Read Missing Person for Free Online Page B

in a month, I'll be out of work ..."
    He gripped my arm, round the biceps.
    "Gay thought I was going to be the new Cole Porter..."
    Female screams, suddenly. It came from Blunts apartment.
    "What's going on?" I said.
    "Nothing, they're enjoying themselves."
    A man's voice bellowing: "Are you going to let me in? Are you going to let me in, Dany?" Laughter. A door slamming.
    "Dany's my wife," whispered Blunt.
    He rose and switched on the light.
    "Let's get a breath of air."
    We crossed the esplanade of the Museum of Modern Art and sat down on the steps. I watched the cars further down, moving along Avenue de New-York, the only sign of life. Everything about us was deserted, frozen. Even the Eiffel Tower, which I could make out on the other side of the Seine, the Eiffel Tower generally so reassuring, looked like a hulk of oxidized scrap-iron.
    "You can breathe here," said Blunt.
    And indeed a warm breeze was playing over the esplanade, among the statues which looked like shadowy blotches, and the big columns at the far end.
    "I'd like to show you some photographs," I said to Blunt.
    I took an envelope from my pocket, opened it and drew out two photographs: the one of Gay Orlov, with old Giorgiadze and the man I believed to be myself, and the one of her as a little girl. I handed him the first photograph.
    "Can't see anything here," muttered Blunt.
    He flicked a cigarette-lighter but had to try several times, as the wind kept blowing out the flame. He shielded it with the palm of his hand and moved the lighter closer to the photograph.
    "Do you see that man?" I said. "On the left . . . The extreme left..."
    "Yes."
    "Do you know him?"
    "No."
    He was bent over the photograph, his hand like an eye- shade against his forehead, to shield the flame.
    "Don't you think he looks like me?"
    "I don't know."
    He scrutinized the photograph for another few seconds and handed it back to me.
    "Gay was just like that when I knew her," he said sadly.
    "Here, this is one of her as a child."
    I handed him the other photograph and he examined it by the lighter flame, his hand still shielding it, pressed against his forehead, looking like a watchmaker engaged in a particularly delicate operation.
    "She was a pretty little girl," he said. "Do you have any other photos of her?"
    "Unfortunately not... Do you?"
    "I had a photograph of our wedding, but I lost it in America ... I even wonder if I've kept the newspaper cutting of her suicide ..."
    His American accent, which had been imperceptible at first, was growing stronger and stronger. Fatigue?
    "Do you often have to wait like this, before you can go home?"
    "More and more. And yet it all started so well. . . My wife used to be very nice ..."
    He lit a cigarette with difficulty, because of the wind.
    "Gay would be amazed if she saw me like this ..."
    He drew closer to me and laid a hand on my shoulder.
    "She had the right idea, old man, don't you think - to disappear before it gets too late?"
    I looked at him. Everything about him was round. His face, his blue eyes and even the thin moustache, cut in an arc. His mouth too, and his plump and dimpled hands. He made me think of those balloons children hold on a string and which they sometimes release to see how high they will climb. And the name, Waldo Blunt, bulged, like one of those balloons.
    "I'm dreadfully sorry I haven't been able to tell you much about Gay, old man ..."
    I could sense him weighed down with fatigue, dejected, and yet I watched him very closely for fear that a puff of wind across the esplanade might carry him off, leaving me alone with my questions.

8
     
    T H E AVENUE skirts the Auteuil race-course. On one side, a bridle path, on the other blocks of flats all built on the same pattern with open spaces between. I passed in front of these deluxe barracks and took up a position facing the one where Gay Orlov committed suicide: 25, Avenue du Maréchal-Lyautey. Which floor? The caretaker would certainly have changed since then. Was there