Read Online The First Fingerprint by Xavier-Marie Bonnot - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Xavier-Marie Bonnot
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thing.â
âO.K.â
âThe technicians might take your fingerprints ⦠Donât worry, itâs just to compare them in case â¦â
The owner asked no more questions, delighted to know that Christine Autranâs car would soon be leaving his garage.
6.
The waitress at the Why Not! was nibbling at a ham sandwich and browsing through
La Provence
when he arrived in the bar. A little melted butter dripped from the bread, and she discreetly licked her thumb and index finger with their blood-red nails.
âGood morning,â she said without even looking up, her mouth full of fingers.
At that time of day, the Why Not! was empty. He would have preferred there to be a few customers. They would have been something to look at while he was waiting for his appointment.
He dragged the waitress away from her newspaper by ordering a large glass of lemonade and strawberry cordial, with a straw, and went to sit at the table nearest to the window, looking out over the street. From there he would be able to watch the pupils and teachers coming out of Lycée Longchamp.
He waited.
When the waitress brought him his drink, her hips swaying to the rhythm of some cerebral soul, he asked if he could borrow her paper.
âOf course, itâs for the customers, I was just reading the small ads ⦠Iâm looking for a flat in the neighborhood. You wouldnât know of one, by any chance?â
He did not like chatty people, especially when he was about to enjoy a lemonade and strawberry cordial, just as in the very happy days of his childhood, in memory of his father, who always bought him one after their long walks together. Chatty people disturbed his nostalgia, making him feel twitchy.
âNo, I donât think so,â he said as curtly as he could, to cut short the intrusion.
âItâs not easy to find anything around here, itâs getting more and more expensive.â
âPrices are going up in Marseille at the moment.â
She put the paper down on the table.
âItâs yesterdayâs. I havenât had time to go and get todayâs yet.â
âIt doesnât matter.â
The waitress walked away, waggling her ass to the same rhythm as she had on the way over.
He went straight to the local news page, at the top of which was a large headline:
B RUTAL M URDER I N T HE C OUNTRYSIDE A ROUND A IX
AIX-EN-PROVENCE. Last Sunday, the body of a woman was found by a hunter, not far from Puyricard, on the road to Cadenet. The victimâHélène Weill, aged 43, living in Aixâwas presumably taken there to be brutally murdered with a knife. The exact circumstances of the murder are still unknown but police sources have confirmed that it must have taken place about ten days ago, just before Christmas.
The public prosecutor has entrusted the investigation to the gendarmerie â¦
He read the article avidly to the end, then threw the paper on to the table in fury. They had not published a photo of Hélène, and there was no mention of the hand that had been left by the body. Maybe the gendarmes had hushed up that point. Never mind. The article had obviously been copied from an Agence France-Presse dispatch.
The clock said 11:30. The pupils of Lycée Longchamp were starting to come out: from their look and the way they were pushing each other around, he assumed they must be sixteen-year-olds. He paid and went out into the street.
The goddess was demanding another sacrifice: Julia Chevallier, an English teacher at Lycée Longchamp. He stood outside the gates, among some parents who still checked up on the comings and goings of their kids. He felt his entire body tingle. He closed his eyes for aninstant to stop his memories from haunting him at a time like this.
All of a sudden he saw Julia at the top of the steps. She was tall, slim, and she looked as fragile as ever. She had hardly changed at all.
She spoke for a while with a chubby fellow with a
âO.K.â
âThe technicians might take your fingerprints ⦠Donât worry, itâs just to compare them in case â¦â
The owner asked no more questions, delighted to know that Christine Autranâs car would soon be leaving his garage.
6.
The waitress at the Why Not! was nibbling at a ham sandwich and browsing through
La Provence
when he arrived in the bar. A little melted butter dripped from the bread, and she discreetly licked her thumb and index finger with their blood-red nails.
âGood morning,â she said without even looking up, her mouth full of fingers.
At that time of day, the Why Not! was empty. He would have preferred there to be a few customers. They would have been something to look at while he was waiting for his appointment.
He dragged the waitress away from her newspaper by ordering a large glass of lemonade and strawberry cordial, with a straw, and went to sit at the table nearest to the window, looking out over the street. From there he would be able to watch the pupils and teachers coming out of Lycée Longchamp.
He waited.
When the waitress brought him his drink, her hips swaying to the rhythm of some cerebral soul, he asked if he could borrow her paper.
âOf course, itâs for the customers, I was just reading the small ads ⦠Iâm looking for a flat in the neighborhood. You wouldnât know of one, by any chance?â
He did not like chatty people, especially when he was about to enjoy a lemonade and strawberry cordial, just as in the very happy days of his childhood, in memory of his father, who always bought him one after their long walks together. Chatty people disturbed his nostalgia, making him feel twitchy.
âNo, I donât think so,â he said as curtly as he could, to cut short the intrusion.
âItâs not easy to find anything around here, itâs getting more and more expensive.â
âPrices are going up in Marseille at the moment.â
She put the paper down on the table.
âItâs yesterdayâs. I havenât had time to go and get todayâs yet.â
âIt doesnât matter.â
The waitress walked away, waggling her ass to the same rhythm as she had on the way over.
He went straight to the local news page, at the top of which was a large headline:
B RUTAL M URDER I N T HE C OUNTRYSIDE A ROUND A IX
AIX-EN-PROVENCE. Last Sunday, the body of a woman was found by a hunter, not far from Puyricard, on the road to Cadenet. The victimâHélène Weill, aged 43, living in Aixâwas presumably taken there to be brutally murdered with a knife. The exact circumstances of the murder are still unknown but police sources have confirmed that it must have taken place about ten days ago, just before Christmas.
The public prosecutor has entrusted the investigation to the gendarmerie â¦
He read the article avidly to the end, then threw the paper on to the table in fury. They had not published a photo of Hélène, and there was no mention of the hand that had been left by the body. Maybe the gendarmes had hushed up that point. Never mind. The article had obviously been copied from an Agence France-Presse dispatch.
The clock said 11:30. The pupils of Lycée Longchamp were starting to come out: from their look and the way they were pushing each other around, he assumed they must be sixteen-year-olds. He paid and went out into the street.
The goddess was demanding another sacrifice: Julia Chevallier, an English teacher at Lycée Longchamp. He stood outside the gates, among some parents who still checked up on the comings and goings of their kids. He felt his entire body tingle. He closed his eyes for aninstant to stop his memories from haunting him at a time like this.
All of a sudden he saw Julia at the top of the steps. She was tall, slim, and she looked as fragile as ever. She had hardly changed at all.
She spoke for a while with a chubby fellow with a
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