The policeman repeated profoundly, “His stick. No, no one came out.”
Holecek was getting angry: “But a man cannot disappear like that!”
“You are right, there,” the policeman said in a conciliatory tone.
“Better get back inside,” said the other, “it is snowing.”
Holecek understood; they thought him drunk, but he had hardly drunk one glass. What can this new mystery be?
He repeated his explanation, irritably: “He was just in front of me. He cannot have vanished like that, yet had he gone out you would have seen him, would you not?”
The policeman took out his notebook. “Now don’t start any nonsense,” said Holecek. “What are you going to do?”
“One does not know what may not have happened. An accident, or else, maybe a . . .”
Holecek bit his lips with rage. “If that were all!” he cried, slammed the door and went down again. Boura was sipping out of an empty glass. He had hardly noted Holecek’s absence. He was in a brown study.
“Your brother has disappeared,” announced Holecek, all atremble with cold and emotion.
“Just like him,” commented Boura, shaking his head.
“Excuse me,” said Holecek impatiently. “He was going up the stairs and suddenly vanished. He did not go out: he simply disappeared as if the earth had swallowed him up.”
“Just so . . . as if the earth had swallowed him up. Just like him. He used to go, and no one knew whither, and then come back with a curious, careworn expression, as if he had seen more things than his philosophy could understand.”
“The Devil! But listen to me. He did not go. He vanished. In the lobby. Two policemen were standing at the door and did not see him go out.”
“An original . . . from childhood up. Always been like that . . . yes, solitary, odd, terribly inconstant, cruel, absorbed. You see you don’t know him.”
