The Most Beautiful Book in the World by Éric-Emmanuel Schmitt Read Free Book Online Page B

heat wave disasters. She turned around and questioned them: “Well, who was it?”
    â€œThere’s no one there, ma’am.”
    â€œWhat do you mean, no one there?”
    â€œCome and see.”
    She followed the three men to the closet. It may have been full of clothes and shoe boxes, but it was empty of any intruders.
    â€œWhere is she?”
    â€œWould you like us to have a look around with you?”
    â€œOf course.”
    With cautious gestures, the policemen went over the hundred and twenty square meters of the apartment with a finetoothed comb: the interloper was nowhere to be found.
    â€œReally, you must admit that it’s rather strange,” protested Odile, lighting another cigarette. “She came down the corridor, she saw me, she was surprised, and then she vanished somewhere into the apartment. How could she have gotten out?”
    â€œThe rear entrance?”
    â€œIt’s always locked.”
    â€œLet’s go see.”
    They went into the kitchen, and found that the door leading to the back stairs was locked.
    â€œYou see,” concluded Odile, “she can’t have gotten through this way.”
    â€œUnless she has a set of keys. Otherwise, how did she get in?”
    Odile stumbled. The policemen held her by the arms to help her sit down. She realized they were right: the woman who had burst into her apartment must have a set of keys in order to get in and out.
    â€œIt’s horrible . . .”
    â€œCould you describe this woman to us?”
    â€œAn old woman.”
    â€œSorry?”
    â€œYes, an old woman. With white hair.”
    â€œWhat was she wearing?”
    â€œI don’t remember. Something ordinary.”
    â€œA dress, or pants?”
    â€œA dress, I think.”
    â€œIt doesn’t really match the usual profile of a thief or any other kind of ne’er-do-well. Are you sure this person isn’t someone you’re acquainted with and you just didn’t recognize them?”
    Odile looked them up and down, somewhat scornfully.
    â€œI understand why you’re inferring this, it’s logical, given your profession, but do bear in mind that at thirty-five I am neither old nor senile. Undoubtedly I have many more diplomas than you do, I work as a freelance journalist, specializing in geopolitical issues in the Middle East, I speak six languages, and despite the heat I am in absolutely fine form. So please be so good as to believe me when I say that I am not in the habit of forgetting to whom I have entrusted my keys.”
    Astonished, fearing her anger, they nodded respectfully.
    â€œExcuse me, ma’am, but we have to take every eventuality into consideration. We sometimes have to deal with people who are fragile and who—”
    â€œTo be sure, I did lose my calm, there, earlier . . .”
    â€œDo you live here alone?”
    â€œNo, I’m married.”
    â€œWhere is your husband?”
    She looked at the policeman with bemused astonishment: she had just realized that no one had asked her this very simple question—where is your husband?—for a very long time.
    She smiled. “On a trip to the Middle East. He’s a special correspondent.”
    The policemen showed their respect for Charles’s profession with eyes wide open and a concerned silence. The eldest among them did, however, pursue his line of interrogation: “Isn’t it possible then that your husband, in fact, could have lent his set of keys to someone who . . .”
    â€œWhat on earth will you come up with next? He would have told me.”
    â€œYou can’t be sure . . .”
    â€œNo, he would have told me.”
    â€œCould you call him just to make sure?”
    Odile shook her head.
    â€œHe doesn’t like people trying to reach him when he’s halfway round the world. Especially for some nonsense about keys. It’s ridiculous.”
    â€œIs this the first time something like this has