Three to Kill by Jean-Patrick Manchette Read Free Book Online Page B

in—and the mother knew who by. The kid was raised in South America by this mother, who taught him to hate—you know, so that he would go and kill the man who had ratted on the father. Heavy stuff. Anyway, the lone avenger set out on his mission, but it turned out he was just fantasizing with his peashooter. Once he got here, he made no real attempt to find the informer—who, for all I know, may have been dead for years. He met a girl, they got married, and I think they are both teaching in Aix. The guy simply forgot his Mauser at my place. A 7.63mm.”
    â€œThank you,” said Gerfaut.
    Liétard gave him a brief rundown on the operation of the weapon. The magazine was full, but the ammunition was ten or fifteen years old. Liétard had no more. The two men went down to the ground floor and bade each other farewell. Liétard half raised his metal shutters to let Gerfaut out, then lowered them once more. Gerfaut made his way to the Mairie d’Issy metro station. The Star was in his jacket pocket. Softly, he sang words to the effect that your youth is gone, and your lover too.

10
    From Liétard’s Gerfaut went straight home. After turning on the water and electricity, he went from room to room putting all the lights on. The place was comfortable and humdrum. It was impossible to imagine killers lying in wait in the broom closet. Gerfaut turned off most of the lights, took a shower, shaved, changed, and settled down in the living room with a Cutty Sark that was tepid because the refrigerator had not yet had time to kick in, there was no ice, and the weather was so warm. For a time he listened to Fred Katz and Woody Herman. At half past eleven he sent a telegram, via telephone, to Béa, telling her how sorry he was to have left without warning, impossible to contact her sooner, would explain later, letter to follow, everything all right. By this time, Gerfaut was into his sixth whisky, which no doubt explains why he promised a letter, even though he fully intended to return post haste to Saint-Georges-de-Didonne. What’s more, he began to write said letter, and twice spilled whisky over his efforts.
    â€œI plan to return to Saint-Georges very quickly,” he wrote. “My little flight must seem quite incomprehensible to you. Quite frankly, I don’t understand it very well myself. I’ll explain everything. I suspect that nervous exhaustion is the main culprit. Struggling all the time—and for what?” Gerfaut crossed out this last sentence. “This year has been hard, and I’ve had to struggle a great deal. There are times when I want us to pack everything in and go and live in the mountains and grow vegetables and raise sheep. Don’t worry, though—I know this is all idiotic.” He closed his letter with declarations of love, having put away another four whiskies. By now he had ice cubes. He opened a fresh bottle of Cutty Sark, but there was no Perrier. He tore up the whisky-splattered missive and tossed the pieces into the kitchen trash can. Then he stretched out full length on the couch; he meant to take a fortifying nap, for just a few minutes, but instead he fell into a deep sleep.
    The telegram to Béa reached the post office at Saint-Georgesde-Didonne at nine the next morning. The two hit men were parked in their Lancia on the corner of a small residential street, whence Carlo, through the windshield, could observe the Gerfauts’ vacation home some two hundred and fifty meters away. Around nine-fifteen he saw Béa and the girls leave for the beach with a bag and towels. He grabbed a pair of binoculars from the passenger seat and focused them on the woman and the two kids. The glasses were very powerful, and Carlo could clearly see that Béa’s features were drawn and that she had been crying recently.
    â€œHey, look at this! Psst! Hey!”
    White Streaks sat up in the back where he had been dozing and locked one hand onto the