke in on Laporte's statement. She was hysterical, howling uncontrollably, tearing at her clothes as if imprisoned by them. Tears rolled down her pale cheeks as she moved from one side of the room to the other.
Laporte nodded to his colleague, who put away his notebook and went to her. But the moment he touched her, she flung him out of the way, then turned for the stairs and ran up them out of sight. Her footsteps could be heard moving rapidly from one room to another overhead.
Laporte's colleague hesitated. "For Christ's sake, let me go to her!" Burger yelled, trying to get past Laporte to the stairs. if he could get to her, he might still be able to calm her. But Laporte had his hand firmly in the middle of Burger's chest holding him back. To get past Laporte, Burger would have had to knock him down. He had enough trouble already without adding assault on the police.
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