The Little Man From Archangel by Georges Simenon Page A

without thinking. This time he must take care.
    'I don't remember.'
    The young man sneered derisively.
    'So you can't remember whether you were to expect her or not?'
    'She didn't know herself.'
    'Well then, did she take her travelling-case?'
    Think fast, all the time, and not get caught out, not contradict himself. He couldn't help glancing at the staircase.
    'I don't think so.'
    'She didn't take it,' Frédo stated.
    His voice grew hard, became accusing.
    'Her case is in the cupboard, and her coat.'
    He was waiting for an explanation. What could Jonas reply? Was this the moment to admit the truth? Was it to Gina's brother that he was to make his confession?
    He stiffened, managed to say curtly:
    'Possibly.'
    'She didn't take the bus to Bourges.'
    He feigned astonishment.
    'I had a friend in the bus and he didn't see her.'
    'Perhaps she took the train.'
    'To go to see La Loute?'
    'I imagine so.'
    'Gina didn't go to see La Loute either. I rang her up this morning before coming here.'
    Jonas did not know that La Loute had a telephone, or that Frédo was on speaking terms with her. If he knew her number perhaps he had already been to call on her there himself?
    'Where is my sister?'
    'I don't know.'
    'When did she leave?'
    'Yesterday morning.'
    He almost added:
    'I swear!'
    He almost believed it, by sheer force of repetition. What difference did it make if Gina had left on Wednesday evening or Thursday morning?
    'Nobody saw her.'
    'People are so used to seeing her passing that no one takes any notice now.'
    Frédo, who was a whole head taller than he was, seemed to be hesitating whether to seize him by the shoulders and shake him, and Jonas resigned, didn't move. His eyes didn't flinch until the moment that his visitor turned to walk over to the door, without touching him.
    'We'll soon see . . .' Frédo growled heavily.
    Never had a morning been so bright and so calm. The Square had scarcely come to life and the sound of the grocer lowering his orange blind could be heard, with the handle squeaking out in the silence.
    Standing in the doorway, Frédo was a huge and menacing shadow.
    As he turned his back, he opened his mouth, no doubt for some insult, thought better of it, walked across the pavement and started up his motor-bike.
    Jonas was still standing motionless in the middle of the shop, forgetting his croissants , forgetting that it was breakfast time. He was trying to understand. Already the day before he had had a premonition of danger hanging over him, and now he had just been threatened under his own roof.
    What for? Why?
    He had done nothing except to take a wife into his house, whom Angèle had given to him, and for two years he had done his best to give her peace.
    'She's gone to Bourges . . .'
    He had said it without thinking, to stave off questions, and now it was bringing new ones in its wake. While he was at the baker's Frédo had not only come into his house, but had gone upstairs, opened the cupboard, searched the wardrobe, since he knew that his sister had not taken her suitcase or coat.
    Was it possible that they might be thinking what had suddenly come into his mind?
    From red, he turned suddenly pale, so absurd and terrible was the notion. Did they really believe it? Had it really occurred to anybody, whether Frédo or not, that he had disposed of Gina?
    Didn't they all know, everybody in the Old Market, and in the town as well, that it was not his wife's first escapade, that she had had them before marrying him, when she still lived with her parents, and that this was the reason they had given her to him?
    He had no illusions about that. Nobody else would have married her. And Gina did not have the calm, sangfroid of La Loute, who more or less got away with it in Bourges.
    She was a female who could not control herself, that they all knew, including her father.
    Why in Heaven's name would he have . . .?
    Even in his mind he hesitated to formulate the word, or to think of it. But wasn't it better to face