Fatale - Jean-Patrick Manchette [38]
Grasping Lorque’s hand tightly, Fellouque almost succeeded in getting back onto the fishing boat. But at that instant an electric motor started up noisily somewhere on the quay. The commissioner grasped what was about to happen and screeched in horror. He was done for in any case, for the wire had cut into his neck, and Lorque was aghast to see spurting arterial blood drench the policeman’s throat. The power purchase on the quay was now operating. Its cable and the attached wire tensed. Commissioner Fellouque was hoisted aloft, his feet kicking at the air. When he was dangling three or four meters above the trawler, a hanged man with his throat slit, Fellouque’s feet stilled and Aimée cut the motor of the purchase. On the double, she left the quay and stationed herself in a room inside the fish market, a room with two exits, one to the quay and the other to the dirty roadway where the Mercedes was standing.
In the darkness the young woman was not visible. Had she been visible, she would not have been beautiful to behold; or perhaps she would have been beautiful to behold, depending on one’s taste. She was utterly disheveled. Gummy with sweat, her hair stuck to her skull and fell in damp strands over her brow and the nape of her neck, like the hair of ladies who make love relentlessly for hours at a time. Streaks of coagulated blood varnished her elbows and one side of her head and a whole forearm. Her long wool-knit coat was soiled in places by dust, fuel oil, and fish guts. Her silk blouse was bloodstained, its ribbing slightly torn on one side. Her nose was smudged with dirt. She heard Lorque’s voice.
“Let’s get it over with!” cried the fat man with the brownish eyelids. “I’m the only one left. Tell me where you are. I’m not going to spend all night looking for you.”
By leaning forward a little, Aimée was able, through the door that gave onto the quay, to see Lorque, who had come off the trawler back onto the peninsula and was shouting and wandering about on the concrete with his arms dangling.
“I don’t give a shit,” he cried. “If you don’t tell me where you are, I’m leaving. Perhaps you like playing hide-and-seek. I’ve had it with this. I’m fifty-nine years old. I’m too old to play around. What happens, happens. Screw it! I’m out of here. I’ll spend a few years in prison, big deal!”
He fell silent, waited for a moment, shrugged, and turned on his heel.
“Over here!” shouted Aimée.
Lorque froze. His head twisted this way and that. He was trying to tell where the voice had come from. He massaged his left arm ruefully. He took two or three steps, away from Aimée.
“You’re getting cold!” called Aimée.
Lorque stopped again. Turning around right away, he took three long but hesitant strides.
“Getting warmer!” cried Aimée. She chuckled delightedly.
Lorque headed straight for the doorway through which Aimée was watching his approach. He halted once more on the threshold.
“Now you’re hot!” said Aimée.
“I am unarmed,” said Lorque. “I want to talk to you. Listen here, I don’t deserve to die. What have I done except follow the natural impulses of the human race? And even that is saying a lot. We are choirboys compared with our ancestors. Does the sack of Cartagena ring any bells with you? Some of Bléville’s bold seafarers were there. I’m not talking about the first sack of Cartagena, that was Sir Francis Drake, but the second, when the French did the sacking. What I’ve done is nothing alongside the sack of Cartagena. Okay, so I worked a bit on the Atlantic Wall, I had to keep a low profile in South America for a while, then I came back and I’ve been giving employment to workers and making land productive. I’ve made my pile in the usual