The Prone Gunman. Jean-Patrick Manchette

and rearrange everything. He put to one side those of his things that were intact. Everything else was put into the gutted luggage, which Terrier tied up with string and took down to the garbage along with the rest of the mess. He had to make several trips. He took advantage of one of these journeys to continue on to a nearby Prisunic, where he bought a suitcase and a bag. Back upstairs, he packed up his remaining possessions.

      Then his lips tightened. He picked up the intact telephone and dialed a number. The call went through on the first ring.

      “Hello, don’t hang up,” said Alex’s voice. “You have reached Alexa Métayer. I will be out for a few hours. At the tone, please leave your name and telephone number so I can call you back when I return.”

      Terrier shrugged and hung up. He finished his tasks, then picked up the telephone again to call the owner, who lived on the first floor of the building. While the man was on his way upstairs, Terrier called his garage to have his car brought round.

      “Oh, my,” declared the owner when he saw the damage. He let out a whistle.

      “I’ll forget the deposit,” said Terrier. “I’ll leave you what remains of the furniture. That all right with you?”

      “Yes, fine,” said the owner after a moment’s reflection. “I don’t want to be mean about it. What happened?”

      “A girl got worked up. You know how it is.”

      “The pretty brunette?” The owner made a face. “You wouldn’t believe it to look at her. I saw her going out late in the morning. I don’t know when she arrived, of course.”

      He winked at Terrier. Terrier turned his back on him. The telephone rang. Terrier lifted the receiver.

      “I’m trying to reach Luigi.”

      The voice was slurred, metallic, abnormally shrill. The guy (or the girl) at the other end of the line was using a vocoder-like gadget to distort the sound—or else he was a rehabilitated mute.

      “What number are you calling?” asked Terrier.

      He was cut off. Terrier hung up. A second later, the telephone began ringing again.

      “Hello?”

      “I can’t reach Luigi Rossi anymore,” said the deformed voice. “I’m furious. Somebody will have to pay for that. Maybe you.”

      “Explain that,” said Terrier.

      There was a noise that could have been a chuckle, then the line went dead. This time no one called back. Someone rang at the door, but it was only the guy from the garage coming to say that the Citroën DS 21 was parked out in front. Terrier pocketed the car keys and tipped the worker, who went away. A moment later, Terrier and the owner came downstairs together.

      “You’ll be missed,” the owner was saying. “You were the ideal tenant. Peace and quiet and all. If I understand correctly” (he gave Terrier a complicitous smile), “you had some private problems.”

      “I wouldn’t call that a problem,” said Terrier.

      It was five-thirty in the afternoon. Terrier tossed his luggage on the backseat of the old DS 21, grabbed the wheel, and started the engine. He took the service road toward the Porte de Versailles and then slipped into the slow and very heavy traffic. An old pale-gray Ford Capri with a dull black hood began to tail him.

      4

      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?”