Fatale - Jean-Patrick Manchette [28]
With the gun still aimed, Aimée continued to contemplate the sleeping baron for thirty or perhaps forty seconds without firing. She frowned. Her lips grew white. She bit them. She seemed to be having difficulty steadying the Weatherby. In exasperation she stamped her foot.
“Fire, for Christ’s sake!” she cried.
The baron opened his eyes. Aimée pulled the trigger. She did not see where the spray of shot landed. The baron, clad in striped pajamas, sprang from the bed with an extraordinary bellow. He really sounded like a cow in distress.
“What a hash! Fuck it all!” Aimée was jumping up and down in frustration.
She emptied the second barrel of the superposed. This time the baron was sprayed on the side of his head. Scarlet blood spattered the white wall, trickled into weblike patterns but was quickly absorbed by the plaster, while the man pirouetted, then fell lengthwise with a dull thud onto the bed, where he crouched on knees and forearms. The baron’s legs stretched out convulsively, then he pulled them up once more.
13
AIMÉE grimaced, baring her teeth. She let the shotgun fall to the floor, began to pant and then to scream, clutching her head in her hands.
“Stop yelling like that,” said the baron.
Aimée immediately fell silent.
“Did I miss you?” she asked in a wondering voice.
“You might say so, yes.”
On one side of his scalp the baron sported a red carnation of thick vermilion blood trickling ever more slowly into an eye and down a cheek. Aimée picked up the Weatherby and opened it. The empty shells were ejected automatically. The young woman began to reload. Her gloves, or perhaps her nerves, impeded her. She swore between clenched teeth and sat on the floor to reload more easily. Turning away from Aimée, the baron crawled over to the wall. He managed to get to his feet by clinging to a stack of cardboard boxes containing whiskey, canned pâté, and English cigarettes. Then he let himself slide back down to the floor between the wall and the pile of boxes. Aimée closed the reloaded Weatherby.
“You’re not going to finish me off, or are you?” asked the baron.
“I don’t know. I really don’t know.”
Aimée remained silent for a moment, then got to her feet, leaving the gun on the floor.
“I must take care of your wound,” she said.
“Calm down. I’m fine. Stay right where you are. I forbid you to come near me!” cried the baron.
Aimée obeyed.
“It’s strange that I missed you,” she observed. “That has never happened to me before.”
“You mean you’ve killed a lot of people?”
“Seven,” said Aimée.
“I was sure there was something,” said the baron. “I never thought of that. But I was sure you were special.”
“Without counting my husband,” added Aimée. She gave a brief chuckle, tossing her head back.
“Bravo, bravo,” said the baron. He produced a large soiled handkerchief from his pajama pocket and pressed it to his superficial head injury. He winced.
“With you, it’s not working,” said Aimée. She took two steps backwards and shook her head in apparent perplexity. “I don’t know why but it’s not working. I should have known but I just don’t know. My God, it’s such a muddle, what I’m saying. I’m not going to manage this.”
“You do this for the fun of it?”
Aimée shook her head and chuckled again.
“I’m paid for it,” she said proudly.
“Who paid you to kill me?”
Aimée shook her head once more.
“I can’t tell you. A client is a client. A contract is a contract. I won’t tell you a thing.”
“Was it Lorque?” hazarded the baron.
“Lorque and all the others,” said Aimée. “Lindquist. Sinistrat. Rougneux. Etcetera, etcetera. I have twenty big ones waiting for me in the luggage lockers at the station.”
“Twenty big ones?” queried the baron.
“Yes, twenty million old francs. They all paid me. Each one thinks he is the only one. This is my greatest coup. I can retire on it.” Aimée burst into tears and sat down on the floor again. “Have I hurt you?” she asked after a moment.
“I’m all right,” said the baron.
He was ashen.
“You’ve gone all white,” said Aimée.