Read Online Winter's End by Jean-Claude Mourlevat - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jean-Claude Mourlevat
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Ramses.
“Hunt, yes, that’s right,” Mills encouraged him.
Pastor’s opinion was that Mykerinos had the best nose in the pack, and as soon as he had smelled the scarf, he set off along the main road through the village. All the others followed. It was a strange sight to see the six hunched figures striding along in the pale moonlight like vampires after blood. Whenthey reached the fountain, they didn’t hesitate for a moment but turned into a small, sloping road on their left. Halfway along it, they stopped in silence outside Number 49.
The dog-men never barked. All they ever did, at the height of their excitement, was to utter faint whines barely audible to the human ear. Nothing ever gave warning of their presence or their approach. If they were after you, you could expect to see them appear suddenly only a few feet away — by which time it was already too late.
The little house was sleeping. Mills didn’t bother to knock at the front door, which was just below street level, but stood in the road itself and threw a handful of gravel at the second-floor windows.
“Who’s there?” asked a woman’s voice.
“Police,” said Mills.
“What do you want?”
“Open up!”
The curtain at the window was drawn a little way to one side. The presence of the dog-men showed that this wasn’t some kind of joke. Whoever was inside the house could be heard grumbling for a moment and then coming slowly downstairs. The front door opened to reveal an enormous woman in dressing gown and slippers.
“You are Mrs. . . . ?” asked Mills.
“I’m known as Martha. What do you want?”
“You’re a consoler?”
“Would you believe me if I said no, I’m a professional cyclist?”
Having no sense of humor himself, Mills didn’t care for jokes. He had to make an effort to keep calm.
“And you are Miss Bach’s consoler?”
“I only know their first names.”
“Milena,” Mills said, and even in the mouth of such a brute, those three syllables were still surprisingly beautiful.
“I could be,” replied Martha.
“Yes or no?” asked Mills.
The large woman looked straight into his eyes without showing the slightest sign of fear. Mills felt his annoyance increasing.
“She came here last week,” he said, “with a young man, and they left together. Where did they go?”
“My dear sir,” whispered Martha, narrowing her eyes, “you know very well that no consoler will ever tell you about the visits a young person pays to her, still less what’s said on those occasions. We’re like priests, you see, like confessors. And if you don’t understand that, then let me put it in simpler terms for your benefit: it’s a trade secret.”
Mills was a hot-tempered man. In half a second he was beside himself with rage.
“Go indoors!” he ordered, as if the place were his own. Once he was in the house, he closed the door behind them both, forced the consoler down into a chair, and sat astride another facing her, his arms on the back of the chair.
“My good woman,” he whispered, “you and yourcolleagues are paid by the authorities, meaning me, to give these young people a chance of leaving their schools for three outings a year. At first you were simply called their contacts. I don’t know who thought up the stupid term
consolers.
But you can be sure of one thing. I have only to do this,” he said, snapping the fingers of his right hand — “this,” he repeated, snapping them again — “and all the jokey stuff will be over, understand? You can come down from this hill of yours and get on with your career as — a professional cyclist, was it? So I’m asking you for the last time: did Miss Milena Bach come to see you last week?”
“My dear sir, I really think you ought to drink verbena tea in the evenings. You’d sleep better. And then you wouldn’t have to go around in the middle of the night with those unfortunate creatures who —”
“Did that girl visit you or did she not, ma’am? I strongly
“Hunt, yes, that’s right,” Mills encouraged him.
Pastor’s opinion was that Mykerinos had the best nose in the pack, and as soon as he had smelled the scarf, he set off along the main road through the village. All the others followed. It was a strange sight to see the six hunched figures striding along in the pale moonlight like vampires after blood. Whenthey reached the fountain, they didn’t hesitate for a moment but turned into a small, sloping road on their left. Halfway along it, they stopped in silence outside Number 49.
The dog-men never barked. All they ever did, at the height of their excitement, was to utter faint whines barely audible to the human ear. Nothing ever gave warning of their presence or their approach. If they were after you, you could expect to see them appear suddenly only a few feet away — by which time it was already too late.
The little house was sleeping. Mills didn’t bother to knock at the front door, which was just below street level, but stood in the road itself and threw a handful of gravel at the second-floor windows.
“Who’s there?” asked a woman’s voice.
“Police,” said Mills.
“What do you want?”
“Open up!”
The curtain at the window was drawn a little way to one side. The presence of the dog-men showed that this wasn’t some kind of joke. Whoever was inside the house could be heard grumbling for a moment and then coming slowly downstairs. The front door opened to reveal an enormous woman in dressing gown and slippers.
“You are Mrs. . . . ?” asked Mills.
“I’m known as Martha. What do you want?”
“You’re a consoler?”
“Would you believe me if I said no, I’m a professional cyclist?”
Having no sense of humor himself, Mills didn’t care for jokes. He had to make an effort to keep calm.
“And you are Miss Bach’s consoler?”
“I only know their first names.”
“Milena,” Mills said, and even in the mouth of such a brute, those three syllables were still surprisingly beautiful.
“I could be,” replied Martha.
“Yes or no?” asked Mills.
The large woman looked straight into his eyes without showing the slightest sign of fear. Mills felt his annoyance increasing.
“She came here last week,” he said, “with a young man, and they left together. Where did they go?”
“My dear sir,” whispered Martha, narrowing her eyes, “you know very well that no consoler will ever tell you about the visits a young person pays to her, still less what’s said on those occasions. We’re like priests, you see, like confessors. And if you don’t understand that, then let me put it in simpler terms for your benefit: it’s a trade secret.”
Mills was a hot-tempered man. In half a second he was beside himself with rage.
“Go indoors!” he ordered, as if the place were his own. Once he was in the house, he closed the door behind them both, forced the consoler down into a chair, and sat astride another facing her, his arms on the back of the chair.
“My good woman,” he whispered, “you and yourcolleagues are paid by the authorities, meaning me, to give these young people a chance of leaving their schools for three outings a year. At first you were simply called their contacts. I don’t know who thought up the stupid term
consolers.
But you can be sure of one thing. I have only to do this,” he said, snapping the fingers of his right hand — “this,” he repeated, snapping them again — “and all the jokey stuff will be over, understand? You can come down from this hill of yours and get on with your career as — a professional cyclist, was it? So I’m asking you for the last time: did Miss Milena Bach come to see you last week?”
“My dear sir, I really think you ought to drink verbena tea in the evenings. You’d sleep better. And then you wouldn’t have to go around in the middle of the night with those unfortunate creatures who —”
“Did that girl visit you or did she not, ma’am? I strongly
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