Jean-Patrick Manchette - The Mad and the Bad

The Ford Capri was doing 130 kph on National 496. Thompson felt as if he had swallowed boiling oil. He clung to the steering wheel, which his chin collided with every time convulsive retching overtook him.

Very sharp bends obliged him to slow down. The car jolted over the uneven surface of the roadway. Subjected to erratic forces, the tires screeched. Thompson zigzagged.

Some fifteen kilometers along, he braked violently and swung the Ford onto a grassy track, which met the road at a right angle, and followed it between clusters of pine trees. The dirt road was deeply rutted. The car danced grotesquely. A brutal impact threw Thompson forward. The man’s forehead rammed into the windshield. He recovered himself, reversed, and promptly speeded up. The motor howled. The automobile’s underbelly was scraping the center of the track and crashing into granite boulders three-quarters concealed in the dirt. From time to time the wheels slithered on the slick grass and spun wildly. The overheated tires were wreathed in smoke.

Brush and trees closed in quickly on either side. Branches lashed the sides of the Ford. The way got steeper and the car’s hood loomed over Thompson like the prow of a boat. The killer ground his teeth. He was now climbing into a real forest.

Eventually he felt the rear axle strike an obstacle. The shock ran through the whole vehicle, which seemed to slump. A continuous whine rose from the chassis. Thompson looked over to the left, towards a narrow opening. The Ford flattened a bush before passing between two trees and bouncing down into a tiny hollow. The front bumper buried itself in moss and earth, the engine groaned and began racing, the transmission was shot, the car had lost all propulsion, and the machine sank onto its ruined shock absorbers.

Thompson turned off the ignition.

He remained in his seat for a moment, motionless. He was not touching the back of it, for he was bent forward, his torso pressed against the wheel and his tense bony buttocks perched on the edge of the leather. His spasms died down. He could hear birds singing in the woods.

In the glove compartment were an open pack of Camels and a lady’s Flaminaire lighter. Thompson stuck a cigarette between his lips, lit it, and stepped outside coughing. First he went back towards the dirt road. His tires had left impressions in the muddy ruts. The grassy center of the track was all broken up as though by a crude plow. The killer could do nothing about that. He grabbed handfuls of moss from the side of the hollow and used this to hide his trail, the place where the Ford had suddenly turned off and lunged into the undergrowth. He righted the flattened bush.

The vegetation was thick and sturdy. The car was virtually invisible from the track. Thompson went back and walked once all around it. It was still making little groaning sounds. His cigarette remained tight between his lips, the ash falling regularly and spreading over his jacket.

The Ford was useless. The clutch was shot, the suspension destroyed, and a viscous liquid was dripping from the back axle and soaking into the moss. Thompson opened the door and inventoried the vehicle’s contents. No radio- which was a real pity. No luggage, except for the rifle case and the brothers’ two suitcases. At the foot of the rear seat Thompson came upon Julie’s handbag. It took him a few moments to identify it. Then he was shaken by a wave of nausea. That bitch! He knew that he had not killed her. His body was telling him that. He was trembling convulsively. He opened the bag and furiously emptied the contents onto the grass. Using his heel, he stamped on the few items that had fallen out-a wallet, a handkerchief, a photograph, a nail file. .

The killer collected himself. Kneeling on the moss, he gathered up the crushed objects and put them back in the bag. Then, bag in hand, he moved off through the brush and under the old-growth trees to reconnoiter.

It was fortunate in a way that the Ford had given up the ghost where it had. A hundred meters farther on, Thompson reached the fringe of the woods. First the pines thinned, leaving large clearings, then the trees came completely to an end. Crouched in half darkness beneath a clump of ill-favored pines, Thompson surveyed the upslope before him. It rose evenly, clear, sunlit, and flecked with yellow and pink dots, which were flowers. The late-afternoon light made for long shadows and put everything into sharp relief. Up here the garnet-red Ford would have stood out like a fly on a baby’s head.

Blinking, Thompson looked up at a pale blue sky where barely perceptible tendrils of mist were floating. By now the region’s roads would be blocked; the helicopters of the gendarmeries must surely be hovering over the valleys. The killer shrugged and went back into the undergrowth.

Concerned not to get lost, he left a trail of discreet markers behind him-sprigs of brushwood, stones, or tiny grazes on the soft bark of the pines.

Zigzagging down the hill, he eventually found the spot he needed, a muddy gulley where a little brook bubbled, half covered by greenery. With his bare hands Thompson explored the blackish mud of the brook’s sides. The water had worn a channel through the earth. Thompson excavated the vertical side of the channel. When he had a hole big enough he buried Julie’s bag in it, tamping down the soil with his heel and covering all with mud. He worked with a fury. Once finished, he wondered whether he should repeat the operation for the brothers’ suitcases. But making them disappear meant a great deal of work and it would scarcely slow the thought processes of the police once the Ford was found. Thompson gave up on the idea.

He went back to the Ford. He felt curiously relaxed. He had not eaten for two days. He had become used to the pain from his stomach.

The light was fading in the clearing. Thompson opened the case where the parts of his rifle nestled so cozily. He oiled them and polished them with love. Then he went and sat in the car and waited for nightfall.

Julie was driving in second the whole time. Her right arm was no longer able to work the gearshift. It hung down by her side lacquered with dried blood.

“Does it hurt?” asked Peter.

“No. I mean yes. I don’t know.”

“You must know if it hurts, though!”

Julie shook her head. The road was very steep and winding. At bends the girl struggled to steer properly. Her left wrist was now hurting more than her injured arm.

“Did the bullet come out?” Peter inquired.

“I don’t know.”

“If it didn’t come out by itself, it has to be pulled out,” observed the little boy.

“Be quiet,” said Julie. “No, talk to me.”

“Will we be there soon?”

“I don’t know. I don’t have my maps anymore.”

“Are we lost?”

“No. I can remember the map. More or less, anyway. We have to go west. That’s why the sun is in our eyes.”

The engine coughed, spluttered, and died abruptly. A little red light on the dashboard came on. The 2CV was freewheeling, suddenly silent, the wind whistling against the windshield. Julie let go of the wheel to pull on the starter and the motor turned over and caught. The gear lever vibrated. Then the motor quit again. The little car was approaching another steep hill. Julie steered it onto the shoulder, where it came to a crooked halt. The girl applied the handbrake, shifted to neutral, and pulled on the starter again. The 2CV revved mightily but the motor would not turn over. Julie looked at the instruments. The needle of the gas gauge had fallen well below zero. The girl sighed a high-pitched sigh that almost broke into a sob.

“Isn’t it working?” asked Peter.

Julie got out of the car. The air was cooler now and she shivered. She took her bloodstained raincoat from the front seat and draped it clumsily over her shoulders. Then she fell suddenly into a sitting position on the asphalt. Peter leapt from the car, took Julie by the shoulder, and tried frantically to get her to her feet.