Free The Prone Gunman by Jean-Patrick Manchette Page B

would show up and take you away, and that was all. . . . ”
    â€œThat’s what you thought?” Anne interrupted. “After ten years. Very impressive.”
    â€œThink so?” Terrier glanced at her, then looked back at the road. “What I had in mind was a rather primitive country, with a good climate, a weak currency, and easygoing relations between people.”
    â€œThat sort of thing exists, then?” asked Anne. She seemed amused, sardonic.
    â€œMy preferences tended toward Ceylon,” Terrier explained calmly. “Because in Africa or Latin America, it’s over, it’s completely ruined. Completely!” he repeated, nodding his head with conviction. “But a place like Ceylon or Mauritius, or even more remote places, that would be really quiet.” He frowned. “But maybe they’re going down the drain, too. There’s the Tamils in Ceylon, and there’s trouble every now and then. I don’t know.” He shook his head worriedly. “And there’s tourism. It’s the same thing. Maybe worse.”
    â€œA desert island is what you need,” said Anne.
    Terrier shrugged.
    â€œAn island where they don’t even know about money.” He grunted weirdly. “But right now there’s a different problem. Either a desert island or the exact opposite. I mean a place where you can get lost in the crowd. I don’t know,” he said again. “I’m fucked up. I’ll think about it. I’m going to lower the back of your seat so you can sleep.”
    â€œI’m not a bit sleepy,” said Anne. “If you want to sleep, though, I could drive.”
    Terrier gave her a perplexed look, as if she had something strange that didn’t fit into his perspective. They spoke little after that. Around two-thirty in the morning they pulled up to a refreshment area. They drank cups of coffee from a machine. On Terrier’s orders, Anne had pulled a woolen cap over her head after piling her hair up. When they left, the young woman took three long swigs of cognac.
    â€œI’m not thirsty, but I should still get some sleep,” she explained. But she did not sleep.
    The DS left the highway and entered the Paris ring road at the Porte d’Orléans at six-fifteen Sunday morning. Terrier and Anne took a room at an expensive hotel in the seventh arrondissement, not far from the Esplanade des Invalides, under the name of Monsieur and Madame Walter.
    â€œGenerally,” said the clerk, “we ask our guests to provide us with a credit card when they have no luggage.” He looked politely at Terrier.
    From inside his jacket, Terrier produced a bundle of ten thousand francs, in five-hundred-franc bills.
    â€œCan you deposit this in the safe?” he asked.
    â€œThe cashier doesn’t arrive till nine,” said the clerk.
    â€œI don’t have a credit card,” said Terrier. “Do you want an advance?”
    â€œPlease! Please!” exclaimed the clerk. “You’ll be shown to your room.” He rang. “Excuse me, monsieur,” he added. “You understand.”
    Terrier did not reply. They were shown to their room.
    â€œMaybe you think we’re going to fuck,” said Anne, when the door was closed.
    â€œPardon?”
    Anne repeated what she had said.
    â€œNo,” said Terrier. “Rest.” He picked up the telephone.
    â€œYes,” murmured Anne in a hesitant tone. She stopped for a moment, then she began to move and went into the bathroom.
    Terrier dialed a number: there was no answer. The man frowned. He finally hung up. From the bathroom came the sound of water vigorously filling the tub. Anne had closed the door, but Terrier didn’t hear her lock it. He approached the door.
    â€œI’m going out for an hour or two,” he said. “Go to bed and get some sleep.”
    In the bar downstairs he quickly drank two double espressos. Taking the DS from the