Scene of the Crime by Patrick Modiano

Author:Patrick Modiano
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Yale University Press
Published: 2023-05-15T00:00:00+00:00

The letter, signed with the initials N. F., was accompanied by the photo of a very young man in a ski outfit. On the back of the photo was written in black ink: Megève, February 1940. University ski championship. Rochebrune descent. Vincent 2nd place, behind Rigaud and Dalmas de Polignac ex aequo.

One evening, Camille asked him some insidious questions. She had left her job at Saint-Lazare, as well as her address. She now had a room at 65 Quai de la Tournelle, a squat old building that served as a hotel, where she appeared to be the sole guest. Her window looked out on the Seine. She had ultimately found work as an accountant in a large garage on Fossés-Saint-Bernard.

She hadn’t given any clear explanation for this sudden retreat to the Left Bank, other than she felt like “a change of scenery.” When he’d asked her in a sarcastic tone whether it wasn’t to “burn her bridges” with Michel de Gama and the Hotel Chatham, she had merely nodded, with no further comment.

That evening, in a tiny Vietnamese restaurant on Rue des Grands-Degrés, near the quay, the conversation veered toward a subject about which he felt he’d best exercise some caution.

They had just sat at their table when she said flat out:

“There’s something I want to know: why did you steal that datebook and photo from that fellow Guy Vincent?”

He immediately realized that she’d wanted to ask it for a long time and had finally taken the plunge. Up until then, he’d thought she simply didn’t care.

“I’ve started work on a novel and I need specific objects for inspiration. That photo and datebook help spark my imagination.”

He had endeavored to sound as serious and convincing as possible.

“But why Guy Vincent?”

She persisted in a way that he found suspicious. He’d have to weigh his words carefully.

“The photo and datebook make it easier for me to create a fictional character. It could have been anyone. Like that guy Michel de Gama, for instance. Or you.”

“Really?”

She was looking at him strangely. She didn’t seem the least bit convinced. He guessed she was dying to ask something else, something that could put him in a tight spot.

“I leafed through Guy Vincent’s datebook. Why was your name on one of the pages?”

“Yes, funny, isn’t it . . . But Bosmans is a very common name in Belgium and northern France.”

She seemed disconcerted. He had answered in a calm voice. He added:

“And besides, that datebook must be a good twenty years old . . . Back then, I was probably still in the cradle . . . ”

She smiled slightly.

“Yes, but it was the same first name.”

“Everybody’s named Jean.”

There was a long silence, which would have seemed heavier to him had the radio not been playing on the restaurant counter, as usual.

“And what’s even weirder is the address he wrote down—the same address as the house we visited the other day with Martine Hayward.”

“Oh, really? Are you sure?”

He’d done his best to look astonished, but he was tired of playing this game.

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