“Oh yes, I have a letter for you to sign.”
“The letter?”
Thompson lowered himself clumsily to the floor. He bent down and reached under the lower bunk for a worn brown leather briefcase. He rooted in it and withdrew a typewritten letter, which he laid out on the table.
“Come and sign.”
“Let me read it at least!”
“As you wish.”
Julie sat at the table. The letter was addressed to Hartog and crudely typed. The girl read:
Monsieur Hartog, I am writing to tell you that I have little Peter with me. I took him away on the spur of the moment, on an impulse. Now that I have calmed down, it would be easy enough to come back with the boy. Too easy, in fact. I can now see things clearly at last. I have had it up to here with all the humiliation that you cause me, you and others like you. Death to the pigs!!! Death to the rich!!! I have just as much right as you to get enjoyment out of life. I want money. If you call the police, I will hang Peter with a rope. Or else I’ll cut his little body up every which way with my knife. So you had better follow my orders, keep your mouth shut, and wait for my next letter for me to tell you how to deliver the money to me. Get a million new francs together in small bills. No need to worry about Peter so long as you are sensible.
Julie looked at Thompson. She dug her fingernails into the wood of the table. A nervous twitch pulled at the edges of her mouth and her teeth were bared in a ghastly grin.
“You might as well laugh it off, mademoiselle, I assure you.” Thompson retreated towards the bunk where he had left his weapon. “You’re bound to be found innocent in the end.”
“But this letter!” Julie managed to say. “This letter!”
“It’s the letter of a madwoman, granted. We know your history. But I’m sure you understand that Hartog must be reduced to a state of terror. Do you understand, or are you really balmy?”
“I’d like another large glass of wine.”
Thompson nodded. With his rifle under his arm, he went over to the kitchen area, poured wine into a tin mug, and held it out to Julie. She drank it down.
“You really expect me to sign that?”
Thompson opened Julie’s bag, which was on the bunk near Peter. He foraged in it for a moment and found a ballpoint pen.
“You have no choice,” he told her. “You don’t want me to start pulling the lad’s hair again, do you? Or tearing off his ear? Or breaking one of his fingers?”
“Can I think it over?”
“It’ll do you no good. I’m sorry. Sign.”
Julie took the pen that the man was holding out to her.
“You wrote this on a typewriter,” she observed. “You wrote it with my Hermes, which that other fat fuck stole this morning.”
“Yes,” said Thompson. “The perfect touch.”
Julie signed.
13
Over dinner the gangsters listened to Europe-Soir radio. Still no news. After the meal Nénesse left in the R 16 with the letter. Julie and Peter were told to go to bed. Thompson lay down when they did, at the other end of the room, without getting undressed. Night had just fallen. Bibi turned off the hurricane lamp hanging from the ceiling.
“I’ll take the first watch.”
The blond giant grunted assent.
“I’ll come outside with you for a smoke or two.”
“Don’t go to bed too late, Coco,” came Thompson’s voice. “You’ll have to get up at one for the second watch.”
The giant grunted again and followed Bibi out. Through the unshuttered windows Julie followed the pair’s movements. Their silhouettes leant towards each other. A struck match flared, then went out.
The girl tried to relax. She was full of wine but strung out. The lack of tranquilizers was making itself felt. She laid her arms alongside her body, palms up.
“Julie!” whispered Peter from the lower bunk. “Are you asleep?”
“No.”
“Nor am I.”
“Try. Think of something nice. Think of flowers.”
“I can’t.”
“Quiet, please!” cried Thompson.
Julie and Peter were quiet. In a moment or two, overcome by fatigue and emotion, the boy fell asleep. But not Julie. She was wide awake when the blond giant came back into the chalet, stubbed out his cigarette on the sole of his shoe, and groped his way to the bunk below Thompson’s. And she was still not sleeping when headlights briefly lit up the valley, silhouetting the trunks of pines, then went out. Its way lit by sidelights alone, the R 16 pulled up beneath the trees. In the darkness Julie could not tell the time by her watch. Outside, Bibi and Nénesse exchanged a few words in low voices and laughed. They stayed together for a few moments, smoking, then the interior lights of the R 16 went on. Julie discerned Nénesse arranging a plaid traveling blanket inside the car, lying down on the banquette and switching the lights off.
Julie did not sleep a wink all night. She heard the watch changing; she heard Peter moaning in his sleep; and she heard Thompson getting up to go to the chemical toilet, where he remained for a long time groaning quietly.
Thompson did not go on watch. At dawn the blond giant woke Nénesse from his sleep in the R 16. It was five o’clock. There was just enough light for Julie to see the dial of her watch. The landscape was truly beautiful. Through the windows Julie could see one flank of the valley contoured against a blood-red sky. The sandstone outcrops and the silhouettes of the tall trees were like petrified monsters. The depths of the valley turned blue, then yellow. Julie heard the two men talking outside.
“I’m afraid I’ll never get back to sleep at this hour.”
“You want to go make coffee?”
“I’m liable to wake Thompson.”
“What the fuck do we care?”
“He wouldn’t like that.”
“So what? What the fuck is it to us? He’s not the one out here freezing his tail off.”
“You go then.”
Silence.
“Oh, the hell with it. I don’t want coffee anyway. Wait, I have something in the crate that will pick us up.”
Bustling sounds. Julie watched the two figures moving in the dawn’s yellow glare. A car door squealed, then slammed.
“Brrr! That feels good!”
“Warms you up.”
“Pass it back.”
Julie craned her neck to see the other end of the room, still wreathed in grayish, grainy shadows. She caught Thompson’s eye. He was still immobile, arms by his sides, rifle near to hand. The girl felt sure that the man had not slept a wink either.
Peter was awoken by the daylight at a quarter past six, and he got up immediately to make sure Julie was still there. The young woman drew him to her and held him tight.
“I like you better than Marcelle,” said Peter once more.
Thompson left his bed and went to make coffee. The noise woke Bibi, who sat up grumpily. The brother heavies came back into the chalet. A fuzzy conversation in sleep-filled voices was gradually struck up. The second day had begun.
Thompson served coffee, and flageolet beans in paper bowls. Stomachs heaved at first, but the beans were warming. Peter refused to eat, refused coffee. Thompson gave him a mug of water.
“I’m sick of this,” said the boy. “I want to go home. I have to go home. Why are you doing this to me?”
He began to stagger about in tears. He cried desperately for a long time. Eventually he ran out of tears, but he went on moaning dry-eyed: “Why are you doing this to me?”
“Shut up, for Christ’s sake,” shouted Nénesse.
“Yes,” said Thompson to Julie. “Have him be quiet, mademoiselle. He’s starting to get on our nerves.”
14
Shortly after one in the afternoon, with everyone seated at the table around a pork roast, the radio mentioned Peter and Julie. “This may be the beginning of another kidnapping,” said the lead newscaster in grave tones, between two commercials. “Yes indeed, Jacques Paoli,” intoned his second fiddle. “To recap, a seven-year-old boy, little Peter Hartog, nephew of Gérard Hartog, who had gone out with his nanny on Wednesday morning, never returned to the businessman’s home. Nor did the nanny, and the police are not excluding the possibility of a kidnapping. What is more, the nanny was discharged only recently from a mental institution.” Etc., etc. Jacques Paoli responded by saying that it was too early to draw any conclusions, but they would be following developments closely. Meanwhile they would move on to other things, right after messages from their sponsors. Thompson turned the radio off.