Casal, sir, and —”
He never finished his sentence. Van Vlyck had appeared to keep calm until now, but at this he closed his eyes, his chest swelled, and he did something no one would have thought possible: he raised his enormous, hairy fist, brought it down on the oak table where he was sitting, and broke the top of the table in two. The dreadful cry he uttered at the same time froze his audience with horror.
“Someone tell Mills!” he shouted, beside himself. “Someone take Mills and his Devils an item of clothing, a handkerchief, a shoe — something, anything carrying the scent of those two vermin!”
“Milos,” gasped Helen, terrified, “what are they going to do to them? I don’t understand any of this. Explain.”
The two of them straightened up, kneeling face-to-face. Milos opened his arms, and Helen, on the brink of tears, flung herself into them.
“Oh, Milos, this is a nightmare.”
They heard chairs being overturned down below, and the sound of running feet.
“Get out of here!” bawled Van Vlyck hoarsely. “Get out, all of you, before I murder you!”
The racket died away, and ended with a door slamming violently. Helen looked down through the hole in the floorboards one last time. No one had stopped to put the lights out, and the hall was silent and empty again. Empty except for the Skunk, the only one left, still beside the buffet table with his cap on a chair beside him. He poured himself a glass of white wine, sipped it, clicked his tongue appreciatively, put the glass down, and began making himself a ham sandwich.
B ombardone Mills, an apron around his waist, was breaking the eighth egg for his omelette into a chipped bowl when the phone rang. Automatically looking at his watch, he saw that it was a few minutes past two in the morning. Once again hunger had woken the regional police chief in the middle of the night and forced him to get up, sure that he’d never fall asleep again unless he methodically satisfied his appetite. He had the stomach of a hippopotamus. He took time off to throw a generous handful of diced bacon into the pan, then wiped his hands on a greasy dishtowel and turned toward the living room, wondering why someone was calling him in the middle of the night. No one was allowed to disturb him at this hour except for something very important, and the mere idea of that set off a pleasant tingling in his chest and his guts.
Back in his kitchen less than a minute later, he celebrated the good news by breaking two more eggs into the bowl. He enjoyed all aspects of his job, but manhunts had always given him more of a thrill than anything. Finding the scent of your quarry, tracking it down, running it to earth, capturing and killing it — how could anyone feel more alive than at these moments? More powerful? More pitiless? And this time the quarry wasn’t single but double. Twice the pleasure lay ahead!
He beat the eggs vigorously, added salt and pepper, and slid the omelette into the pan, where the bacon was already sizzling. Then he went back to the living room, picked up the phone, and dialed a number.
“Is that the barracks? Mills here. Put Pastor on the line, would you? . . . Hi, Pastor, get the pack ready. No, not the full pack, five or six. The best. Yes, at once.”
A shape on the sagging sofa moved in the dim light.
“Hear that, Ramses? Going to enjoy this, are you?”
A strange head emerged from under a moth-eaten rug. The lower part of its face was elongated like a dog’s muzzle, but the rest of it was human: its eyes, its hairless skin, its flat skull covered with short hair.
“You heard that. You got it, right? We’re going hu-u-un-ting! Hu-u-un-ting!”
Mills lingered on the
u
sound, and then spat out the last syllable abruptly.
Ramses started whimpering and directed a still-sleepy eye on his master.
“Uuuu-in,” he laboriously articulated.
“Hunting!” Mills corrected him. “Hunting! Say it after me, Ramses:
He never finished his sentence. Van Vlyck had appeared to keep calm until now, but at this he closed his eyes, his chest swelled, and he did something no one would have thought possible: he raised his enormous, hairy fist, brought it down on the oak table where he was sitting, and broke the top of the table in two. The dreadful cry he uttered at the same time froze his audience with horror.
“Someone tell Mills!” he shouted, beside himself. “Someone take Mills and his Devils an item of clothing, a handkerchief, a shoe — something, anything carrying the scent of those two vermin!”
“Milos,” gasped Helen, terrified, “what are they going to do to them? I don’t understand any of this. Explain.”
The two of them straightened up, kneeling face-to-face. Milos opened his arms, and Helen, on the brink of tears, flung herself into them.
“Oh, Milos, this is a nightmare.”
They heard chairs being overturned down below, and the sound of running feet.
“Get out of here!” bawled Van Vlyck hoarsely. “Get out, all of you, before I murder you!”
The racket died away, and ended with a door slamming violently. Helen looked down through the hole in the floorboards one last time. No one had stopped to put the lights out, and the hall was silent and empty again. Empty except for the Skunk, the only one left, still beside the buffet table with his cap on a chair beside him. He poured himself a glass of white wine, sipped it, clicked his tongue appreciatively, put the glass down, and began making himself a ham sandwich.
B ombardone Mills, an apron around his waist, was breaking the eighth egg for his omelette into a chipped bowl when the phone rang. Automatically looking at his watch, he saw that it was a few minutes past two in the morning. Once again hunger had woken the regional police chief in the middle of the night and forced him to get up, sure that he’d never fall asleep again unless he methodically satisfied his appetite. He had the stomach of a hippopotamus. He took time off to throw a generous handful of diced bacon into the pan, then wiped his hands on a greasy dishtowel and turned toward the living room, wondering why someone was calling him in the middle of the night. No one was allowed to disturb him at this hour except for something very important, and the mere idea of that set off a pleasant tingling in his chest and his guts.
Back in his kitchen less than a minute later, he celebrated the good news by breaking two more eggs into the bowl. He enjoyed all aspects of his job, but manhunts had always given him more of a thrill than anything. Finding the scent of your quarry, tracking it down, running it to earth, capturing and killing it — how could anyone feel more alive than at these moments? More powerful? More pitiless? And this time the quarry wasn’t single but double. Twice the pleasure lay ahead!
He beat the eggs vigorously, added salt and pepper, and slid the omelette into the pan, where the bacon was already sizzling. Then he went back to the living room, picked up the phone, and dialed a number.
“Is that the barracks? Mills here. Put Pastor on the line, would you? . . . Hi, Pastor, get the pack ready. No, not the full pack, five or six. The best. Yes, at once.”
A shape on the sagging sofa moved in the dim light.
“Hear that, Ramses? Going to enjoy this, are you?”
A strange head emerged from under a moth-eaten rug. The lower part of its face was elongated like a dog’s muzzle, but the rest of it was human: its eyes, its hairless skin, its flat skull covered with short hair.
“You heard that. You got it, right? We’re going hu-u-un-ting! Hu-u-un-ting!”
Mills lingered on the
u
sound, and then spat out the last syllable abruptly.
Ramses started whimpering and directed a still-sleepy eye on his master.
“Uuuu-in,” he laboriously articulated.
“Hunting!” Mills corrected him. “Hunting! Say it after me, Ramses:
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