The Prone Gunman Read Free

her teeth as she drained it. The ice cubes tinkled. In her hurry, she had wet her upper lip and the bottom of her nose.
    â€œI’ll call you a taxi,” said Terrier. “Don’t forget your presents.”
    Alex burst out laughing. She dropped her glass, which didn’t break against the carpet. She ran to the kitchenette, dug in a drawer, and came back with a carving knife. With the handle against her belly, she held the blade straight in front of her. Her teeth were bared, and her makeup was running.
    â€œStop,” said Terrier, without moving.
    â€œFucking asshole.”
    She took a step forward. Terrier put his weight on his left leg and held the outstretched fingers of his right hand tightly together, his arm slightly bent. But the young woman shook her head violently and contented herself with throwing the knife at the window. It knocked against the glass and fell to the floor. Alex shook her head again.
    â€œYou’re taking Sudan into your new life?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œHe won’t like that.”
    â€œYes, he will.”
    â€œChristian,” said Alex, “let me have the poor cat. As a souvenir. Please.” She seemed unaware that tears were now streaking her face; she was smiling.
    â€œYou’re being stupid.”
    Alex nodded. Terrier picked up the phone and called a taxi. There would be a five-minute wait. He remained standing. Alex got her things and her presents together.
    â€œSudan won’t be happy with you,” she said. “You’re abnormal. You’re sick in the head. I tried. God knows, I tried!”
    She didn’t say what she had tried. Before leaving, as she passed in front of Terrier, she raised herself on tiptoe and spit clumsily in his face.

3
    The Rue de Varenne apartment was a duplex located in the rear of an old town house, on a paved courtyard, above stables that had been transformed into private garages. In the courtyard, the name “Lionel Perdrix” appeared on a framed visiting card above the doorbell. A few seconds before nine, Terrier rang the doorbell seven short times, pushed open the gate, and climbed the flight of outside stairs. The remote-control lock of the white-lacquered entryway door buzzed and clicked, and Terrier opened the door, closed it behind him, and climbed another flight of stairs, these covered in gray carpet. He emerged into the vast gray-and-white duplex full of ultramodern furniture and Pop, Op, and kinetic art.
    Cox was seated on the edge of a gigantic white leather sofa, his back to a windowless wall with a balcony overhead. A short guy with black eyes, his hands in the pockets of a gray overcoat, leaned out with his belly against the balcony railing; his eyes never left Terrier.
    Bent over a low, openwork white-lacquered table, Cox was eating a copious brunch of eggs, bacon, grilled sausages, thick little pancakes, and maple syrup, accompanied by black coffee.
    â€œI didn’t have time to eat this morning,” he said as Terrier came in. “Nor to sleep much, either. I had to discuss your case, Christian.”
    His lips were sticky with syrup; he patted them with a paper napkin and glanced at Terrier with a look of embarrassment. Tall and fleshy, he had a large pink face, a small nose, and a pouty little mouth. His short dull-blond hair was impeccably trimmed. He had not taken off his camel’s-hair overcoat. Beside him on the sofa lay a twisted blue-and-yellow plaid scarf. Terrier opened his brown leather coat, but he didn’t take it off. He sat down across from Cox in an enormous armchair that matched the sofa.
    â€œHe’s armed,” said the short guy on the balcony without taking his eyes off Terrier.
    Cox directed a friendly grimace at Terrier.
    â€œWhy did you kill the girl, too?” he asked.
    â€œIs that a problem?”
    â€œNot at all. She was his mistress. Not at all important. I’m just asking. You’ve never killed anyone who was not a