“In the end,” observed Colonel Jumbo, “perhaps he didn’t understand anything. Perhaps there was no need to kill him.”
“And then what?” Oufiri asked.
“He didn’t even grasp Defeckmann’s role.”
“He certainly grasped nothing,” sighed the marshal, “but he did know a couple of things. The interview deal, for one.”
“I am against needless murders,” said Jumbo portentously.
He blew on his rings and rubbed them against the material of his jacket, on the left side. Then he contemplated them, and found them shiny enough.
“His death will be attributed to the French secret service,” noted the marshal.
“They’ll hold that against us.”
“Agencies don’t hold things against one another unless they have to. What does it matter anyway? The N’Gustro business is over.”
The colonel directed a half-deliberate glance toward the floor—and, in effect, beyond the floor and toward the cellar.
The marshal shook his head.
Jumbo took one of his fingernails between his teeth and bit down, tearing it. He then pulled on the tear with his teeth, and a crescent-shaped crack appeared. When the crack covered the full width of the nail the fragment came off. Jumbo spat it into an ashtray and a tiny sound came from his mouth. He examined his newly trimmed nail with satisfaction.
“He’s still alive, isn’t he?” he asked.
Oufiri did not reply.
“Why?” the colonel wanted to know.
Oufiri shrugged.
“I want to make the pleasure last.”
“Pleasure, huh?” said Jumbo thoughtfully.
He gave a slow nod, more a wag than a nod. He was distressed. He went back to biting his nails.