The Prone Gunman

by Jean-Patrick Manchette

  The following Saturday, Martin told her he loved her. Then things moved along at their own pace. During summer vacation, Anne often didn’t answer the letters from Martin, who had remained in Nauzac to work. But at summer’s end, she kissed more enthusiastically and accepted more daring caresses. And at the beginning of October, to his astonishment, Martin was invited to dinner at the Freux’s. For the occasion, he wore a tie and borrowed a shirt and cuff links from his father. Submitted to a running fire of questions by the Freux parents, he answered clumsily and mishandled the silverware. Tipsy from drinking white wine followed by red, he became voluble at the end of the meal, and his vocabulary deteriorated.

  After dinner, the elder Freux led him into his study. He gave the young man to understand that he did not have a brilliant future and that Anne would one day marry a man from her milieu. In conclusion, he ordered Martin never to see his daughter again and sent the adolescent out by the service stairs.

  That evening, blind with rage and humiliation, Martin almost hit his father because Charles Terrier was drunk and looking for a fight about the borrowed shirt and cuff links. Fortunately, the father had one of his fits before things went seriously to hell.

  Charles Terrier had begun drinking again a while before. Friends of Martin’s, guys from his little crowd, had bought Charles a drink at the brasserie where he was a waiter, and they found the resulting rapid disturbance in the employee’s behavior very funny. They came back on other days to buy him more drinks. They began calling Charles Terrier “Charlie Chaplin.”

  When the waiter was dismissed for his misbehavior, the young smart alecks surrounded him, alternately shamefaced and condescending. They went barhopping with him. As soon as Charles Terrier was drunk again, his foolishness started up even worse than before. In the wee hours, the man was overcome with uncontrollable anger. The last smart asses dispersed. Charles Terrier wandered the empty streets shouting that he wanted to leave town, and then he stole a motorcycle and, at the first turn, lost his balance and smashed his skull against the curb.

  “I will return, I will kill them, I will drag them through the shit, I will make them eat shit,” said Martin Terrier to Dédé at dawn after he had kissed Anne and she had sworn to wait ten years.

  Even if his father had not been dead, Martin would have had nothing to say to him. He took a train that morning without waiting for the burial. He got as far as Toulouse, where he joined the army.

  7

  He also remembered this:

  “And you, you have nothing to say?” asked the Italian woman journalist.

  Terrier shrugged his shoulders.

  “I have nothing interesting to say.”

  The other two white soldiers had just been going on about their origins, their taste for combat, and also, after a certain amount of persuading, their ideological convictions and the fact that someone really had to oppose the communist penetration of Africa. One of the fellows was English, the other German. They and Terrier and the journalist, along with the bearded black man with the cultivated look who was accompanying the journalist and wearing a government uniform without insignia, were in the devastated lounge of a solid-looking hotel. The ventilators were out of order, and the windows were broken; there was a lot of excrement behind the bar, even though the john was only two meters from the counter. Beyond the broken panes, the dusty street was deserted and bleached by the sun. In the middle of it lay the corpse of a fifteen-year-old rebel in shorts whom government troops had beaten to death just before the journalist arrived. Sporadic firing could be heard a kilometer or two away.

  Since the journalist was looking at him with interest, Terrier said with embarrassment that he had the same kind of past as the other two, except that he had done his normal national service, in France, in the paratroops.

  “And you like to fight?”

  “Not especially.”

  “Why are you here? Out of conviction?”

  The journalist took notes on a small pad. She had short blond hair and black eyes. She was rather tall, plump, dressed in combat fatigues, desirable. You could see her tongue move between her white teeth when she spoke.

  “No,” said Terrier, with embarrassment. “I do it only for the money.”

  “That’s interesting,” said the journalist, looking interested. “You and your colleagues always begin by saying it’s only for the money. But if you scratch the surface, you discover things. In fact, I would love to find someone who is here only for the money.” She spoke impeccable French. “But I don’t believe it. Still, I would like to. I mean, risking your life just for the money, is that possible, you know what I mean? I wonder.” She tapped her white incisors with her pencil.

