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Bird in a Cage Page 10
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“There you are, Herbin.”
“I am innocent!” I shouted at the top of my voice.
“You’re not up to much. You didn’t even act surprised when Ferrie mentioned the husband’s corpse.”
I must have had a funny look because he burst out laughing. I couldn’t take any more. That laugh completely annihilated me.
“Got that down, Bache?”
“Yes, sir.”
The bald man leaned forward. His bulging paunch squashed up against his old leather writing set. His face was inches from mine. I felt sick, his breath smelt of milky coffee.
“Listen carefully, Herbin. When the three of you left the Dravets’, the registration card was under the sofa cushion. When Ferrie and Mme Dravet came back, they found a stiff, M. Dravet, and didn’t touch anything. After Ferrie’s statement this morning, my men went back to search the sofa, and the registration document wasn’t there. I therefore conclude that you entered Mme Dravet’s flat while she was out. You knew the only person there was the baby, providing a perfect opportunity for a man with no money who’s just out of jail. Only Jérôme Dravet came back in while you were looking over the place. He pulled his gun on you. You disarmed him and shot him point blank. In the course of the struggle the sofa cushions got thrown about and when you were putting them back in place you came across Ferrie’s registration card. Why did you take it? A stupid reflex action. Stupid, and also dangerous, since it has allowed us to catch you out.”
He talked and talked, quite sure of himself and of being right.
I’d stopped listening to him. My mind had wandered back into the strange labyrinth. There now was only one lounge at the Dravets’! I had destroyed the traces of the switch by my own hand.
I could try telling them the truth, but I didn’t care to. How could I get them to believe such a truth? Nightmares are personal things that become absurd when you try to tell them to other people. You can experience them, that’s all you can do…
The blue and yellow bird swinging over the bed of the little girl came to my mind. All I’d done with my time out of prison was to buy a silver-spangled cage. What a symbol! I was going to go back into a cage. Unless Mme Dravet, on learning of my arrest…
“Tell me, inspector…”
I must have cut him off in full flight. He went red in the face and looked aghast when he suddenly realized that I hadn’t even been listening to him.
“What?”
“What is Mme Dravet’s first name, please?”
He looked at me, then at his sidekick, then at a piece of paper on his desk.
“Marthe,” he bellowed spitefully.
“Thank you.”
There was nothing more for me to say.
Marthe would have to decide what to do.
Did you know?
One of France’s most prolific and popular post-war writers, Frédéric Dard wrote no fewer than 284 thrillers over his career, selling more than 200 million copies in France alone. The actual number of titles he authored is under dispute, as he wrote under at least 17 different aliases (including the wonderful Cornel Milk and l’Ange Noir).
Dard’s most famous creation was San-Antonio, a James Bond-esque French secret agent, whose enormously popular adventures appeared under the San-Antonio pen name between 1949 and 2001. The thriller in your hands, however, is one of Dard’s “novels of the night” – a run of stand-alone, dark psychological thrillers written by Dard in his prime, and considered by many to be his best work.
Dard was greatly influenced by the great Georges Simenon. A mutual respect developed between the two, and eventually Simenon agreed to let Dard adapt one of his books for the stage in 1953. Dard was also a famous inventor of words – in fact, he dreamt up so many words and phrases in his lifetime that a ‘Dicodard’ was recently published to list them all.
Dard’s life was punctuated by drama; he attempted to hang himself when his first marriage ended, and in 1983 his daughter was kidnapped and held prisoner for 55 hours before being ransomed back to him for 2 million francs. He admitted afterwards that the experience traumatised him for ever, but he nonetheless used it as material for one of his later novels. This was typical of Dard, who drew heavily on his own life to fuel his extraordinary output of three to five novels every year. In fact, when contemplating his own death, Dard said his one regret was that he would not be able to write about it.
So, where do you go from here?
If you feel like another novel of the night, take a look at Dard’s paranoid prison-escape classic, The Wicked Go to Hell.
Or if you’re after something that packs more of a punch, pick up a copy of Martin Holmén’s ultra-gritty Scandi-noir debut, Clinch.
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Bird in a Cage
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Copyright
Pushkin Vertigo
71–75 Shelton Street
London, WC2H 9JQ
Original text © 1961 Fleuve Editions, département d’Univers Poche, Paris
First published in French as Le Monte-Charge in 1961
Translation © David Bellos, 2016
First published by Pushkin Vertigo in 2016
ISBN 978 1 782272 10 6
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