The Prone Gunman

by Jean-Patrick Manchette

  Three minutes later, the unconscious Cécile was seated against the trunk of an isolated Norwegian fir, whose lower branches hung down and hid her from hypothetical passersby. She would regain consciousness in a few minutes. She risked catching a bad cold, even though Terrier had scrupulously put her hands in her pockets after wrapping her head in her scarf. Attached to a branch by its leash, the setter was now calm, licking the girl’s face and whining now and then.

  Meanwhile, Terrier was running powerfully and steadily down a line in the direction that had always been forbidden on his walks. And almost immediately he reached the edge of the forest and came out on a secondary road. A hundred meters farther on was a village with six or seven stoplights, a bus stop, and a bar and general store that had a news rack. The man went into the shop, mechanically rubbing his left hand, which still had the setter’s dried saliva on it, against his thigh. He ordered a muscadet and asked for the telephone. There was a telephone booth. Once more Terrier told Stanley what he thought it judicious to tell him—and asked him for what it seemed possible to ask.

  “No problem,” said Stanley.

  “Forgive me for not telling you everything,” said Terrier. “It’s less dangerous for you if I don’t explain everything.”

  “Okay,” said Stanley, rather primly.

  “Stanley,” Terrier said abruptly, “my name isn’t Christian. Did you know that?”

  “What’s this all about?”

  “Did you know that?”

  “No.”

  “See you soon,” Terrier said as he hung up.

  He paid and left the store. He went back into the forest and, at a run, cut straight through the woods to the house. He soundlessly entered the deserted common room, soundlessly ascended the steep staircase, and soundlessly edged his way into the interior of the converted attic, where he saw that Anne was straddling Maubert, who was stretched out on his back, and fucking him.

  16

  Terrier’s face turned pink, except for the edges of his lips, which turned pale. Unfaithful once more, his companion had her back to him. Terrier could see Maubert’s legs, his trousers still on. The copulating couple had not heard the man come into the converted attic because a record player was loudly playing Verdi. The monks of Il Trovatore were chanting:

  Miserere d’un’alma già vicina

  alla partenza che non ha ritorno.

  Miserere di lei, bontà divina,

  preda non sia dell’infernal soggiorno.

  . . . And simultaneously, Leonora (Leontyne Price, a magnificent black beauty) was singing:

  Sull’orrida torre,

  ahi! par che la morte

  con ali di tenebre

  librando si va!

  Ahi! forse dischiuse

  gli fian queste porte

  sol quando cadaver

  già freddo sarà!

  . . . and so forth. Terrier moved his lips several times and several times uttered a low sound like a sigh, and his face reverted to a homogeneous pallor. He finally went and stopped the record player by pulling out the plug. The opera slowed and groaned to a stop. In the silence, the setter could be heard barking some distance away outside. Anne had jumped to her feet next to the bed. Hands on hips, she looked Terrier up and down and seemed shocked, even offended and furious. Maubert had sat up. Without looking at anyone, he struggled to put his swollen dick back into his briefs; then he stood up to close the zipper of his trousers. Finally, he met Terrier’s gaze. From downstairs came the sounds of the setter and Cécile rushing agitatedly back into the house. Cécile yelled for Maubert.

  “Go downstairs,” Anne told him.

  “Cécile could care less,” said Maubert. “We’re not together.”

  “Go downstairs.”

  Maubert headed for the trap door that led downstairs. He had to pass very close to Terrier, who was standing motionless with his fingers rigidly extended. The professional killer breathed slowly. Maubert gave him an uncertain glance.

  “Let me by. Don’t do anything stupid.”

  Terrier nodded. Maubert went past and disappeared through the trap door. Terrier went and sat on the corner of the bed. Anne had wiped her crotch with a handful of Kleenex and was quickly getting dressed.

  “Idiot!” she said. “So what did you expect?” Seemingly calm, Terrier paid her close attention. “Idiot!” Anne repeated. “Just tell me, what did you think? Did you think I was going to wait ten years? Do you think I’m going to wait ten more years? Do you think there was only Félix, before? Do you take me for some brainless little porcelain doll? What do you take me for? I’m sick and tired of this. Cretin! Fag!” Terrier shrugged. Anne sat down heavily at the head of the bed and eyed him. “I cheated on Félix. So what do you expect?”

