The Cyclist by Fredrik Nath Read Free Book Online Page B

fall in love with her without any more difficulty than an old man would give her advice.
    He compared her to Zara and knew his only feelings for this girl were paternal. He drank his drink, feeling good about the quality of his thoughts. He felt protective, he knew her after all.
    ‘Bernadette? What are you doing here? Are you meeting a boy?’
    ‘Inspector Ran. I am singing. Mother has been ill and so she cannot take in washing any longer. I study during the day and sing at night. What else can I do?’
    ‘Nothing serious, I hope?’
    ‘Well you know, since the accident she has trouble walking and...’
    ‘This is not a good place to earn your money. It is full of men. They are not the kind of men you should be singing to.’
    ‘I will finish at midnight. I never stay. Bernard makes sure no one molests me. Thank you for your concern.’
    She turned away to leave him there. He had an urge to cling to her presence as one might to a lifebuoy in a dark sea. He had a feeling that if he could make her stay with him, the night would be less threatening, less suicidal.
    ‘Bernadette, I will take you home. My car is outside.’
    ‘But I am singing tonight.’
    ‘No, I meant when you have finished.’
    ‘Very kind of you. I do not get a police escort every night.’
    Her smile lit up his life for a brief moment. He felt it was as though her presence would save him. Although he did not think of himself as a deeply religious man, it was almost like seeing some saint who had visited him in a time of distress. Beauty, he reflected could do such things to a man, it can uplift the spirits.
    He looked into his glass as she began to sing. The words of the song were familiar. He wondered what regrets a child like Bernadette could have? She sang she had none, but she had not even sampled life. He was feeling older by the moment and worse still, he was aware of it.
    He reflected on the first time he met Odette. At the time, she was a friend of Murielle’s and Pierre had suggested they meet. She had charmed him, captured him and held him so he felt he was walking on air. They had talked and walked along the riverbank. By the end of the evening, they were holding hands. He had been eighteen. His inexperience helped him to love her immediately. Their marriage had changed things but the love remained. He knew in that moment of reflection there would never be another in his life.
     
     

2
    Brunner’s arrival interrupted his thoughts. A hard, bony hand descended upon his shoulder and he turned, looking up from his seat.
    The pink lips, moist and repulsive to him, parted in the familiar smile.
    ‘Ah, Auguste. I’m sorry to be late. We had some matters to clear up before we came. Have you met René Bousquet, my friend and associate? René has plans for reorganising all the French police, so you had better make a friend of him too. He might reorganise you out of a job and we couldn’t have that could we?’
    A tall angular fellow stood beside Brunner. Auguste thought his face looked as if someone once stretched it on the rack. Surmounting it was a head of greying black hair. The eyes were narrow and blue and gleamed in the lamplight like a man who is allergic to flowers. The lines on the man’s face seemed to Auguste to be vertical and the man pursed his thin lips as if he was used to sucking lemons. He did not smile even though Brunner was laughing at his own joke.
    Auguste stood and shook hands with them and though it was painful, he smiled.
    ‘I thought you were bringing Linz. I did not understand.’
    ‘Oh well, Linz couldn’t come. He is questioning a prisoner. I will tell you all about it. Now we need to drink. The table nearest the entertainment I believe will be required. Garçon!’
    Brunner turned and snapped his fingers. The Auberge’s owner appeared as if by some conjuring trick, Brunner having summoned him from thin air. He was a short, balding man and he bowed his head in an obsequious gesture of capitulation. To