The Disappearance of Adèle Bedeau (14 page)

When Gorski returned to school it was with a certain swagger. He felt a great superiority as he listened to his classmates' comic accounts of their attempts to seduce girls. Around his female classmates, he adopted an off-hand, aloof manner, which did not produce the results he hoped. Towards the end of the year, after drinking a bottle of wine at a house party, he talked a girl into going upstairs with him. She was a tall, Germanic-looking girl called Jeanet Hassemer whom he had admired for months. They found a bedroom. Without preamble Gorski took the girl's hand and pushed it down the front of his trousers. The girl pushed him away and ran from the room. When he went downstairs a few minutes later, another boy punched him in the face.

In the years that had passed since his experiences with Marthe, Gorski had not so much as kissed a girl. He found that women became guarded when he told them that he was a policeman and consequently he became awkward in their company.

Céline undid the buttons of her blouse and unclasped her brassiere. She had prominent dark nipples. She rucked her skirt up around her waist and pushed Gorski's hand between her legs. Gorski slipped his index and middle fingers inside her and she pressed her groin against the heel of his hand. Gorski bit her neck and massaged her modest breasts. Céline ground her sex against his hand with increasing vigour. Her breathing quickened and then suddenly subsided. Gorski let his fingers slip out of her. Her face was flushed. Gorski was glad nothing more was required of him. He had spent himself almost as soon as he had touched her breasts. He hoped his emission would not seep through his trousers. Céline pulled down her skirt and fastened the buttons of her blouse. Gorski took out a packet of cigarettes and offered one to her.

‘We're not supposed to smoke in here,' said Céline. ‘Mme Bettine says it make the clothes smell.' She seemed suddenly much younger. Her hair was disarrayed. They went outside and smoked.

Gorski knew from the outset that he was out of his depth. Céline's father, Jean-Marie Keller, was a wealthy businessman and a bigwig on the town council. On their first date Gorski took Céline to what he imagined was the best restaurant in Saint-Louis. He felt uncomfortable in the place, with its starched white tablecloths and elaborate array of cutlery. Céline was twenty minutes late. Gorski tried to affect a nonchalant attitude as he waited, drinking a glass of beer. Only two other tables were occupied and Gorski felt that the waiters were mocking him. He had bought a new dark grey suit for the occasion and, remembering Céline's dictum about white shirts, had chosen a mustard-coloured one.

‘What a funny place,' said Céline on her arrival. She did not apologise for being late. Her family, she told him, only ever dined out in Strasbourg. A waiter took her coat and she ordered a gin and tonic. When her drink arrived, Gorski ordered one as well. The waiter bowed his head slightly. Céline barely touched her food. Gorski took this as a sign of sophistication, but he could not bring himself to leave anything on his own plate.

Céline talked a lot about her father. Perhaps, she said, he would be able to help Gorski in his career. She asked how long he planned to stay in the police.

‘I've only just made detective,' said Gorski. He could not resist adding that he was the youngest detective ever appointed in Saint-Louis.

Céline asked what business Gorski's family was in and he told her that his father was now retired. She talked amusingly about working in Mme Bettine's shop, impersonating the customers and ridiculing the old-fashioned stock. She was only doing it to gain experience, she said, as she intended to go into business herself one day. After the meal, they stood awkwardly outside on the pavement.

‘Mummy's picking me up at ten,' she said.

Gorski was taken aback. Being picked up by her mother did not square with the precocious girl he had encountered in Mme Bettine's shop. He wondered how old Céline actually was. They had fifteen minutes to kill. They walked slowly towards the park outside the shop where she had arranged to be collected. They sat down on the low wall.

‘Don't you want to kiss me?' Céline said.

‘What if your mother sees us?'

Céline laughed. ‘She won't mind.'

They kissed, but mechanically, and Gorski broke it off. Céline smiled at him.

‘Next time, we should go out in Strasbourg,' she said.

