Frantic

By Noël Calef

HE HAD COMMITTED THE PERFECT MURDER AND NOW …
Hunched on the elevator floor, caged in his mechanical prison, Julien tried to sort out his thoughts. How long would he have to stay here? His brain ground out the answer he'd been avoiding. A day and two nights. Thirty-six hours.

Monday morning the janitor would turn on the current. Until then he was trapped, absolutely alone in the huge office building. Not quite. Besides himself there was a corpse: Bordgris.

He had to get out. No matter what. Never let anyone guess about the elevator. Allow no possible connection to spring up between him and Bordgris. But first—he had to get out.

In a frenzy he flung himself against the door. There was a click. Wild with hope, he forced his fingers around the edge, pulled on the door with all his strength. Slowly, the door began to give.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Automat.Press
• Release date: Apr 23, 2018
• ISBN: 9780999320945

Book preview

French title: ASCENSEUR POUR L’ECHAFAUD

by

NOËL CALEF

Translated from the French by

R. F. TANNENBAUM

Frantic (Ascenseur pour l’echafaud)

Copyright© 1956 by Librairie Arthème Fayard

Copyright© 1961 by Fawcett Publications, Inc.

First Gold Medal printing September 1961

All rights reserved. Including the right to reproduced this book or portions thereof.

All characters in this book are fictional and any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

eISBN: 978-0-9993209-4-5

Automat Catalog #A016

V5.0

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Published by

Automat.Press

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Austin, Texas USA

Chapter I

The street lights went on all over Paris. But they did not reflect back from the black, wet asphalt, washed down by the recent shower; it was still light out. Crowds were hurrying through the streets, past the big stores; the windows were dark. In France, the week end starts Saturday afternoon, and people head for the country if they can.

In the center of the city, however, some companies were working late. Banks of windows were lit here and there, including several floors of the Uma-Standard Building, one of the tallest, newest and ugliest office buildings on the Boulevard Haussmann.

Behind a half-opened window, a man and a woman faced each other. He in his office chair behind a metal desk; she, her steno pad on her knee, waiting for the rest of a letter that didn’t seem to be coming.

The man’s chin sank down. He was lost in thought. He was looking into the future, trying to see a flicker of hope there. He no longer saw his secretary three feet from him.

Mechanically, he looked at his watch. That’s the tenth time, she said to herself. He really doesn’t appeal to me when he’s nervous. Suddenly, the truth hit her. He’s in love with me! She shrugged. Impossible. He loves his wife too much. A chaser, yes …

To get the facts, she hitched her skirt slightly higher, baring her legs to the knee. The man did not budge, but the air was charging up slowly with desire. It went well with the warmth of early spring.

In the shadow and the silence, the sharp ring of the telephone cut through the air. They both jumped out of their chairs. The man’s start was so sudden he banged into his desk. Again, the phone rang. He made a nervous gesture:

See who it is, Denise.

She reached for the receiver and picked it up:

EXIM, Julien Courtois Export-Import Company. Monsieur Courtois? I’ll see if he’s in. One moment, Madame.

She covered the speaker with her palm and her lips moved: Your wife.

He recoiled. Then he stretched out his hand:

Hello? What’s the trouble? Oh … how nice. Fine … What? The ideas you get in your head … I’m working, I told you.… Certainly not.… Everything’s coming along.

He stopped; it was his wife’s turn. Her answers came through the earpiece, deformed by the machine. Then, raising his voice:

Of course not. Why do you make these things up? … Look, you know I only cancelled our long week end because I had …

He turned toward Denise, as if to call her to witness—and his throat went dry—she had sat down again, crossing her legs this time. She wore a slight smile.

Of course not! he howled into the phone, unable to tear his eyes from his secretary’s legs.

One could hear the screeching in the earpiece quite clearly. He held it away from his ear and threw Denise a sheepish smile.

Not at all, Geneviève. You called to make sure I was here? All right … You see? … Here I am!

While he was speaking he kept watching his secretary. The eyebrow she raised in a satirical gesture embarrassed him. His wife’s voice swelled; he had to hold the receiver even further away. Three’s a crowd. He turned toward Denise: maybe she’d understand, maybe she’d leave the room. But she was ignoring him and, very seriously, straightening the seam of her stocking.

