Read Out of the Dark for Free Online Page A

on until the end of time.
    I gathered together three or four art books in my beige canvas carryall and went downstairs.
    I asked the man standing behind the front desk if he had a directory of the streets of Paris, and he handed me one that looked brand-new, with a blue cover. I looked up all the numbers on the Boulevard Haussmann until I found the Jacquemart-André Museum at number 158 . At 160 there really was a dentist, a Pierre Robbes. I wrote down his telephone number, just in case it might be useful: Wagram 1318 . Then, with my beige carryall in my hand, I walked to the English bookstore by Saint-Julien-le-Pauvre, where I managed to sell one of the books I was carrying, Italian Villas and Their Gardens , for 150 francs.

I HESITATED for a moment before the building at 160 Boulevard Haussmann, and then I stepped into the entryway. On the wall, a plaque listed the names and floors in large printed letters:
    Doctor P. Robbes P. Cartaud
    3 rd floor
    The name Cartaud wasn't written in the same lettering as the others, and it seemed to have been inserted sometime afterward. I decided to try the office on the third floor, but I didn't take the elevator, whose cage and glass double doors shone in the semidarkness. Slowly I climbed the stairs, practicing what I would say to the person who came and opened the door – 'I have an appointment with Dr. Cartaud.' If they showed me in to see him, I would take on the jovial tone of someone paying a spur-of-the-moment call on a friend. With this one small difference: he had only seen me once, and it was possible that he wouldn't recognize me.
    On the door there was a gilded plaque with the words:
    DENTAL SURGEON
    I buzzed once, twice, three times, but no one answered.
    I left the building. Beyond the Jacquemart-André Museum, a café with a glassed-in terrace. I chose a table with a view of the front door of number 160 . I waited for Cartaud to arrive. I wasn't even sure he meant anything to Jacqueline and Van Bever. It was only one of those chance meetings. They might never see Cartaud again in their lives.
    I had already drunk several grenadines and it was five o'clock in the afternoon. I was beginning to forget just why I was waiting in this café. I hadn't set foot on the Right Bank tor months, and now the Quai de la Tournelle and the Latin Quarter seemed thousands of miles away.
    Night was falling. The café, which was deserted when I sat down at my table, was gradually filling up with customers who must have come from the offices in the neighborhood. I could hear the sound of a pinball machine, as in the Café Dante.
    A black car pulled up alongside the Jacquemart-André Museum. I watched it absently at first. Then suddenly I felt a jolt: it was Cartaud's. I recognized it because it was an English model, not very common in France. He got out of the car and went around to open the left door for someone: it was Jacqueline. They would be able to see me behind the glass wall of the terrace as they walked toward the building's front door, but I didn't move from my table. I even kept my eyes fixed on them, as if I were trying to attract their attention.
    They passed by unaware of my presence. Cartaud pushed open the front door to let Jacqueline go in. He was wearing a navy blue overcoat and Jacqueline her light leather jacket.
    I bought a token for the telephone at the bar. The phone booth was in the basement. I dialed Wagram 1318. Someone answered.
    'Is this Pierre Cartaud?'
    'Who's calling?'
    'Could I speak to Jacqueline?'
    A few seconds of silence. I hung up.

I MET THEM, her and Van Bever, the next afternoon at the Café Dante. They were alone at the far end of the room, at the pinball machine. They didn't interrupt their game when I came in. Jacqueline was wearing her black pants, narrow at the ankles, and red lace-up espadrilles. They weren't the kind of shoes to wear in winter.
    Van Bever went to get some cigarettes, and Jacqueline and I were left alone, facing each other. I took