Dirty Snow by Georges Simenon Read Free Book Online Page A

Did she think he didn’t understand?
    â€œTry one of these. They’re very mild.”
    â€œI know.”
    She had recognized the foreign brand. These cigarettes meant more than banknotes, and everybody knew what they were worth.
    She gave a start when someone knocked on the door. Frank had the same idea she did. Had Holst come back for some reason or other, perhaps because he’d seen the young man at the streetcar stop?
    â€œExcuse me, Mademoiselle Holst …”
    It was an old man Frank had seen before in the hall, a neighbor, the one whose apartment was on the other side of the transom. He eyed Frank with barely disguised contempt, like something the cat had left on the floor. On the other hand he was gently paternal toward Sissy.
    â€œI came to ask if you might have a match.”
    â€œOf course, Monsieur Wimmer.”
    But he didn’t leave. He stood there, holding his hands over the stove, which was going out. He said, in an offhand way, “We’re going to have more snow before long.”
    â€œThat’s likely.”
    â€œSome people don’t have to worry about the cold.”
    That was for Frank, but Sissy showed him she was on his side by giving him a little wink.
    Monsieur Wimmer was about sixty-five and his face was thickly covered with white bristles.
    â€œWe’ll certainly have more snow before the end of the week,” he repeated, waiting for Frank to leave.
    Then Frank trumped him: “Excuse me, Monsieur Wimmer …”
    A minute before Frank hadn’t known his name, and the old man stared at him, taken aback.
    â€œMademoiselle Holst and I were just going out.”
    Monsieur Wimmer looked at the young girl, convinced she was going to say it wasn’t true.
    â€œWe are,” she said, taking down her coat. “We have an errand to run.”
    That was one of their best moments. They almost burst out laughing. They were just two children now, playing a prank—and indeed Monsieur Wimmer looked like a retired schoolteacher despite the brass collar-button that could be seen under his Adam’s apple. He didn’t have a tie to hide it.
    Sissy closed the damper on the stove. She retraced her steps to get her gloves. The old man didn’t move. It looked like he was going to let himself be shut up in the apartment by way of protest. He watched them go down the stairs, and he couldn’t have failed to admire the splendid youthfulness of their steps.
    â€œI wonder if he’ll tell my father?”
    â€œHe won’t.”
    â€œI know Papa doesn’t like him, but …”
    â€œPeople never tell.”
    He said this with conviction, because it was true: he knew it from experience. Had Holst turned him in? He was tempted to talk to Sissy about it, to show her the automatic that was still in his pocket. He was risking his life carrying a firearm on him, and she didn’t suspect a thing. Once in the street, she asked, “What are we going to do?”
    There had been one really extraordinary, completely unexpected moment—when he had replied to the old man and she had taken her coat and they had raced past the unhappy old fellow and down the stairs as if they were going to start dancing there and then.
    At that moment she might quite naturally have taken his arm. But now they were in the street and the moment was gone. Did Sissy realize what had happened? They didn’t know where to go. Luckily, Frank had mentioned the movies. He said, much too seriously, “There’s a good movie at the Lido.”
    It was across the river. He didn’t want to take a streetcar. Not because of her father but because he wouldn’t have known how to act. They had to cross over the Old Basin. On the bridge the wind kept them from talking, and he didn’t dare take her arm, although she instinctively walked very close to him.
    â€œWe never go to the movies.”
    â€œWhy not?”
    He was sorry he’d asked.