Jean-Patrick Manchette - Fatale

He shook his head and sighed. Grimacing, he bent down to pick up his overcoat, which he had dropped on the ground. Aimée came back to him as he straightened up.

“They have to be picked up right away,” she said. She consulted her Cartier watch. “Five minutes from now, that fat Lorque will be waiting for me behind the fish market. Between two forty and four fifteen I have eight appointments. You can pick every one of them up. They will have keys on them, keys to the station luggage lockers. There is money in those lockers. That’s your proof. You can nab the lot of them.”

Fellouque slipped into his overcoat. He did not button it up, and once again he grasped Aimée by the upper arm.

“First, let’s get you inside,” he said. His voice was still rather hoarse and he was breathing heavily. “Come.” He pulled her along, and she allowed herself to be pulled. “You can give me the details, very quickly. I’ll run and scare up the magistrate. Together, the magistrate and I will nab them. Leave it to me. You don’t know how things work in Bléville. I do.”

At the end of the street, past the police station, Aimée and Fellouque emerged onto the waterfront. Aimée let the commissioner lead her. Her face registered barely any emotion. From time to time she shot a sideways glance at the man, who was walking a step or so ahead of her with his hand behind him, drawing her along after him.

A sole café-bar was lit up and open on the road along the wharves. Fellouque and Aimée went in. It had a narrow frontage and was six or eight meters deep. On the right was a red Formica-topped counter, on the left four red Formica-topped tables in booths with red banquettes. A jukebox stood silent. At the counter, perched on one of three barstools, a drunk in blue worker’s coveralls and a peacoat was peering into a Picon and beer as if trying to read the future. A fat man of around thirty-five, in shirtsleeves, sat behind the counter at the cash register, reading the softcover comic-book edition of Special Operative 117 in Lebanon.

“Good evening, Commissioner,” said the fat man when he saw Fellouque.

“Good evening, lad.”

Fellouque steered Aimée into a booth and made her sit. The barman had put down his comic book, come around the bar, and stood deferentially near the booth as Fellouque took a seat opposite Aimée.

“What would you like to drink?” asked Fellouque.

“I’m hungry,” said Aimée.

“Do you have anything to eat?” the commissioner asked the barman. “A sandwich?”

“Bread’s all gone. I have pastries. Or at least cookies.”

“What we don’t have is music!” cried the drunk at the counter.

Aimée ordered a beer, Fellouque a Viandox. The fat young man went and busied himself behind the counter. He came back and placed on the table half a pint of Slavia and a large white cup which bore the word “Viandox” in blue letters and held steaming beef bouillon. The left wall of the café was mirrored. There was sawdust on the tiled floor.

“Should I bring the pastries then?” asked the barman.

Aimée shook her head. She was thinking about the baron lying dead in his blood. She had left the lights on in the room where his body lay. The commissioner asked her in a low voice to summarize the situation more clearly than she had done up to now. She summarized.

“As for Lorque and all of them,” she said towards the end of her summary, “I gave them appointments to make things sound right. But I was not intending to meet anyone. I have all the keys to the lockers. I made copies. I was planning to catch the four-thirty-five boat train to Paris. Before that I would have picked up all the dough they had left in those lockers. I did the math. It comes to about 200,000 francs. They all wanted me to meet them and hand over the files the Baron had on each of them, and they are supposed to give me their locker key in exchange, but I don’t need their keys at all.”

“What have you done with the documents?”

“Nothing, I didn’t give them a thought. They are back there at the Baron’s somewhere. I don’t know.”

“We’ll take care of that later,” said Fellouque. “Right now, I am going to see the magistrate. It’s best that you stay here.”

“If you say so.”

Fellouque rose. Aimée stared at the head on her beer; she had not so much as raised the glass to her lips. She half-smiled. Her hair had lost its curl and was sticking to her forehead with sweat. Fellouque gave her an uncertain little tap on the shoulder and went over to the counter.

“Hey, lad,” he said to the barman in a half whisper, pointing over his shoulder with his thumb at the motionless Aimée. “Just keep an eye on her. I’ll be back. She mustn’t leave.”

“Got it.”

Fellouque returned to Aimée.

“Just don’t budge, okay? I’m coming back.”

Aimée nodded. The commissioner stood still for a moment longer, then walked very quickly out of the establishment. All of a sudden Aimée gulped down her entire glass of beer, greedily. It left her with a mustache of foam. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. She banged the glass on the table and signaled to the barman. The man raised his chin questioningly. She ordered another half-pint and a cognac. He brought them to her. She had emptied both glasses before he got back to the cash register.

“The same again,” she called. “And bring me your shitty pastries.”

“You like to joke, huh?” said the barman.

“Yes.”

“Are you joking?”

“Not really, no.”

The man gave up. He brought Aimée another beer and another cognac and shortbread cookies and slices of fruitcake enclosed in cellophane. Aimée stuffed herself and drank. Then she got up and made a run for the toilet at the back of the bar. The Turkish-style john was filthy. Aimée vomited. Around her on the walls were a host of inscriptions, obscene for the most part. I love sailors with big thighs , a homosexual who loved sailors with big thighs had written. Someone else had scrawled Muss es sein? , doubtless a German tourist, or a German sailor. Aimée remained in the john for a few more moments, not sure whether she was going to throw up again or not. Eventually she came out. Commissioner Fellouque, who had just returned, was standing stock-still in the middle of the dive looking worried. When he saw the young woman he relaxed.

“Come with me,” he said. He looked towards the fat barman. “Chalk it all up to me,” he said. Then he turned back to Aimée. “Come on,” he repeated. “The examining magistrate is waiting for us.”

Aimée followed the commissioner, who made for the door. They emerged onto the sidewalk across from the port and braved the damp cold of the night. Fellouque set off towards the bridges and the inner docks.

“Why did you decide to turn yourself in?” he asked.

“I can’t do it anymore,” said Aimée. “And this time I can take down half a dozen of the real assholes with me.”

They crossed the tracks of the railroad that runs the length of the port and started over a bridge. They were headed towards the fish market. This is located, remember, on a sort of promontory flanked by two docking basins, and the pair of moving bridges are attached to the promontory’s tip, so that this kind of peninsula constitutes an area accessible from two directions, either across the bridges or, at the other, eastern end, from the mainland of France. Dimmed streetlamps bathed everything in an orange-tinted or perhaps rather a deep coppery light. Aimée spotted DiBona’s WSK motorbike in a dark corner in the vicinity of the market. But she did not notice the tobacco-colored Mercedes of the fat Lorque parked in the dirty roadway that runs alongside the market hall, nor the blond Sonia Lorque sitting stiff and tense inside the car. Aimée and Fellouque entered the market precinct.