steel, a garrote made of three strands of piano wire with aluminum handles, a blackjack, a 1950 model Smith & Wesson .45 caliber revolver, and a Beretta 70T automatic with silencer. The second case contained clothes, toiletries, six meters of nylon cord, and a SIG P210-5 9mm automatic target pistol. In a canvas bag on the car floor were highpower binoculars and an over-and-under M6 like those used by the U.S. Air Force, with a folding butt, one barrel being .22 caliber, the other a .410 shotgun. There were munitions, too, of various kinds, in thick wooden boxes in the Lancia’s trunk. Should such an arsenal be considered impressive or simply grotesque?
The man in the car was at the wheel, with his chin sunk into his chest, his back against the back of the driver’s seat, and a monthly comic book propped against the wheel’s leather cover. The comic was called Strange, and it recounted the adventures of Captain Marvel, the intrepid Daredevil, the Spider, and various other characters. The man was reading with great concentration, moving his lips. A succession of emotions registered on his face; he was identifying to the hilt.
After a moment, the other guy, the one with the wavy black hair and pretty blue eyes, emerged from Georges Gerfaut’s building, walked back to the Lancia, and got in beside his companion. The latter put his Strange into the cubbyhole in his door and wrinkled his nose with curiosity.
“I smell fat.”
“Cooking fat, yes,” said the other. “The concierge was making fries. Georges Gerfaut has left on vacation for a month. I have the address. It’s in Saint-Georges-de-Didonne; the department number is 17.”
First, the hit men consulted the dark one’s diary to see what department had the number 17, and found out that it was Charente-Maritime. Then they took down a small atlas of French main roads that was attached to the right sun visor with an elastic band, perused it, located Saint-Georges-de-Didonne, and mapped out their route.
“I drive fast,” said the one with the white streaks in his hair. “We can be there by this evening.”
“Well, fuck that! Shit, no!” replied the dark man bitterly. “Let him wait. First, we’ll have a big meal. Then we’ll do a little sightseeing. Come on, why shouldn’t we?”
“Mister Taylor said fast, Carlo.”
“Taylor? What’s he got to say about it? He’s got nothing to say about it. Anyway, he’s cool, totally cool.”
The nostrils of the man with the white streaks flared tautly.
“Carlo, you really do smell of greasy food.”
“What a pain in the butt you are!” Carlo reached into the back and opened one of the metal cases, took out a toilet bag and produced a bottle of Gibbs aftershave. He poured lotion into his palm and dabbed himself with it about the cheeks and under the arms. Then he put his tackle away.
“If we don’t have to hurry,” said White Streaks, “we can stop at Le Lude. It’s charming, Le Lude. It has a delightful castle.”
“All right then, if you say so. Start the car, for Christ’s sake! We can’t sit here forever!”
7
At the sound of Gerfaut clattering about in the kitchen and swearing between clenched teeth, the little girls came downstairs. Gerfaut didn’t bother to scold them, even though, as he saw it, it was still too early to get up.
The girls were dressed. Gerfaut dug out denim shorts and a Lacoste shirt, and all three left for the seafront. It was already hot. The beach was completely deserted. A wooden refreshment stand showed no sign of opening up. The Mercedes made a right, cruised by a motionless funfair and a cemetery, turned left, and finally parked in a side street near an antique shop that also dealt in detective stories, varnished seashells, and comic books translated from the Italian. Gerfaut and the girls found a café open and settled themselves on perforated plastic seats in red, yellow, and pastel blue. They drank bowls of gray café au lait speckled with stray coffee grounds and ate butter croissants from a nearby bakery. Then they headed back. A breeze had come up, sand whirled across the beachfront road, and the shrubs planted in wooden boxes waved back and forth like carnivorous plants. The milky coffee formed a resinous lump just below Gerfaut’s sternum.
He left the car in the street outside their rental house. In the main room, with the blinds raised and windows open, Béa sat in an immense white robe dipping a zwieback in Special for Breakfast tea from Fortnum & Mason’s. She removed a crumb from the corner of her mouth.
“Where’ve you been? What got into you? Did you go to look at the sea?”
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