Jean-Patrick Manchette: The Mad and the Bad

“I like you better than Marcelle,” said Peter once more.

Thompson left his bed and went to make coffee. The noise woke Bibi, who sat up grumpily. The brother heavies came back into the chalet. A fuzzy conversation in sleep-filled voices was gradually struck up. The second day had begun.

Thompson served coffee, and flageolet beans in paper bowls. Stomachs heaved at first, but the beans were warming. Peter refused to eat, refused coffee. Thompson gave him a mug of water.

“I’m sick of this,” said the boy. “I want to go home. I have to go home. Why are you doing this to me?”

He began to stagger about in tears. He cried desperately for a long time. Eventually he ran out of tears, but he went on moaning dry-eyed: “Why are you doing this to me?”

“Shut up, for Christ’s sake,” shouted Nénesse.

“Yes,” said Thompson to Julie. “Have him be quiet, mademoiselle. He’s starting to get on our nerves.”

Shortly after one in the afternoon, with everyone seated at the table around a pork roast, the radio mentioned Peter and Julie. “This may be the beginning of another kidnapping,” said the lead newscaster in grave tones, between two commercials. “Yes indeed, Jacques Paoli,” intoned his second fiddle. “To recap, a seven-year-old boy, little Peter Hartog, nephew of Gérard Hartog, who had gone out with his nanny on Wednesday morning, never returned to the businessman’s home. Nor did the nanny, and the police are not excluding the possibility of a kidnapping. What is more, the nanny was discharged only recently from a mental institution.” Etc., etc. Jacques Paoli responded by saying that it was too early to draw any conclusions, but they would be following developments closely. Meanwhile they would move on to other things, right after messages from their sponsors. Thompson turned the radio off.

“Let’s finish our meal,” he said.

He poured wine for Julie and gave her a thin smile. Suddenly he retched. With his hand to his mouth, he rushed to the toilet. The sound of violent vomiting was heard. The girl looked at each of the diners in turn.

“The police are on to this,” she said. “It’s not too late to let us go. Kidnapping never works and you know it.”

“Shut up!” shouted Nénesse.

Thompson reappeared, his face dripping with sweat and gray as papier-mâché. Withdrawing a tin from his brown leather briefcase, he took spoonfuls of black granules from it, which he started chewing, seated on the edge of a bunk.

Julie emptied her glass of wine to help her calm down. She realized straightaway that it was spiked.

“Have you put something in this?” she demanded.

There was a bitter taste on her tongue.

“Just a sedative,” said Thompson. “My guys and I have certain things to talk over without you present, and I can’t leave you alone in the house in full possession of your faculties, even if we go only a few meters away. But don’t be afraid. You’ll be deeply asleep, that’s all.”

He got up. The granules had blackened his lips.

“While you’re still lively, you’re going to write a little note.”

Julie was drooping. You should ask him what it is, the drug he’s given you, she thought sluggishly. It’s wild how it relaxes you. She yawned. Her fingers tickled. Thompson placed a blank sheet of paper in front of her and put the ballpoint pen in her hand.

He guided her hand.

“Write ‘I warned you. .’ ”

Julie wrote. Out of the corner of her eye she noticed that Peter was slumped over the table.

“Peter! What have you done to him?”

“He’s sleeping. Cross out what you just wrote.”

“What? Why? Cross it out? Why?”

“Quickly! Cross it out! Write underneath: ‘I’ve had it. I can’t take it anymore.’ ”

Julie wrote: “Had it. Can’t anymore.”

“Good.”

Thompson’s voice was far away. Julie had water in her ears. She clung to the table and saw a streak of saliva settle on her hand.

“It’s snail slime,” she observed. They were lifting her up. Carrying her outside.

“Peter. .”

“Keep still. Relax.”

“Yes, Doctor.”

The four men laid Julie and Peter in the R 16’s trunk, which they closed and locked. They then went into the chalet and removed all traces of their stay. They closed the shutters. Nénesse carried the bag of trash to the car and stowed it under the front passenger seat. Thompson joined him carrying his rifle and Julie’s handbag. He disassembled the weapon. He arranged the various parts in a tan leather case with purple velvet lining. He paused frequently, doubled over by cramps. Eventually he settled in to the right of Nénesse, who had taken the wheel. Bibi and the blond giant, after locking up the chalet, soon joined them and got into the back. The four men were all sweating profusely.

“A few more minutes and it will be done,” said Thompson.

“This is the most dangerous part,” said Bibi.

Thompson closed his door.

“We know that.”

“Are you sure they’re unconscious?”

“A bull would be unconscious in their place.”

“The girl used to pop a load of pills. She could be immune. I wouldn’t like it if she opened her eyes and looked at us in the middle of it.”

“She’s asleep, I guarantee you that.”

Laid out on her back in the trunk, incapable of any act of will, Julie was staring upward and listening to the men talk.

Nénesse had finished carefully warming up the R 16, which shuddered into motion, passed through the gulley, and left the valley behind. Following a rough back road, it traveled several kilometers through sandy barrens covered with heather and dotted with pine and birch. At length it reached a straight, deserted departmental road and picked up speed.

“Take it easy, Nénesse.”

“Don’t tell me my job.”

“Drop me here,” said Thompson suddenly.

Nénesse braked.

“Here? You’ll have a long trek to Nemours.”

“I’ll have six kilometers. The fresh air will do me good.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to finish the trip with us?”

“I’m sticking to the plan,” said Thompson. “I don’t know anything about this jaunt.”

“You’re pushing it, Monsieur Thompson,” said the blond giant unexpectedly.

Thompson opened his door and got out.

“I’ll find you in the late afternoon at the Blason du Roi. I’ll be at the bar from four o’clock on.”

He picked up the tan case that held his rifle and slammed the door.

“Goodbye, gentlemen,” he said through the open window.

He walked away at a brisk pace. The car started off again. “He’s pushing it,” said the giant.

“Thompson is a pro,” said Nénesse. “There’s no one else like him. Not in France anyway.”

“He doesn’t seem well,” growled the giant.

The R 16 slowed down again. It jolted. Branches lashed its sides. They had left the road and were making their way through closely packed birch trees on a narrow track invaded by ground cover. In the trunk Julie was being tossed about. She was aware of Peter breathing deeply beside her. Her back hurt; she was lying on coiled rope.

The car pulled up.

“Here we are,” said Nénesse. “This is it.”

Silence.

“Who is going to do it?” asked Bibi in a faltering tone.

“The three of us-what a question!”

“It makes me feel sick. A kid. .”

“Me too,” said the blond giant. “It makes me feel sick too. Nénesse, if it doesn’t make you feel sick, you do it.”

“I tell you what we’ll do,” said the driver. “We’ll throw dice for it. It’ll be quick. The first ace rolled, okay?”

“Fair enough.”

Julie heard the car doors. Nénesse was getting dice from his pocket. With his hand he swept the dust from the track. The dice bounced on the dry earth.