HE WAS A NERVOUS WRECK by the time he turned into Rue de la Chine. As soon as he opened the door, he was greeted by the smell of an onion omelet—and also by a dog, which—standing on its hind legs, panting and drooling, its forelegs resting on the silent partner’s knees—guided him toward the kitchen, where a woman in a flower-patterned apron stood in front of the gas stove and refrained from smiling at him. Oh, it’s you, she observed. We didn’t see much of you last night. I had things to do, claimed the silent partner, removing the dog’s paws from his pant legs before dusting them off. Well, I have a few things to tell you about yesterday, she told him. I had a strange kind of day. This news came as a relief to the silent partner, who, having no desire to describe his own day, was able simply to listen instead. Turning off the gas cooktop, at the risk of letting the omelet (currently being ogled by the quadruped) congeal, the woman sat down and looked at the silent partner with an expression on her face that meant that he, too, should sit down. Which he did.
They stayed like that for a moment, in the kitchen, sitting on either side of the red Formica table with its black metal tube legs, looking at each other. Well, first of all, said the woman at last, with a tense smile, guess who I saw again in the salon, yesterday? That guy. What guy? the silent partner asked, mechanically, still feeling soothed by the beginning of what seemed like a distractingly banal conversation. You know, she said, the guy who’s a pop star, Lou something, I can’t remember now if I’ve told you about him already. That was the third time he’s come, and we’re starting to tell each other things. I remember, said the silent partner, stiffening. So? So he said that he used to know you, back in the old days! That’s pretty funny, don’t you think? And when I say back in the old days, I get the feeling it was a long time ago. Yeah, that’s funny, the silent partner forced himself to reply, without seeming very keen to go into further details.
At that, the woman stood up and carefully poured the omelet onto a plate, gradually increasing the angle of the frying pan until the omelet curled elegantly over itself. As for the tense, vexed silent partner, he started nervously scratching at an imaginary stain on the tabletop. As for the dog, torn between its desire for the omelet, which was urging it to stay in the kitchen, and its perception of the oppressive atmosphere, which was urging it to flee, it no longer knew what to do with itself. As for any readers who have not yet understood that the silent partner’s name is Clément Pognel, we are happy to inform them of that fact now.
Marie-Odile sat down again and her expression changed. So, you see, there’s something else I’d like to understand. And the tone of her voice, too, seemed to have changed. Go on, muttered Pognel. So it was that she recounted the rest of her morning, after she had dyed the temples of that guy, Lou what’s his name. As she did not have any other customers, she had decided to use her spare time to go and pick Pognel up from his workplace. I know you told me that you didn’t like that, she acknowledged, but I thought it would make you happy. Just a little surprise, if you like.
Following the directions that Pognel had given her regarding his journey on the metro and then the RER, she had gone to Villeneuve-Saint-Georges, where, after wandering all over the neighborhood, then asking various people for help, she had concluded it wasn’t possible that Pognel worked for Titan-Guss as he had assured her, not only because that business was completely unknown in Villeneuve-Saint-Georges, but even more so because a quick Google search had allowed her to discover that the firm Titan-Guss simply did not exist. And I would really like to understand that, she said. Really, I would like you to explain it to me.
We can, and must, admit that, from the point of view of Clément Pognel, this is quite a lot to deal with in a single day. He might just about be able to cope with his meeting with Lessertisseur, and what he did to him in the parking garage on Rue d’Abbeville, as well as what he learned about Lucile’s little finger . . . he might. None of that changes very much, and he could probably deal with it. But, first of all, it is highly embarrassing that Tausk should have met Marie-Odile. And then her discovery of the nonexistence of Titan-Guss leads Pognel beyond the realm of embarrassment. There is the very real feeling that he is done for. He could take some time to think, to come up with another tale to cover himself, even if only temporarily. He could—he’s seen it done before—but he doesn’t think about it, never even considers it, because he sees himself backed against a wall, trapped in a dark passageway, with nothing to cling to, with no way out but to rid himself of his present danger.
And so it was that Clément Pognel, without any premeditation, without really thinking about it at all, took his Astra Cub from his pocket and, not really aiming at anything in particular, simply fired at what was directly in front of him: this time, the .25 ACP projectile entering Marie-Odile Zwang’s skull through her right eye, his victim died instantly, watched placidly by Biscuit, who did not even jump at the sound of the gunshot. After that, Pognel sat for a long time on his chair, staring blankly at Marie-Odile’s corpse. Then he went to look for the dead woman’s cell phone on the kitchen countertop, where the omelet was going cold, and dialed a number. While he waited for it to start ringing, he put a piece of omelet in his mouth and swallowed it without chewing. Biscuit began to sniff his owner’s dead body, hesitating before tasting, out of curiosity, the blood that dripped from her eye socket.
Three seconds later, on Boulevard Mortier: I hope you don’t mind if I answer that, General, said Paul Objat, his hand reaching into his pocket. You know perfectly well, Objat, grumbled Bourgeaud, that I don’t like it when you answer your phone in my office. I know, General, Objat acknowledged, and I’m terribly sorry, but something tells me that maybe—and he pressed the green button on his phone. The general pouted, but in fact Objat was on the phone for only a very short time, not more than thirty seconds, before he pressed the red button, without having spoken a single word. So, was it worth it? Bourgeaud asked sarcastically. Barely, said Objat. There was some news, but it was nothing too serious. It’s just that guy Pognel—I have the feeling he’s going soft. The general shuddered. Do you think this might compromise our plans? I don’t think so, Objat reassured him. He didn’t say much, but I can tell he’s tired, a bit stressed. He’s a moody guy. He’s going to take a few days off, but that doesn’t make much difference to us. I think everything will be fine.
Good, condescended Bourgeaud. So where exactly are we at the moment, in terms of the operation? Well, said Objat, I would say we’re ready. This first phase of the treatment should be coming to an end. I believe we can move on to phase two. Although there is also some news from Creuse. Do you remember, General, about Stockholm and Lima? Well, I fear that’s where we are. What on earth are you talking about? the general frowned.