Jean-Patrick Manchette - The Mad and the Bad

“Yes,” said Coco. “But they don’t tell you anything on the radio.”

“Quite so. The fact is, the girl didn’t go to the cops. She took off. And it’s up to me,” added Thompson, “to kill her.”

He clutched his stomach with both hands.

“She took off?” echoed Coco.

“Yesterday afternoon-but we only learnt this overnight-she assaulted a motorist who picked her up with the kid. She beat the guy to death with a starting handle. Stole his wallet and his car. And the car was found empty, out of gas, in a parking lot down the A6 forty-five kilometers north of Lyon.”

“She’s whacko!” said Coco.

“Well, yes.”

Coco shook his head.

“Where d’you get your information?” asked Nénesse.

“My client,” said Thompson. “He gets it straight from the police, where he has good friends.”

“And what does he want us to do?”

“He wants me to find her before the police do, and kill her. And I need a driver. I can’t drive anymore. I’m ill.”

“Your client,” said Coco, “what he wants, it’s not doable.”

Thompson winced. “No, I must kill her. The kid too. I have to.”

The two brothers exchanged glances. Thompson was off his trolley-that was obvious. On the other hand, there was dough in this.

“This client of yours, does he pay two big ones a head?”

Thompson nodded.

“We can give it a shot,” offered Nénesse.

“I need only one driver. Only Coco. You are injured.”

“Nénesse and me both,” said Coco. “We work together or it’s not on.”

“Very well, very well,” said Thompson. He rubbed his red eyes. He sighed. “An air taxi is waiting for us. I’ll explain in the car, give you all the details.”

Thompson got up abruptly. His chair fell over behind him. He noticed a woman’s handbag on the floor by the wall. He stooped and picked it up.

“Idiots!” he said softly, almost in a whisper. “Idiots! The girl’s bag. It must be destroyed. I’ll take it.”

He headed for the door. The brothers emptied their glasses and got to their feet.

For the second night in a row Julie had not slept at all.

Peter woke up at six in the morning after sleeping for seventeen hours. From about midnight his sleep had gradually become more normal. When he awoke he cried out. Julie leapt from her bed and hurried over to the little boy. He was sitting up and gazing uncomprehendingly into the gray half-light of the room.

“I’m here. Don’t be afraid.”

Peter flung his arms around the girl’s neck, squeezing with all his might and almost strangling her.

“Where are we, Julie? Where are the bad guys?”

“Shh! We’re in a hotel. We got away.”

“Are they chasing us?”

“No.”

“Did the police catch them? Did you tell the police?”

Julie disentangled herself, shivering. The boy looked around the room. It was a very large room, with white roughcast walls, an old-fashioned rustic wooden washstand with a built-in bowl and a pitcher, and a large oval mirror mounted lengthwise between two wooden uprights.

“The police!” Peter repeated. “What about them?”

“I didn’t go to the police.”

“Why?”

Julie shook her head in exasperation and her dark hair swirled about her white neck.

“You’re all naked,” noted Peter with interest.

“I’m getting dressed. You get dressed too. We’re going to have breakfast.”

“What about the police?”

Oh, the little devil! The rotten little devil! thought Julie. But then she thought: No, it’s me that’s screwy.

“I didn’t go to the police because I’m afraid of the police. I hate the police. Police! Police! Police! That’s why! Now you know!” Sotto voce, Julie was ranting.

“Why?”

“Oh Christ!” the girl exclaimed, and she sat down on the edge of the bed.

She did not know whether to cry or burst out laughing. She was still in doubt as she slipped on her shorts and sweat-soaked T-shirt. After abandoning the Peugeot 204, she had walked for kilometers and kilometers with Peter in her arms, following lanes and back roads and cutting across fields. Ten, twenty kilometers-she was not sure. Her head weighed heavy and all her joints ached.

“I used to be a criminal,” she blurted, and she looked at Peter to see what effect her words had on him.

He gulped. “You’re lying.”

“No, I’ve been in prison.”

“What for? Murder?”

“Get dressed.”

Beyond the window shutters it was daylight. Ever since Peter had uttered the word “police,” Julie had been feeling stifled in the dimness.

“I want you to tell me!” cried the boy. “When did I go to sleep?”

The girl took his head between her hands.

“Do you really want to know? Really see things the way they are? Listen, I’m an escaped prisoner. Do you believe me?”

“Sure I do. You mean like in Branded. And you have to prove your innocence?”

“That’s right.” Julie sighed.

“What are you supposed to have done?”

“Murder. Okay?”

“Well, I trust you,” Peter said firmly.

“Get dressed then.”

The girl helped the little boy get dressed.

“How are you going to prove you are innocent?”

“We’ll go and find Uncle Hartog,” said Julie, “and I’ll explain everything to him.”

She stood slack-jawed for a moment or two.

“No, what am I talking about? I’m such a fool. I’m horribly confused, it’s stupid. We have to go to. . the police. I don’t know what to do.”

“Tie my laces,” suggested Peter.

From outside, audible through the slots in the shutters, came the discreet sound of a car slowing down and coming to a halt in the sandy hotel parking lot. Julie ran to the window. Through the gaps she could see the roof of a black Peugeot 403. Figures in light blue raincoats were getting out. One of them looked up to inspect the hotel’s facade. He was a young man with a crew cut. He had his hands in his pockets. He was smoking a cigarette.

“Everyone’s sleeping,” the man said.

“Shit,” said another raincoat. “The sun is up. I’m up. Let’s go.”

The young man lowered his head. The two raincoats left Julie’s field of vision. A moment later the girl heard the front-door bell downstairs ringing for a long time.

“The cops,” said Peter.

“Let’s get the hell out of here,” said Julie.

She took the boy by the hand. They went out into the hallway. The ringing was louder now. Footsteps resounded from the ground floor.

“Okay, okay,” said a voice, “we’re coming.”

Julie was bathed in sweat. She raced down the hallway past closed doors. At the end was a window giving onto a corrugated metal roof. In the distance bulky green mountains billowed up, densely wooded and pied by patches of mist. Julie jumped down onto the tin roof. The boy was laughing. The two of them slid down. The lean-to was not very high. Julie leapt off holding Peter and almost sprained her ankle as they landed in a farmyard bordered by cowsheds. A rooster crowed in a horrible way. The fugitives slithered through the mud, followed a path between low stone walls, and debouched onto a slope covered with broom. Closely mown grass, slick from dew, was greasy underfoot. Julie slipped and fell, rolling down through the broom with Peter. They got up, passed through a line of trees, and found themselves at a loop in the road just below the hotel. A big Chausson motor coach appeared from round the bend. Julie signaled. The bus braked and stopped. Julie and Peter climbed in.

“Lucky for you you’re so cute,” remarked the driver, who was wearing a white work smock.

The door closed with a pneumatic din and the bus went on down the hill. The inside smelled like wet dog. Country folk snoozed on the tatty seats with hats on their heads and baskets on their knees. Julie took a seat. She felt dizzy. There was a metallic taste in her mouth. The bus was juddering through an endless succession of hairpin bends. .