  “What I was saying is, I have a life plan,” mumbled Terrier.

  “A life plan?” The Italian arched her eyebrows.

  “Drop it. Uh, drop it,” said Terrier.

  He caught the eye of the bearded black man whose uniform carried no markings. The black man smiled slightly.

  “No,” said the Italian. “A life plan?”

  “Shit,” said Terrier. “I want to build up a fund. I’ve given myself ten years. Then I’ll hang it up and go into something else.”

  “Go into what?”

  “That’s none of your business, madame.”

  The Italian looked at him with a smile, and her black eyes were laughing, too, and perhaps enticing. The door of the john slammed open. A thirteen-year-old black male dressed only in khaki shorts and a red helmet jumped out howling as he opened fire on the group.

  In five seconds, there were some fifteen, maybe seventeen shots. When silence returned, the German, the Englishman, and the Italian were flat on the floor. The adolescent sniper was sitting against the doorjamb of the john, dead; he had lost his red helmet and had holes through the heart and face. Terrier and the black man with the cultivated look were standing, still tightly grasping their warm automatic pistols in both hands. They looked each other over and exchanged slight smiles. The people who were flat on the floor began to get back up, their faces ashen. The black man in the uniform with no markings relaxed, gave Terrier a tap on the shoulder, walked over to the corpse, and picked up the gun.

  “I’d like to know just which fuckers are supplying them with Armalites,” he said. He, too, spoke perfect French.

  Terrier wanted to say something in reply, but his right leg collapsed under him. He found himself sitting on the floor. He shook his head. His thigh hurt. Blood spurted from it.

  “Pressure dressing,” he managed to say.

  Later, he was in a hotel bed, swollen up and feverish. The shutters were closed behind the open window. There was artillery fire in the distance, perhaps ten kilometers away. Stanley, the black man, was sitting at his bedside with lemons and a bottle of vodka; smiling, he studied Terrier. Stanley’s skin was very black, to the point where he was almost invisible in the darkness when he wasn’t smiling. Between the artillery reports dreadful wailing could be heard. It sounded like a prisoner under torture. But when one listened more closely, it turned out to be only the Italian journalist getting it on with some guy.

  “The war’s over for you,” said Stanley. “That thigh will take a good month. So do you have any plans?”

  “No.”

  “I have a proposition for you,” said Stanley. “I really liked the way you reacted this morning.”

  “What?” Terrier didn’t really understand.

  “All the others, on the floor,” said Stanley.

  “Oh, yes,” muttered Terrier. “Yes.”

  “I have a proposition.”

  And that was where and how Martin Terrier was recruited.

  8

  Anne Freux, Schrader’s wife, shook her head when Terrier handed her the fruit bowl. She got up from the table and dropped into an armchair in a corner of the room, where she inhaled her Kent and stared into space. Terrier picked up an orange and set about peeling it fastidiously with a knife and fork. Félix Schrader watched him with a fasci
nated and amused look.

  “What have you been doing, exactly?”

  “Employee relations,” said Terrier. “A big firm.”

  “You’ve seen something of the world.”

  Terrier raised his gaze from the orange for a moment and caught Félix’s look of amusement.

  “A little.”

  Félix got up, went through the open glass double door, and foraged in the shadows of the adjoining study. Bound volumes covered the walls. He worked a drawer and returned to the well-lighted dining room with a shoe box. Anne jerked her head; her lips tightened a little. Félix opened the box and turned it over on the tablecloth. Some twelve or fifteen postcards poured out. They had been mailed from a great variety of places: Nairobi, Geneva, Los Angeles, Colombo, Kyoto, Berlin, Tripoli, Manaus, and other spots. There was no text, only the name of Mademoiselle Anne Freux and her old address.

  “You’re the one who sent all these?” asked Félix.

  “Uh, well,” said Terrier. “Uh, well, yes.”

  “I thought you’d thrown them out,” Anne said, without looking at Félix.

  Her husband smiled at her. She lighted a new cigarette from the butt of the preceding one. She got up, opened a small glass sideboard, and poured herself a good twenty centiliters of Martell in a snifter.