Gorski felt elated that there was going to be a next time. Céline's mother pulled up in a bottle green Mercedes. She waved cheerfully at the couple. Gorski stood up and returned her greeting, feeling rather foolish. Céline gave him a peck on the cheek and told him to call her.

Gorski telephoned the shop a few days later. He asked Céline if she would like to get together again. They could go to Strasbourg, if she liked. Céline laughed and said she had only been joking. She said she was free on Sunday afternoon. Gorski
agreed to pick her up at two o'clock. In the meantime, he took to walking past Mme Bettine's shop at every opportunity, hoping to catch a glimpse of Céline smoking on the pavement outside.

That Sunday, Gorski pulled up outside the Keller house in his battered Fiat. There was a long gravel drive and two Mercedes were parked outside. To the side of the house was a series of outbuildings. Gorski got out and rang the doorbell. Céline's mother opened the door. She was wearing jeans and a sweatshirt. Her hands were dirty from gardening.

‘You must be Georges,' she said. ‘We've heard a lot about you. Céline tells us you're soon to be head of Saint-Louis police.'

Gorski laughed. ‘I'm just starting out,' he said.

‘And modest as well,' said Mme Keller. Gorski was surprised that Céline had been boasting about him to her parents. She called up the stairs to Céline and they stood waiting in silence for a few minutes. Céline came down the stairs in a summer dress with large buttons up the front, fastened at the waist with a thin brown leather belt. Gorski immediately thought how easy it would be to access. Mme Keller asked what they were up to.

‘I thought we might go to the Camargue. For a walk,' said Gorski. The Petite Camargue was a small nature reserve some kilometres north of the town.

‘How lovely,' said Mme Keller cheerfully. ‘Watch out for snakes.' She gave a mock shiver.

They got into the car and drove off. Gorski had brought a rug and put a bottle of wine and two glasses wrapped in newspaper in a canvas knapsack. They walked for half an hour before finding a spot overlooking the lake. Gorski laid out the rug. The sun filtered through the foliage above them and made dappled patterns on their skin. Céline was quiet. Gorski poured two glasses of wine. He downed his first glass too quickly and poured himself another. Céline put hers on the ground next to the rug. It spilled and the wine soaked into the earth. She lay back and closed her eyes. Gorski was lying on his side next to her, leaning on his elbow. He put his hand on her bare leg and moved it under
her dress. Céline did not protest. Then he undid the buttons at the top of her dress. She was not wearing a brassiere. Lying on her back, her breasts completely disappeared. Her clavicles protruded through her skin, as thin as wishbones. Gorski kissed her and stroked her breasts. Céline parted her legs a little. Gorski unfastened his trousers and climbed onto her. He got inside her and managed to sustain two or three minutes of thrusting before he ejaculated. Céline clutched the back of his neck. Afterwards he took off his shirt and lay on his back next to her. The sun was warm on his skin. He could hear the rustling of the leaves in the breeze and the lapping of the water of the lake. Céline lay with her dress open and rumpled around her waist. Gorski could not help smiling to himself as he thought of his animalistic fumblings with Marthe, with her rolls of puppy fat, great flopping breasts and peasant smell. Céline could not have been more cool and elegant. Even her body, like that of a skinny boy, seemed a study in good taste and restraint.

Sundays became their day. They would drive to the Camargue or some other isolated spot. Gorski's performance became more assured. Céline never spoke during the act, but there was a kind of grim determination in her will to orgasm. Afterwards they would go to an inn and have a simple lunch and a bottle of wine. Often there was little conversation during these lunches. Gorski did not know what to talk to Céline about and she made little effort. Sometimes she corrected the manner in which Gorski held his cutlery or wiped up his sauce with his bread. At times Gorski was embarrassed. Other couples chatted unselfconsciously and made fun of each other. He could never imagine teasing Céline.

