Three to Kill by Jean-Patrick Manchette Page B

whose scissors must have cost a packet of money. Her skin was perfectly smooth and tan, her eyes pale, her eyebrows set high, her cheekbones prominent, her nose of modest size, and her jaw determined. When she smiled, her red lips parted horizontally to reveal teeth as perfect and gleaming as one could wish. She resembled a very good ad for a vacation club (though ads for vacation clubs never actually look like that; they make you want to stay at home if at all possible). She was drinking vodka. She had brought the vodka along with her in her Ford Capri. She had also brought along a guy by the name of Max. At this moment, the guy had gone off again in the Capri to do some shopping about twenty-five kilometers away.
    â€œWell, I don’t really know,” replied Gerfaut. “I suppose I imagined a woman about forty-five but looking older, with hands red from washing dishes and doing heavy work, and eyes red, too, from all the sad things that had happened to her. She would have got here by taxi and bus, wearing a moth-eaten black coat. But, my God—how old are you anyway? Oh, excuse me.”
    â€œTwenty-eight. No need to apologize.”
    â€œYou can’t be Raguse’s daughter?”
    â€œNo, his granddaughter.”
    â€œSometimes he used to mention a daughter who sent him money....”
    â€œThat was me.”
    â€œI see,” said Gerfaut. “Forgive me. I don’t know why I’m asking you all these questions. I have no right to. I’ll be going now. Thank you for the drink.”
    He rose from his stool to put the mustard glass from which he had been drinking vodka in the basalt sink.
    â€œYou are not from around here,” she said. “You’re a Parisian.”
    â€œOriginally, yes,” said Gerfaut. He was amused by the question, and he smiled beneath his blond beard. “You would never believe it if I told you how I ended up here.”
    â€œYou could give it a try.”
    Gerfaut chuckled. He felt like a kid.
    â€œIt’s quite simple, really. Until last summer I was a middle manager in a company in Paris. I went on vacation, and two men tried to kill me, twice, for reasons unknown to me. Two complete strangers. At which point I left my wife and children and, instead of informing the police, I fled. I found myself in a freight car crossing the Alps. A drifter knocked me down with a hammer and threw me off the train. I injured my foot, which is why I limp now. Your father, or rather your grandfather, found me and cared for me. That’s it.”
    In the easy chair the young woman was laughing uproariously.
    â€œThat’s the simple truth,” said Gerfaut. He was having trouble keeping a straight face.
    â€œHave another drink,” said Alphonsine Raguse, waving vaguely toward the bottle of vodka. There was still a trace of irrepressible laughter in her voice, and her gray eyes were still watering. She wiped them and sighed. Gerfaut retrieved his mustard glass from the sink, wiped its base on his sleeve, and poured himself a little more vodka. He ran two fingers lightly through his hair.
    â€œSuppose I told you that this is the mark of a bullet wound—this white tuft here?”
    â€œYes, sure,” answered Alphonsine. “You are quite the adventurer.”
    â€œNo, not at all. You don’t understand. I’m just the opposite.”
    â€œWhat does that mean, the opposite?”
    â€œSomeone who doesn’t remotely want adventures.”
    She was still smiling. Ironically—but not in a mean way.
    â€œI wouldn’t mind an adventure with you, though,” Gerfaut blurted. “Oh, I’m so sorry. That’s not what I meant to say. How embarrassing.”
    She fell silent for quite some time. A worried look came over her face. Gerfaut found no way of breaking the silence, and he didn’t dare look at the woman. He felt dumb.
    â€œHow was the funeral?” she asked suddenly. “I didn’t want