Jean-Patrick Manchette - The Mad and the Bad

Dédé brought the mail.

“Open it,” said Hartog. “Read it to me.”

Dédé hesitated, then produced a nail file from his breast pocket and opened the envelopes. He dealt with each piece in turn before tossing it onto a low table near the redhead.

“Bill from a local supplier. . Subscription offer for a series of books entitled Martyrology of Eros. . A report from Mademoiselle Boyd.”

“Read that.”

“Hmm. ‘Dear Sir, I must bring it to your attention that-’ ”

“Not aloud,” Hartog interrupted. “Read it, then tell me if there’s anything important in it.”

Dédé went quiet and, standing, perused the two sheets of paper.

“She says,” he said at last, “that your absence is more and more awkward. She lists the jobs requiring attention. She assures you that she quite understands, but must insist that you either return to Paris or delegate your decision-making authority.”

“What business is it of hers?” snapped Hartog.

Dédé made no reply and, after replacing it in its envelope, put the letter down with the others on the low table.

“All right, that’s enough, that’ll do,” said the redhead. “I don’t want to be disturbed.”

“Yes, sir.”

Dédé left the deck on tiptoe. He had lost virtually all respect for his boss. The man had let himself be destroyed by this business-you could hardly believe it. A kid he hadn’t given a shit about before! True, there was less and less hope of ever seeing them again, the kid and the nutty girl. But so what? The kid was a pest. The one he, Dédé, felt bad about was the crazy girl. She was pretty, and she was fun in some ways.

He sat down in the hall of the villa and opened a copy of Playboy. From this post his job was to keep anyone from reaching Hartog.

The redhead remained stretched out on his chaise lounge, alone now, facing the sea, his eyes closed and his body rigid. He started when he heard something rattling the pebbles, and sat up straight. The squat little boat was significantly closer now, indeed it had just run aground four meters from Hartog. Thompson was stepping from it onto dry land. He was gaunt and his worn clothing was washed out; he had a large bag over his shoulder and a thick growth of beard had invaded his face. Hartog, however, had no difficulty recognizing his hired killer.

He rose from his beach chair, striking his shin painfully on the low table but paying it no mind.

“You are mad,” he said. “What do you mean by coming here?”

Thompson came up onto the deck. He had no shoes on. His soles left wet imprints on the tiles. Hartog looked around nervously but there was no one to see them.

“Are they dead?” he asked in an undertone.

His swollen lips quivered with excitement. Thompson shook his head. Hartog imitated him mechanically and his mouth gaped. In his despair he was like a little boy. He grabbed Thompson by the collar. The man struck him briskly on the wrists to make him let go. Hartog backed away, looking at the killer. This, he thought-this guy was a professional? Why, it was sickening! To think how carefully he had planned his moves, burdening himself month after month with cripples, nut jobs, and freaks until it seemed quite normal, the crazy girl making off with the kid, hanging him, hanging herself. Such a beautiful scheme loused up by this incompetent, this underling, this wreck. But then the redhead took stock of Thompson’s appearance. The man was clearly exhausted. His cheeks, beneath the beard, were hollow, his eyes sunken and red-rimmed.

“Can we talk calmly?” Thompson asked. “Is there somewhere we can talk things over for a few hours without fear of prying eyes?”

“I don’t want to talk things over with you for a few hours,” said Hartog. “ I want you to leave. You were supposed to kill them and. . and-” The redhead stamped his foot on the tiles.

“ I am going to kill them,” said Thompson in a very weary voice. “I want to kill them if it’s the last thing I do. That’s why I need to talk with you. I need information.”

“I gave you all the information you needed,” said Hartog in a shrill murmur. “Just leave. Get out of here. I have nothing to say to you.”

“It’s an architectural question, Monsieur Hartog. It concerns a. . a structure. A sort of labyrinth. In the Massif Central.”

Hartog looked at Thompson as if the man was out of his mind.

It was getting to be dusk. Dédé put his Playboy down and went into the villa’s kitchen. Hartog was giving no sign of wanting to go out. Once again the driver would have to make dinner. Muttering, he opened the white cupboards and the gigantic refrigerator. Their stores were diminishing. For ten days now Hartog had barely left his beach chair save to go and sit at a corner of the table to eat the eggs or grilled meat that Dédé cooked inexpertly for him.

On this occasion Dédé chose a can of cassoulet. He opened a drawer in search of a can opener. At that moment he caught the sound of voices on the other side of the wall. The house was solidly built, largely soundproof. Dédé could not make out any of the conversation. But it could not be the television-the stationary set was at the other end of the villa and the portable one was on the blink.

The driver picked up the home intercom and called the living room by pressing a button with his thumb. At the other end of the line there was no immediate answer.

“What is it?” came Hartog’s voice at last.

“I heard voices, sir. I was wondering. .”

Dédé hesitated. At the other end Hartog hesitated too. The driver could hear his whistling breath.

“I’m with someone,” said Hartog. “We’re talking business. He came via the beach. I don’t want to be disturbed. Be discreet, Andre my boy. Discreet.”

“Very well, sir.”

“Hold on a second, Andre. Would you run into town and buy a chicken or a rabbit. Alive, please. Call me on the intercom when you get back.”

“Very well, sir.”

“That’ll be all. But hurry up.”

“Very well, sir.”

Dédé hung up. Hartog must be off his head. A live rabbit! The driver went back to the hall, took the keys to the Fiat from their hook, and went out. He locked the front door behind him. Discreet, discreet. .

In the living room, Hartog had hung up a moment before his man. He was on his feet, shoulders propped against the wall by the intercom. Thompson was sitting opposite him in an armchair, hunched forward, hands dangling between his legs.

“And just when did this thing about the photograph come back to you?”

“The day before yesterday,” said the killer. “You see, I never stopped going over things in my mind. I was looking for some detail that would get me back on the trail. I have no idea why I didn’t think of the photo earlier. But it was not like an address. . Not something that you would remember automatically. And I only saw it once. And when I did see it, I was angry.”

“Then what?”

“On the back of the photo were the words ‘Massif Central.’ Rather a large area. I could scarcely start searching it. And I was very weak. It occurred to me that you, as an architect, might know. One would not easily forget the structure shown.”

“No,” said Hartog. “True enough.”

The redhead had regained his self-confidence.

“I feel you’re going to tell me where it is, no?” said the killer.

“I’m not sure. You don’t seem to be good for much.”

Thompson stood up. His fingers with their long, dirty nails scratched nervously at his tangled beard.

“Killing them, that girl and that kid, is all that I am good for. If I don’t kill them, it’ll kill me.”

“What you need is a good psychoanalysis. You have a psychosomatic ulcer. Listen, I’ll give you money to disappear. Go wherever you want, so long as it’s very far away.”