Jean-Patrick Manchette - Fatale

In the end they did play bridge.

“We are completely shattered by this business,” said the voluptuous Christiane Moutet, and indeed she seemed somewhat worried and overwrought. (Her husband was on the telephone in his study down the hallway, and his anxious and disgruntled exclamations could be heard.)

Sonia Lorque arrived one or two minutes after Aimée. The factory owner’s wife also seemed tense and worried. But she was strikingly well turned out. Her eyebrows had been plucked recently, possibly that very afternoon. Her makeup had been applied with the greatest care, as though she had purposely sought to dazzle at this particular moment.

At first everyone agreed that it would be unthinkable to play a game of cards as if everything was normal after the ghastly event of the early afternoon.

“At least we can have a drink,” said senior manager Moutet, who had finished his phoning. He wore a worried, slightly stupid expression. He nibbled at his reddish mustache.

They had drinks in the living room. The Moutets occupied a five-room apartment in the old town, completely refurbished. There was modern furniture, wall-to-wall carpeting, and reproductions of abstract paintings.

Since everyone was present, and no one knew what to say, the voluptuous Christiane Moutet ended up suggesting that after all they might play a little bridge. And play they did. But their hearts were not in it. Players were continually making remarks or engaging in chatter quite unrelated to the cards.

“One no trumps.”

“No bid.”

“No bid.”

“Two spades,” said Aimée.

“DiBona is an ass,” said Sonia Lorque when Aimée told her about the reporter bursting into her studio earlier. “He takes himself for an American-style tabloid journalist,” the blond woman went on. “Always unearthing scandals that don’t exist.”

“But this time,” said Christiane Moutet in a soft voice, her eyes fixed on her cards, “there have been three deaths. A strange mixture of deaths: cows, babies, adults.” She looked up. “This is really screwed up!” she cried. “Does nobody have any conception of what has happened?”

“Damn it! Damn it! They are looking into it!” said senior manager Moutet. “Are we here to play cards or to talk drivel?”

The telephone rang in his study. He got up from the table with a groan of disgust.

“Damn!” he said again.

He went into his study without closing the door. The women waited. They heard him saying hello, then shouting.

“What?”

Sonia Lorque brought her hand to her face. Her features passed through a series of changes that Aimée could not interpret but that she observed with curiosity. Down the hallway, senior manager Moutet went over to pull his office door closed. He could still be heard in an altercation with his interlocutor, though the details of the conversation were not discernible. Christiane Moutet lit a cigarette. Everyone pretended to be studying their hands or gazed at the green baize of the card table. With eyelids lowered, Aimée paid closer and closer attention to Sonia Lorque. The blonde covered her face with both hands when Moutet emerged from his study and came back into the living room. The man seemed beside himself.

“The bastard!” he cried. “Fucking hell!” The women stared at him. Sonia Lorque kept her hands over her face, but peeked at Moutet between her fingers. Moutet slumped into an armchair, then sprang up again and returned to his place at the table. He hunched forward. As he planted his elbows on the green felt his cards were swept off the table and fell to the floor. At the same moment Sonia Lorque rose and moved away from her chair, turning her back on the table. She did not make for a door, but instead toward a corner of the living room nowhere near an exit. Christiane Moutet gazed at her husband in alarm. Aimée watched Sonia Lorque with curiosity.

“The bastard!” said the senior manager again. “It’s in my contract! And he thinks I’m going to take this lying down?”

“What are you saying?” demanded Christiane Moutet. “What’s going on?”

“What’s going on is I’m responsible for the cold-storage rooms. It’s in my contract.” Moutet spoke in slow tones. He seemed concerned to articulate clearly. “SON OF A BITCH! THIS IS UNBELIEVABLE! IMPOSSIBLE! CRAZY!”

“But what’s going on?” Christiane Moutet asked again, very calmly, eyebrows barely raised.

Wheeling around, Sonia grabbed Christiane Moutet’s wrist very roughly, startling her. Aimée kept watching.

“The cold rooms in the new fish market have been breaking down,” said the blonde, speaking very fast. “That’s what’s going on. All three processing plants were working for three hours with rotten fish. And your husband is getting the blame for it.”

“You must be joking,” said Christiane Moutet.

“No.”

Christiane Moutet stared at the blonde reflectively.

“No,” repeated Sonia. “I heard my husband and Lenverguez talking. They were talking for an hour. It’s your hubby who’s going to be the fall guy.”

“You little bitch!” said Christiane Moutet in a placid tone of voice. “You already knew about it. Bitch!” she said again, sounding surprised.

“Listen,” said Sonia Lorque. “I am in a position to propose an arrangement.”

Christiane Moutet rose. She delivered a resounding slap across the cheek to Sonia, which must have been audible ten meters away. Then she spat in her face. She careened into the bridge table, overturning it. The cards scattered. Aimée, sitting, drew on her cigarette. Sonia Lorque headed for the door. The side of her face was scarlet. Her makeup was running.

“Go ahead,” said Christiane Moutet. “Piss off. Run and find your pantywaist of a husband.”

“Too bad for you, sweetie,” said Sonia.

“It’s in my contract,” repeated Moutet, still sitting motionless at his seat, hunched over, looking defeated and distraught. “I’m responsible. I’m screwed.”

Sonia Lorque left the apartment, slamming the door behind her.

“Was I dreaming,” Christiane asked Aimée, “or did that bitch talk about an arrangement?”

“About money,” answered Aimée.

“What?”

“Someone has to go down,” explained Aimée, “and they picked him. But they want to do it nice and quietly. They’ll pay money for your guy to take everything on the chin without complaint.”

“What do you know about it?” Suspicion flared suddenly in the brunette’s eyes.

“It stands to reason, that’s all,” said Aimée.

Christiane Moutet looked at her blankly, even stupidly. She seemed to be finding it hard to focus on her own thoughts. Then she nodded and a little smile touched the edge of her mouth. Suddenly her face contorted with fury, as though the truth had just dawned on her.

“Without complaint!” she repeated. “Not a chance! We’ll drag them through the mud, that’s what we’ll do!”

“Yes,” said Aimée. “You should do that. If they are offering a deal, it means they have things to hide. You should stir the shit, all the shit you can.” Aimée took two steps forward and used both hands to grab the brunette by the shoulders. “I’ll help you,” she said quickly. “I can dig stuff up.”

“Stuff?”

“The dirt. I’ll call you.” Aimée let go of Christiane, turned on her heel, and for a moment stood facing senior manager Moutet, who was still sitting in his chair, shattered.

“Don’t worry about it,” she told him, and walked out the door, left the building, and almost crashed into Sonia Lorque on the sidewalk.

“How are they taking it?” Sonia wanted to know.

Aimée shrugged. She reached down to unlock the heavy motorcycle antitheft device fitted to her Raleigh. “Badly,” she said. And, straightening up, she added, “They’re going to fight.”