She Who Was No More by Pierre Boileau Read Free Book Online

said Lucienne.
    He backed the car into the garage and she shut the door. He would have liked a stiff brandy.
    ‘The canvas,’ said Lucienne.
    She went up two steps and in through the door between the garage and the house. Ravinel pulled the canvas sheet out, then rolled it up. Suddenly he heard the sound he dreaded. A gurgling sound—the bathwater being run away. The waste pipe passed through the garage.
    Driving along beside rivers, he had more than once seen a body fished out. An ugly sight, a drowned person. Black and swollen. A prod with a boathook goes right into the flesh.
    The gurgling went on. He in turn entered the house. In the doorway of the bedroom, he stopped. The bathroom door was open and through it he could see Lucienne bendingover. A final gurgle in the waste pipe. What was she looking at? She seemed to be examining something. The canvas fell on the floor. It had slipped from under his arm. Or perhaps he had simply dropped it. He really didn’t know. He turned on his heel and went into the dining room. The bottle of wine was still standing there beside the carafe. He drank direct from the bottle. Gulp after gulp, until he was out of breath.
    That was better! Now for it! He’d have to face it sooner or later. He retraced his steps and picked up the canvas sheet.
    ‘Spread it out flat.’
    ‘What?’
    ‘The canvas, of course.’
    Her face was hard, implacably hard. He had never seen it like that before. Going into the bathroom he spread the green canvas out on the floor, which was not big enough for it.
    ‘Well?’ he whispered.
    Lucienne had taken off her coat and rolled up her sleeves.
    ‘What can you expect? After forty-eight hours…’
    The strange power of words! Ravinel suddenly felt cold. He felt cold for Mireille. But he felt he had to see, and he glanced into the bath.
    A wet skirt clinging to the legs. The arms bent, the hands pressed to the neck…
    He drew back sharply uttering a cry. He had caught a glimpse of Mireille’s face, her hair, darkened by the water, plastered across her forehead and her eyes, looking like seaweed. He had seen her teeth, her gaping mouth.
    ‘Help me,’ said Lucienne.
    He leaned over the washbasin, feeling sick.
    ‘Wait—a moment…’
    It was ghastly. Though he had to admit that it was less so than he imagined. The bodies he had seen fished out of the water had been much worse. They must have been immersed much longer, a week perhaps.
    He straightened himself, removed his overcoat, then his jacket.
    ‘You take the legs.’
    It was Lucienne who gave the orders. It was difficult to lift, bending down over the tub. Mireille’s legs were stiff and icy cold. Water splashed down noisily as the body was dragged over the edge of the bath and lowered onto the canvas sheet. Lucienne promptly covered it, rolled it up. It was rather like doing up a parcel. Soon there was nothing visible but a cylinder of green canvas from which oozed a little water. The two ends were twisted to give them something to hold on to, and like that they carried the body down to the garage.
    ‘You ought to have left the car door open,’ said Lucienne.
    They managed to haul the bundle in and stow it diagonally in the back of the car, from which the rear seat had been removed. For that matter it always was, to make room for all the gear he had to carry round.
    ‘It would have been better to have tied her up with string.’
    Like a parcel!
    He regretted the remark at once. The words were those of a traveling salesman, not a husband.
    ‘It’s all right as it is, and we haven’t any time to waste.’
    Ravinel got out of the car and straightened himself. There! Another hurdle had been taken. It hadn’t used up all his nervous energy, which expended itself in tics and jerks. He rubbedhis head, blew his nose, scratched himself and clenched and unclenched his fists.
    ‘Wait here for me. I’m going back to tidy up.’
    ‘Not on your life!’
    Nothing would have induced him to wait all by