The Prone Gunman by Jean-Patrick Manchette Read Free Book Online

foraged in the shadows of the adjoining study. Bound volumes covered the walls. He worked a drawer and returned to the well-lighted dining room with a shoe box. Anne jerked her head; her lips tightened a little. Félix opened the box and turned it over on the tablecloth. Some twelve or fifteen postcards poured out. They had been mailed from a great variety of places: Nairobi, Geneva, Los Angeles, Colombo, Kyoto, Berlin, Tripoli, Manaus, and other spots. There was no text, only the name of Mademoiselle Anne Freux and her old address.
    â€œYou’re the one who sent all these?” asked Félix.
    â€œUh, well,” said Terrier. “Uh, well, yes.”
    â€œI thought you’d thrown them out,” Anne said, without looking at Félix.
    Her husband smiled at her. She lighted a new cigarette from the butt of the preceding one. She got up, opened a small glass sideboard, and poured herself a good twenty centiliters of Martell in a snifter.
    â€œDon’t you think you’ve had enough to drink today?” asked Félix.
    â€œShit.”
    Anne sat violently back down. She was a rather tall, well-proportioned young woman with plump breasts, a generous mouth, very light green eyes, pale complexion, and blond hair. Her eyes seemed to express not the slightest thought. Fine lines were apparent at the corners of her eyes and mouth. She took a healthy swig of her cognac.
    â€œI’ve come to take Anne away,” Terrier said suddenly, putting his napkin down.
    Standing with his spread fingers pressed against the table, Félix half smiled in a reflective way.
    â€œYou shouldn’t be speaking to me. Speak to the lady.”
    Terrier got up. He stumbled imperceptibly.
    â€œAnne,” he said.
    Anne stood up and drained her cognac.
    â€œI’m sleepy. I’m going up.” She slurred her words a little.
    â€œAnne,” repeated Terrier. “Anne, for God’s sake!”
    The young woman left the room without looking at anyone. Terrier moved to catch up with her. Félix took a half step to the side. Terrier almost bumped into him.
    â€œShall I make us coffee?” suggested Félix. “I have an Italian machine that makes fantastic coffee. Do you know how to play Mastermind?”
    â€œWhat?” Terrier looked at him as if he were crazy.
    â€œCoffee?” Félix repeated affably. He had black eyes and black hair and a Latin face with a dull complexion, slightly protruding cheekbones, and a long, slightly hooked nose; he was smaller in size and stature than Terrier and seemed three or four years younger; he wore gray corduroy pants, a sport shirt, and a woolen smoking jacket. “So you don’t want any of my coffee?” he said, putting on an expression of comical disappointment.
    â€œShit, no, you can’t be for real!” exclaimed Terrier. Terrier raised his forearms, then brought his fists down to his thighs, sighed, moved back a step, shook his head, and seemed to calm down.
    â€œWhat’s the matter? What’s the matter?” asked Félix. “Do you want my advice? Do you need my advice? Is that it? Is that it? I don’t give a damn! I don’t give a damn!” he shouted. Then he added calmly: “If there’s anything wrong, it’s your head!”
    Terrier advanced blindly and with his outstretched right arm tried to push Félix out of the way. Félix retreated.
    â€œI want to talk to Anne,” said Terrier.
    â€œShe’s drunk. She’s sleeping. She’s snoring.” He snickered.
    Terrier slapped Félix’s mouth full force with the back of his hand. Félix backed away again.
    â€œCome spend the weekend,” he said. He touched a finger to his lip and then examined the end of his finger. “Do you remember the cabin? We often spend the weekend there. We’re going this weekend. Come up Saturday, okay?”
    Terrier stared at him.
    â€œHey!” laughed Félix. “You