  An indistinct sound came from Terrier’s throat. Anne watched him; she frowned. The man made vague gestures. He got up, looked around for something, turned back to Anne, and pretended to write in his palm.

  “What is it?” asked Anne. “Don’t tell me you think the room is bugged!”

  Terrier was insistent. Anne rummaged through her things and produced a small notebook with a tiny pencil. Terrier wrote carefully. Downstairs, Maubert and Cécile were having a vociferous argument. Terrier handed the open notebook to Anne. She read it and looked at Terrier with arched eyebrows. Since he did not seem to be joking, she reread it.

  “You’ve got to be kidding!”

  Terrier smiled and shook his head. He had painstakingly written: “I can’t speak anymore. Complete aphonia. I think it’s because of the psychological shock. But I don’t understand it.”

  Anne looked Terrier quickly up and down as if there was something strange about him. There was actually something strange about him. She half smiled, as though this strangeness interested her, perhaps even agreeably disturbed her. Then she became hard again, even sarcastic.

  “Stop playing the fool. Seriously, what’s going on? Are you mute?” Terrier nodded. “You really can’t talk?” He nodded again. She seemed about to burst out laughing or else get very angry. “Because of me?” she asked. “Ha! That’s a good one—that takes the cake!” She shook her head. “But you must be kidding. It can’t be true.”

  Terrier nodded once again. He picked up the notebook and wrote: “I’m not kidding. I’m fucked up. I’m sure it will go away. Right now, I have important things to tell you. You must obey me to the letter.” He tore off the page and handed it to Anne. As she was reading, he wrote at top speed. When she finished reading, she watched him write. She seemed mystified but interested. He yanked off another page and gave it to her. Just then, Maubert and Cécile burst through the trap door. Maubert was waving a rifle. Cécile was disheveled and furious. Terrier scribbled something and handed it to Maubert, who hesitated before taking the piece of paper.

  “He can’t talk,” said Anne.

  “Up to here with both of you,” read the piece of paper that Maubert was holding. “Neutralized Cécile to remind you I’m dangerous. Took a quiet little walk, that’s all.”

  “You’ve lost your voice?”

  Terrier nodded.

  “He can’t talk,” Anne repeated.

  “From now on, I’ll communicate in writing,” wrote Terrier. He tore off another page and held out the piece of paper.

  “You’re nuts. You’re really nuts, pal,” said Maubert.

  “It’s an attack of nerves,” said Anne.

  “Now leave me the fuck alone,” Terrier declared in writing.

  Maubert looked at Terrier, who gave him a half-smile and held out the notebook. Maubert shook his head.

  “It’s a trick,” he said. Terrier shrugged. “Let’s eat while I think it over.”

  No one said much during the meal, and Terrier didn’t say anything at all. Cécile shot him hostile glances, but she didn’t try to argue with him because Maubert had explained the situation to her. Maubert seemed to be thinking as he ate mouthfuls of stew. Looking vacant, Anne picked at her food. Terrier ate heartily.

&n
bsp; “I’ll bring the bosses up to date—that’s the best thing,” said Maubert at the end of the meal. He went toward the telephone, coffee cup in hand.

  Anne and Terrier went upstairs. Terrier immediately began writing in the notebook. He showed Anne what he had written. She read it and looked at him with a doubtful expression. Terrier nodded emphatically.

  “Yes,” said Anne. “That makes sense.”

  She sighed and got up from the bed. Half an hour later, when Maubert knocked on the trap door and came in, he saw that the roofing in one area had been destroyed. The ceiling laths had been loosened and pulled out, the tar paper had been broken through and the layer of fiber-glass insulation pulled out; finally, tiles had been carefully taken down so as to make an opening in the roof. The winter air now poured in through this opening, making it cold in the converted attic. Maubert shivered. Terrier was stretched out on the bed, leafing through an old issue of Le Chasseur français. Anne had disappeared.

  “Where has she gotten to, for Christ’s sake?” Maubert asked hopelessly.

