Jean-Patrick Manchette: The Mad and the Bad

The R 16 passed the Lion de Belfort and headed down towards the Porte d’Orléans. Avenue du Général Leclerc was clogged. The car crawled along, stopping for half a dozen red lights. They saw traffic cops. Bibi and the blond giant were continually looking sharply in every direction. Bibi kept his pistol in his lap and his hand on the butt. The driver turned the car radio on. From it came first jazz, then Indian flute music, and then a Viennese waltz. The R 16 exited at Porte d’Orléans, got onto the Autoroute du Sud, threaded its way through the tunnel, and reemerged into the open air. Its speed increased to 120 kph.

“Take it slow, Nénesse,” warned the blond giant.

“I know my job, okay?”

“You can’t know when some asshole might slam into you.”

“Let ’em try! Right now, you just shut up and let me do the driving.”

“At the tollbooth,” Bibi said quietly to Julie, “you’d better behave, or the kid will get it.”

“Okay, okay,” Julie replied. “Relax.”

She was breathing through her mouth. She was calm for now. She could not quite believe the evidence of her senses.

The house was not much of a house. It was a sort of chalet standing on the sandy bottom of a shallow valley among tall pines. The exterior walls were constructed of varnished logs. Inside, however, the walls of the sole room were smooth: plasterboard covered with enamel paint. There was a small cooking area in one corner. In another, a partition, its base ten centimeters from the floor and its top ten centimeters from the ceiling, enclosed a narrow cubicle containing a shower and a chemical toilet.

The valley’s flanks were covered with heather, with patches of bare sandstone and a profusion of pine and birch. The slope was steep. Though less than a hundred kilometers from Paris, the place was remote and hard to reach.

At its deepest, the valley was some fifty meters wide and two hundred meters long. To the south it came to a dead end; to the north was a kind of notch, a sandy gulley strewn with outcrops of sandstone. Thompson was sitting on the chalet’s steps eyeing the mouth of the gulley.

He was a man of around fifty with a British look about him. His dark face was shaped like a Vienna sausage. His hair looked like pieces of straw crudely stuck to his cranium, and his little mustache was likewise snaggy. His eyes were blue. In Thompson’s lap was a Sauer-made Weatherby rifle with a nine-lug bolt. He was wearing a taupe sports suit and a beige turtleneck. He listened to the sound of the car’s motor as it came nearer.

The R 16 powered into the gulley, slithered briefly in the sand, then picked up speed on the valley floor carpeted with pine needles. It drew up in a clump of trees in front of the chalet. The doors opened and the occupants got out.

“Where is Fuentès?”

“Who is Fuentès?”

“She’s got this idea in her head,” said Bibi. “She absolutely wants us to have been sent by some guy called Fuentès.”

“Not so, I assure you,” said Thompson flatly, getting to his feet.

He was very tall and loose-limbed. Julie took in the surroundings. The R 16 had left the autoroute at Nemours then taken a host of detours via tracks and little roads through the woods. The girl was completely disoriented.

“Do come in,” said Thompson. “Bring the boy.”

“You’re gangsters!” cried Peter.

“I won’t deny that.”

They went into the chalet. There were four windows and two pairs of bunks, upper and lower. In the middle of the room were a table and folding stools.

“Sit down,” Thompson ordered. “I’ve made coffee. The kid must be thirsty too. He can have a glass of water.”

“I was supposed to be let go with a letter,” said Julie.

Thompson smiled. “That was a simplification. You’ll have to wait.”

“For how long?”

“You’ll see.”

“What’s your gun?” asked Peter. “A Winchester?”

Thompson made no reply and went and put his weapon down on a bunk. Then he got the coffeepot and four enameled tin mugs from the cooking area. They sat down at the table. The blond giant remained standing near the door, arms crossed. He looked like the bouncer in a bar. His eyes were porcine and imbecilic. The driver of the R 16 resembled him closely. The same pink piggy face; the same little eyes embedded deeply in the flesh. He sat down at the table and kept his hat on.

“So you’re going to keep me prisoner here?” asked Julie.

Nobody answered. Thompson poured coffee for everyone. He went for the sugar and brought Peter a glass of water.

“You dirty bastards!” said Julie.

“Can it!” shouted the driver.

“Let’s not get excited,” said Thompson. “This young woman is not wrong. But who can pride themselves on not being dirty bastards? Nonentities? Not even.”

“I know the story,” said Julie. “In a world of wolves, etc., etc.”

Thompson sat down and laid his forearms flat on the table.

“But it’s so true,” he said sanctimoniously. “In a world of wolves-”

Julie flung her hot coffee in his face and raced for the door. Peter dashed after her. The blond giant caught the girl with a left to the chin and she fell. Peter began to yell and went for the rifle. As the boy passed, Thompson, without getting up from the table, grabbed him by the hair.

“Don’t move. Don’t move or I’ll hurt you.”

He had a good handful of red hair and he twisted it. He was dripping with coffee. With his left hand he got out a white handkerchief and dabbed at his face.

Meanwhile Bibi and the driver had pinned Julie’s arms. They dragged her to the wall and backed her up against it. The blond giant grunted and punched the girl in the stomach. She howled.

“Stop!” yelled Thompson. “No marks on her-she must not be marked.”

“But she hasn’t got it yet,” raged the giant.

“She’ll get it,” said Thompson. “Look at this, mademoiselle.”

Spread-eagled between the two men holding her, Julie was convulsed with pain and trying vainly to bring her knees up against her belly. She was producing little staccato hoarse moans. Thompson, still holding Peter by the hair, lifted the boy off his feet.

“Look over here, mademoiselle, be reasonable.”

The child wriggled and shouted. He began to cry as hard as he could.

“Stop it!” Julie pleaded.

It was hard for her to keep her head straight. Hair was falling into her eyes.

“Do you get it?” “Stop it, for God’s sake!”

“Do you get it?”

“I get it!”

Thompson put Peter down without letting go of his hair.

“I can do worse,” he observed. “You had better both behave from now on.”

“We’ll behave, you son of a bitch.”

Julie was released. She rushed to Peter and took him in her arms. Thompson surrendered the little boy to her. He was crying his eyes out and drooling, and his face was scarlet. The man wiped his sweaty hands with his handkerchief.

“I loathe this sort of thing,” he said.

Nénesse, the driver, took charge of cooking the day’s two meals. For lunch, steaks grilled with fines herbes followed by cheese. For dinner, fried sardines. The gangsters had brought ten liters of Corbières with them. They drank in moderation. Thompson stuck to water. Before each meal he swallowed two black capsules.

During lunch, Julie kept asking for more wine, and after a while Thompson stopped giving her the chance to ask. Instead he refilled her glass generously as soon as it seemed to be getting empty.

From the floor came the drone of a little transistor radio. In the news headlines there was no mention of either Peter or Julie.

The girl’s head began to droop. Thompson cleared the table, throwing the cardboard plates into a plastic bag. Julie lay down on a bunk. Her head hurt and so did her belly. She tried vaguely to distract the boy with a game of Chinese portraits. Peter’s voice trembled as he played, and his eyes were red. He stretched out alongside Julie.