Fatale by Jean-Patrick Manchette Page A

Aimée.
    â€œDo you have anything to eat?” the commissioner asked the barman. “A sandwich?”
    â€œBread’s all gone. I have pastries. Or at least cookies.”
    â€œWhat we don’t have is music!” cried the drunk at the counter.
    Aimée ordered a beer, Fellouque a Viandox. The fat young man went and busied himself behind the counter. He came back and placed on the table half a pint of Slavia and a large white cup which bore the word “Viandox” in blue letters and held steaming beef bouillon. The left wall of the café was mirrored. There was sawdust on the tiled floor.
    â€œShould I bring the pastries then?” asked the barman.
    Aimée shook her head. She was thinking about the baron lying dead in his blood. She had left the lights on in the room where his body lay. The commissioner asked her in a low voice to summarize the situation more clearly than she had done up to now. She summarized.
    â€œAs for Lorque and all of them,” she said towards the end of her summary, “I gave them appointments to make things sound right. But I was not intending to meet anyone. I have all the keys to the lockers. I made copies. I was planning to catch the four-thirty-five boat train to Paris. Before that I would have picked up all the dough they had left in those lockers. I did the math. It comes to about 200,000 francs. They all wanted me to meet them and hand over the files the Baron had on each of them, and they are supposed to give me their locker key in exchange, but I don’t need their keys at all.”
    â€œWhat have you done with the documents?”
    â€œNothing, I didn’t give them a thought. They are back there at the Baron’s somewhere. I don’t know.”
    â€œWe’ll take care of that later,” said Fellouque. “Right now, I am going to see the magistrate. It’s best that you stay here.”
    â€œIf you say so.”
    Fellouque rose. Aimée stared at the head on her beer; she had not so much as raised the glass to her lips. She half-smiled. Her hair had lost its curl and was sticking to her forehead with sweat. Fellouque gave her an uncertain little tap on the shoulder and went over to the counter.
    â€œHey, lad,” he said to the barman in a half whisper, pointing over his shoulder with his thumb at the motionless Aimée. “Just keep an eye on her. I’ll be back. She mustn’t leave.”
    â€œGot it.”
    Fellouque returned to Aimée.
    â€œJust don’t budge, okay? I’m coming back.”
    Aimée nodded. The commissioner stood still for a moment longer, then walked very quickly out of the establishment. All of a sudden Aimée gulped down her entire glass of beer, greedily. It left her with a mustache of foam. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. She banged the glass on the table and signaled to the barman. The man raised his chin questioningly. She ordered another half-pint and a cognac. He brought them to her. She had emptied both glasses before he got back to the cash register.
    â€œThe same again,” she called. “And bring me your shitty pastries.”
    â€œYou like to joke, huh?” said the barman.
    â€œYes.”
    â€œAre you joking?”
    â€œNot really, no.”
    The man gave up. He brought Aimée another beer and another cognac and shortbread cookies and slices of fruitcake enclosed in cellophane. Aimée stuffed herself and drank. Then she got up and made a run for the toilet at the back of the bar. The Turkish-style john was filthy. Aimée vomited. Around her on the walls were a host of inscriptions, obscene for the most part. I love sailors with big thighs , a homosexual who loved sailors with big thighs had written. Someone else had scrawled Muss es sein? , doubtless a German tourist, or a German sailor. Aimée remained in the john for a few more moments, not sure whether she was going to throw up again or not. Eventually she came