“Are you ill, monsieur?”
Tight-lipped, Thompson shook his head. The barman let it drop and went about his business, but from time to time he cast a concerned glance at the motionless killer. Thompson did not touch his glass again.
Coco came into the bar. Now, thought Thompson, I am about to feel better. He is going to tell me how they died and I won’t feel ill anymore and I’ll eat. He scrutinized the blond giant and realized immediately that something had gone wrong.
“Come quickly,” said Coco.
Thompson got off his barstool and left a five-franc piece on the counter. He did not wait for his change.
Outside it was pouring-a sudden storm. Coco and Thompson ran to the R 16. As he ran, Thompson flung his head back to catch raindrops in his mouth. The two men got into the front of the car. Nénesse was sitting in the back with a Celtique in his maw and a raincoat over his shoulder that fell askew, toga-like, across his chest.
“Are you hurt?” asked Thompson promptly. “Where is Bibi?”
“Bibi is dead,” said Coco. “Nénesse got a slug in the side but it went right through. It’s not serious. But the girl and the kid got away.”
No wonder I’m in pain!
“What in God’s name happened?” roared Thompson.
“It was the girl. We were in the middle of hanging her and she suddenly came to. Bibi was holding her, he was taken by surprise, she grabbed his gun and killed him.”
“And then?”
“The girl and the kid got away. We were going after them, Nénesse and me. But he told me to take care of Bibi, and a second later I heard a shot. You couldn’t see a thing on account of the bushes. It took me minutes to find my brother. She had winged him like I told you. I hadn’t the faintest idea where she was, the girl I mean. I looked, I swear to God, but she had a head start.”
“Did the kid wake up too?”
Coco looked embarrassed. He licked his fat lips. His tongue was covered with foam.
“Half awake. Not completely. The girl dragged him away, you might say.”
“I can’t believe this,” said Thompson. “How can it be? What did you do with Bibi?”
“He didn’t go right away. We waited a while. We tried to see if we could do anything, but his liver was shot through. There was no point in hanging about. Nénesse told me to put him out of his misery, and then we buried him.”
“Right there?”
“Well, yes.”
“Idiots!” said Thompson. “The girl will lead the cops to the place in no time. They’ll believe her story all the sooner. Idiots!”
“We have to get out of here,” Nénesse put in. “We came to tell you. We’re pulling out. Right now.”
Thompson’s eyes flashed. His mustache quivered.
“You’ll pull out when I say!” he said in a violent undertone. “You screwed up the job. You have accounts to settle.”
“The money we received,” said Coco, “we are keeping. We are very sorry Monsieur Thompson, but we took risks. If things went wrong, it’s because the girl was not completely knocked out.” He looked Thompson straight in the eye. “That was your fault,” he concluded.
In the back of the car, Nénesse’s arm moved vaguely under the raincoat and Thompson divined the revolver aimed at him beneath the fabric. The rain drummed frantically on the car’s metal roof.
“What are you thinking?” asked Thompson contemptuously. “Are you going to start firing here? I am deeply disappointed in you. Here is what we are going to do.”
“Monsieur Thompson, it’s no use-”
“Shut up! You are going to make your way home. Your brother can take care of his wound. I’ll contact my client. I’ll come back and tell you whether or not the money already paid out must be reimbursed. Don’t hope for too much. The fault is yours.”
“Don’t you hope for too much either, Thompson,” said Nénesse through gritted teeth. “Reimbursement-wise, I mean.”
“No sense in discussing that yet,” said Thompson. “Goodbye, gentlemen. I’ll get back in touch with you at your place, tomorrow night at the latest.”
The man got out of the Renault. He stood motionless for a moment, his shoulders hunched against the rain, which was soaking his suit. Then he walked briskly to his Rover and drove off.
18
After the storm the sun came out, shining more brightly than ever between cloud banks scudding eastward. The road surfaces shone brightly as well. The red-faced motorist hummed as he drove.
“He’s a great sleeper, that kid of yours, I must say. My goodness, what a sleepyhead! Ha! Ha! Is he your son?”
“No, he’s the younger son of my boss,” said Julie, putting on an accent.
“Are you French?”
“No, I’m English.”
“I guessed it from your complexion. You know, lily-and-rose.”
“What’s a lily like?”
“It’s a white flower that symbolizes purity and beauty.”
“Oh.”
“A lily-and-rose complexion is a poetic way of referring to a fine English complexion.”
“Oh, I see.”
“I suppose the men in France flirt with you a bit?”
“So do the men in England.”
Julie was having a grand old time with the vocabulary. She pictured men flirting with her-and her shooting them point-blank. I must be in a manic phase, she told herself.
“Yes, but Frenchmen,” said the red-faced motorist, “what do you think of them, the way they flirt?”
“I don’t know. Some of them are crude.”
“Crude? You mean brutal?”
“No, crude. They talk dirty to me!”
This gave the motorist pause.
“Well, you know how it is, a girl in shorts, it’s inevitable. Are you from London? A student?”
“At Oxford,” declared Julie. “I study economics.”
“Well, that’s amazing.” the man exclaimed enthusiastically. “I’m a salesman myself. I could tell you a thing or two about economics! Aren’t you going beyond Pithiviers?”
Julie stretched in her seat. Her thigh muscles rippled.
“Are you going farther yourself?”
“I’m stopping for five minutes, just to see a customer, then going on. Where are you headed?”
“South.”
“That’s perfect. I go to Sully, then Bourges. That will get you along.”
Julie contemplated the man. He was wearing a blue pinstriped suit. His face was square and ruddy, and his brown hair fell in curls over his forehead. He had little eyes behind rectangular glasses. He was piglike.
“You are a nice man,” she said.
With her right hand she gave the motorist a friendly little tap on the shoulder, then pressed her palm against his chest and drew her nails raspingly across the material of his jacket. The man turned beet red. An idiotic smile tugged at his lips. Julie withdrew her hand. Flushed and perspiring, he kept on driving, darting frequent sideways glances at the young woman. He was wondering whether she was the genuine article. The sweat gathered like drool on his glistening curls.
“Couldn’t we stop for a moment?” asked Julie.
“Stop? What, pull over? Yes, sure. Why?”
“There!” cried Julie. “A dirt road!”
She was pointing. The 204 braked sharply, turned, and bumped onto the dirt road.
“Stop here.”
The car pulled up. The driver put the handbrake on. He looked back furtively at Peter asleep on the back seat. Julie opened her door.