  Terrier handed him a bit of paper on which he had neatly written: “I have removed Anne because with her held captive the bosses had a hold over me. She’s in a safe place. The operation will continue as planned.” Maubert sighed and sat down on the end of the bed. He looked distractedly at the gaping roof.

  “You’ve got me in deep shit now,” he said. “I suppose I’d better call the bosses again.”

  He stayed a moment where he was, looking morose and pensive, then went down to telephone. He came back up a quarter of an hour later, rubbing his hands together in a mechanical, reflective way.

  “We’ll continue as planned,” he said. “There’s nothing else we can do. I want no more of your tricks, though.”

  Terrier smiled vaguely. He spent the next two days reading old magazines and, every now and then, smoking. It was pleasant in the attic: Maubert had patched the hole in the roof. Terrier would go downstairs for meals.

  “You still can’t talk?” Maubert would ask him every now and then, trying to salve his conscience. Terrier shook his head.

  Cécile served the food with brusque gestures. She never looked Terrier in the eye.

  “Get your things ready,” Maubert said to Terrier at the end of one dinner. “We’re leaving for Paris within the hour.”

  Terrier nodded as he continued to pour himself coffee. Later, the two men came out of the country house. A royal blue Estafette van was parked in front of the building; since when, Terrier didn’t know.

  “Hey! Hold on!” shouted Cécile from the front door.

  She signaled for Terrier to come back. She gave him a kiss as cold and wet as a raw clam. She gave him an icy look.

  “Go get yourself killed,” she said.

  Maubert was behind the wheel of the Estafette. Terrier got in beside him. The van turned into the road and drove off into the night.

  17

  To get back to Paris, they headed toward Orléans, where they got on Autoroute A10. It was cold but dry. The little van went fast.

  “You can take a look at the materiel in back,” said Maubert some ten minutes after their departure. He gestured toward a diver’s flashlight, covered in black rubber, in the glove compartment.

  Terrier took the light into the back of the vehicle. He began by examining the false floor of the van. The depth of the hiding place was very restricted. The man didn’t try to lay down in it. He then opened a long, narrow case that resembled a large saxophone case. It contained the parts of a Finnish-made Valmet assault rifle, a telescopic sight, and a Lyman scope. Terrier assembled and disassembled the weapon, except for the scopes. He carefully examined the parts and the mechanism of the Valmet, which was unfamiliar to him. He put everything away and returned to the cab, where Maubert had turned on the radio and was listening to Radio Luxembourg. The driver glanced at Terrier, who grimaced discontentedly.

  “You’ll have three thirty-shot magazines,” said Maubert. “You’ll get them in due course. That should be enough, right?” He half smiled. “7.62mm,” he added. Terrier nodded slightly and tapped an ear with his middle finger. “Don’t worry,” said Maubert. “With the other shooter letting loose with tracers, no one’s going to pay attention to anything else. I told the bosses you wanted a Weatherby or something like that, something you could silence a little, but they wanted automatic fire. You understand that you won’t really be able to see the guy, right? You understand that you’ll have to spray the whole car in five or six seconds?”

  He glanced at Terrier again. He seemed unhappy and exasperated, but he shrugged and settled into his seat, leaning his head against the back. Time passed. Every now and again, the travelers lighted a cigarette. Every now and then, Maubert babbled about the weather or other trivial subjects. Once they were on the highway, they stopped for coffee.

  They made good time, reaching the Paris area in the wee hours of the morning. They parked the Estafette in an underground garage at Orly airport before going on to the PLM hotel. They went up without checking in. Maubert knocked on the door of a room. The short guy with black eyes opened the door, his eyelids puffy with sleep and his gray overcoat rumpled. He greeted Maubert and Terrier with a nod and left right away. Maubert hung the “Do Not Disturb” sign on the knob before closing the door.

