“Why does he want to go?”
“His wife is in France.”
“Ah!”
After a short pause he added:
“What’s his job?”
“He’s a journalist.”
“Is he now? Journalists have long tongues.”
“I told you he’s a friend of mine,” Cottard replied.
They walked on in silence until they were near the wharves, which were now railed off.
Then they turned in the direction of a small tavern from which came a smell of fried sardines.
“In any case,” Garcia said finally, “it’s not up my alley. Raoul’s your man.
And I’ll have to get in touch with him.
It’s none too easy.”
“That so?” Cottard sounded interested. “He’s lying low, is he?”
Garcia made no answer.
At the door of the tavern he halted and for the first time addressed Rambert directly.
“The day after tomorrow, at eleven, at the corner of the customs barracks in the upper town.”
He made as if to go, then seemed to have an afterthought.
“It’s going to cost something, you know.”
He made the observation in a quite casual tone.
Rambert nodded. “Naturally.”
On the way back the journalist thanked Cottard.
“Don’t mention it, old chap.
I’m only too glad to help you.
And then, you’re a journalist, I dare say you’ll put in a word for me one day or another.”
Two days later Rambert and Cottard climbed the wide shadeless street leading to the upper part of the town.
The barracks occupied by the customs officers had been partly transformed into a hospital, and a number of people were standing outside the main entrance, some of them hoping to be allowed to visit a patient—a futile hope, since such visits were strictly prohibited—and others to glean some news of an invalid, news that in the course of an hour would have ceased to count.
For these reasons there were always a number of people and a certain amount of movement at this spot, a fact that probably accounted for its choice by Garcia for his meeting with Rambert.
“It puzzles me,” Cottard remarked, “why you’re so keen on going.
Really, what’s happening here is extremely interesting.”
“Not to me,” Rambert replied.
“Well, yes, one’s running some risks, I grant you.
All the same, when you come to think of it, one ran quite as much risk in the old days crossing a busy street.”
Just then Rieux’s car drew up level with them.
Tarrou was at the wheel, and Rieux seemed half-asleep.
He roused himself to make the introductions.
“We know each other,” Tarrou said. “We’re at the same hotel.”
He then offered to drive Rambert back to the center.
“No, thanks. We’ve an appointment here.”
Rieux looked hard at Rambert.
“Yes,” Rambert said.
“What’s that?” Cottard sounded surprised. “The doctor knows about it?”
“There’s the magistrate.” Tarrou gave Cottard a warning glance.
Cottard’s look changed.
M. Othon was striding down the street toward them, briskly, yet with dignity.
He took off his hat as he came up with them.
“Good morning, Monsieur Othon,” said Tarrou.
The magistrate returned the greeting of the men in the car and, turning to Rambert and Cottard, who were in the background, gave them a quiet nod.
Tarrou introduced Cottard and the journalist.
The magistrate gazed at the sky for a moment, sighed, and remarked that these were indeed sad times.