Free Fatale by Jean-Patrick Manchette

interest.”
    â€œInterest?” repeated the baron. “You little twerp, I tell you I know everything about this town. I know everything about you too, DiBona. I know what you did in 1943.”
    DiBona cast an inscrutable glance at the baron.
    â€œIf you don’t mind,” said the journalist, switching on his recorder, “let’s stick to Lorque and Lenverguez...”
    The next day, in a town already roiled by the furor over the rotten fish, the mood deteriorated even further, and quickly. THE TRUTH ON LORQUE AND LENVERGUEZ was the headline in the Dépêche de Bléville , while the subtitle read: “Deadly Canned Goods Just the Latest in a Long Series of Scandals.” From that point on, the peace that usually reigned in Bléville was irremediably shattered, and things only got worse over the following days. Each morning the Dépêche gave the “Latest on the Scandals” and followed up by launching new bugaboos. Nothing earthshaking. It merely emerged, in a general way, that Bléville’s municipal government and public treasury had always been in thrall to the interests of Lorque and Lenverguez. This was scant justification for outrage. But passions were aroused by the deaths of the baby and two or three old people, along with thirty or so cows, all poisoned by L and L products, by Old Sea-Pilot canned goods and Happy Baby baby food. Many solid citizens pretended to be appalled; quite a few, out of stupidity, really were appalled. Others stood up for Lorque and Lenverguez. The bourgeoisie of Bléville was split in two.
    At noontime the atmosphere at the Grand Café de l’Anglais would be electric. As early as eleven thirty, DiBona, often joined by Georges Rougneux and Robert Tobie, the bookseller and the pharmacist, would lay claim to the back room of the brasserie. The men would drink Ricard, unfolding that day’s Dépêche , passing its pages from hand to hand, commenting loudly and laughing maliciously. Around a quarter past twelve, senior manager Moutet would appear and be slapped on the back by the drinkers. Though not indicted as yet, he had twice been deposed by a magistrate. He spoke more quickly than formerly, and his voice seemed higher pitched. His complexion was more florid, as were his gestures, and each time he came he downed several full pints of German beer. A little later, between house calls, Sinistrat would become part of the noisy group for forty minutes. Affecting a smile steelier than usual and a curt tone, lowering his eyelids somewhat and throwing his head back to blow cigarette smoke towards the grubby ceiling, the doctor played the subtle analyst, the icy extremist, the Machiavelli.
    â€œSo old Lenverguez has two good reasons, doesn’t he,” DiBona asked him, “for not clasping you to his bosom? There’s your articles, and then there’s his wife...”
    Sinistrat smiled, making no effort to contest the insinuation. Then he suddenly put on a serious face.
    â€œThis has nothing to do with personal matters,” he said. “Fundamentally, this is political.”
    At one o’clock precisely, Lorque and Lenverguez, along with their wives, would enter the brasserie, scan the room with a distant air, share a few friendly handshakes, and go upstairs to take lunch on the second-floor balcony. From the back room, their field of vision limited by the balcony which extended above their heads, DiBona and his allies were obliged, in order to inspect the factory owners’ party, to peer over their glasses and beer mugs and hold up their chins, which gave them a weak and furtive look.
    During these days Aimée made no appearance at the Grand Café de l’Anglais, nor anywhere in town, except for a daily trip from her studio to and from a tobacco shop on the harbor front, where she bought the papers and crime novels. The rest of the time she stayed in her apartment doing a little thinking and reading the