  “Don’t you think you’ve had enough to drink today?” asked Félix.

  “Shit.”

  Anne sat violently back down. She was a rather tall, well-proportioned young woman with plump breasts, a generous mouth, very light green eyes, pale complexion, and blond hair. Her eyes seemed to express not the slightest thought. Fine lines were apparent at the corners of her eyes and mouth. She took a healthy swig of her cognac.

  “I’ve come to take Anne away,” Terrier said suddenly, putting his napkin down.

  Standing with his spread fingers pressed against the table, Félix half smiled in a reflective way.

  “You shouldn’t be speaking to me. Speak to the lady.”

  Terrier got up. He stumbled imperceptibly.

  “Anne,” he said.

  Anne stood up and drained her cognac.

  “I’m sleepy. I’m going up.” She slurred her words a little.

  “Anne,” repeated Terrier. “Anne, for God’s sake!”

  The young woman left the room without looking at anyone. Terrier moved to catch up with her. Félix took a half step to the side. Terrier almost bumped into him.

  “Shall I make us coffee?” suggested Félix. “I have an Italian machine that makes fantastic coffee. Do you know how to play Mastermind?”

  “What?” Terrier looked at him as if he were crazy.

  “Coffee?” Félix repeated affably. He had black eyes and black hair and a Latin face with a dull complexion, slightly protruding cheekbones, and a long, slightly hooked nose; he was smaller in size and stature than Terrier and seemed three or four years younger; he wore gray corduroy pants, a sport shirt, and a woolen smoking jacket. “So you don’t want any of my coffee?” he said, putting on an expression of comical disappointment.

  “Shit, no, you can’t be for real!” exclaimed Terrier. Terrier raised his forearms, then brought his fists down to his thighs, sighed, moved back a step, shook his head, and seemed to calm down.

  “What’s the matter? What’s the matter?” asked Félix. “Do you want my advice? Do you need my advice? Is that it? Is that it? I don’t give a damn! I don’t give a damn!” he shouted. Then he added calmly: “If there’s anything wrong, it’s your head!”

  Terrier advanced blindly and with his outstretched right arm tried to push Félix out of the way. Félix retreated.

  “I want to talk to Anne,” said Terrier.

  “She’s drunk. She’s sleeping. She’s snoring.” He snickered.

  Terrier slapped Félix’s mouth full force with the back of his hand. Félix backed away again.

  “Come spend the weekend,” he said. He touched a finger to his lip and then examined the end of his finger. “Do you remember the cabin? We often spend the weekend there. We’re going this weekend. Come up Saturday, okay?”

  Terrier stared at him.

  “Hey!” laughed Félix. “You want to knock me off or what?”

  “Excuse me,” whispered Terrier.

  “You’re excused.” Félix gave Terrier’s arm a pat. “It’s an embarrassing situation for you. Well, actually, no. Anyway, screw it!” He turned his back to Terrier. “So you don’t want my coffee? Would you care for a liqueur? You don’t want to play Mastermind with me? Maybe Saturday?”

  “Maybe,” murmured Terrier.

  He turned around and quickly reached the door, grabbing his leather coat on his way down the hall. He got in the DS, drove off rapidly, and returned to his hotel. It was midnight.

  “Someone brought a package for you,” said the clerk in the burgundy jacket as he handed Terrier his key.

  “Give it to me.”

  “The chambermaid took it up.”

  “Well, fine,” said Terrier.

  “It was awfully heavy,” the clerk ventured as Terrier was getting into the narrow elevator.

  After unlocking the door to his room, Terrier slowly opened it with his foot, turned on the lights, and suspiciously examined the room and the enormous package tied up with ribbons. After a moment, he went inside and locked the door. He glanced inside the armoire and the bathroom. Then he circled the package and scrutinized it from all sides. He dug in his suitcase and pulled out an Opinel knife. Squatting before the package, he made little pokes with the blade into the wrapping paper and bumped something hard everywhere. He cut the ribbons and then, still using the blade of the Opinel knife, slit the paper and began to tear pieces off. Metal and plastic corners appeared along with transparent glass surfaces, behind which indistinct forms could be made out. Terrier finished tearing off the paper.

