Three to Kill by Jean-Patrick Manchette Page B

to beat him. She had not liked it. Nor had she liked the rest. Carlo had liked it a lot.
    Generally speaking, even if you went back to the very beginning, to the Mouzon contract, you had to say that all their business dealings with Colonel Taylor had gone like clockwork. But then they had run into this moron Georges Gerfaut. A traveling salesman, though, is usually very easy to kill. Carlo and Bastien were well placed to draw comparisons because they had exercised their skills in the most varied social milieus. They were now beginning to get quite angry with Georges Gerfaut.
    About one-thirty that afternoon, Gerfaut dug into frankfurters and fries in a café-restaurant. In theory, it was a fine clear day, but in practice you couldn’t see very far on account of the air pollution. The women passing by wore scanty summer clothing. But as for everything else—the cars moving at a crawl through clouds of exhaust fumes and jazz from Radio FIP 514, the hollow eyes of the rushing people, the general din, the watery and adulterated taste of the sausages as Gerfaut bit into them—it was all shit. He would so much rather have been in a place where he could see things around him that were not in his own image, where everything did not speak to him of himself—in short, an inanimate landscape. He returned mechanically to his apartment, arriving about three-thirty. He tidied up, then played music very loud—the Joe Newman Octet with Al Cohn—as he tossed a few things into a small suitcase. Almost immediately, the doorbell started ringing repeatedly in a most authoritative way. Gerfaut ran to the couch, where he had left the jacket he had been wearing when he left Saint-Georges-de-Didonne. He took the Star from a pocket, released the safety, and cocked the weapon. He went to the door, unlocked it, and sprang back with the automatic behind his back and his finger on the trigger. After a moment, the concierge of the building pushed the door open and contemplated Gerfaut with concern: he had tripped, and he stood with legs crossed, balancing on his heels, one arm still behind his back and his other elbow against the wall for support.
    â€œOh, it’s you, Monsieur Gerfaut,” she said doubtfully. “Aren’t you on vacation?”
    â€œHuh?” Gerfaut backed into the living room. A few seconds later, the volume of the music was lowered considerably, and when Gerfaut returned he no longer had one hand behind his back.
    â€œWeren’t you supposed to be on vacation?”
    â€œYes, indeed. But I came back. I forgot something.”
    â€œYou must excuse me. I was on the stairs and I heard music. I wondered who in heaven’s name would be playing music at Monsieur and Madame Gerfaut’s.”
    â€œYou were right,” said Gerfaut. “That was kind of you. In fact, it’s reassuring to know you keep such an eagle eye on things.”
    â€œWe do what we can, but we are only human, you know. By the way, two gentlemen from your work came around asking for you.”
    â€œTwo gentlemen,” Gerfaut repeated noncommittally, careful not to sound curious.
    â€œWell, I should say one gentleman. The other waited in their car. I hope I was right to give your address.”
    â€œMy address,” said Gerfaut in the same tone as before.
    â€œAt the seaside, I mean.”
    â€œOh, yes, of course. A young dark fellow and a tall guy with white in his hair, was that it?”
    â€œThe young one, yes, definitely. The other....” The concierge indicated with a hand gesture that she had not been close enough to get a clear view of the second man.
    Gerfaut was now leaning with his shoulder against the wall. He was staring vacantly at a point somewhere above the concierge’s head and appeared to be musing, daydreaming. His silence and distractedness made the concierge uncomfortable.
    â€œOh, well, I’ll have to be going. It’s very nice talking to you, but I have