The marshal turned the tape recorder off for a moment and stubbed out his Bastos. He rose with an agility unsurprising in such a rangy man. He walked past the large desk and went into the hallway.
The black man and the white man who had killed Butron were gone but there were three men half-asleep in the hallway with fedoras pulled down over their eyes, lazy-cowboy style. Two of them had Yugoslavia-made Sten guns and the third had a Schmeisser. The marshal cast them a brief debonair smile before heading up the curving staircase leading to the second floor.
Quietly he entered Josyane’s bedroom. She was sleeping.
She was a small girl, little more than a child, but she knew a lot. She was lying on her stomach. The weather was warm, and she had pushed her bedclothes off as far as the small of her back. A very chaste vision but slightly exciting nonetheless.
An empty cognac bottle lay on the floor by the bed, and Josyane was snoring lightly. She’s been drinking again, thought George Clemenceau Oufiri with mild irritation.
He lit a Bastos in the doorway. Listening to the tape just moments before had stirred him sexually. He could be aroused at the drop of a hat. He was proud of his virility. But now, after climbing the stairs with all kinds of other things on his mind, for he was also very active mentally, the little thrill that had prompted him to come upstairs had left him. All he could think of was how much effort it would take to get Josyane out of her alcoholic slumber and how much work would be needed to bring her to a proper climax.
He settled for smoking another Bastos in the doorway while contemplating the platinum blond hair of the sleeping adolescent. Then he went silently back down to the ground floor.
The three security guys in the hallway had uncorked a bottle of marc de Bourgogne. The marshal accepted a shot of the brandy in a mustard glass. The white spirit irritated his gums. The fact was he liked only sweetish liquors such as absinthe and warm fruity wines like Chiroubles. He lingered for a few minutes with the three fellows. He always knew how to maintain excellent relations with his subordinates. He made a mild joke about the shortcomings of the Sten submachine gun and another about its virtues. His men were pleased. The marshal raised his glass to them ever so briskly and returned to the library.
The night was dark. Dawn was still far off.