Jean-Patrick Manchette: The Mad and the Bad

The man whom Thompson was supposed to kill-a pederast guilty of seducing the son of a businessman-entered his bedroom. As he closed the door behind him, he had time to recoil at the sight of Thompson standing against the wall beside the hinges. Then Thompson stabbed him in the heart with a rigid hacksaw blade mounted on a large cylindrical hilt with a circular sheet-metal guard. While the guard prevented the blood from spurting, Thompson pumped the cylindrical hilt vigorously, and the homosexual’s heart was sliced into two or more pieces. The victim opened his mouth and a single spasm shook him. His rump struck the door and he slumped forward dead. Thompson stepped aside. For the last half hour his stomach cramps had grown almost intolerable. He left the bedroom. No one had seen him enter; no one saw him leave. It was two o’clock in the morning. Thompson had an appointment in Paris at eleven. He made his way on foot to the Perrache railroad station. The cramps had him almost doubled over. The killer resolved to give up his trade. Soon. Every time it was worse. For the last ten hours he had been unable to eat or drink anything. Now that he had killed, hunger gnawed at him in the most repellent way. Eventually he reached the station buffet. He ordered a choucroute and devoured it. He ordered another, which he savored. His stomach had calmed down. His mind likewise: Thompson had just earned a tidy sum of money. It was three in the morning. The killer paid his bill, returned to his gray Rover, which was parked at a meter, and headed for the autoroute A6.

Later on, somewhere between Lyon and Paris, he pulled off into a rest area and snoozed until daybreak.

At eleven in the morning he was prompt for his appointment. His new client wore dark glasses and Thompson smiled at this childishness. Seated in a booth, the two men drank Scottish beer. The new client placed a photograph facedown on the table.

“It’s going to be a bit tricky,” he said. “It will have to look as though. . well, I’ll explain. What’s the matter? Aren’t you well?”

Thompson was massaging his belly.

“I’m okay, I’m okay,” he replied.

He turned the photograph over. It was a color snapshot. A half-length portrait of a redheaded boy with a sullen expression.

“Does this bother you?”

“Not at all,” said Thompson.

What bothered him was his stomach. It was starting again. The pain was back.

It was a black Lincoln Continental. Tinted side windows made it impossible to discern the occupants. The car was having some difficulty making the tight turns of the narrow road. All around was forest: a profusion of beeches and a carpet of rotting dead leaves that encroached on the road.

From the middle of a partial clearing in the trees some fifty meters long, a driveway led off to the right. It was flanked by wide grassy shoulders and punctuated by white marker stones linked by a decorative chain. To make the turn into the drive, the Lincoln had first to veer in the opposite direction so that it briefly filled the left side of the roadway before turning into the drive with its white graveled surface. Flintstones and dust sprayed up under the mudguards.

The driveway led directly to a Louis XIII manor house. The place had three corner towers. One stood in water, and water lilies floated beneath its windows. The Lincoln slowed down. The manor was getting closer.

It was surrounded by a vast expanse of grass. Here and there paths plunged off into the woods. Groups of strollers were to be seen, clad in long lab coats, pink, blue, or pistachio green. The big car passed a hunched man with long hair and glasses who had unbuttoned his blue coat to urinate on a molehill. He had knelt to improve the accuracy of the stream, carefully directing it into the hole made by the animal. He seemed serious and malevolent. He paid no attention to the imposing automobile.

The Lincoln proceeded past other strange figures. There were men in blue and women in pink. Those in pistachio green, men and women, had an air of efficiency. They were obviously staff.

The car came to the end of the drive and pulled up on the forecourt in front of the manor’s front entrance-a low white double perron. Cutting the ignition, the driver got out. He was a man of about thirty-five, thickset, round-bodied, round-faced, and short-legged. He wore a blue chauffeur’s uniform, a white shirt, a red tie, and a cap. He took the cap off, revealing his hair-what looked like a prison cut. The man opened the back door of the car. An individual of the same age emerged. He wore bell-bottoms and a battered silver corduroy safari jacket. His hair, short, light red, almost tow, was very fine. His long, intelligent, mobile, haughty face would have brought Franchot Tone to the mind of anyone who knew who Franchot Tone was. His pink skin was covered by a mass of freckles barely distinguishable from his overall complexion. His eyes were a watery green. He looked like a mutant in a television series.

A shower of gravel landed with a crackle on the rear of the Lincoln. The driver and the redhead turned toward its source, an unshaven forty-year-old in a blue lab coat. A young woman in pistachio green hurried over.

“Are you throwing gravel on the car, Guillaume?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Why are you doing that? Are you trying to scratch it up?”

The forty-year-old shrugged, turned on his heel, and stalked off angrily. The pistachio-green young woman addressed the new arrivals affably.

“Gentlemen?”

“Hartog,” said the redhead. “I’m expected.”

“For an admission?”

“No, a release. Do I look crazy to you?”

The young woman laughed. “No more than the next person. You shouldn’t use that word here. You might shock people.”

“I like to shock.”

“You might cause the residents distress.”

“I’m not sure I don’t want to cause them distress.”

“What’s that?” asked the young woman, leaning forward, nonplussed by his syntax.

“Enough of this,” said the redhead. “I’m expected. At least I should be. I’m here to pick someone up.”

“Take the steps,” said the young woman, suddenly practical. “Go on in. There’s a receptionist in the hall. Would you excuse me please?”

“Wait a second.”

The redhead inspected the rear of the Lincoln, then straightened up.

“No damage. Why don’t you stop them from throwing stones?”

“Self-discipline. You wouldn’t understand.”

“You pathetic bitch.”

The young woman flushed, and smiled.

“That’ll do,” added the redhead. “Go away.”

She went away, still flushed. The smile was gone.

“Stay in the car,” the redhead told the driver. “Keep them from throwing gravel. Clobber them if need be.”

The driver sat sideways on his seat, letting his legs rest outside the car, as his boss went up the white steps and entered the manor. It was chilly in the lobby. The redhead shivered. The floor was tiled with marble. Trompe l’oeil glass doors lined the whole reception area. A dark man with Latin features sat behind a mahogany table reading the satirical paper Charlie-Hebdo.

“Michel Hartog,” said the redhead. “I’m expected. Appointment with Doctor Rosenfeld.”

“Ah yes. Please follow me.”

The dark man rose, put his paper down on the table, and walked ahead of Hartog. He opened a genuine glass door and went to the end of a narrow padded hallway. He rang a bell by a cushioned white leather door.

“Come in,” said the intercom.

The dark guy opened the door. “Monsieur Hartog,” he announced.

He stood back to let the redhead go in, closed the door behind him, and left.