“I’ve been told, Monsieur Tarrou,” he continued, “that you are helping to enforce the prophylactic measures.
I need hardly say how commendable that is, a fine example.
Do you think, Dr. Rieux, that the epidemic will get worse?”
Rieux replied that one could only hope it wouldn’t, and the magistrate replied that one must never lose hope, the ways of Providence were inscrutable.
Tarrou asked if his work had increased as the result of present conditions.
“Quite the contrary. Criminal cases of what we call the first instance are growing rarer.
In fact, almost my only work just now is holding inquiries into more serious breaches of the new regulations.
Our ordinary laws have never been so well respected.”
“That’s because, by contrast, they necessarily appear good ones,” Tarrou observed.
The magistrate, who seemed unable to take his gaze off the sky, abruptly dropped his mildly meditative air and stared at Tarrou.
“What does that matter? It’s not the law that counts, it’s the sentence.
And that is something we must all accept.”
“That fellow,” said Tarrou when the magistrate was out of hearing, “is Enemy Number One.”
He pressed the starter.
Some minutes later Rambert and Cottard saw Garcia approaching.
Without making any sign of recognition he came straight up to them and, by way of greeting, said:
“You’ll have to wait a bit.”
There was complete silence in the crowd around them, most of whom were women.
Nearly all were carrying parcels; they had the vain hope of somehow smuggling these in to their sick relatives, and the even crazier idea that the latter could eat the food they’d brought.
The gate was guarded by armed sentries, and now and then an eerie cry resounded in the courtyard between the barrack rooms and the entrance.
Whenever this happened, anxious eyes turned toward the sick-wards.
The three men were watching the scene when a brisk “Good morning” from behind them made them swing round.
In spite of the heat Raoul was wearing a well-cut dark suit and a felt hat with rolled-up brim. He was tall and strongly built, his face rather pale. Hardly moving his lips, he said quickly and clearly:
“Let’s walk down to the center. You, Garcia, needn’t come.”
Garcia lit a cigarette and remained there while they walked away.
Placing himself between Rambert and Cottard, Raoul set the pace, a fast one.
“Garcia’s explained the situation,” he said. “We can fix it.
But I must warn you it’ll cost you a cool ten thousand.”
Rambert said he agreed to these terms.
“Lunch with me tomorrow at the Spanish restaurant near the docks.”
Rambert said: “Right,” and Raoul shook his hand, smiling for the first time.
After he had gone, Cottard said he wouldn’t be able to come to lunch next day, as he had an engagement, but anyhow Rambert didn’t need him any more.
When next day Rambert entered the Spanish restaurant, everyone turned and stared at him.
The dark, cellarlike room, below the level of the small yellow street, was patronized only by men, mostly Spaniards, judging by their looks.
Raoul was sitting at a table at the back of the room. Once he had beckoned to the journalist and Rambert started to go toward him, the curiosity left the faces of others and they bent over their plates again.
Raoul had beside him a tall, thin, ill-shaven man, with enormously wide shoulders, an equine face, and thinning hair.
His shirtsleeves were rolled up, displaying long, skinny arms covered with black hair.
When Rambert was introduced he gave three slow nods.
His own name, however, was not announced and Raoul, when referring to him, always said “our friend.”
“Our friend here thinks he may be able to help you.
He is going—” Raoul broke off, as the waitress had just come to take Rambert’s order.
“He is going to put you in touch with two of our friends who will introduce you to some sentries whom we’ve squared.
But that doesn’t mean you can start right away.
You’ll have to leave it to the sentries to decide on the best moment.
The simplest thing will be for you to stay some nights with one of them; his home is quite near the gate.
The first thing is for our friend here to give you the contacts needed; then when everything’s set, you’ll settle with him for the expenses.”
Again “the friend” slowly moved his equine head up and down, without ceasing to munch the tomato and pimento salad he was shoveling into his mouth.
After which he began to speak, with a slight Spanish accent.
He asked Rambert to meet him, the next day but one, at eight in the morning, in the Cathedral porch.
“Another two days’ wait,” Rambert observed.