Jean-Patrick Manchette: The Mad and the Bad

“What about you?” she repeated.

The driver shrugged. “I was a paratrooper. I landed on a mine. I can’t walk properly anymore.”

“What about the brute from before?”

“He’s something different,” said the driver. “A friend of the boss’s.”

“Some friend!”

“Ex-friend then. At the beginning Hartog was a complete zero. As broke as the next man. He was in construction, you know, an architect, with the other idiot, Fuentès, the joker who attacked us in the garage.”

“What do you mean, ‘with the other idiot’?”

The driver was pouring himself a third drink. He went and sat down on the white chair at the white table.

“Nothing sexual. They worked together. They had an architectural partnership, as they call it. It wasn’t working out, and then kaboom! Hartog’s brother flew his plane into a palm tree. It was the brother and his wife who had all the dough. In a flash Hartog found himself guardian of the kid and owner of all that loot. He dumped the other idiot, Fuentès, and Fuentès has never forgiven him. He comes round every now and again to beat him up.”

“Every now and again? What fun!”

“If only we could knock him off.” The driver sighed. “It’s the valet and I who make the nightly rounds, and we have a Colt. Twice, maybe three times, we had a chance to blow his head off, that Fuentès. But Hartog wants none of it.”

Julie downed the rest of her scotch and shuddered. The driver gave her a friendly smile.

“Nervous?” he inquired.

Once the driver had left, Julie settled in. The closets were far too large for the girl’s few possessions, but when she opened them she found that they were already half full. There were clothes on hangers, others folded on shelves. Julie took a rapid inventory. The things were new and in her size. Looking around for a mirror, she discovered the bathroom, which was through an almost invisible door near the Pollock. Like the bedroom it was fully supplied: there was soap, a horsehair glove, toothpaste (three kinds), bath salts, etc. Even a leg-shaving kit. Julie clenched her teeth in exasperation.

There was a large mirror on the bathroom wall and the girl looked at herself in it. She tried on various outfits that appealed to her. She also looked at herself naked and did not like what she saw. She found herself boyish, built like a horse, her breasts too flat, her shoulders too muscular, her hips too narrow, and her waist not narrow enough. Her very dark hair, shoulder length, carefully done, and artificially curled at the ends, looked to her like a wig. In short, she thought she looked like a post-op transsexual.

She did not dare wear any of the new clothes, even though some of them were to her liking despite herself. She went and opened her suitcase and slipped into an out-of-fashion little black dress. Then she put all her own things away. Some of the clothes were five years old. She had no jewelry, not even costume jewelry. A toiletry bag went onto a glass shelf over the sink. A medicine bag was next: She looked in her striped Kelton and decided it was time for a Tofranil. She washed one down with a little scotch. Last, she put away her books-a few crime novels, some cheap editions of works by Freud, and a set of small English guides to common birds, wildflowers, and the like.

While arranging her effects, Julie found that next to the built-in record player were a good many LPs. Mozart, Bartok, New Orleans jazz. She turned the system’s radio on. She went over to the window, had difficulty figuring out how to operate the pivot, but eventually succeeded and leant her elbows on the sill and surveyed Rue de Long-champ. The sidewalks exuded peace and affluence. Behind her the radio chattered. Claude Francois emoted vociferously. Then, to a violin accompaniment, a female voice sang the praises, in succession, of a vermifugal drug, rain tires, and a men’s magazine. Julie went and turned the radio off and the record player on and played “King Porter Stomp.”

Returning to the window, she got a shock. The evening now beginning was languid and hot. In the half darkness she thought she glimpsed a massive figure wearing a white raincoat with epaulettes. She leant out farther for a better view. “King Porter Stomp” had brought tears to her eyes. By the time she wiped them away, the figure had disappeared. Or else had been nothing more than an illusion, a wraith.

A knock came at her door and Julie flinched. She went and opened the door. Hartog came in. His smile resembled the coin slot of a parking meter. He was wearing a white crewneck sweater beneath which the slight bulge of a bandage could be seen.

“You’re up and about!” exclaimed Julie.

“Why not?”

“What about your ribs?”

“Two are cracked. I’m bandaged tightly. Don’t you worry. Dédé has got you settled, I see. I came to make sure that all was well. And to tell you that we’ll be eating dinner in a quarter of an hour. Ordinarily, you’ll be eating separately with Peter, but on this first evening I wanted to chat with you a little. Come on down and have something to drink.”

The living room on the third floor where they were soon ensconced was dotted with enormous brown leather armchairs. Julie accepted another glass.

“You must be concerned, I take it, to know why that savage attacked me earlier?”

“No. André explained things to me.”

“I see. Fuentès is a bitter man-a failure. But I hesitate to set the police on him. Are your teeth chattering?”

“I am sort of allergic to the word p. . p. .” Julie leant forward. “Excuse me,” she went on. “I’m allergic to the word ‘police.’ ”

“How come? A trauma?”

“I don’t know. When I was six, the farmer’s wife I’d been placed with had me locked up for an hour in the main police station to give me a healthy fear of authority. That’s the only thing I have in common with Alfred Hitchcock. Afterwards I went into convulsions.”

“I know that, of course. I’ve read your records.”

Silence.

“All right then,” said Hartog. “To get back to Fuentès, I am reluctant to take action. After all, he’s a childhood friend. We go back to the hardscrabble days. That makes for a bond. And, I have to say, he fascinates me.”

The man gave a little laugh.

“That’s only human, isn’t it?” said Julie. “He is what you almost became. A failed architect.”

Hartog’s left shoulder jumped nervously. The redhead snickered again.

“Yes, okay, but he’s not an architect anymore. He despises architecture. He works as a foreman, as a manual laborer…. We no longer know where he lives.”

“A few minutes ago I thought I saw him down in the street.”

“Quite possibly. He’s on the prowl.”

“How reassuring!”

Hartog laughed-a different laugh this time, more relaxed-and offered Julie a Gitane, which he lit for her with a large jade desktop lighter. A nude woman in gold was inlaid in the stone and the tips of her breasts were two tiny rubies. The redhead got up.

“Let me show you Peter. The cook has given him his dinner. You can try and put him to bed.”

Julie put her glass down and followed him. The elevator took them to the top of the building.

“André explained to me how you employ only handicapped people,” said Julie. “So I understand better now.”

“What do you understand better?”

“Why you hired me.”

“You-you are different.”

“How so?”

“You need love,” said Hartog. “Like Peter.”

The elevator stopped. The pair walked down a thickly carpeted, gloomy passage. A grayish light emanated from an open door. Peter was watching television.

The Hartog heir must have been six or seven years old. He was redheaded and freckled like his uncle, his body plump and soft. He was transfixed by the television set, which was broadcasting a report on famine in Asia.