After a few months, Mme Keller insisted that Gorski join them for Sunday lunch. Céline did not appear particularly thrilled by the idea and Gorski was frustrated that their weekly lovemaking would be disrupted, but he realised that the invitation represented a step up in the seriousness of their relationship. Gorski, under instruction from Céline, bought a new jacket and slacks for the occasion. He expected Céline to remain rather
aloof from him, but, to his surprise, she was uncharacteristically warm. She sat next to him on the sofa in the large drawing room and clutched his hand in her lap. Gorski had rarely spoken to M. Keller, who was by then planning to run for mayor of Saint-Louis, but he too behaved warmly towards him. Over lunch it transpired that he knew Ribéry and made no secret of the fact that he had asked him about Gorski.

‘He speaks very highly of you, my boy. “A very bright young man” were his exact words, I believe.'

Gorski did not know what to say. Céline squeezed his knee under the table.

‘Of course,' M. Keller went on, adopting a more confidential tone, ‘we all know that the inspector is not…' he made a show of weighing his words carefully, ‘…not the most diligent in the execution of his duties.' He mimed a drinking motion with his hand and winked at Gorski. Gorski did not say anything, not wishing to be disloyal to his superior.

‘Which leads me to suppose,' he went on, ‘that we'll be seeing a new chief of police installed in the not too distant future.'

The following Sunday, Gorski asked Céline to marry him. She shrugged her shoulders and accepted. She was, it turned out, nineteen.

Céline tapped a teaspoon on a champagne glass to gain the attention of those assembled in the shop. She graciously thanked everyone for coming and announced that the time had come for the presentation of her autumn collection. There was a ripple of applause. At the end of her little speech, she reminded her audience not to forget that the real purpose of the evening was not to enjoy themselves, but to spend money. ‘Why else would I ply you with champagne?' she concluded. Everyone laughed. The lights were lowered and the music was turned up. A succession of girls appeared from the storeroom and made a turn around the shop. These were teenagers Céline had recruited from the local schools and been rehearsing for weeks. Two or three of the girls were very beautiful. Gorski tried not to let his eyes linger
on their bodies. After their circuit of the shop, the girls would dash back into the storeroom before reappearing in a different outfit. The audience applauded. Many of them, Gorski realised, were parents of the models. He had to admit that it was very efficiently organised. He caught Clémence's eye. She jabbed two fingers towards her mouth in a gagging motion. Gorski ignored her. He looked at Céline. She was not watching the girls, but observing the delighted expressions on the faces of her guests, smiling broadly. Gorski felt suddenly affectionate towards her and determined not to do anything more to spoil her evening. The show lasted no more than fifteen minutes. At the end, the models came out to take the applause of the audience. They gathered round Céline and hugged her. Céline affected a modest expression and wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. Gorski raised his glass towards her in a gesture of congratulation. Then he slipped out.

A few people had gathered on the pavement outside and were lighting cigarettes. Like Mme Bettine before her, Céline did not allow smoking in the shop. Gorski lit a cigarette of his own and walked slowly around the perimeter of the little park. The sky was clear and there was a chill in the air. He held his cigarette in his mouth and pulled on his raincoat. When he reached the opposite side of the park he could still hear the faint hubbub coming from the shop. When he was sure nobody was looking, he stubbed out his cigarette and stepped into the shrubs in front of the apartment building opposite. He stood for a few minutes observing the spot where, a week before, Alex Ackermann had waited for Adèle. The lights of the shop were still visible through the leaves, but he could no longer hear anything, as if he was viewing the scene from behind a pane of glass. There was a strange pleasure in standing unseen in the bushes. He remained there for a few minutes thinking about Adèle. He imagined her climbing onto the back of Ackermann's scooter and zipping off into the night. Then, on the pavement opposite, he saw Manfred Baumann. He was walking slowly in the direction of his
apartment with a woman on his arm. Gorski stepped further back into the shrubs and watched them pass. The woman was walking a little unsteadily. Gorski did not recognise her. The couple did not appear to be talking. When they were out of view, the door to the apartment building behind Gorski opened. Gorski was startled and turned round abruptly. A middle-aged man with a terrier stared at him questioningly. Gorski fumbled in his coat for his ID, before whispering, ‘Police.'

