The Mad and the Bad

5

The building had five floors. While the doctor was seeing to Hartog, the driver shepherded the young woman through the place. The ground floor and the second floor housed empty offices and conference rooms with thick carpeting and teak furniture. Mondrians on the walls.

The elevator stopped at the third floor and its doors opened, but the driver pressed the button to close them again.

“That’s the boss’s quarters,” he said. “No going in there unless you’re invited.”

The elevator car went up another floor.

“This is where you’ll be staying. We get out here. The top floor is for the snotty brat.”

“Little Peter?”

“Yes. The snotty brat.”

“The whole floor is his?”

The driver nodded.

“The boss will show you. Come and see your room.”

Julie followed the man down a windowless hallway. A white door opened into a room about ten by four meters. Blue carpeting, white walls. A very big window at the far end, overlooking Rue de Longchamp. A Pollock on the left wall, storage units along the right. Cupboards and shelves were covered by a fine-grained white plastic laminate. Likewise the bed, which had a red blanket. There was no bedspread. A white table and a white chair in the middle of the room completed the decor. Which left a good deal of empty space. Julie shivered and crossed her arms. The driver was now in the middle of the room with her suitcase. He turned round.

“My name is André. What’s yours?”

“Julie. Julie Ballanger.”

“Not related to that Communist politician, are you?”

“No, I’m not related to anyone.”

“I’m no longer married myself,” said the driver. “Would you care for a drink?”

He put the suitcase down and went to open a low cabinet. Julie noted an assortment of bottles as well as a record player. The driver noticed her glance.

“For this kind of thing, you can’t say the boss doesn’t do it right. Quite a guy. What are you drinking? Another scotch?”

Julie nodded. The driver handed her the drink. He had poured himself a Ricard. He drank half of it and wiped his mouth with his sleeve.

“Physically, you are far better built than Old Polio.”

“Old Polio?”

“The nursemaid before you. Completely off her rocker. Fifty if she was a day. And an idiot. What about you? What’s your thing?”

“I don’t understand at all,” said Julie. “My thing? What do you mean?”

“The thing that’s screwy with you.”

“I’m cured,” Julie stated.

“The hell you are!” exclaimed the driver. “The boss’s way of doing good is over the top. He only hires retards. He sets up factories for cripples to work in, can you figure that?”

“Not really.”

“Those guys who go around in little motorized wheelchairs? He’s got them working on a production line! In this house it’s the same baloney. The cook is epileptic. The gardener has only one arm, pretty handy for using the shears. His private secretary is blind. His valet suffers from locomotor ataxia-no wonder his meals arrive cold! The snotty brat’s old nanny-well, I told you about her. As for you, you must know yourself.”

“What about you?” asked Julie.

She had taken out a pack of Gauloises and a Criquet lighter. She lit a cigarette and, throwing her head back, blew smoke through her nostrils.

“What about you?” she repeated.

The driver shrugged. “I was a paratrooper. I landed on a mine. I can’t walk properly anymore.”

“What about the brute from before?”

“He’s something different,” said the driver. “A friend of the boss’s.”

“Some friend!”

“Ex-friend then. At the beginning Hartog was a complete zero. As broke as the next man. He was in construction, you know, an architect, with the other idiot, Fuentès, the joker who attacked us in the garage.”

“What do you mean, ‘with the other idiot’?”

The driver was pouring himself a third drink. He went and sat down on the white chair at the white table.

“Nothing sexual. They worked together. They had an architectural partnership, as they call it. It wasn’t working out, and then kaboom! Hartog’s brother flew his plane into a palm tree. It was the brother and his wife who had all the dough. In a flash Hartog found himself guardian of the kid and owner of all that loot. He dumped the other idiot, Fuentès, and Fuentès has never forgiven him. He comes round every now and again to beat him up.”

“Every now and again? What fun!”

“If only we could knock him off.” The driver sighed. “It’s the valet and I who make the nightly rounds, and we have a Colt. Twice, maybe three times, we had a chance to blow his head off, that Fuentès. But Hartog wants none of it.”

Julie downed the rest of her scotch and shuddered. The driver gave her a friendly smile.

“Nervous?” he inquired.