The Prone Gunman Read Online Free PDF

furtively toward the kitchen and the register and said that he couldn’t.
    â€œI have to attend to the room,” he explained. “Martin Terrier! Well, in the name of God, shit!” He rubbed his eyes and forehead with the rag he used to wipe tables. “You’ve become a real gentleman. If only your father could see you!”
    â€œThat would only irritate him,” said Terrier.
    â€œYou’re in business?”
    â€œThat’s right.”
    â€œYou’ve come back to see this damn town. You’ve come back to piss on them all.”
    â€œNot especially,” said Terrier.
    Dédé nodded his head and smiled nastily. He was looking off into space and no longer at Terrier, who was attacking his rubbery andouillette.
    â€œYou shouldn’t stay, you know,” whispered Dédé.
    â€œExcuse me?”
    â€œThis is a rotten place to be. Your father and I could have done great things if we’d only remained in Paris. You shouldn’t live here.”
    â€œOkay.”
    â€œDédé!” yelled a sort of manager, a short rat-faced man whose mustache had all of three hairs, from the direction of the register.
    Dédé groaned, nodded for Terrier’s benefit, and went off, dragging his feet. Terrier made himself eat half of what he’d been served, passed up both dessert and coffee, left the full amount of the check on the table along with a big tip, and walked out of the brasserie without seeing Dédé again.
    Back in the DS, he consulted the Michelin guide. Nauzac boasted some half-dozen low-quality hotels and two more ambitious, if timeworn, establishments. One of them merited the pictogram that signifies “quiet” while the other was awarded the same pictogram in red, which signifies “very quiet.” Terrier started off in the direction of the second hotel.
    At the far end of a small French-style garden, the hotel was a big limestone building with a slate roof, with many turrets and big wooden shutters with paint flaking off. The driveway between the gravel paths was muddy. On the central lawn, an empty Kronenbourg bottle lay next to a ceramic imp, and the effluvium of hot cooking fat was in the air. Things were a little better inside, though dusty. There were many carpets, wall hangings, varnished wood, a young clerk in a burgundy jacket, and, acting as the bellboy, an immaculate chambermaid to whom Terrier turned over his travel bag. They reached the third and last floor by means of a very narrow elevator, evidently a more recent addition. The room was vast, with a high ceiling, moldings, a very big bed, and antique furniture. There were rust tracks in the bathtub, but it was grand, enormous. No bar. Terrier had a bottle of J&B, ice, and a six-pack of ginger ale sent up, along with a telephone directory for the département. He poured himself a glass, picked up the telephone, and called Anne.
    â€œAnne Schrader speaking. Hello.”
    â€œIt’s Martin,” said Terrier.
    â€œHello? What number are you calling?”
    â€œAnne, it’s Martin Terrier. I’m in town.”
    â€œYou’ve misdialed,” said the neutral voice, and Anne hung up.
    Terrier gave a small sigh. After an instant of immobility, he consulted the yellow pages and found the number of the Freux Electrical Company. (In point of fact, it was a small factory utilizing exclusively female manual labor to assemble record players based on turntables manufactured elsewhere.) He called and asked for Félix Schrader. He was asked who was calling. He gave his name. Félix was put on the line.
    â€œWell, what do you know!” exclaimed Félix Schrader. “Martin Terrier! Is it really you? Where are you?” His voice slipped out of control. He tried for baritone but slid toward countertenor at the end of each of his exclamations.
    â€œIn town. I’ve come back.”
    â€œYou’re back? For good?”
    â€œI don’t know