The Prone Gunman. Jean-Patrick Manchette
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sexagenarian waiter, in a long apron and black jacket, came to take his order. Terrier stared at him as he ordered andouillettes and Munich beer. The waiter noted the order and went away. When he returned with the food and the glass of beer, Terrier tapped his elbow with three fingers.
“Can’t quite place me, Dédé?”
The waiter looked at him with suspicion, then sucked air. His red eyes filled with tears.
“God in heaven!” he whispered.
Terrier invited him to sit down. Dédé glanced furtively toward the kitchen and the register and said that he couldn’t.
“I have to attend to the room,” he explained. “Martin Terrier! Well, in the name of God, shit!” He rubbed his eyes and forehead with the rag he used to wipe tables. “You’ve become a real gentleman. If only your father could see you!”
“That would only irritate him,” said Terrier.
“You’re in business?”
“That’s right.”
“You’ve come back to see this damn town. You’ve come back to piss on them all.”
“Not especially,” said Terrier.
Dédé nodded his head and smiled nastily. He was looking off into space and no longer at Terrier, who was attacking his rubbery andouillette.
“You shouldn’t stay, you know,” whispered Dédé.
“Excuse me?”
“This is a rotten place to be. Your father and I could have done great things if we’d only remained in Paris. You shouldn’t live here.”
“Okay.”
“Dédé!” yelled a sort of manager, a short rat-faced man whose mustache had all of three hairs, from the direction of the register.
Dédé groaned, nodded for Terrier’s benefit, and went off, dragging his feet. Terrier made himself eat half of what he’d been served, passed up both dessert and coffee, left the full amount of the check on the table along with a big tip, and walked out of the brasserie without seeing Dédé again.
Back in the DS, he consulted the Michelin guide. Nauzac boasted some half-dozen low-quality hotels and two more ambitious, if timeworn, establishments. One of them merited the pictogram that signifies “quiet” while the other was awarded the same pictogram in red, which signifies “very quiet.” Terrier started off in the direction of the second hotel.
At the far end of a small French-style garden, the hotel was a big limestone building with a slate roof, with many turrets and big wooden shutters with paint flaking off. The driveway between the gravel paths was muddy. On the central lawn, an empty Kronenbourg bottle lay next to a ceramic imp, and the effluvium of hot cooking fat was in the air. Things were a little better inside, though dusty. There were many carpets, wall hangings, varnished wood, a young clerk in a burgundy jacket, and, acting as the bellboy, an immaculate chambermaid to whom Terrier turned over his travel bag. They reached the third and last floor by means of a very narrow elevator, evidently a more recent addition. The room was vast, with a high ceiling, moldings, a very big bed, and antique furniture. There were rust tracks in the bathtub, but it was grand, enormous. No bar. Terrier had a bottle of J&B, ice, and a six-pack of ginger ale sent up, along with a telephone directory for the département. He poured himself a glass, picked up the telephone, and called Anne.
“Anne Schrader speaking. Hello.”
“It’s Martin,” said Terrier.
“Hello? What number are you calling?”
“Anne, it’s Martin Terrier. I’m in town.”
“You’ve misdialed,” said the neutral voice, and Anne hung up.
Terrier gave a small sigh. After an instant of immobility, he consulted the yellow pages and found the number of the Freux Electrical Company. (In point of fact, it was a small factory utilizing exclusively female manual labor to assemble record players based on turntables manufactured elsewhere.) He called and asked for Félix Schrader. He was asked who was calling. He gave his name. Félix was put on the line.
“Well, what do you know!” exclaimed Félix Schrader. “Martin Terrier! Is it really you? Where are you?” His voice slipped out of control. He tried for baritone but slid toward countertenor at the end of each of his exclamations.
“In town. I’ve come back.”
“You’re back? For good?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“Great!” Félix seemed truly happy. “We’ll have a drink? Wait!” Terrier waited. “Would you like to come eat at home?” asked Félix after a moment.
“I wouldn’t want to impose.”
Félix said not at all, not at all, he had to come, that very evening.
“Say,” he asked, “did you know that I married Anne Freux?”
“I heard. Congratulations.”
“Thanks. I’ll give you the address. Eight o’clock this evening, okay?”
Terrier said it was okay and took down the address. He lay down on the bed, his glass within reach, his hands under his neck. Later, he suddenly awoke bathed in sweat, with a coated tongue. It was dark outside the window and in the room. He turned on the lights. In the mirror of the armoire his yellow reflection looked back with suspicion. It was exactly seven in the evening.
Because of the damage done his wardrobe during the ransacking of his apartment, Terrier didn’t have much choice in what to wear. He went into the bathroom with a powder-blue suit, a blue shirt, and a tie with blue stripes. He showered, shaved, and changed. No matter how hard he brushed his teeth, he couldn’t get rid of the metallic taste in his mouth.
The hotel lobby was brilliantly illuminated when Terrier came downstairs, and people were heading toward the bar and chattering. There were two or three affluent couples and a group of loudmouthed males. Everyone was obviously over forty-five and pretty well heeled.
A counter sold newspapers, cigarettes, and trinkets. Terrier bought Gauloises and glanced at the newspapers. A bad photograph of Alex was on the front page of France-Soir. Terrier bought the newspaper and got into his car, which was parked in the driveway. He checked his watch and turned on the overhead light to read what they were saying about Alex.
She had been killed between midnight and three in the morning, after being raped and tortured at length. It was the cleaning lady who had discovered the corpse in the morning. According to her neighbors, the young woman led a very free life. According to investigators, there were at least three aggressors. The police claimed to have a solid lead.
As he read, Terrier brought his thumb and index finger to his face and mechanically smoothed his eyebrows. Then he threw the newspaper on the floor of the DS, turned off the overhead light, and passed the palm of his hand across his forehead to smooth it out. He seemed to reflect for a moment. He did not seem shocked. Perhaps he experienced a little sadness. Certainly he must have been thinking, for his face was screwed up in concentration.
After a moment, he clicked his tongue and started the engine. He continued to frown all the way to his destination.
The Schraders’ house was a sort of elegant wooden chalet painted white and bright blue, with a well-kept yard, in the middle of a neighborhood of analogous residences. It had a wooden awning over the front door, and under the awning was an electric lamp that lit up as soon as Terrier rang the doorbell. And so, when the door swung open on Anne, there she was in the bright light, just as beautiful as he remembered her.
6
He remembered. Anne Freux had promised to wait ten years for him.
“I’m asking you for ten years,” said Martin. “It could be less if I’m lucky. If