Читать книгу The Gunman (Movie Tie-In Edition) - Jean-Patrick Manchette - Страница 8

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To connect with the Autoroute du Sud, Terrier had to turn around and double back at the jammed-up Porte de Versailles. He noticed that a Ford Capri was doing the same. Through the flood of automobiles and exhaust fumes he poked along the outer boulevards to the Porte d’Orléans, then up the access ramp to the highway and along the highway itself. The Capri was still in sight.

Around six-thirty, Terrier was no more than thirty kilometers from Paris, but by then the traffic was loosening up. The Capri was still in sight, far behind. Terrier accelerated to 125 kmh, and the Capri did the same. He reduced his speed to 90 kmh. The Capri maintained its distance.

As he approached the Achères parking area, Terrier slowed down even more. He considered the failing light and the traffic. It was still light, and many vehicles were still on the road. Terrier didn’t stop: he sped up and then maintained a normal speed. Now and again he glanced at the rearview mirror. Night fell.

Around ten-thirty, Terrier wasn’t far from Poitiers. Noticing a sign indicating a refueling area, he braked long and slow. He slowed down in stages, and his taillights illuminated as he did so. He left the highway and stopped under the canopy of the gas station, where he had the tank filled and various things checked and the windshield cleaned.

The Capri also needed fuel. It parked under the canopy at some distance from the DS. Terrier went to the toilet to take a piss. As he came back to his car, he went by the rear of the Capri and glanced at his shadow, who had not gotten out of the car. He was a tall, thin young man with a pasty complexion. He wore a black leather jacket and dark glasses; his head bristled with a thatch of black hair. Terrier returned to the DS, paid the attendant, and got back behind the wheel. A little sleet swirled in the orange glow of the highway lighting. Terrier started the car and went and parked in the lot behind the self-service restaurant.

The restaurant interior was done up in orange and black plastic, and there was not a single diner. This was not the sort of place to linger over a meal. As Terrier was putting food on his tray, out of the corner of his eye he saw that the Capri was pulling into the lot. It stopped, and its driver did not get out.

As Terrier was eating, a Volvo parked in the lot. A rather pretty, fortyish brunette with a fine complexion got out and came into the restaurant with two children, who were kicking up a fuss. The woman scolded and cajoled them calmly, patiently, and firmly. Terrier observed her. He had an attentive, approving expression. The fussing of the two kids made his mouth tighten a little.

When he had finished eating, Terrier returned to the DS. He glanced at the Capri, parked thirty meters away, just as a cigarette flared red. He grabbed the suitcase from the backseat, opened it on the front seat, and removed the box into which he had put the HK4 before leaving. He fitted a .380 ACP barrel into the lock, then loaded and inserted a clip. He put the automatic in the side pocket of his leather coat and got back out of his car. It was cold. What looked like snowdrifts lined the edges of the parking area. The orange lamps gave little light. In the Capri, the pale young man smoked an American cigarette. He gave Terrier a panicky look as he approached.

“Why are you following me?”

“What did you say?”

Through the open window, Terrier hit the young man between the eyes with the barrel of the HK4. The cigarette fell. Dazed, the young man sucked air through his thin mouth, his face contorted. Terrier opened the door, grabbed the young man by the front of his white sweater, and yanked him from his seat. He laid him out on the ground. The young man tried to get back up. Terrier kicked him in the head, and the young man stopped moving. Terrier quickly searched him. In ten or fifteen minutes, the pretty mom and her brats would come back this way and turn on their headlights.

In his pockets, the pallid fellow had a Swiss Army knife, keys, a plastic coin-purse, a pack of Winstons, a Bic lighter, and a wallet of the kind Africans sell on the street. In the wallet, Terrier found five hundred francs in new one-hundredfranc bills held together with a pin, along with three worn ten-franc bills; some Mobil gas coupons; an identity card, a social security card, automobile registration papers, and a certificate of insurance in the name of Alfred Chaton, packer, living in Montreuil; and a love letter from a girl. The man called Alfred Chaton began to move. Terrier pinched his temples to accelerate his coming-to, then he grabbed him, knocked his head against the car body, and, holding him by the hair, raked his face against the handle of the back door. Finally, he sat him on the ground, leaned him up against the Capri, and slapped him.

“Christ stop you’re crazy,” Alfred moaned. “I don’t know anything. I’m just a gofer.”

“Why are you following me?”

“They asked me to.”

“They who?”

“Some people.”

Terrier gave him a kick in the spleen. Alfred convulsed and fell on his side, writhing about and groaning loudly. Terrier grasped his nose between thumb and index finger, forcing him to breathe through his mouth and preventing him from crying out as the brunette and her two kids got back into their Volvo, fifty meters away, and drove off.

“They who?” repeated Terrier. “Want me to start over?”

“Please, no. Some people. Some people called Rossi. Italians.”

Suddenly, Terrier remembered the name. And he remembered Luigi Rossi appearing on a motorcycle on the twists and turns of the road that connects Albenga with Garessio in northern Italy. Remembered wearing Polaroid glasses as he stretched out between the rocks in a blind made of fir-tree branches. Remembered removing the snow protector from the barrel of his Vostok and aiming at the motorcyclist, holding his breath, and pressing the trigger. Remembered how Luigi Rossi fell on the wet road and tried to get back up; remembered how the second 7.62mm bullet hit his forehead, and pieces of helmet and head flew about. Remembered how Luigi Rossi fell back face down on the wet road, assuredly dead, and how he, Terrier, quickly returned to his Peugeot 403, which was equipped with chains, on the forest road and went back to Turin.

He remembered. At the time, he was a beginner. Cox paid him twenty thousand francs.

“Do these people called Rossi have first names?”

“They didn’t say.”

“They just told you that they were called Rossi,” suggested Terrier.

“Yes. Well, no. I heard them talking among themselves. They are brothers or cousins or something. I don’t know.”

“They are brothers or cousins or something, and they don’t call each other by the first name—they call each by the family name?”

“I don’t know. Yes.”

“I think you could describe them for me,” said Terrier.

“Absolutely,” said the pale young man.

“Get back in your heap.”

Grimacing with pain and fear, Alfred Chaton heaved himself into the Capri.

“What are you going to do with me? I’m just a gofer, for God’s sake. I will tell you anything you want to know.”

“Was it you who ransacked my apartment?”

“What? No. No.”

“Do you know who did?”

“Absolutely not.”

With his left hand, Terrier grabbed him by the collar and pushed him back into the Capri. At the same time, he got behind the wheel, took out his automatic, and rested the end of the barrel against the pale young man’s throat.

“Don’t make the slightest move, no matter what.”

The young man blinked. Terrier pressed the cigarette lighter. The eyes of the motionless young man followed his gestures.

“I’m going to burn out an eye,” said Terrier.

“Why? Why? You’re crazy!”

The young man began to weep. With a click, the cigarette lighter popped out, ready for use.

“They told me to tell you that!” the young man cried out. “They told me to follow you and that you would spot me and to say that I was paid by some people called Rossi! I swear, it’s the truth!”

“Who?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know them. I can describe them.”

“Don’t bother.”

“The fucking cunts!” cried the pale young man. “They said you were an okay guy, that you might knock me around a little, but I only had to say I was a gofer and give you the name of the Rossi brothers and you would let me go! You’re going to let me go now, aren’t you?”

“Sure.”

Terrier drew back a little on his seat and stopped pressing the barrel of the HK4 against the throat of the young man. The latter tearfully rubbed his neck.

“Oh! Thank you, thank you!”

“Take this message to Cox,” said Terrier as he put a slug into his heart.