Read Online Fatale by Jean-Patrick Manchette - Free Book Online

hand to her face. Her features passed through a series of changes that Aimée could not interpret but that she observed with curiosity. Down the hallway, senior manager Moutet went over to pull his office door closed. He could still be heard in an altercation with his interlocutor, though the details of the conversation were not discernible. Christiane Moutet lit a cigarette. Everyone pretended to be studying their hands or gazed at the green baize of the card table. With eyelids lowered, Aimée paid closer and closer attention to Sonia Lorque. The blonde covered her face with both hands when Moutet emerged from his study and came back into the living room. The man seemed beside himself.
    â€œThe bastard!” he cried. “Fucking hell!” The women stared at him. Sonia Lorque kept her hands over her face, but peeked at Moutet between her fingers. Moutet slumped into an armchair, then sprang up again and returned to his place at the table. He hunched forward. As he planted his elbows on the green felt his cards were swept off the table and fell to the floor. At the same moment Sonia Lorque rose and moved away from her chair, turning her back on the table. She did not make for a door, but instead toward a corner of the living room nowhere near an exit. Christiane Moutet gazed at her husband in alarm. Aimée watched Sonia Lorque with curiosity.
    â€œThe bastard!” said the senior manager again. “It’s in my contract! And he thinks I’m going to take this lying down?”
    â€œWhat are you saying?” demanded Christiane Moutet. “What’s going on?”
    â€œWhat’s going on is I’m responsible for the cold-storage rooms. It’s in my contract.” Moutet spoke in slow tones. He seemed concerned to articulate clearly. “ SON OF A BITCH ! THIS IS UNBELIEVABLE ! IMPOSSIBLE ! CRAZY !”
    â€œBut what’s going on?” Christiane Moutet asked again, very calmly, eyebrows barely raised.
    Wheeling around, Sonia grabbed Christiane Moutet’s wrist very roughly, startling her. Aimée kept watching.
    â€œThe cold rooms in the new fish market have been breaking down,” said the blonde, speaking very fast. “That’s what’s going on. All three processing plants were working for three hours with rotten fish. And your husband is getting the blame for it.”
    â€œYou must be joking,” said Christiane Moutet.
    â€œNo.”
    Christiane Moutet stared at the blonde reflectively.
    â€œNo,” repeated Sonia. “I heard my husband and Lenverguez talking. They were talking for an hour. It’s your hubby who’s going to be the fall guy.”
    â€œYou little bitch!” said Christiane Moutet in a placid tone of voice. “You already knew about it. Bitch!” she said again, sounding surprised.
    â€œListen,” said Sonia Lorque. “I am in a position to propose an arrangement.”
    Christiane Moutet rose. She delivered a resounding slap across the cheek to Sonia, which must have been audible ten meters away. Then she spat in her face. She careened into the bridge table, overturning it. The cards scattered. Aimée, sitting, drew on her cigarette. Sonia Lorque headed for the door. The side of her face was scarlet. Her makeup was running.
    â€œGo ahead,” said Christiane Moutet. “Piss off. Run and find your pantywaist of a husband.”
    â€œToo bad for you, sweetie,” said Sonia.
    â€œIt’s in my contract,” repeated Moutet, still sitting motionless at his seat, hunched over, looking defeated and distraught. “I’m responsible. I’m screwed.”
    Sonia Lorque left the apartment, slamming the door behind her.
    â€œWas I dreaming,” Christiane asked Aimée, “or did that bitch talk about an arrangement?”
    â€œAbout money,” answered Aimée.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œSomeone has to go down,” explained Aimée, “and they picked him. But