up. A nightmarish vision, really, like a Halloween mask, only uglier.
“ Révérence ,” said Martin Boudon.
The music began to blare from the cassette player. Facing the mirror, all the students executed the same movement. Then came the applause and the défilé , with a little bow to the teacher. Always the same rigmarole. The pupils left the studio quietly, one by one. Boudon now found himself alone with Nikita. The two men knew each other from having met at several “special” parties.
The blond man was dangerous. The teacher knew enough about him to be worried. If he had come to class, it was to resolve some serious problem.
“You’re not with your brother today?” said Boudon, attempting to be friendly. “You’re usually inseparable.”
“Nicolas is currently indisposed.”
“You wanted to speak to me?” Boudon said casually, trying to hide his fear, which was clearly visible.
“Robert Malet’s death has caused no end of trouble. We have to make new arrangements.”
“Of course. Come into my office. It’s more discreet.”
“Let’s go back to my place. We’ll have lunch and discuss how we’re going to organize things.”
“There’s a little restaurant I go to nearby,” said Boudon, trying to gain time. “They do an excellent veal stew, and we can chat there. It’s very private.”
“You’re to come with me. Orders from above.”
Nikita did not clarify whether he was referring to Paul Hervet, God the Father, or his cousin Lucifer. He made no attempt at conversation during the journey, which suited him, not being the chatty type. Between the two men, there was a silence you could cut with a knife. When the 4x4 stopped in front of the twins’ lonely house, Boudon felt his heart beating like it would burst. If he didn’t find a way out of this very quickly, his goose would be cooked.
“Go on,” said Nikita.
Boudon stepped into the hallway with its impeccably polished floor. The smell of wax hung in the air, evoking the sinister scent of votive candles. Nikita locked the door.
“What are you doing?” Martin Boudon said with a yelp, turning around, white with fear.
The blond killer blocked the way, a cold smile on his lips.
“Go on into the living room, you piece of shit,” said Nikita. “Sit your ass down.”
“What do you want with me? I’ve done nothing wrong.”
“Try a little harder to remember, Fred Astaire. Didn’t you receive an unexpected visit recently?”
“No, no.”
The slap hit him like the crack of a whip.
“You’re crazy,” Boudon cried, raising his forearm to protect his face.
“Think hard, bitch! You haven’t seen anyone? Answer me, or I’ll really hit you.”
“No, I beg you! A man and a woman came, two days ago. For a shoot.”
“You see, it’s easy when you cooperate. Tell me, Baryshnikov, how did they find you, this pair?”
“They said Robert Malet had put them in touch with me.”
“What did they look like?”
“The guy was tall, well-built, around thirty.”
Nikita pulled out the page from France-Soir , unfolded it, and shoved the picture of Le Goënec in Boudon’s face. Panic and terror convulsed him.
“Yes, it’s him. That’s him, all right.”
“What did you tell him, asshole?”
“Nothing special. He wanted some children. I let him choose from the photographs, like usual. He was meant to call me back with the precise address for delivery.”
“That’s all?”
“No. When I left, the woman who was with him followed me. Luckily, I realized, and I was able to throw her off and then tail her myself, without her noticing.” Boudon rummaged in his pocket, his eyes filled with a desperate plea for an improbable clemency, and took out a piece of paper, which he handed to Nikita. “See for yourself; I wrote down her license plate number.”
Nikita’s fist smashed Boudon’s jaw with lightning speed. The teacher screamed, holding his chin.
“What did you intend to do with this number, you little shit?”
The
“ Révérence ,” said Martin Boudon.
The music began to blare from the cassette player. Facing the mirror, all the students executed the same movement. Then came the applause and the défilé , with a little bow to the teacher. Always the same rigmarole. The pupils left the studio quietly, one by one. Boudon now found himself alone with Nikita. The two men knew each other from having met at several “special” parties.
The blond man was dangerous. The teacher knew enough about him to be worried. If he had come to class, it was to resolve some serious problem.
“You’re not with your brother today?” said Boudon, attempting to be friendly. “You’re usually inseparable.”
“Nicolas is currently indisposed.”
“You wanted to speak to me?” Boudon said casually, trying to hide his fear, which was clearly visible.
“Robert Malet’s death has caused no end of trouble. We have to make new arrangements.”
“Of course. Come into my office. It’s more discreet.”
“Let’s go back to my place. We’ll have lunch and discuss how we’re going to organize things.”
“There’s a little restaurant I go to nearby,” said Boudon, trying to gain time. “They do an excellent veal stew, and we can chat there. It’s very private.”
“You’re to come with me. Orders from above.”
Nikita did not clarify whether he was referring to Paul Hervet, God the Father, or his cousin Lucifer. He made no attempt at conversation during the journey, which suited him, not being the chatty type. Between the two men, there was a silence you could cut with a knife. When the 4x4 stopped in front of the twins’ lonely house, Boudon felt his heart beating like it would burst. If he didn’t find a way out of this very quickly, his goose would be cooked.
“Go on,” said Nikita.
Boudon stepped into the hallway with its impeccably polished floor. The smell of wax hung in the air, evoking the sinister scent of votive candles. Nikita locked the door.
“What are you doing?” Martin Boudon said with a yelp, turning around, white with fear.
The blond killer blocked the way, a cold smile on his lips.
“Go on into the living room, you piece of shit,” said Nikita. “Sit your ass down.”
“What do you want with me? I’ve done nothing wrong.”
“Try a little harder to remember, Fred Astaire. Didn’t you receive an unexpected visit recently?”
“No, no.”
The slap hit him like the crack of a whip.
“You’re crazy,” Boudon cried, raising his forearm to protect his face.
“Think hard, bitch! You haven’t seen anyone? Answer me, or I’ll really hit you.”
“No, I beg you! A man and a woman came, two days ago. For a shoot.”
“You see, it’s easy when you cooperate. Tell me, Baryshnikov, how did they find you, this pair?”
“They said Robert Malet had put them in touch with me.”
“What did they look like?”
“The guy was tall, well-built, around thirty.”
Nikita pulled out the page from France-Soir , unfolded it, and shoved the picture of Le Goënec in Boudon’s face. Panic and terror convulsed him.
“Yes, it’s him. That’s him, all right.”
“What did you tell him, asshole?”
“Nothing special. He wanted some children. I let him choose from the photographs, like usual. He was meant to call me back with the precise address for delivery.”
“That’s all?”
“No. When I left, the woman who was with him followed me. Luckily, I realized, and I was able to throw her off and then tail her myself, without her noticing.” Boudon rummaged in his pocket, his eyes filled with a desperate plea for an improbable clemency, and took out a piece of paper, which he handed to Nikita. “See for yourself; I wrote down her license plate number.”
Nikita’s fist smashed Boudon’s jaw with lightning speed. The teacher screamed, holding his chin.
“What did you intend to do with this number, you little shit?”
The
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