Jean-Patrick Manchette - The Mad and the Bad

Julie did not go in and buy the paper. She hurried on, then froze in her tracks. On the other side of the road, at the end of the village and some fifty meters from Julie, the tricolor flag of the National Gendarmerie was clearly visible. At this point it began to rain. It would be so easy to run to the building, shelter there from the rain, and throw herself into the solid lap of the police. Julie turned on her heel on the narrow sidewalk. A car was approaching under the downpour. The girl stuck her arm out, thumb upward. Oh, she thought, I’ve lost my pistol. The automobile, a pale blue Peugeot 204, pulled over in a spray of dirty water. The door opened. The driver was a red-faced man in his forties.

“Get in. Pithiviers?”

“Yes,” said Julie. “Yes, I’m going to Pithiviers.”

Walking cross-country at a good pace, filling his lungs with fresh air but still tormented by stomach cramps, Thompson had covered the six kilometers separating him from Nemours with great difficulty. The first thing he did was go and fetch his gray Rover from the garage where he had left it. He parked it on the town’s main square, took a small suitcase from the trunk, and rented a room for an hour at an inn. At four in the afternoon, freshly shaven and wearing a white turtleneck and an oak-brown sports suit, the man settled himself at the bar of the Blason du Roi. His face was pale. His cramps were incessant. Cold sweat coated his brow. He consulted his watch. By this time his victims should have been hanged. He pictured the scene: the two bodies jerking at the end of ropes, never having regained consciousness, tongues protruding, swollen, black, obscene. His pain lessened slightly. The barman leant towards Thompson looking worried. The killer waved his hands vaguely, fighting off the temptation to crush the man’s cervical vertebrae. He had him serve a Campari, which he drowned in soda water. At the first sip he was overcome by frightful nausea. He ran to the men’s room and threw up a remarkable amount of stomach acid. He returned to the bar. The server looked over.

“Are you ill, monsieur?”

Tight-lipped, Thompson shook his head. The barman let it drop and went about his business, but from time to time he cast a concerned glance at the motionless killer. Thompson did not touch his glass again.

Coco came into the bar. Now, thought Thompson, I am about to feel better. He is going to tell me how they died and I won’t feel ill anymore and I’ll eat. He scrutinized the blond giant and realized immediately that something had gone wrong.

“Come quickly,” said Coco.

Thompson got off his barstool and left a five-franc piece on the counter. He did not wait for his change.

Outside it was pouring-a sudden storm. Coco and Thompson ran to the R 16. As he ran, Thompson flung his head back to catch raindrops in his mouth. The two men got into the front of the car. Nénesse was sitting in the back with a Celtique in his maw and a raincoat over his shoulder that fell askew, toga-like, across his chest.

“Are you hurt?” asked Thompson promptly. “Where is Bibi?”

“Bibi is dead,” said Coco. “Nénesse got a slug in the side but it went right through. It’s not serious. But the girl and the kid got away.”

No wonder I’m in pain!

“What in God’s name happened?” roared Thompson.

“It was the girl. We were in the middle of hanging her and she suddenly came to. Bibi was holding her, he was taken by surprise, she grabbed his gun and killed him.”

“And then?”

“The girl and the kid got away. We were going after them, Nénesse and me. But he told me to take care of Bibi, and a second later I heard a shot. You couldn’t see a thing on account of the bushes. It took me minutes to find my brother. She had winged him like I told you. I hadn’t the faintest idea where she was, the girl I mean. I looked, I swear to God, but she had a head start.”

“Did the kid wake up too?”

Coco looked embarrassed. He licked his fat lips. His tongue was covered with foam.

“Half awake. Not completely. The girl dragged him away, you might say.”

“I can’t believe this,” said Thompson. “How can it be? What did you do with Bibi?”

“He didn’t go right away. We waited a while. We tried to see if we could do anything, but his liver was shot through. There was no point in hanging about. Nénesse told me to put him out of his misery, and then we buried him.”

“Right there?”

“Well, yes.”

“Idiots!” said Thompson. “The girl will lead the cops to the place in no time. They’ll believe her story all the sooner. Idiots!”

“We have to get out of here,” Nénesse put in. “We came to tell you. We’re pulling out. Right now.”

Thompson’s eyes flashed. His mustache quivered.

“You’ll pull out when I say!” he said in a violent undertone. “You screwed up the job. You have accounts to settle.”

“The money we received,” said Coco, “we are keeping. We are very sorry Monsieur Thompson, but we took risks. If things went wrong, it’s because the girl was not completely knocked out.” He looked Thompson straight in the eye. “That was your fault,” he concluded.

In the back of the car, Nénesse’s arm moved vaguely under the raincoat and Thompson divined the revolver aimed at him beneath the fabric. The rain drummed frantically on the car’s metal roof.

“What are you thinking?” asked Thompson contemptuously. “Are you going to start firing here? I am deeply disappointed in you. Here is what we are going to do.”

“Monsieur Thompson, it’s no use-”

“Shut up! You are going to make your way home. Your brother can take care of his wound. I’ll contact my client. I’ll come back and tell you whether or not the money already paid out must be reimbursed. Don’t hope for too much. The fault is yours.”

“Don’t you hope for too much either, Thompson,” said Nénesse through gritted teeth. “Reimbursement-wise, I mean.”

“No sense in discussing that yet,” said Thompson. “Goodbye, gentlemen. I’ll get back in touch with you at your place, tomorrow night at the latest.”

The man got out of the Renault. He stood motionless for a moment, his shoulders hunched against the rain, which was soaking his suit. Then he walked briskly to his Rover and drove off.

After the storm the sun came out, shining more brightly than ever between cloud banks scudding eastward. The road surfaces shone brightly as well. The red-faced motorist hummed as he drove.

“He’s a great sleeper, that kid of yours, I must say. My goodness, what a sleepyhead! Ha! Ha! Is he your son?”

“No, he’s the younger son of my boss,” said Julie, putting on an accent.

“Are you French?”

“No, I’m English.”

“I guessed it from your complexion. You know, lily-and-rose.”

“What’s a lily like?”

“It’s a white flower that symbolizes purity and beauty.”

“Oh.”

“A lily-and-rose complexion is a poetic way of referring to a fine English complexion.”

“Oh, I see.”

“I suppose the men in France flirt with you a bit?”

“So do the men in England.”

Julie was having a grand old time with the vocabulary. She pictured men flirting with her-and her shooting them point-blank. I must be in a manic phase, she told herself.

“Yes, but Frenchmen,” said the red-faced motorist, “what do you think of them, the way they flirt?”

“I don’t know. Some of them are crude.”

“Crude? You mean brutal?”

“No, crude. They talk dirty to me!”

This gave the motorist pause.

“Well, you know how it is, a girl in shorts, it’s inevitable. Are you from London? A student?”