The Mad and the Bad

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The man whom Thompson was supposed to kill-a pederast guilty of seducing the son of a businessman-entered his bedroom. As he closed the door behind him, he had time to recoil at the sight of Thompson standing against the wall beside the hinges. Then Thompson stabbed him in the heart with a rigid hacksaw blade mounted on a large cylindrical hilt with a circular sheet-metal guard. While the guard prevented the blood from spurting, Thompson pumped the cylindrical hilt vigorously, and the homosexual’s heart was sliced into two or more pieces. The victim opened his mouth and a single spasm shook him. His rump struck the door and he slumped forward dead. Thompson stepped aside. For the last half hour his stomach cramps had grown almost intolerable. He left the bedroom. No one had seen him enter; no one saw him leave. It was two o’clock in the morning. Thompson had an appointment in Paris at eleven. He made his way on foot to the Perrache railroad station. The cramps had him almost doubled over. The killer resolved to give up his trade. Soon. Every time it was worse. For the last ten hours he had been unable to eat or drink anything. Now that he had killed, hunger gnawed at him in the most repellent way. Eventually he reached the station buffet. He ordered a choucroute and devoured it. He ordered another, which he savored. His stomach had calmed down. His mind likewise: Thompson had just earned a tidy sum of money. It was three in the morning. The killer paid his bill, returned to his gray Rover, which was parked at a meter, and headed for the autoroute A6.

Later on, somewhere between Lyon and Paris, he pulled off into a rest area and snoozed until daybreak.

At eleven in the morning he was prompt for his appointment. His new client wore dark glasses and Thompson smiled at this childishness. Seated in a booth, the two men drank Scottish beer. The new client placed a photograph facedown on the table.

“It’s going to be a bit tricky,” he said. “It will have to look as though. . well, I’ll explain. What’s the matter? Aren’t you well?”

Thompson was massaging his belly.

“I’m okay, I’m okay,” he replied.

He turned the photograph over. It was a color snapshot. A half-length portrait of a redheaded boy with a sullen expression.

“Does this bother you?”

“Not at all,” said Thompson.

What bothered him was his stomach. It was starting again. The pain was back.