Weariness swept over Julien Courtois. Denise was nothing to him, nothing, but he was terribly tempted to throw over everything, telephone, plans, worries, and disappear with her, to forget everything in her arms, even if only for one night … time for things to sort themselves out…. At the other end of the line, a question was asked. He answered:

Absolutely. I agree.

This produced a flood of words all tangled together.

Then, after a pause, very clearly:

D’you love me?

Denise turned her head. She’d heard it too.

Uh.… Naturally.

No, Julien. Say it. Say it!

He was at his wit’s end. His secretary was being very obvious about looking away. Julien was furious.

Please, Geneviève. This isn’t the time.

You’re not alone?

No. There, d’you understand? What? But I’m completely calm. Take my word for it. No. I won’t be back by seven. Later … I’ve got an important appointment at 6:30. So that’s that. Now call back right away and make sure I haven’t moved!

He hung up savagely and sat down. Denise gave him an innocent look, but did not lower her skirt.

My dear Denise, never get married, he said, with a twisted smile. Ah … Where were we?

Dear Sirs.…

Yes, that’s it … Dear Sirs … We have received …

He lifted his arm again to look at his wrist watch.

Denise wrote 11 on the corner of the page and made a circle around it.

We have received, she repeated. Your letter of… put in the date.

Which date, Monsieur?

She was making fun of him, but already he wasn’t listening. He coughed and turned towards the window. Outside, the evening was fair and glowing—early April weather. He looked at his watch again.

When you started, Monsieur, I think you meant to ask them for a catalogue.

Doesn’t matter.

Little by little, muffled by distance and the walls, sounds rose in the building: stifled laughter, hurried shuffling. It was past 5:30. The Saturday-afternoon shift was getting ready to leave. Denise had had enough.

Will that be all for today, Monsieur?

Julien Courtois stood up so fast his chair nearly fell over…

What? Oh … Sure. Type the letters.

He walked to the window, breathing painfully. It seemed to him that the air wouldn’t come all the way into his lungs.

Denise protested: But Monsieur, it’ll be six soon.

He did a half turn, gave her a half smile:

I know, Denise, I know. But I’ll have to ask you to wait till 6:30.

She started to speak, he stopped her:

Don’t be angry, my dear. I’ve got to get something really important together … for a big deal. I’ll give you my notes and you can type them up Monday morning before I come in.

The girl seemed upset. He put a not very paternal hand on her shoulder and continued:

It won’t be long—just till 6:20. All right? Call me on the intercom at exactly 6:20, and I’ll let you go. Agreed?

His voice had become warm, his teeth flashed. He had charm, knew it and knew how to use it. Denis gave him a sullen nod and went to the door. She put her hand on the light-switch:

D’you want some light?

No. Leave it off. I’ve got to think.

All right, Monsieur.

As she was leaving, he called her back:

Denise! Make sure I’m not disturbed for any reason.

But … if Madame Courtois calls?

Tell her I’m … tell her I’m busy with a client. Nothing before 6:30.

You said 6:20!

Yes, of course, 6:20. Thanks.

She left the room, closing the door. Julien was alone.

Through the partitions sounds of the laughter, the shouting, the coming and going continued to drift. He nodded his head several times, satisfied, but his face was still tense: The electric clock on the wall showed 5:43. He checked his watch, moistened his lips… He went to the private washroom behind his office. He washed his hands and dried them carefully. From a cupboard where he kept clean linen, he pulled out a handkerchief and put it in his breast pocket. There was sweat on his forehead.

Coming back to his desk, he pulled the drawer halfway open. He took out a new checkbook and a typed report several pages long:

CONSTRUCTION OF AN OIL REFINERY ON THE OUTSKIRTS OF PARIS.

Folding the papers, he slid them into his inside jacket pocket. He looked at his briefcase on the floor. Anxiety was cutting off his air supply.

I’ve got to finish it, that’s all! he whispered, his teeth clamped together.

Hardly two minutes had passed. Silently, he moved to the door leading to the reception room where Denise had her typewriter. He opened it a crack.

His secretary was whispering into the phone:

That’s what you think! At 6:20, bang, I’m getting out. I don’t know what’s got into him today. Until 5:00, I did nothing but read. Then he starts a letter that he doesn’t finish. He couldn’t sit still … Absolutely! Absolutely not! Even my legs. He used to make the wildest eyes at my legs. No, if you ask me, he’s got a heavy date.

