The Mad and the Bad

4

The Lincoln followed the Seine. Portuguese workers in plastic hard hats were operating jackhammers. Hartog got out a pack of Gitanes and offered one to Julie, who accepted.

“You won’t recognize much. In five years there has been a great deal of construction.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“Are you interested in city planning?”

“Not particularly. What about you?”

“A bit more than that.”

Julie smiled, blowing smoke through her nose.

“I know,” she said, “that you designed the Hartog Foundation building yourself.”

“The Hans-Peter and Marguerite Hartog Foundation.”

“Yes, but people call it the Hartog Foundation.”

“But it’s the Hans-Peter and Marguerite Hartog Foundation.”

“Your brother and his wife.”

The redhead nodded. The corners of his mouth were tense. Shreds of tobacco adhered to his lower lip. His cigarette was damp with saliva.

“You might say,” he added, “that I have made up for my wish for my brother’s death, made up for it by constructing the Foundation.”

“Are you interested in psychoanalysis?”

“No more than you are in city planning.”

The Lincoln crossed the Seine and made its way through Neuilly. On Rue de Longchamp it turned at a building adorned with a plastic fresco. Sliding doors opened automatically as the car approached. It nosed down a cement ramp into an underground garage where two Volkswagen minibuses, a Citroën DS 21, and a Porsche were parked, and pulled into a demarcated slot.

“We’re home,” said Hartog. “This whole building belongs to me.”

The driver got out and went to open Hartog’s door. Julie let herself out on the other side. She saw a broad-shouldered figure emerge from between the DS 21 and a minibus. It was a man in a white raincoat with epaulettes who came up to them with long rapid strides. He held a rolled-up magazine in his left hand.

“You shit! You piece of shit!” he shouted.

The driver of the Lincoln turned briskly and flung himself at the man with fists raised. The other man struck him in the middle of the chest. Stunned, Julie heard the thud. Fists still raised, the driver staggered backward and fell onto the cement, his skull resounding as it hit the ground.

Hartog was getting back into the car. White Raincoat came over and slammed the door against his torso. Hartog let out a cry of pain. The man grabbed him by the collar of his safari jacket, jerked him out of the Lincoln, and threw him to the ground.

“Stop! Stop!” shouted Julie.

The brute paid her no mind, took a run-up, and kicked Hartog in the ribs. Hartog groaned. The blood drained from his face. Julie got back in the Lincoln and opened the compartment with the revolver. She trained the weapon on White Raincoat through the car’s open door.

“Stop or I’ll kill you!” she cried.

The guy looked at her. He had a flat face, a pug nose, and large, very pale gray eyes. On the top of his head the hair was beginning to thin. Yellowish strands lay there limply.

“The safety isn’t even off,” he said.

With a burst of laughter he whacked the revolver with his rolled-up magazine. The Arminius went skittering across the cement. The guy shrugged and made off with his long strides for the exit ramp. Julie quickly retrieved the revolver. She did not know whether to stop the brute or attend to Hartog, who was moaning on the ground. Before she could make up her mind, White Raincoat was past the doors, which closed automatically behind him.

“Help! Somebody help!” called Julie.

The driver struggled uncertainly to his feet, clutching at his stomach.

“Call a doc,” said Hartog. “I have broken ribs, I can feel them. Don’t touch me.”

“The police,” stammered Julie.

She was grinding her teeth from nervousness.

“No. Just my doctor. Quickly!”

Bent double, wracked by nausea, the driver called the doctor on the car’s radio-telephone. Julie, distraught, stayed by Hartog.

“I have to thank you, kid,” said the injured man in a flat voice. “Put the gun away, there’s a good girl.”

“This is dreadful.”

“You haven’t seen anything yet.”