CROSSING PARIS
541
gleaming between his narrowed eyelids.
In
a honeyed tone, but with
an unpleasant laugh, he inquired:
"Tell me, M. Jamblier,
this
is really number 45?"
The strange question caused Jamblier to start and turn pale.
During the remarks just exchanged between him and Martin, he
had partly lost sight of this unexpected assistant. With attention
sharpened by fear, he looked him over once more, trying to guess
just what lay behind the features of Grandgil and his narrow little
eyes with their bold and piercing glance. The man's clothes reas–
sured Jamblier a little, at least with respect to his calling. This suit,
spotted and shiny, the turtle-neck sweater, these were not the gar–
ments of a policeman.
"Why do you ask that?"
"For no reason at all, because I know the answer. M. Jamblier,
45 Poliveau Street."
The very tone in which these words were pronounced contained
a calculated threat. The boss, greatly disturbed, turned toward Martin
a reproachful glance, which seemed to ask him to explain the be–
havior of his companion. Martin was, in fact, ill at ease and feeling
guilty, for he considered himself responsible for the conduct of a
man whom he had introduced to the proprietor of the cellar. Be–
sides, he had lied when he said that he and Grandgil had worked
together. The truth was that they had met that afternoon for the
first time in a little cafe on the Boulevard de la Bastille.
Under a lowering sky, in the keen north wind which was blowing
over the canal toward the Seine, the day seemed dying of cold. With
his back to the counter, in the shadowy warmth of the room, Martin
watched through the window the passersby, their forms twisted
and bent by the cruel wind. On the other side of the canal, the houses
on Morland Boulevard were growing darker as the dull light left
the sky. The evening light, instead of confusing objects, sharpened
the edges of lines and planes. Grandgil too leaned against the counter
beside Martin, and watched with absorbed attention the dying of the
day. Perhaps sensitive to the melancholy of the hour, the other cus–
tomers were silent, with the exception of an old riverman, who was
seated in the darkest corner of the cafe. He sat motionless and very
erect, his hands flat on the table in front of him. His wasted little
