Читать книгу Three To Kill - Jean-Patrick Manchette - Страница 10

6

At eleven-fifty on the night of the twenty-ninth of June, one of the men who on the following day would try to kill Georges Gerfaut sat in the Lancia Beta 1800 sedan, which was parked fifty meters from Gerfaut’s apartment building. In the back of the car were two metal suitcases. The first contained clothes, toiletries, a science-fiction novel in Italian, three very pointed and well-honed butcher knives, a sharpening steel, a garrote made of three strands of piano wire with aluminum handles, a blackjack, a 1950 model Smith & Wesson .45 caliber revolver, and a Beretta 70T automatic with silencer. The second case contained clothes, toiletries, six meters of nylon cord, and a SIG P210-5 9mm automatic target pistol. In a canvas bag on the car floor were highpower binoculars and an over-and-under M6 like those used by the U.S. Air Force, with a folding butt, one barrel being .22 caliber, the other a .410 shotgun. There were munitions, too, of various kinds, in thick wooden boxes in the Lancia’s trunk. Should such an arsenal be considered impressive or simply grotesque?

The man in the car was at the wheel, with his chin sunk into his chest, his back against the back of the driver’s seat, and a monthly comic book propped against the wheel’s leather cover. The comic was called Strange, and it recounted the adventures of Captain Marvel, the intrepid Daredevil, the Spider, and various other characters. The man was reading with great concentration, moving his lips. A succession of emotions registered on his face; he was identifying to the hilt.

After a moment, the other guy, the one with the wavy black hair and pretty blue eyes, emerged from Georges Gerfaut’s building, walked back to the Lancia, and got in beside his companion. The latter put his Strange into the cubbyhole in his door and wrinkled his nose with curiosity.

“I smell fat.”

“Cooking fat, yes,” said the other. “The concierge was making fries. Georges Gerfaut has left on vacation for a month. I have the address. It’s in Saint-Georges-de-Didonne; the department number is 17.”

First, the hit men consulted the dark one’s diary to see what department had the number 17, and found out that it was Charente-Maritime. Then they took down a small atlas of French main roads that was attached to the right sun visor with an elastic band, perused it, located Saint-Georges-de-Didonne, and mapped out their route.

“I drive fast,” said the one with the white streaks in his hair. “We can be there by this evening.”

“Well, fuck that! Shit, no!” replied the dark man bitterly. “Let him wait. First, we’ll have a big meal. Then we’ll do a little sightseeing. Come on, why shouldn’t we?”

“Mister Taylor said fast, Carlo.”

“Taylor? What’s he got to say about it? He’s got nothing to say about it. Anyway, he’s cool, totally cool.”

The nostrils of the man with the white streaks flared tautly.

“Carlo, you really do smell of greasy food.”

“What a pain in the butt you are!” Carlo reached into the back and opened one of the metal cases, took out a toilet bag and produced a bottle of Gibbs aftershave. He poured lotion into his palm and dabbed himself with it about the cheeks and under the arms. Then he put his tackle away.

“If we don’t have to hurry,” said White Streaks, “we can stop at Le Lude. It’s charming, Le Lude. It has a delightful castle.”

“All right then, if you say so. Start the car, for Christ’s sake! We can’t sit here forever!”