Dominique Manotti - Dead Horsemeat

‘We can’t do anything until early afternoon. Let’s go and have a slap-up breakfast. That’ll keep us awake.’

4 p.m., Romero goes up, rings the buzzer, smiles at the surveillance camera. The door opens and he walks in with just the right sway in his gait. Nobody in the vast reception lounge other than a pretty hostess leafing through a magazine behind an airport-style desk.

‘Si parla italiano ?’

‘No.

Relief. ‘Français?’

‘Of course. It’s very early, Sir. We’re not open yet.’

‘I’m a cousin of Signor Renta’s. I’m passing through Munich and I have to leave in an hour.’

‘Signor Renta, that’s different.’ I should have guessed, there’s a family likeness. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘Renta told me about a French transvestite who’s just arrived…’

The hostess leans towards an intercom.

‘Evita, a client for you.’ A frantic whispered exchange follows. Go in, Sir, third door on the left.’

Big smile. No need to show the colour of your money. A cousin of Renta’s doesn’t pay. Romero walks down the corridor, third door on the left, opens it and finds himself face to face with Evita. She towers above him in her high heels. Very beautiful, and angry, that’s for sure. Romero, a finger on his lips, signals her to follow him into the adjacent shower room. He turns the taps full on and says:

‘In case there are any hidden mikes.’

She laughs.

‘Are we shooting a spy film?’

Romero, irritated, feels a bit silly.

‘It’s no joke.’

‘It doesn’t look like one.’

‘Did you see or hear anything in Paris that’s dangerous for your employer, Perrot, or for his client, Deluc? Perrot sent you here. I don’t know why you agreed to come.’

‘Good money.’

‘You have no idea. All Perrot wants to do is get rid of you. He and his buddy Renta are about to sell you off to Saudi Arabia and they’re planning to send you there in two days’ time.’

‘To Saudi Arabia!’

Her initial reaction is to burst out laughing. Romero looks miffed. The second is to say to herself that after all she’s here with no ID papers, her every movement is watched and it’s beginning seriously to get on her nerves.

‘Who are you, tall dark stranger and what do you suggest?’

Romero, bare-chested, wearing only his trousers, bursts into the corridor looking completely panic-stricken, just as Le Dem rings the buzzer and sprints into the reception lounge.

‘Help, a doctor…’

‘What’s going on?’

‘Come and see.’

The hostess races after him into the room where Evita is writhing on the ground half naked, groaning, foaming at the mouth, white froth covering her cheeks, filling her nostrils and streaming down her neck where the veins are swollen. Her eyes are slightly bulging, her wig askew and her make-up streaked.

Romero, frantic:

‘I’m afraid it’s rabies, I saw a rabid dog in Italy once, it was foaming like that.’

The hostess is trembling from head to foot.

‘Rabies is dangerous.’

‘Very, but I think we have a little time before she bites us. Help me with this sheet.’

He takes the sheet from the bed, wraps Evita in it, still frothing at the mouth, tight so that she is unable to move, sits her up in an armchair, hoists her up onto his shoulder and grabs his jacket on the way, forget the shirt.

‘I’m taking her to the hospital.’

Strides across the lounge. Dumbfounded, the hostess trails behind. Le Dem holds the front door open. The two of them head down the stairs holding Evita’s shoulders and legs. The girl upstairs starts yelling:

‘Wait, where are you going…?’

Outside the building, Lavorel in the car, engine ticking over, everyone in, they shoot off at top speed. In the driving mirror, Lavorel sees two men rush out of the pizzeria.

Evita wriggles an arm out of the sheet. Lavorel hands her a bottle of mineral water. She drinks, rinses out her mouth, spits out of the window, wipes her mouth and straightens her wig. Lavorel takes numerous detours, there’s not much traffic at this hour.

‘We’re going back to Paris, but not by the motorway.’

‘Clever trick.’

‘It’s an effervescent powder for stomach ache, you’re meant to put a little in a big glass of water. If you put a lot with just your saliva, it froths all over the place. When I was a kid, we would do that just before taking the métro in rush hour. We always got a seat and plenty of space around us.’

They arrive at Daquin’s place in the middle of the night. He’s lying on the sofa, waiting for them. The four of them are like schoolkids on an outing. Evita has removed her make up in the toilets of a service station and has carefully combed her wig and wrapped her sheet around her like an ancient Roman toga with a great deal of style. The masculine face is showing through beneath the female features, she’ll need a good shave. Le Dem is totally fascinated.

‘Do you want to get changed while I make coffee?’ Daquin asks her. ‘I can lend you some clothes.’

Five minutes later, Evita comes back down, in a plain, baggy sweater, jeans, bare feet and short, dark hair. Standing with a cup of coffee in her hand, she looks them up and down.

‘Nice bunch of males…This place has a manly smell. So, you guys are all cops… I’d never have guessed. Who’s got a cigarette for me?’

Romero grumbles:

‘Cut it out, will you. You don’t smoke at Daquin’s place. Besides, we’re here to work.’

Le Dem, perched on a corner of the coffee table, stares steadfastly at his shoes.

Daquin kicks off:

‘May as well come clean with you, since you agreed to come…’

Evita turns to Romero with a theatrical gesture:

‘I didn’t agree, this gorgeous Latino kidnapped me.’

‘Maybe he did. We’re interested in one of your clients, Christian Deluc. Can you tell us a little about your relations with him?’

‘Are you asking me to breach professional secrecy? That’s not something I do. I have very few carefully selected clients who pay well and in exchange, I guarantee them total discretion.’

‘He’s not exactly your average customer.’

‘Give me one good reason why I should talk to you about him.’

Daquin smiles at her.

‘Look at the audience you’ve got. Hanging on to your every word. What an opportunity!’

‘That’s a good reason, and I like you.’ She puts down her cup of coffee, settles comfortably on the sofa, crosses her legs very high, her wrists on her knees, giving her words an air of solemnity. ‘Deluc was a regular client for three years. Through Perrot, who made the appointments, paid and ruled everything with a rod of iron.’

‘Was?’

‘About ten days ago, he tried to kill me. So I decided to strike him off my list.’

Evita is enjoying being the centre of attention. She feels she’s made a good first impression. Now she has to hone the part.

‘We’d just fucked in a bedroom at Perrot’s place. I was getting dressed when Deluc started acting crazy. He broke a big mirror that took up a whole wall of the room, grabbed a piece of glass with his jacket wrapped around his hand and rushed at me to stab me. But I’m used to having to defend myself, in my job… and besides, he’s not very physical. I laid him flat pretty quickly. But he did give me a nasty gash on the shoulder.’

‘Then?’

‘There’s no then. As soon as he went down, I left. I went home and I told Perrot that I didn’t want any more appointments with that nutter.’

‘What kind of client was this Deluc?’

‘Very repressed. He always needed a little encouragement.’