the room. It was a waste to let this tasty food just sit there, but it wasn’t time for a dinner break.
Le Goënec swiftly inspected the other rooms off the hall. A dining room, two living rooms. He swept his flashlight over the high-end furnishings. It was swanky, but as traditional as one might wish. Nothing that resembled the Marquis de Sade’s anteroom. There were even some old family photos on a little side table. If you forgot about the abused children in the cellar, you might think you were visiting some rich, conservative friends. The discreet charm of the bourgeoisie and all that.
Just then, a piercing bell rang, making Le Goënec jump. He instinctively flattened himself against the wall, finger on the trigger. But nothing happened.
In the hall, the owner had installed a board of indicator lights, each corresponding to a particular bedroom. Number three was lit up.
The thick blue carpet on the wooden staircase deadened his steps, and Le Goënec reached the upper floor without a sound. He found a series of doors in a long corridor dimly lit by bronze sconces. Verdi’s Requiem was coming from one of the bedrooms. The Celt walked toward it. The bell downstairs rang once more. The occupant of room number three was clearly pressing the button impatiently.
No reason to make the person wait any longer.
Le Goënec kicked open the door in a shower of splinters and charged into the room, crouched, ready to fire, firmly gripping his Magnum with both hands.
“Shit,” he said.
In front of him, an obese woman, well over fifty, with greasy hair, started in her easy chair.
“Don’t move, bitch!”
The fat woman flashed him a dark look, small, cruel eyes stuck in a pink, puffy face.
Le Goënec quickly scanned the room. An unbelievable pigsty, objects of all kinds piled haphazardly, from a silver teapot to a double dildo. His attention was diverted by the plaintive meowing of a Siamese cat that crept out from beneath an armoire.
Obese or not, the woman still had her reflexes, and she quickly reached down to the coffee table to grab a knife. Not giving her time to use it, Le Goënec rushed forward and socked her in the mouth. There was nothing sensual about the ensuing struggle between him and the fat lady, who ended up lying on the floor, frantically waving her elephantine legs about to get herself free. Le Goënec pinned her arm and gave her several hearty clouts.
“Had enough, or shall I help you lose a little more excess weight?”
Le Goënec reached up, seized a curtain cord, and tied her wrists together, pulling the knots tight with all his strength. The frightened cat, which was hiding under the bed, gave an angry growl.
“Now, maybe we can have a little chat, the two of us.”
“If it’s cash you’re after, take some from the drawer and get out,” the woman screamed, seething with rage and humiliation.
“It’s you I’m interested in—you and your orgy buddies. How about you tell me how you spend your evenings?”
“What are you talking about, asshole?”
“This asshole thinks there are some tenants who aren’t too happy down there in your cellar. They would no doubt prefer to be at Disneyland Paris, if they had the choice.”
The madam cast a sidelong glance toward the door.
The image of those petrified kids cooped up in the cellar flitted through his mind, and Le Goënec lost all self-control. He exploded, grabbing the woman by the hair and roughly shoving the barrel of the Magnum into her mouth, breaking two of her teeth as he did so.
Eyes blinded with tears, she spluttered pitifully. A stream of red saliva dribbled from her mouth, now nothing but a bloody wound.
“Who brought you these kids? I’m warning you, I’ve got a very itchy trigger finger today.”
She said nothing. Le Goënec cocked the gun and pushed the muzzle further into her mouth. The woman’s face was turning blue. She gagged, puking a mess of blood-streaked vomit. Panic filled her eyes.
“Got something to tell
Le Goënec swiftly inspected the other rooms off the hall. A dining room, two living rooms. He swept his flashlight over the high-end furnishings. It was swanky, but as traditional as one might wish. Nothing that resembled the Marquis de Sade’s anteroom. There were even some old family photos on a little side table. If you forgot about the abused children in the cellar, you might think you were visiting some rich, conservative friends. The discreet charm of the bourgeoisie and all that.
Just then, a piercing bell rang, making Le Goënec jump. He instinctively flattened himself against the wall, finger on the trigger. But nothing happened.
In the hall, the owner had installed a board of indicator lights, each corresponding to a particular bedroom. Number three was lit up.
The thick blue carpet on the wooden staircase deadened his steps, and Le Goënec reached the upper floor without a sound. He found a series of doors in a long corridor dimly lit by bronze sconces. Verdi’s Requiem was coming from one of the bedrooms. The Celt walked toward it. The bell downstairs rang once more. The occupant of room number three was clearly pressing the button impatiently.
No reason to make the person wait any longer.
Le Goënec kicked open the door in a shower of splinters and charged into the room, crouched, ready to fire, firmly gripping his Magnum with both hands.
“Shit,” he said.
In front of him, an obese woman, well over fifty, with greasy hair, started in her easy chair.
“Don’t move, bitch!”
The fat woman flashed him a dark look, small, cruel eyes stuck in a pink, puffy face.
Le Goënec quickly scanned the room. An unbelievable pigsty, objects of all kinds piled haphazardly, from a silver teapot to a double dildo. His attention was diverted by the plaintive meowing of a Siamese cat that crept out from beneath an armoire.
Obese or not, the woman still had her reflexes, and she quickly reached down to the coffee table to grab a knife. Not giving her time to use it, Le Goënec rushed forward and socked her in the mouth. There was nothing sensual about the ensuing struggle between him and the fat lady, who ended up lying on the floor, frantically waving her elephantine legs about to get herself free. Le Goënec pinned her arm and gave her several hearty clouts.
“Had enough, or shall I help you lose a little more excess weight?”
Le Goënec reached up, seized a curtain cord, and tied her wrists together, pulling the knots tight with all his strength. The frightened cat, which was hiding under the bed, gave an angry growl.
“Now, maybe we can have a little chat, the two of us.”
“If it’s cash you’re after, take some from the drawer and get out,” the woman screamed, seething with rage and humiliation.
“It’s you I’m interested in—you and your orgy buddies. How about you tell me how you spend your evenings?”
“What are you talking about, asshole?”
“This asshole thinks there are some tenants who aren’t too happy down there in your cellar. They would no doubt prefer to be at Disneyland Paris, if they had the choice.”
The madam cast a sidelong glance toward the door.
The image of those petrified kids cooped up in the cellar flitted through his mind, and Le Goënec lost all self-control. He exploded, grabbing the woman by the hair and roughly shoving the barrel of the Magnum into her mouth, breaking two of her teeth as he did so.
Eyes blinded with tears, she spluttered pitifully. A stream of red saliva dribbled from her mouth, now nothing but a bloody wound.
“Who brought you these kids? I’m warning you, I’ve got a very itchy trigger finger today.”
She said nothing. Le Goënec cocked the gun and pushed the muzzle further into her mouth. The woman’s face was turning blue. She gagged, puking a mess of blood-streaked vomit. Panic filled her eyes.
“Got something to tell
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