A
T LUNCH THE FOLLOWING DAY
, the new waitress arrived to take Manfred's order. It had taken her only a few days to settle into her role. She was a niece of Marie's and Manfred had overheard Pasteur call her Dominique. She already seemed less harassed as she moved between the tables, even at this, the busiest time of day. Still, she was no Adèle and Manfred suddenly missed the sight of the former waitress, traipsing about the place with her carelessly fastened blouse. Dominique wrote Manfred's order out in longhand, before snapping her notebook shut and saying, ‘Certainly, Monsieur Baumann.'

Manfred was sure that on hearing his name, the man at the adjacent table, who had previously been absorbed in his newspaper, suddenly glanced in his direction. When Manfred returned his look, he immediately averted his eyes. Manfred did not recognise the man. Had his name suddenly acquired the kind of notoriety that made someone, quite involuntarily, look up from his newspaper? Perhaps the man would later tell his wife that he had seen that fellow Baumann, whose name had been mentioned in connection with the disappearance of the waitress, sitting eating his lunch in the Restaurant de la Cloche as if nothing at all was amiss. And how, in any case, did Dominique know his name? Had Marie made a special point of pointing him out? Had she been one of those who had described him to Gorski as a creature of habit?

Dominique returned with his meat salad, a dish Manfred disliked, but which he nevertheless ordered once a week for fear of offending Pasteur, who regarded it as something of a
specialité de la maison
. She showed no particular emotion as she placed the bowl on the table. Manfred told himself he was being foolish. Most likely the girl had merely overheard her aunt calling him Monsieur Baumann. Marie addressed all the regulars in this formal manner. It was part of the old world atmosphere she liked to cultivate for the place. Still, it grated a little with Manfred. He felt warmly towards Marie and enjoyed the moments when she paused to exchange a few remarks with him. He never felt, as he did with other people, that she was about to ridicule him or accuse him of some misdemeanour, so when she addressed him in this way it was as if she was quite purposefully asserting the professional boundaries of their relationship.

As Manfred ate his lunch, he watched Marie go about her work. Was it possible that since the business with Adèle, she had been keeping her distance from him? There was nothing Manfred could put his finger on, yet he could not recall any occasion in the last few days when she had paused at his table to enquire about his wellbeing or pass a comment about the weather or some other uncontroversial subject. Today, for example, she had not so much as acknowledged him. She was attending to the tables on the far side of the room, as she always did during the lunch service, but even so Manfred would have expected her to mouth a greeting in his direction. The more he watched her, the more she appeared to be avoiding his gaze. Perhaps her nose was out of joint on account of his nonappearance the previous evening. Manfred felt a surge of annoyance. Was he not allowed to absent himself from the place for a single evening? He had even gone to the trouble of informing her husband in advance, not that he would expect Pasteur to have passed on the information. He ate the rest of his meal with a growing feeling of resentment. Perhaps in the future he would take his custom elsewhere. They could do without his money and gossip about him to their hearts' content.

At the counter, Manfred deliberately averted his eyes when Marie passed with an armful of empty plates. She reappeared from the kitchen as he was collecting his change from the salver. She paused at his side and leaned in close to him.

‘So, Monsieur Baumann, what's this I hear about a young lady in your life?'

Manfred was quite taken aback.

‘Young lady?' he said.

‘Come on now,' she said, placing a hand on Manfred's arm, ‘I want to hear all about her.'

Pasteur glanced at them over his spectacles.

‘She's just a friend,' Manfred managed to mutter. He could not think of anyone who might have seen them together.

‘Well, you bring her in here sometime. Otherwise I'll think you're keeping her hidden away.'

‘Yes,' said Manfred, ‘I will.'

He strode briskly back to the bank. Was it not possible to step outside one's door without becoming the subject of conversation? Did people have nothing better to talk about than what he did with his evenings? He was further annoyed that Marie's final remark had clearly been intended to convey that she knew he had eaten in another restaurant.