  Terrier woke up a little after eleven o’clock on the day of the planned assassination. In his underwear, he sat for a moment on the edge of his bed, slowly rubbing his belly. Through the half-open door of the bathroom came the light buzz of an electric razor. Then Maubert came out of the bathroom, in shirtsleeves. He wore an S&W .38 in a beige cloth shoulder holster. Terrier took his turn in the bathroom. He stayed a long time under the hot shower with his eyes closed and his lips shut tight. When he came back out into the room, the short guy with black eyes was sitting in an armchair. Maubert was waiting, standing against a wall. His weapon was now concealed by his jacket.

  “Nothing else?” he asked.

  “No,” said the short guy.

  “Don’t you ever take your overcoat off?”

  “Yes. Sometimes.”

  Maubert shrugged. He and Terrier went out and, after eating grilled pork in an airport restaurant, spent the afternoon in a movie theater, where they distractedly and successively watched an American crime story with Charles Bronson, a French crime story with Alain Delon, and a Walt Disney animated feature. Night had fallen when the two men came out of the cinema complex. They went to dinner. This time, while Maubert as usual ate heartily, Terrier hardly touched a thing. His companion, instead of babbling, was silent almost the whole time.

  “I suppose you know you’re not exactly what you might call a fun guy,” said Maubert after dinner as he nursed a big tulip-shaped glass of extra-fine cognac. “This not-talking thing doesn’t help at all—you should see a doctor, you know. Anyway, I don’t get the impression you’d have a lot to say. You’re a real pain. I’d really like to know what goes through your head.”

  Terrier raised his eyebrows. He smiled slightly. Maubert sighed disgustedly.

  “It’s time to go,” he said.

  They got the Estafette out of the underground garage and drove toward Paris, which they reached around ten-thirty in the evening. When they passed through the Porte de Versailles, Terrier turned for a moment to contemplate the façades of Boulevard Lefebvre, where he had once lived. Then, via Rue de Vaugirard and Les Invalides, the Estafette reached the Seine and the Champs-Elysées roundabout, where they made a hairpin turn into Avenue Montaigne. The van entered the left-hand service road. Maubert peered through the windshield. He braked and flashed the headlights. Immediately, a Lincoln in a marked-out parking space illuminated its parking lights and its turn signal. It backed up, pulled out, and left. Maubert gave a grunt of satisfaction and parked the Estafette in the freed space.

  “There we are,” he said.

  He turned off the lights, opened a compartment under the dashboard, and brought out four curved magazines.

&
nbsp; “There’s four of them,” he observed. “I don’t think you’ll need all that, but. . . . ” His voice trailed off. “One hundred and twenty rounds,” he added cheerfully.

  The two men slipped into the back of the little van. Terrier assembled the Valmet. He examined the magazines, then inserted one into the weapon, which he weighed up intently. His fingers mechanically palpated the mechanisms.

  “It works like a Kalashnikov, doesn’t it?” asked Maubert.

  Terrier nodded vaguely, as if to say, yes, more or less, you could say that. He continued to handle the weapon. He shouldered it several times, bringing the barrel to bear in the same motion. He smiled at Maubert and nodded. Leaning over the seatbacks, Maubert turned the radio on low and tuned it to France Inter, which sometimes gave a little more information than other stations when it came to diplomatic news and gossip about statesmen. The short eleven o’clock bulletin was indeed just starting, but Sheik Hakim’s visit to France was mentioned only briefly, without details. Maubert turned off the radio. He went back to Terrier, who was sitting on the cold metal floor and cradling the assault rifle. The man with the blond mustache opened a kind of hold in the side of the van and extracted a long, flat portable transceiver, a kind of walkie-talkie. He drew out some tens of centimeters of antenna in the darkness of the van and flipped a switch.

  “Goldfish.” he said. “In position. Lookout, go ahead.” He twiddled something.

  A wave of static was heard, in the midst of which a low crackle might have included the words: “Lookout. Understood, Goldfish. Hold on. Silence. Out.”

  Maubert put the set on the metal floor and sat down facing Terrier. The two men could barely see each other in the darkness of the van. The orange glare of the urban lighting illuminated the avenue well; it illuminated the interior of the cab acceptably; but it filtered only indirectly into the back of the Estafette. Terrier and Maubert were silent and motionless for a long while. About eleven-thirty, Maubert lighted a cigarette, holding his pack out to Terrier, who shook his head.