The Prone Gunman. Jean-Patrick Manchette
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The black man picked up a black suitcase and went toward the door.
“Cox will first try to convince you,” he said. “Don’t burn your bridges. If you get in a jam, you know where to reach me.”
“Yes.”
“I’m not staying for dinner,” declared the black man as he opened the door. “You won’t tell me what you’re thinking. You’re suspicious of me. I’m offended, Christian.”
“So long,” said Martin Terrier. The black man left, closing the door behind him. Terrier dialed a number as he listened to the black man’s steps recede on the stairs. He heard the ringing on the other end of the line, which went on for a long time till Alex answered.
“Oh! You’re back,” she shouted happily and breathlessly. “I was afraid you wouldn’t come back till tomorrow. In fact, I was on the stairs—I was going to the movies. Are you coming over?”
“No. I haven’t eaten. Come over when you get out of the movies.”
“You’re crazy. I’ll come over right now!”
“No,” said Terrier again. “I have to have dinner with someone.”
“A lady or a gentleman?”
“A guy. Come around twelve-thirty.”
“Oh.” Alex sounded disappointed. “Should I bring Sudan?” she asked.
“Please.”
“I love you. I missed you.”
“Yes, me too. See you soon.”
They hung up. Terrier slowly drank his beer, standing up, frowning. Then he quickly went to the kitchenette to put his glass in the sink and to open a cupboard that contained a few dishes and a wooden box. He took down the box, which contained a Heckler & Koch HK4 automatic pistol with interchangeable barrels. He checked the cleanliness of the various parts of the gun, then assembled it with a .32 ACP barrel and the appropriate magazine. He went and put the automatic under the pillow on his bed, then went back to the kitchenette, where he drank another beer and, standing up, ate a can of beans and sausage and a piece of Gruyère.
By the time Alex let herself in with her key, Terrier had long since finished tidying up. Sitting in an armchair, he was reading a science-fiction novel and listening to Radio Luxembourg on a small receiver.
Alex was a twenty-seven-year-old brunette with short hair, striking blue eyes, high cheekbones, and a beautifully formed neck and jaw line. She was tall with long legs and breasts almost as firm as her thighs. She was dressed now in a three-piece light-gray pantsuit and a white shirt. She had a white leather handbag on her shoulder and in her hand a rectangular wicker basket with a top. Sudan meowed in the basket. Alex kissed Terrier, who returned her kiss.
“Your movie was all right?”
“It was shitty. I left before the end, and I had a drink while waiting to come over. Dinner was okay?”
Terrier shrugged. He took the basket, put it down on the floor, and opened it. Sudan got his footing and began roaming around the studio, sniffing and coolly looking things over. Finally, he went into the kitchenette and began eating from the bowl that Terrier had filled for him. Meanwhile, Alex had gone over to the coffee table, on which stood gift-wrapped boxes.
“You’re nice,” she said.
“They’re to say goodbye,” said Terrier.
“Excuse me?”
“It has nothing to do with you. It has nothing to do with anything. I told you that one day I would have to leave suddenly—and alone. You remember. Well, this is it.”
With a calm and dreamy look, Alex pushed the boxes to the end of the table. It took her three matches to light her Benson & Hedges.
“You’ve found something better?” she asked.
“Not at all,” said Terrier. “Not at all. There’s no other woman.”
Between clenched teeth, Alex uttered an obscene curse. Terrier looked at her silently, then went into the kitchenette to fill a glass with vodka. When he returned, Alex was bent over the books piled against the wall and stuffing volumes under her arm.
“This one’s mine,” she was saying. “And this. And this. And this.” She turned around without standing up straight and winked at Terrier. “Okay,” she said. “As we agreed. No questions. No dramatics. Okay.”
“Fine,” said Terrier. “You can have all the books. I’m not taking them.”
He went and turned off the radio. Alex, the books in her arms, came back to the coffee table. She was stumbling a little. She tapped the rim of her glass against her teeth as she drained it. The ice cubes tinkled. In her hurry, she had wet her upper lip and the bottom of her nose.
“I’ll call you a taxi,” said Terrier. “Don’t forget your presents.”
Alex burst out laughing. She dropped her glass, which didn’t break against the carpet. She ran to the kitchenette, dug in a drawer, and came back with a carving knife. With the handle against her belly, she held the blade straight in front of her. Her teeth were bared, and her makeup was running.
“Stop,” said Terrier, without moving.
“Fucking asshole.”
She took a step forward. Terrier put his weight on his left leg and held the outstretched fingers of his right hand tightly together, his arm slightly bent. But the young woman shook her head violently and contented herself with throwing the knife at the window. It knocked against the glass and fell to the floor. Alex shook her head again.
“You’re taking Sudan into your new life?”
“Yes.”
“He won’t like that.”
“Yes, he will.”
“Christian,” said Alex, “let me have the poor cat. As a souvenir. Please.” She seemed unaware that tears were now streaking her face; she was smiling.
“You’re being stupid.”
Alex nodded. Terrier picked up the phone and called a taxi. There would be a five-minute wait. He remained standing. Alex got her things and her presents together.
“Sudan won’t be happy with you,” she said. “You’re abnormal. You’re sick in the head. I tried. God knows, I tried!”
She didn’t say what she had tried. Before leaving, as she passed in front of Terrier, she raised herself on tiptoe and spit clumsily in his face.
3
The Rue de Varenne apartment was a duplex located in the rear of an old town house, on a paved courtyard, above stables that had been transformed into private garages. In the courtyard, the name “Lionel Perdrix” appeared on a framed visiting card above the doorbell. A few seconds before nine, Terrier rang the doorbell seven short times, pushed open the gate, and climbed the flight of outside stairs. The remote-control lock of the white-lacquered entryway door buzzed and clicked, and Terrier opened the door, closed it behind him, and climbed another flight of stairs, these covered in gray carpet. He emerged into the vast gray-and-white duplex full of ultramodern furniture and Pop, Op, and kinetic art.
Cox was seated on the edge of a gigantic white leather sofa, his back to a windowless wall with a balcony overhead. A short guy with black eyes, his hands in the pockets of a gray overcoat, leaned out with his belly against the balcony railing; his eyes never left Terrier.
Bent over a low, openwork white-lacquered table, Cox was eating a copious brunch of eggs, bacon, grilled sausages, thick little pancakes, and maple syrup, accompanied by black coffee.
“I didn’t have time to eat this morning,” he said as Terrier came in. “Nor to sleep much, either.