The Prone Gunman by Jean-Patrick Manchette

telephone. Finally, he sat down with a glass full of a little scotch and a lot of tepid ginger ale. He immediately stood back up and went to rest his warm forehead against the icy glass of the window. He looked vaguely at the little park and the lawn. Right then, Anne pulled into the driveway, at the wheel of a Morris. Terrier watched her stop and get out of the little automobile. She came into the hotel. Terrier ripped off his shirt as he ran into the bathroom. He splashed himself with water, sprayed on deodorant, slipped on a clean white shirt. The telephone rang.
    â€œMartin? It’s me.”
    â€œCome right up.”
    â€œI’m calling from home,” said Anne.
    â€œThat’s not true,” said Terrier. “You’re in the lobby. Come right up.” With one hand he clumsily shoved his shirttails into his pants.
    â€œFine.”
    A moment later, someone knocked softly on the door.
    â€œI’m not staying,” Anne said right away as she slipped through the half-open door. Terrier locked the door. The young woman pivoted in the middle of the room and seemed to be examining the furniture; her eyes were expressionless. “I’m not staying,” she repeated. “I only wanted to tell you. . . . I want you to stop imagining that. . . . ” She hesitated. “Can I have something to drink?”
    Terrier poured her a drink. She gulped down a straight shot, then clicked her tongue as she held out her glass for some ginger ale from the little bottle he was holding. He poured her some. He cast furtive glances at her through half-closed eyes, like a lizard in the sun.
    â€œI came to tell you,” Anne explained. “We’re not kids anymore.” She emptied her glass.
    Terrier gave her an ironic smile and poured her a stiff shot of J&B. Anne sighed and sat down on the bed. She took a sip. Terrier sat down next to her, took her by the head, and kissed her. She let him do it. Her mouth was passive, studious, plump, and tasted like scotch.
    â€œStop,” she whispered after Terrier released her.
    â€œUndress.”
    She took off almost all her clothes.
    â€œThe panties, too,” said Terrier.
    She took off her panties, got into bed, and turned to the wall, her eyes closed. Terrier undressed quickly, almost fell as he removed his socks, and joined her in bed. He didn’t dare touch Anne because his hands were cold. They kept still for a moment. Terrier realized he was losing his erection. He tried to put a hand on the young woman’s hip, but she pushed him away with her elbow and climbed over the man and leaped out of bed. She grabbed her clothes and disappeared into the bathroom, locking the door behind her. Terrier got dressed and lit a Gauloise. His cold hands were trembling. Anne reappeared, completely clothed.
    â€œI should go home,” she said. “Anyway, this wasn’t serious.”
    Terrier said nothing in response. The muscles around his mouth were taut. Anne picked her glass up from the floor and emptied it, then she rushed from the room. Her cheeks were red.

10
    After finishing his cigarette, Terrier took a shower. Then he left the hotel by car and headed for a deserted place in the mountains, an abandoned quarry, where he practiced firing the HK4. He returned to the hotel and drank eight scotches. His cheeks and the area around his eyes were red. At ten-thirty he left the hotel again and went to the Brasserie des Fleurs.
    The place was full of light and heat. Smiling, Terrier sat down at a small table, not far from a redhead in a green dress whom he had noticed as he came in. She was pretty and plump, with a head of curly hair and heavy arms that were pale, soft, and smooth. Two guys were with her, huddling together to tell each other jokes and laughing noisily. Terrier ordered the special. It wasn’t Dédé who served him; Dédé was taking care of another part of the room and didn’t notice him. Terrier observed the