The Mad and the Bad

35

It was getting to be dusk. Dédé put his Playboy down and went into the villa’s kitchen. Hartog was giving no sign of wanting to go out. Once again the driver would have to make dinner. Muttering, he opened the white cupboards and the gigantic refrigerator. Their stores were diminishing. For ten days now Hartog had barely left his beach chair save to go and sit at a corner of the table to eat the eggs or grilled meat that Dédé cooked inexpertly for him.

On this occasion Dédé chose a can of cassoulet. He opened a drawer in search of a can opener. At that moment he caught the sound of voices on the other side of the wall. The house was solidly built, largely soundproof. Dédé could not make out any of the conversation. But it could not be the television-the stationary set was at the other end of the villa and the portable one was on the blink.

The driver picked up the home intercom and called the living room by pressing a button with his thumb. At the other end of the line there was no immediate answer.

“What is it?” came Hartog’s voice at last.

“I heard voices, sir. I was wondering. .”

Dédé hesitated. At the other end Hartog hesitated too. The driver could hear his whistling breath.

“I’m with someone,” said Hartog. “We’re talking business. He came via the beach. I don’t want to be disturbed. Be discreet, Andre my boy. Discreet.”

“Very well, sir.”

“Hold on a second, Andre. Would you run into town and buy a chicken or a rabbit. Alive, please. Call me on the intercom when you get back.”

“Very well, sir.”

“That’ll be all. But hurry up.”

“Very well, sir.”

Dédé hung up. Hartog must be off his head. A live rabbit! The driver went back to the hall, took the keys to the Fiat from their hook, and went out. He locked the front door behind him. Discreet, discreet. .

In the living room, Hartog had hung up a moment before his man. He was on his feet, shoulders propped against the wall by the intercom. Thompson was sitting opposite him in an armchair, hunched forward, hands dangling between his legs.

“And just when did this thing about the photograph come back to you?”

“The day before yesterday,” said the killer. “You see, I never stopped going over things in my mind. I was looking for some detail that would get me back on the trail. I have no idea why I didn’t think of the photo earlier. But it was not like an address. . Not something that you would remember automatically. And I only saw it once. And when I did see it, I was angry.”

“Then what?”

“On the back of the photo were the words ‘Massif Central.’ Rather a large area. I could scarcely start searching it. And I was very weak. It occurred to me that you, as an architect, might know. One would not easily forget the structure shown.”

“No,” said Hartog. “True enough.”

The redhead had regained his self-confidence.

“I feel you’re going to tell me where it is, no?” said the killer.

“I’m not sure. You don’t seem to be good for much.”

Thompson stood up. His fingers with their long, dirty nails scratched nervously at his tangled beard.

“Killing them, that girl and that kid, is all that I am good for. If I don’t kill them, it’ll kill me.”

“What you need is a good psychoanalysis. You have a psychosomatic ulcer. Listen, I’ll give you money to disappear. Go wherever you want, so long as it’s very far away.”

Thompson shook his head. Hartog pushed away from the wall and strode up and down on the blue-gray carpet, his hands behind his back, his chin sunk onto his chest, as though deep in thought.

“I do have you over a barrel,” said Thompson. “I’m not out to profit from that. I just want to finish my job. And to do so I need information from you.”

“The girl may never have gone up there at all,” said Hartog in a smarmy tone. “And even if she did, she may very well no longer be there.”

He went behind a kind of desk, quickly opened a drawer, and just as he was taking out the Arminius in order to gun Thompson down, was struck in the pit of the stomach by a glass ashtray whose impact was like the kick of a mule. Hartog doubled over and fell. He clutched at the drawer, which came out and overturned. The Arminius ended up on the carpet thirty centimeters from his hand. Curled up in pain, the redhead rolled over and reached for the little revolver, but Thompson kicked the weapon and it slid away along the wall for three or four meters.

“Be reasonable, Hartog,” said the killer, showing no trace of anger.

He leant over the redhead, helped him to sit up and relax, massaging his stomach in a practiced way. Hartog’s pain ceased to be excruciating. He sighed.

“You still have your reflexes,” he observed.

“You see, you can still count on me,” said the killer.

Hartog got gingerly to his feet. He looked at the floor, smiling distractedly.

“All right,” he murmured. “But I’m going with you. There is a man up there, a man who. . Listen, don’t interrupt me.”

Thompson leant against the desk.

“That bastard,” Hartog went on. “I know what he’s been telling that girl. I know what he thinks. I’m a murderer, am I? I have little children killed. For money, nothing but money. But it’s not true, Thompson. I create beauty. I have already told you that.” The redhead was shaking. “He’s up there with the girl and the little boy, and they aren’t going to the police to denounce me because they are waiting for me. They’ve got it in for me, Thompson. I know it.”

“You know it?”

Hartog nodded.

“They’ll have to be killed, all three of them,” he said. “The kid, the girl, the man.”

“That’ll be twenty thousand francs extra,” noted Thompson.

“Yes, yes,” said Hartog. “That’s fine with me.”