  Inside the package was a sealed aquarium, full of water. In the aquarium floated the tomcat Sudan, gutted, his eyes ripped out and his intestines undulating slowly in water dark with blood.

  9

  Terrier remained motionless for an instant, then he went and got the HK4’s box from his suitcase; he opened the box on the bed. The various parts of the weapon were still there. The man again mounted the barrel chambered for .380 and put the automatic in his jacket pocket. Then he telephoned the desk and questioned the man in the burgundy jacket.

  “Well,” said the clerk, “the person didn’t give a name, actually.”

  “Describe the person.”

  “Well, I don’t know, the person concerned said that it had to be a surprise, actually, and not to, in fact. . . . ”

  “For Christ’s sake!” exclaimed Terrier with impatience.

  “Excuse me, monsieur,” said the clerk, who seemed shocked and worried. “Is something the matter?”

  “Everything’s fine. Describe this person for me.”

  “It was a woman,” said the clerk. “I don’t know what to say. Short black hair in a helmet cut, a very popular style these days, with bangs, you know? Blue eyes, a fine long nose, a slightly drooping mouth, like Jeanne Moreau’s, the actress, you know? And what else? Medium height, perhaps one meter sixty-three. A nylon navy-blue raincoat buttoned up to the neck and blue leather boots. She had a rain hat in her hand that matched her raincoat and . . . oh, she wore long, blue leather gloves. She was smoking a cork-tip cigarette. She gave me twenty francs in two ten-franc coins. That’s all I remember. Oh, yes. If you don’t mind my saying so, monsieur, she had dry skin. Pink cheeks, you see? As if her skin had peeled after a sunburn or she had bad circulation. Not that she had acne rosacea, because she was a woman in her thirties, but still. . . . Some Englishwomen and Scandinavians have this sort of coloring. I’m afraid I don’t remember much else, actually. I’m not very observant, and I didn’t pay close attention.”

  “I wonder what it would be like if you did!”

  “Beg your pardon?” said the clerk.

  “Nothing. She came and went by car?”
r />   “I suppose so. I don’t know.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Philippe, monsieur.”

  “Well, Philippe,” said Terrier, “let me know right away if this woman shows up again. There’s a tip in it for you—in any case. And thanks.”

  “My pleasure, monsieur.”

  “Good night,” said Terrier.

  He hung up softly, shaking his head and smiling. Then his smile vanished. He returned to the opened package and completely freed the aquarium of its wrapping. As he did so, a card appeared bearing a hand-stenciled message in capital letters: “WITH THE COMPLIMENTS OF LUIGI ROSSI.” Terrier carefully examined the card, then the wrapping paper and the ribbons, even holding them up to the light of the bedside lamp. After tearing the card into tiny pieces, he put everything in the wastebasket.

  The man turned out the lights in the room and positioned himself near the window, observing the humid night and the yellowish glow that the ground-floor lights, reduced at the moment, cast on the front steps, the gravel paths, and a few dark, gleaming, motionless automobiles.

  After putting the aquarium in the bottom of the armoire, closing the shutters, and drawing the curtains, Terrier slept, with the HK4 under the pillow, until close to eight in the morning.

  As he drove away from the hotel, he discreetly observed his surroundings and the rearview mirror. Sometimes he drove very fast and sometimes times very slow. It seemed that he wasn’t being followed.

  At present, the public dump carried a sign that read “No Dumping,” but on the slope was still the same mess of broken bottles, melon rinds, tin cans, rusty springs, dark rags, and dismembered celluloid baby dolls as before. Terrier stopped the DS on the adjacent flat area. When the road was empty, he threw the aquarium down the hill. It bounced once, then broke apart on the second impact and continued to tumble down, the plate glass shattering, with pieces of dead cat flying in every direction as the thing bounced and smashed and scattered its parts around the base of the cone of rubbish until they were just indistinct and motionless pieces of detritus.