A tin can he knocked over with his foot splashed his ankles as it toppled. Despite this, he felt like whistling, but the air came out of his lips as if out of a tube. He did not know how to whistle. So he sang the only song he knew by heart.
“Duchemin!” cried a distant voice, one of those lone voices that can be heard in the woods on Sundays.
He listened without breathing. He was afraid. He wanted to run. But his legs were shaking like they did during the war when he was a stretcher-bearer and had to carry a fellow soldier.
“Don’t be afraid. It’s me.”
It was the man without a name. So as not to frighten Henri Duchemin, he did not scold him. On the contrary, he told him he would have done the same thing in his place.
The two men left the path and, on the sidewalk, treaded as if they had clubfeet, trying to unstick the mud from their shoes.
Henri Duchemin, who had been too warm, was now trembling, which made him fear he was coming down with bronchitis. He no longer thought about running away; all he wanted now was a bed to sleep in.
The two men wandered the streets for a full hour. Sometimes they stepped in a puddle and were splashed to the knees.
These events had no importance in relation to what was about to happen.
At last the man without a name stopped in front of a new house.
“It’s here.”
He rang. A window lit the street. Grumbling and the clattering of old slippers could be heard even outside.
“Who is it?”
“Me!”
The lock clicked and the door opened. A light bulb fixed on the ceiling made the upper part of the foyer brighter. The man who had just opened the door was in shirtsleeves. You could tell from his hair and the blotches on one cheek that he had been sleeping.
“Come in, follow me,” he said.
He showed his guests into the dining room where, winter or summer, a basket of artificial flowers always sat on the sideboard. A white porcelain lampshade covered an electric lamp hanging motionless at the end of a wire.
Henri Duchemin took off the overcoat that was numbing his shoulders and, more comfortable, his arms longer, he inspected his jacket for stains. They had disappeared.
The man without a name lay down on a sofa with his feet hanging off so as not to dirty the red velvet. He shut his eyes and fell asleep.
Henri Duchemin sat in a wicker armchair that creaked loudly even when he did not move, and blew on his hands. Eyes closed, he imagined his whole body bathed in warm breath. He felt his feet were cold and wet, but this did not bother him. His feet were so far from his body. Every now and then a car drove down the street, almost grazing the shutters.
Suddenly there was a knock at the door.
The man without a name got up like a passenger on a train who had been occupying two seats. Henri Duchemin, trying to find his bearings, did not understand what was happening.
“Duchemin, he’s here.”
“Who?”
“The banker.”
Yes, it was the banker. He was wearing an overcoat with a silk lining and holding a top hat in his hand. He came in, bowed in greeting, sat down in a chair, unfolded a newspaper, and studied the stock prices.
The silence was marred only by the rustle of the large sheet of paper.
Then the banker stood, motioned good-bye, and left the room.
The two men who remained alone wore the scheming expression of servants who had just won the sympathy of their masters.
“Follow me, Duchemin.”
On tiptoe, one hand against the wall, they walked down the dimly lit hall.
“In here.”
They entered a room with walls covered in flowered fabric.
“Sit down, Duchemin.”
“Fine.”
“Take off your shoes.”
Henri Duchemin obeyed. It seemed to him that it was not his own shoes he was removing.
“Listen to me, Duchemin.”
“I’m listening.”
“The bed is on the right, the window is open, the moon will light your way.”
“But there is no moon.”
“I’m telling you, the moon will light your way. You’ll strike as if you wanted to split a tree trunk, and then you’ll be rich.”
Tiny sounds came through the wall.
“Take this hammer. The banker is in bed.”
“What if he’s not sleeping?”
“Go. It’s for your own happiness.”
Henri Duchemin rose. His damp socks left the imprint of his feet on the wood floor.
He stopped a few feet from the door.
“I’m frightened.”
“Go. Afterwards, you’ll be rich.”
“I’ll be rich?”
“Yes.”
Still, he hesitated.
“Go on, I tell you. You’ll be rich.”
Henri Duchemin entered the banker’s bedroom. He had held the doorknob tightly in his hands for so long that his fingers smelled of copper.
Exactly as the man without a name had said, moonlight illuminated the room. It was the light of insomnia, a light for sick eyes.
The banker’s body was hidden by blankets and his head, resting on the pillow, seemed to lack a torso. There was also something ridiculous about this older man’s head perched on its exposed neck.
Henri Duchemin knew that if he did not want his courage to flag, he must not think at all. And, understanding that what he was doing was not right, he headed straight for the bed so that he would not be able to stop himself.
His knees knocked against the bed.
He raised the hammer as high as he could. He closed his eyes. When he opened them, he saw blood on the sheets and the hammer in the eiderdown.
A wallet lay on the night table. He took it without thinking he would not have needed to kill the man to do so.
Then he went back to the room where the man without a name had led him.
It was empty. The lamp’s forlorn light lit only motionless objects.
Henri Duchemin called out, opened the wardrobes, touched the furniture without taking his eyes off the switch for fear someone would shut off the light.
There was no one. It was impossible. He was going crazy. He fell to the ground. For a long time he remained crouching, his forehead pressed against the wood floor, for he thought no one could find fault with him in that position.
When he stood up, he felt better. He put on his shoes, looked around to make sure he wasn’t forgetting anything, walked through the dining room, slipped on his overcoat, and went out.
* * *
The rain had stopped. A few clouds floated among the stars. Henri Duchemin wanted to run but in order not to attract attention, he walked rapidly instead. He held his hand in his inside pocket, which the fat wallet had unstitched.
He drew himself up. To look at him, who would have guessed he was carrying a fortune over his heart? Who would have believed that this poorly dressed man was now a person of independent means?
The gas lamps drew two dotted lines at the level of a second story. They appeared brighter in the crisp air.
Lulled by the rhythm of his footsteps, Henri Duchemin imagined women sitting on bank notes, and all the while he took detour after detour so that the police would lose all trace of him.
As he passed in front of a café, he heard the exquisite music of a player piano, half tin, half crystal. Women were laughing, probably over nothing. He attempted to look above the curtain at what was going on inside, but he was too short.
So he went in, sat down quickly, and waited until the attention he had attracted died down.
Three women were sitting on a velvet bench.
Henri Duchemin gazed at them lustfully, wondering which one of them attracted him the most. And although he was determined to be a different man now, he still did not dare invite them to his table.