Thompson got up abruptly. His chair fell over behind him. He noticed a woman’s handbag on the floor by the wall. He stooped and picked it up.
“Idiots!” he said softly, almost in a whisper. “Idiots! The girl’s bag. It must be destroyed. I’ll take it.”
He headed for the door. The brothers emptied their glasses and got to their feet.
20
For the second night in a row Julie had not slept at all.
Peter woke up at six in the morning after sleeping for seventeen hours. From about midnight his sleep had gradually become more normal. When he awoke he cried out. Julie leapt from her bed and hurried over to the little boy. He was sitting up and gazing uncomprehendingly into the gray half-light of the room.
“I’m here. Don’t be afraid.”
Peter flung his arms around the girl’s neck, squeezing with all his might and almost strangling her.
“Where are we, Julie? Where are the bad guys?”
“Shh! We’re in a hotel. We got away.”
“Are they chasing us?”
“No.”
“Did the police catch them? Did you tell the police?”
Julie disentangled herself, shivering. The boy looked around the room. It was a very large room, with white roughcast walls, an old-fashioned rustic wooden washstand with a built-in bowl and a pitcher, and a large oval mirror mounted lengthwise between two wooden uprights.
“The police!” Peter repeated. “What about them?”
“I didn’t go to the police.”
“Why?”
Julie shook her head in exasperation and her dark hair swirled about her white neck.
“You’re all naked,” noted Peter with interest.
“I’m getting dressed. You get dressed too. We’re going to have breakfast.”
“What about the police?”
Oh, the little devil! The rotten little devil! thought Julie. But then she thought: No, it’s me that’s screwy.
“I didn’t go to the police because I’m afraid of the police. I hate the police. Police! Police! Police! That’s why! Now you know!” Sotto voce, Julie was ranting.
“Why?”
“Oh Christ!” the girl exclaimed, and she sat down on the edge of the bed.
She did not know whether to cry or burst out laughing. She was still in doubt as she slipped on her shorts and sweat-soaked T-shirt. After abandoning the Peugeot 204, she had walked for kilometers and kilometers with Peter in her arms, following lanes and back roads and cutting across fields. Ten, twenty kilometers-she was not sure. Her head weighed heavy and all her joints ached.
“I used to be a criminal,” she blurted, and she looked at Peter to see what effect her words had on him.
He gulped. “You’re lying.”
“No, I’ve been in prison.”
“What for? Murder?”
“Get dressed.”
Beyond the window shutters it was daylight. Ever since Peter had uttered the word “police,” Julie had been feeling stifled in the dimness.
“I want you to tell me!” cried the boy. “When did I go to sleep?”
The girl took his head between her hands.
“Do you really want to know? Really see things the way they are? Listen, I’m an escaped prisoner. Do you believe me?”
“Sure I do. You mean like in Branded. And you have to prove your innocence?”
“That’s right.” Julie sighed.
“What are you supposed to have done?”
“Murder. Okay?”
“Well, I trust you,” Peter said firmly.
“Get dressed then.”
The girl helped the little boy get dressed.
“How are you going to prove you are innocent?”
“We’ll go and find Uncle Hartog,” said Julie, “and I’ll explain everything to him.”
She stood slack-jawed for a moment or two.
“No, what am I talking about? I’m such a fool. I’m horribly confused, it’s stupid. We have to go to. . the police. I don’t know what to do.”
“Tie my laces,” suggested Peter.
From outside, audible through the slots in the shutters, came the discreet sound of a car slowing down and coming to a halt in the sandy hotel parking lot. Julie ran to the window. Through the gaps she could see the roof of a black Peugeot 403. Figures in light blue raincoats were getting out. One of them looked up to inspect the hotel’s facade. He was a young man with a crew cut. He had his hands in his pockets. He was smoking a cigarette.
“Everyone’s sleeping,” the man said.
“Shit,” said another raincoat. “The sun is up. I’m up. Let’s go.”
The young man lowered his head. The two raincoats left Julie’s field of vision. A moment later the girl heard the front-door bell downstairs ringing for a long time.
