The Prone Gunman Read Free Page B

Monsieur Charles. I look like a swindler!” He was shouting, even though Terrier had not tried to contradict him. “A good financial adviser should look prosperous. That’s what people think. But I don’t have the time. Do you want to know why?”
    â€œYes,” Terrier said patiently.
    â€œBecause I spend all my time taking care of money,” said Faulques triumphantly. “I make it move. I like that. Nothing else interests me. Neither food nor fucking nor dressing a little better: nothing. Do you understand what it means to have only one thing on your mind?”
    â€œMaybe.”
    Faulques had shaken his head skeptically and proceeded to show Terrier a photograph of his two adolescent girls, whom he saw once a month (he was divorced).
    At eleven o’clock Terrier rang at Faulques’s door. He handed over the brown package and gave him detailed instructions. Faulques took notes and ventured a few comments. Then Terrier left.
    A light sleet had begun to fall, turning to water as it landed. Terrier took the metro back to the Opéra station and returned home in a taxi.
    Reaching his landing, Terrier saw that the door to his apartment was slightly ajar. He dropped to one knee as he drew his HK4 from under his jacket. Holding the weapon in both hands and pointing it at the doorjamb, he froze. He breathed slowly through the mouth in order to hear better. He heard nothing but the distant sounds of the street and the piano on the third floor on which someone was vainly and obstinately attempting to get the first twelve measures of the supposedly Pathetic Sonata right.
    Suddenly, Terrier jumped forward, pushed the door open with his shoulder, and tumbled into the middle of the studio apartment. As he lay on his back, and after his eyes and the barrel of his automatic had quickly swept the room in all directions, the man slowly relaxed and lowered his arms. His joined hands and his weapon came to rest on his thighs. There was no one in the apartment. The pianist on the third floor had given up, and not even the tick-tock of the alarm clock could be heard. Actually, the alarm clock was busted up. The furniture was busted up, too—the armchairs gutted, the bedding torn up, the record player demolished. Terrier’s luggage had been slashed open with a knife and his things—now torn and filthy—scattered all over the studio. In the kitchenette, the cupboard doors had been pulled off and the dishes smashed.
    Terrier got back up, returned the HK4 to its cloth shoulder holster, and closed the door. It had not been forced. He went into the kitchenette. On the linoleum was a filthy magma of mustard, flour, sugar, spices, liquor, broken dishes, and garbage.
    â€œSudan!” Terrier called softly.
    He made little sounds with his mouth to entice the tomcat to come out. He frowned. He went to look under the bed, then went back to the kitchenette, swearing through his teeth.
    On top of the refrigerator was a small key ring on a sheet of squared paper. Terrier examined the keys and the message on the piece of paper, which read: “I’m taking Sudan. Fuck you.” Alex had even signed it.
    Terrier put the keys in his pocket and shook his head. His frown vanished. He laughed silently, then shook his head again and gloomily considered the mess.
    It took him almost three hours to clean up and rearrange everything. He put to one side those of his things that were intact. Everything else was put into the gutted luggage, which Terrier tied up with string and took down to the garbage along with the rest of the mess. He had to make several trips. He took advantage of one of these journeys to continue on to a nearby Prisunic, where he bought a suitcase and a bag. Back upstairs, he packed up his remaining possessions.
    Then his lips tightened. He picked up the intact telephone and dialed a number. The call went through on the first ring.
    â€œHello, don’t hang up,” said Alex’s