Free Three to Kill by Jean-Patrick Manchette

completely dark enclosed space. Slivers of light shone weakly through the walls. A rhythmic rattle filled his ears. He dreamed he was shooting at a man with an automatic pistol. The rhythm jolted him regularly. Upon reflection, he decided that he was in a railroad car, a freight car. Reassured by this thought, he fell back asleep.
    Some time later, the door of the car was very slightly open, making the interior visible. Between two crates bearing the handwritten legend HANDLE WITH CARE, a man was sitting on his heels facing Gerfaut. In silhouette the fellow resembled a bear or some other animal—a beaver, possibly. He was entirely shrouded in a sleeveless oilskin raincoat, or rather cape, such as might be used by a cyclist to protect not only the head and back but also the legs and a bulky backpack. The guy across from Gerfaut had neither bike nor backpack, however. The raincoat puffed out about him like a wigwam, making it impossible to make out the shape of his body. He wore a bowler hat that was green with mildew. His face was fairly young looking, but wrinkled and unshaven and dirty, and his teeth were rotten.
    Gerfaut himself was not a pretty sight. Grime and coagulated blood streaked his face. His shirt was ripped at the elbow, his pants at the knee and the seat. From head to toe he was splattered with mud, and his shoes were completely caked in it. Within his matted hair a bright red slash resembling a buttonhole could be seen, a piece of hairy scalp dangling from it onto his forehead.
    â€œDo you work for French Railways?” Gerfaut asked.
    The man made no reply and kept on looking at Gerfaut and grinning—unless this was the natural aspect of his face in repose. Gerfaut considered repeating his question at the top of his voice, in case the noise of the still-moving train had prevented the guy from hearing him. But that was unlikely, and Gerfaut felt weak, so he remained silent. A sudden thought caused him to start hunting through his pockets. His burned hand hurt. His whole body hurt. His gestures grew more and more frantic as he checked every pocket. He looked at the man with an injured expression, at first incredulous and then outraged. He made as if to get up. The drifter, for that was what he was, leapt to his feet instantly, drew back a flap of his oilskin cape and struck Gerfaut on the side of the head with a hammer. Gerfaut fell back onto the floor of the wagon. Once again he felt blood trickling across his skin. He could not get up. The drifter kicked him twice in the ribs. Raging, Gerfaut cried out and tore at the floor with his fingernails. The drifter watched him dispassionately or perhaps with amusement—it was impossible to tell what went on behind that awful fixed grin. The man’s head was slightly tilted beneath the bowler hat, his right arm slightly bent, held slightly away from his body; he was ready to pull back the oilskin cape so as to hit Gerfaut again unimpeded. Then he opened the wagon’s sliding door a little wider with his left hand, which required some effort.
    Gerfaut had managed to shift his position somewhat. Blood trickled along the line of his lower jaw and dripped from his chin and splashed in tiny stars on the dusty floor in front of him. Things were happening in slow motion.
    â€œYou bastard! My wallet! My money! My checkbook!”
    Through the open door of the freight car, Gerfaut could see the tops of larch trees filing by. The track must have been ele vated, or perhaps it ran along a mountainside, for the passing treetops seemed level with the wagon door. The drifter returned the hammer to his belt, grabbed Gerfaut under the armpits with his two hands, pulled him up, and, thrusting him forward, propelled him (as Gerfaut wailed incredulously) out of the car. For a moment Gerfaut’s heel caught on the edge of the door, then he fetched up belly first in the ballast. All the breath was knocked out of him. He bounced, performing a somersault just as he