Julien’s eyes lit up with satisfaction.

Denise went on, sure she was alone, putting her feet up on the desk. Oh, not bad at all.… Tall enough.… Regular features. Get the picture? But what you can’t picture is the eyes. You know, eyes that look as if they’d ask you anything—anything at all.

He leaned over to hear better. A tic played over his cheekbone.

Just between us girls, he must really get them going, the women, that is. And still, you know, he’s crazy about his wife. A real nag, but she’s the one with the loot. Or anyway, her brother is.… Well, like this; I call you up every five minutes and twist your arm: Do you love me? Tell me again. Again… That’s the type, you’ve got it. What? … Of course he’s a chaser. Anyway, if it wasn’t for Paul, I might just let myself be tempted …

Behind the door he seemed to be savoring the conversation, punctuating it with little nods of his head.

Anyway, he must have a real thing for the one tonight. Looked at his watch eleven times. And told his wife he had a ‘business’ appointment for 6:30 … Julien quietly closed the door on Denise’s chatter. It was twelve to six. For a moment, he hesitated. Taking out his checkbook and the refinery report, he stared at them. Nervously, he opened another drawer of the desk and took out an automatic. But he shivered, put the gun back, and mumbled:

No. It’ll work or it won’t work, but …

He drew a deep breath. At last the air poured into his chest.

It’s got to work! he decided.

He picked up his briefcase from the floor, went straight to the window and stepped over the sill.

Chapter II

He made the mistake of looking down at the street twelve stories below. His head spun and his stomach swirled. Car lights sped by in all directions, slicing through the night. The street lights looked like pearl necklaces along the sidewalks. The glowing halo of a neon-sign rainbow rose toward him. He battled against the pull of nothingness, clenched his teeth, forced his other leg onto the sill.

He stood on the narrow ledge outside his window, hugging the wall with his back. The wind ruffled his hair. He opened the briefcase gingerly, reached into it, pulled out a length of line wrapped around a three-pronged steel hook. A mountaineer’s grapple. He set the briefcase on the window sill, and unwrapped the line quickly. He was sweating. With his right hand he grasped the rope, an arm’s length from the hook. With his left, he dropped the hook over the edge of the ledge, then picked up the free end of the line. He began to swing the hook in an arc from his right hand, once, twice, then over in a circle, making faster and faster circles until, on the upswing, he let go. The hook sailed upward in a curve, and disappeared. The rope snaked up after it, and stopped. He waited. Then pulled on the rope. Good. On the first try the hook caught on the ledge above.

He leaned his full weight on the rope, taking care not to look down. It held. He leaned further out, facing the wall, hanging on to the rope with both hands, and put one foot on the wall. Then the other. He began to climb, pulling himself up hand over hand on the rope, walking up the wall on his feet like a fly. His back was straining under his own weight. Street noises floated up toward him.… He reached the ledge of the floor above, and gripped it with his hands. He pulled himself over it, gasping for breath, trembling for his life.

He straightened up slowly, very slowly. There was the hook, holding on by two prongs. He shuddered. It looked small. Then, one agonizing step at a time, he moved to the right, his hands gripping the wall as if they were suction cups. His fingernails dug into a tiny cornice that ran the length of the wall. His left foot moved a few inches, his right foot came up to it, his left foot moved a few inches…. His mind reeled as he reached the next window. With relief he stepped in through the open window.

The fairly large office he entered was empty. The floor, spattered with plaster, littered with paint cans, was hidden under a fine layer of white dust. Julien went to the glass door, read backwards the unfinished sign painted on it. PRIV

He started, as if he’d just remembered something. Feverishly he reached under his jacket to his pants pocket for a pair of light gloves. He put them on immediately retracing his steps, he carefully wiped off the window sill he’d touched. Then he walked back to the glass door, and wiped his feet energetically on some cardboard that lay on the floor.

Slowly, his gloved hand turned the doorknob. The corridor was empty. Julien had regained control of himself. He walked calmly, closing the door behind him.

Nobody. A sigh of relief relaxed his whole body. He took a few steps. Scraps of conversation drifted toward