Manfred sat brooding at his desk. How ridiculous he was! The idea that he could sustain some kind of relationship with Alice Tarrou was preposterous. He had not even enjoyed their evening together. All he had done was listen to her talk about herself and her abhorrent ex-husband. And then, in a wretched attempt to gain her pity, he had mentioned Juliette. Manfred was disgusted with himself. It was quite despicable. And, on top of that, he had, for the first time in his life, disclosed his connection to the murdered girl. He had not mentioned her by name, but with Gorski sniffing around every aspect of his life, who was to say he would not question Alice? He felt quite nauseous.

Midway through the afternoon, Carolyn knocked timidly on the door. Manfred spread some papers on the desk in front of
him before telling her to enter. She stepped into the doorway of the office and said there was a policeman to see him. Manfred felt no surprise until, instead of Gorski, a young
gendarme
appeared behind her.

‘Monsieur Baumann,' he said without preamble, ‘Inspector Gorski would like to see you at the police station.'

Manfred was too surprised to respond, not because he was being asked to go to the police station, but because Gorski had not had the courtesy to come himself. Despite the awkwardness of their previous encounters there had been an atmosphere of civility, of two professional men talking, if not candidly, at least respectfully to one another. Now Gorski had sent a minion barely out of school to pick him up, as if he was a common criminal. And to compound the matter, he had done so at his place of work, in front of his staff.

‘That's out of the question,' Manfred said, ‘I can't just leave at the drop of a hat.'

He said this mainly for the benefit of Carolyn, who was standing inside the door, her exit blocked by the policeman. He had no real intention of refusing.

‘I must insist,' said the policeman. He took a few steps towards Manfred's desk, as if he thought he might be about to make a bolt for it. Carolyn took the opportunity to slip out. Manfred remained seated for a moment.

‘Am I under arrest?' He immediately regretted saying this. It suggested a guilty conscience.

‘No, monsieur, as I understand, you are assisting Inspector Gorski with his enquiries into the disappearance of Adèle Bedeau.'

Manfred wished that Carolyn had stayed long enough to hear this. He was merely assisting the police with their enquiries.

‘Can you give me five minutes?' he said.

The cop nodded but remained standing, the door to the office still open. Manfred made a show of finishing reading a document, then arranged the papers on his desk into a neat pile and stood up. He fetched his jacket from the stand and put it on.
The policeman put out his hand as if to usher him towards the door and followed him closely out. The staff made no pretence of carrying on with their work. They were gathered round the desk of Mlle Givskov. Manfred instructed Carolyn to reschedule his appointments for the remainder of the afternoon. She looked puzzled as Manfred did not have any appointments. He ignored her expression and told Mlle Givskov to lock up if he did not return before the bank closed for the day.

‘Of course, M. Baumann,' she said as if the situation were entirely normal.

A police car was parked outside, even though the station was barely three hundred metres away. The young cop opened the rear door and Manfred got in. Nothing was said on the short drive. Manfred rarely had occasion to ride in a car. The same street that he walked four times a day looked different, as if he were seeing it in a film. The tinted windows of the vehicle had the effect of heightening the colours of the sky and the yellowing leaves on the trees. They pulled up outside the station and the cop led Manfred up the little steps, his hand on his elbow. He resisted the temptation to look around to see if anyone was witness to this humiliating spectacle. Manfred had never set foot in the police station before. Although the facade was shabby, it was a rather grand building by the standards of Saint-Louis. A washed-out tricolour hung limply above the entrance. To the right was a notice board displaying faded recruitment posters for the police and the foreign legion.

The policeman told Manfred to take a seat in the reception area and said something to the officer behind the glass partition. The officer, a man in his fifties with a grey face and a drooping moustache, looked over and nodded disinterestedly. Fifteen minutes passed. The officer with the moustache did not so much as glance in his direction when he appeared at the window to deal with the trickle of callers. An old woman, evidently well-known to the cops, came in to report her dog missing. A delivery driver asked directions. Manfred had taken the seat nearest the door
and every time someone entered he had to move his legs to let them pass. He gazed at the dog-eared posters on the wall opposite, urging citizens to keep their houses and vehicles locked and to be vigilant against crime. After another ten minutes, Gorski arrived. He did not greet or even appear to notice Manfred. He tapped his keys on the window and someone buzzed open the door to the right.

Another few minutes passed. Manfred wondered if he should ring the bell and remind the desk sergeant that he was here. That was what an innocent man would do. Someone with nothing to hide, someone who was assisting the police with their enquiries would not sit meekly waiting to be called. He decided to give it another five minutes. Above the window was a circle of clean paint where there had once been a clock. The telephone on the counter rang. The grey-faced officer answered, his eyes staring blankly at Manfred while he spoke. He took down an address and promised to send someone round. Then he disappeared. Manfred heard an outburst of laughter. He imagined the cops behind the partition discussing how long they could make him wait. He felt his face colour and resolved to get up and ring the bell. As he was getting to his feet, Gorski appeared at the window. He had probably been clandestinely observing him.

‘Monsieur Baumann,' he said, ‘please come through.' He pressed a buzzer to open the door and ushered Manfred along a stale-smelling corridor into an interview room. He indicated that Manfred should take the seat with his back to the door and sat down opposite him. There was a tape recorder on a second table against the wall. Gorski did not switch it on. He put his elbows on the table and exhaled theatrically as if contemplating how to begin. He clasped his fingers together and rested his chin on them.

‘Monsieur Baumann,' he began, ‘I've asked you to come to the station because I wanted to give you the opportunity to correct the version of events you have given me.'

Manfred remained silent.

‘It seems to me that…' he made a show of weighing his words carefully, ‘…that you must have been mistaken in some of the things you have told me.'

Manfred did not know what to say.
Be sure your sins will find you out,
one of his grandfather's favourite aphorisms, ran through his mind. Perhaps now was the moment to admit that he had seen Adèle. What, after all, would come of it? Certainly he could be accused of wasting police time, perhaps even obstructing the investigation, but such things were bureaucratic matters rarely resulting in charges. In truth, it would be a relief to admit to something Gorski clearly already knew, even if there were repercussions. And the repercussions of sticking to his story were undoubtedly worse. Clearly there must have been some development. Why else would Gorski have summoned him?

Before Manfred had the chance to speak, Gorski nodded curtly. The opportunity was gone. He got up and paced to the side of the tiny room.

‘You recall, of course,' he continued, ‘that before her disappearance, Adèle Bedeau was seen in the company of a young man.'

Manfred nodded.

‘This young man – an Alex Ackermann – has now come forward. He came to see me because he was rightly concerned that he was a suspect in the disappearance of the girl. He seemed sincere in his desire to provide information and, without burdening you with details, initial enquiries appear to bear out his story. There are, however, a couple of points which require clarification.'

He paused. Manfred's mouth was dry. Gorski's pedantic manner irritated him. Why didn't he just come out with whatever it was he had up his sleeve? It was too late now to admit that he had seen the young man. It would appear that he was only doing so because he had been cornered. And in any case, who was to say that Gorski would believe what he had to say? Had he not already proved himself to be a liar. Now anything he said would be treated with scepticism.

Gorski resumed his seat.

‘According to Ackermann, on the Wednesday night when he met Adèle, she was in the company of another man. He described the man as being in his late thirties, about one-eighty, with short dark hair, wearing a dark suit and tie and a light raincoat.' Gorski widened his eyes and held out the palms of his hands. ‘So you can see why I am confused.'

‘That description could fit any number of people.'

Gorski tipped his head as if to concede the point. ‘What were you wearing that night?'

Manfred did not answer. He was surprised at the number of thoughts that could flash through his mind in a short space of time. He could affect surprise:
Yes, of course, I remember now! I did walk a little way with Adèle that night. How stupid of me to have forgotten!
But Gorski would never fall for such a ploy. Perhaps, it was time for outrage. He was an upstanding member of the community, a professional person with not a blemish on his record, he had had enough of Gorski's insinuations. But Manfred lacked the decisiveness for either course. Instead he just sat there, awaiting the inevitable.