Read Online The Prone Gunman by Jean-Patrick Manchette - Free Book Online Page A

sour in his glass, Félix followed him in.
    â€œWhat’s going on? The table’s not even set!” he exclaimed in the direction of the half-open door of the kitchen.
    The door opened completely, revealing Anne. A dark young woman with a Louise Brooks cut, her cheeks slightly blotchy, in a navy blue nylon raincoat, was holding Anne’s blond hair in her left hand and with her right sticking the short barrel of a Colt Special Agent revolver in her ear.
    â€œStop right there,” she said.
    Terrier came to an instant halt. Félix took one more step and stopped, his mouth forming an O and his eyes blinking. Astonishment or alcohol made him totter a bit.
    â€œHey, look,” he said in a half-choked voice.
    â€œSilence,” said a man’s voice.
    Two guys had stolen across the terrace; they entered the room. The shorter was also the fatter. His beige fur-lined jacket was stretched over his belly; a brown Tyrolean hat was perched on his bald round head. He wore glasses and had an awful complexion riddled with tiny craters and blackheads. He quickly and very carefully frisked Terrier without finding a weapon.
    Meanwhile, the other man—who was thin, no older than twenty-two or twenty-three, with longish glistening black hair, fleshy lips, and the soft pretty face of a pimp or a faggot—was closing the shutters. He wore a khaki hunting jacket and a khaki sun hat pulled well down. As he was fastening the last shutter, the other man, the short fat one, turned on the lights. Terrier drew imperceptibly closer to Félix.
    â€œThere’s a pistol in my leather coat,” he whispered under the racket made by the closing shutter.
    â€œNo whispering!” commanded the brunette with the Colt. She released Anne’s hair and, with a shove, sent the young woman stumbling into the middle of the room. “Everyone sit down on the floor with their hands on their heads!”
    Terrier and Anne obeyed immediately. Félix put one knee on the floor, with his hands half raised and a nervous smile playing around the corners of his mouth.
    â€œWhat is this?” he asked, stuttering a little. “Is this a holdup?”
    The brunette took three steps forward and smashed his nose with the barrel of her revolver. Félix let out a horrified cry and tried to get back up. The girl struck the base of his skull with the Colt, and the thin young man booted him in the small of the back. Félix rolled and moaned on the floor. He closed one hand over his smashed nose. Blood ran from his nose and from his opened scalp.
    â€œLeave him alone. He’s a nitwit,” declared Terrier.
    He remained motionless, sitting on the floor with his hands on his head, as instructed. The brunette looked at him unsmilingly. She slipped behind Terrier, stuck her Colt in the pocket of her raincoat, grabbed his left hand and pulled back his little finger. The joint gave way with a dry crack. Terrier gave out a long, violent groan through his closed mouth, his chest heaving and tears bursting from his closed eyes, then he suddenly puked a little of the whisky sour over his knees.
    â€œCompared with what we’re going to do to you if you annoy us, that’s nothing,” declared the brunette. She moved around to look Terrier in the face. “I’m Rossana Rossi,” she said. “And you are Martin Terrier. Some people call you Christian. Five years ago, you killed my brother. You’re going to tell me about that.”
    â€œTie up the other two and stow them upstairs, and we’ll talk,” said Terrier.
    â€œIt doesn’t matter anymore—they know my name.”
    â€œYes!” shouted Félix. “Yes, it matters! We don’t know anything, we don’t want to know anything—settle your business between yourselves! Tie us up and lock us up upstairs and settle things between yourselves! Listen, I’ve already forgotten your name. Listen, I can prove my good faith: