as his back was turned, the man was watching him. He decided to go on up the street. Turning quickly, he tripped over a wooden box beside the shop doorway and nearly fell. His heels scraped and clattered on the sidewalk as he windmilled, seeking balance.
He stood absolutely still then, cursing quietly to himself. Then, turning, he stared at the man across the street. The man was gone.
Baron began walking. Immediately he saw the man again. This time the fellow was directly opposite him, on the far corner, leaning against a building.
A street girl came along on the sidewalk over there, and accosted the man.
Baron broke into a run, abruptly cut it off sharply, and walked into a café. He ordered a double brandy and drank it at a gulp. He left the café and started up the street again. He began to feel better. The brandy was a good thing. He knew he would have to lose the man who followed him, but lose him in a matter-of-fact way. It must not appear that he wanted to lose him. Because it shouldn’t matter to him if the man followed him.
Baron turned his mind off completely, or thought he did. He was perspiring heavily now. His hair was matted on his head, and his belt was too tight, and his trousers were soaked with perspiration. His shoes hurt, and there was a hole in the toe of his left sock. With every step he took he could feel his toe rubbing against the damp, rough leather of the shoe.
He had to reach the police. He had started it now and he would finish it. What would he tell them? He had no idea. Yes. He would tell them everything. The truth. They would simply have to understand and come to his aid.
There seemed to be no relief. He turned left on the next street, walked fast, cut across the street, and, entered an alley. He ran silently through the alley, very conscious of the toe in the shoe now, and came out on the small square before the prefecture. He ran across the square and around behind the building and turned right, still running, along Sylvabelle. There was no sign of the man. He cut across Sylvabelle and ran into another alley. He leaped breathlessly into the air, almost stomping on a man and a woman loving on the cobbled alley floor. The man swore and the woman groaned, her voice rising in monotonic waves, beating against the walls of the alley, following Baron as he ran. Reaching the end of the alley, he thought how odd it was that as he jumped over the couple back there, he had smelled the strong odor of tobacco.
Then he saw the taxi. He hailed it, rushing into the middle of the Rue Saint Jacques. The driver blasted the horn several times, the sound lifting merrily, wildly into the night. The taxi stopped. Baron hurried inside and sank back against the seat.
“Commissariat de police,” he said. “Vite, pour l’amour de Dieu!”
«Tres bien, monsieur.»
As they moved away and cut through a dark alley, the horn blatting viciously, he watched for the man. He saw no sign of him.
So this is how it is, he thought. This is how it is when you’re trying to get away, when somebody’s after you. He lay back against the seat, with his head by the window, watching, trying to get his breath and still the frightened thudding of his heart.
* * * *
A young man, an agent de police, met Baron as he entered the bare waiting room outside the office of the commissaire. The waiting room both looked and smelled like Baron’s old grammar-school rooms. The floors were worn boards, well oiled, and there were benches around the walls, well polished by many impatient behinds. The benches were knife-nicked along their edges, and here and there Baron saw black initials and dates carved into the old oak. There were three brass spittoons at three corners of the room, beside the benches. In the very center of the room, in line with the pebbled glass door signifying the office of the commissaire, was a straight-backed, cane-bottomed chair. The agent de police stood leaning behind this chair, a hand on either side of the
He stood absolutely still then, cursing quietly to himself. Then, turning, he stared at the man across the street. The man was gone.
Baron began walking. Immediately he saw the man again. This time the fellow was directly opposite him, on the far corner, leaning against a building.
A street girl came along on the sidewalk over there, and accosted the man.
Baron broke into a run, abruptly cut it off sharply, and walked into a café. He ordered a double brandy and drank it at a gulp. He left the café and started up the street again. He began to feel better. The brandy was a good thing. He knew he would have to lose the man who followed him, but lose him in a matter-of-fact way. It must not appear that he wanted to lose him. Because it shouldn’t matter to him if the man followed him.
Baron turned his mind off completely, or thought he did. He was perspiring heavily now. His hair was matted on his head, and his belt was too tight, and his trousers were soaked with perspiration. His shoes hurt, and there was a hole in the toe of his left sock. With every step he took he could feel his toe rubbing against the damp, rough leather of the shoe.
He had to reach the police. He had started it now and he would finish it. What would he tell them? He had no idea. Yes. He would tell them everything. The truth. They would simply have to understand and come to his aid.
There seemed to be no relief. He turned left on the next street, walked fast, cut across the street, and, entered an alley. He ran silently through the alley, very conscious of the toe in the shoe now, and came out on the small square before the prefecture. He ran across the square and around behind the building and turned right, still running, along Sylvabelle. There was no sign of the man. He cut across Sylvabelle and ran into another alley. He leaped breathlessly into the air, almost stomping on a man and a woman loving on the cobbled alley floor. The man swore and the woman groaned, her voice rising in monotonic waves, beating against the walls of the alley, following Baron as he ran. Reaching the end of the alley, he thought how odd it was that as he jumped over the couple back there, he had smelled the strong odor of tobacco.
Then he saw the taxi. He hailed it, rushing into the middle of the Rue Saint Jacques. The driver blasted the horn several times, the sound lifting merrily, wildly into the night. The taxi stopped. Baron hurried inside and sank back against the seat.
“Commissariat de police,” he said. “Vite, pour l’amour de Dieu!”
«Tres bien, monsieur.»
As they moved away and cut through a dark alley, the horn blatting viciously, he watched for the man. He saw no sign of him.
So this is how it is, he thought. This is how it is when you’re trying to get away, when somebody’s after you. He lay back against the seat, with his head by the window, watching, trying to get his breath and still the frightened thudding of his heart.
* * * *
A young man, an agent de police, met Baron as he entered the bare waiting room outside the office of the commissaire. The waiting room both looked and smelled like Baron’s old grammar-school rooms. The floors were worn boards, well oiled, and there were benches around the walls, well polished by many impatient behinds. The benches were knife-nicked along their edges, and here and there Baron saw black initials and dates carved into the old oak. There were three brass spittoons at three corners of the room, beside the benches. In the very center of the room, in line with the pebbled glass door signifying the office of the commissaire, was a straight-backed, cane-bottomed chair. The agent de police stood leaning behind this chair, a hand on either side of the
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