“The cops,” said Peter.
“Let’s get the hell out of here,” said Julie.
She took the boy by the hand. They went out into the hallway. The ringing was louder now. Footsteps resounded from the ground floor.
“Okay, okay,” said a voice, “we’re coming.”
Julie was bathed in sweat. She raced down the hallway past closed doors. At the end was a window giving onto a corrugated metal roof. In the distance bulky green mountains billowed up, densely wooded and pied by patches of mist. Julie jumped down onto the tin roof. The boy was laughing. The two of them slid down. The lean-to was not very high. Julie leapt off holding Peter and almost sprained her ankle as they landed in a farmyard bordered by cowsheds. A rooster crowed in a horrible way. The fugitives slithered through the mud, followed a path between low stone walls, and debouched onto a slope covered with broom. Closely mown grass, slick from dew, was greasy underfoot. Julie slipped and fell, rolling down through the broom with Peter. They got up, passed through a line of trees, and found themselves at a loop in the road just below the hotel. A big Chausson motor coach appeared from round the bend. Julie signaled. The bus braked and stopped. Julie and Peter climbed in.
“Lucky for you you’re so cute,” remarked the driver, who was wearing a white work smock.
The door closed with a pneumatic din and the bus went on down the hill. The inside smelled like wet dog. Country folk snoozed on the tatty seats with hats on their heads and baskets on their knees. Julie took a seat. She felt dizzy. There was a metallic taste in her mouth. The bus was juddering through an endless succession of hairpin bends. .
. . The driver was tapping Julie on the shoulder.
“Are you all right?”
The girl cast a stunned glance at the tree-lined square where the bus was parked.
“I fell asleep,” she said in a daze.
“Last stop. Five francs fifty.”
Julie paid. They got off, she and Peter. They walked away, left the square, spotted a deserted café, and took a table outside. Julie ordered a large café crème and a large hot chocolate. The place had no croissants.
“Wait here a minute,” said Julie to Peter.
There was a bakery nearby and a tobacconist almost next door to it. The girl soon returned to their table with croissants, cigarettes, and newspapers. As Peter ate, Julie frantically lit a Gauloise and began paging through the papers. She still merited a small headline but the accompanying story was brief. Clearly the journalists had no fresh information. There should be a headline such as THE NET TIGHTENS, but, of course, thought Julie, when it really is tightening, they don’t say so. Her lip tensed slightly. The back of her neck hurt.
The newspaper people embroidered a good deal on Hartog: “young financier,” they wrote, and “meteoric rise,” and “not a few envious rivals.”
“At present it is impossible to reach the industrialist,” Julie read. “According to some sources, M. Hartog, who returned hastily from Munich upon learning of the disappearance of his nephew, has left Paris once more so as to avoid publicity as the search goes on.”
“It’s obvious,” murmured Julie. “He has to be at his Moorish Tower.”
She felt more confident now, more sure of her plan. She could not be very far from Hartog’s fabulous house, his mountain labyrinth. She would get there. Throw herself at his feet. She could see the scene now, and she was excited. A scene worthy of Delacroix. The rich man would help her to her feet, understand her, forgive her, congratulate her, and seat her at his right hand on a cloud-wreathed mountaintop overlooking the Massif Central-far from the world of men, as the saying went. The girl stood and pulled Peter up, then turned back to pay for the breakfast. She was trembling. She asked the way to the station. She came to a grade crossing with a view of the platforms, bordered by dusty privet in cement planters. BOEN, said a kind of sign above the platform, blue letters against a white background-a hollow, boxlike sign supposed to light up at night like the signs outside police stations. The name BOEN meant nothing to Julie. She turned back. Peter trotted along beside her, finishing off a croissant. He observed his surroundings with curiosity; he was calm. They went into some shops, and Julie bought a rather hideous gray raincoat that came down to her knees and some Michelin maps. As they came out of the bookstore, she noticed an immense white poster on the other side of the street bearing a text in scarlet letters: