The Wicked Go to Hell (10 page)

Feeling his way forward, he grasped his adversary by his clothes and shook him furiously.

“I want to know… Why did you kill her? You were jealous, was that it? You were jealous because I wanted her and because in the end I’d have had her…

“And the revolver! You had it, didn’t you, you rat? And the bullets! My bullets! And you accused me… You… Oh, it’s not
true, is it, that a worm like you could?… How come such a piece of low-down trash as you was ever born?…”

He was screaming into Hal’s face, which at last he could make out. He went on shaking him as he spoke.

“But she was going to plug you, Frank!” cried Hal. “She’s the one who stole the gun and the shells! She’d hidden the piece under a rock, in a hole… I swear! It’s God’s honest truth, Frank!… You’ve got to believe me!”

You’re lying! You killed her because you were jealous… So jealous it hurt! And now you’re going to shoot me too!”

“No, Frank… I’m not going to shoot you!… I tell you, its the very opposite…”

“Your hands! Come on, give me your hands!”

“If it’s the piece you want, here it is, but stop yelling so much!”

Frank reached hungrily for the ridged butt. The revolver was warm—it could have been a small, living animal. He felt calmer.

“She wanted to—” persisted Hal.

“Shut up! I can’t bear to hear you speak any more. Your voice offends me! I know that what you wanted all along was to shoot somebody! I know it for a fact… Murderers are always itching to kill! It’s as if they’re hungry for death… And I know what murderers are like, Hal…”

“Of course you do,” said Hal.

“And do you know how I know what they’re like?”

“Sure I do, Frank…”

“So tell me, you bastard!”

“Because you’re a cop,” murmured Hal sadly.

“You bet I am,” said Frank.

Hal gave a shrug… He put his hands in his pockets. The blood had dried on his lips, forming a shiny crust, like red varnish.

“I knew it,” he sighed, “the moment we walked into that cell together! My instinct warned me you were the law… a secret-service agent… I went on believing it even after I saw you gunning those screws down… You sure paid your dues!”

“I paid what I had to,” said Frank.

“And now you’re blind as a bat, you slimy bastard!…”

“Shut your mouth!” said Frank.

He leant back against the hut. He was very pale and his nose looked pinched. Hal took a quick step forward.

“Not feeling too good, Frank?”

“It’s nothing…” said Frank. “I just felt a bit dizzy…”

“Pull yourself together,” pleaded Hal. “I don’t want you dying on me… I like you a lot, Frank… even though you’re a cop. There are times when it don’t matter any more if you’re a cop or a bad guy! Are you listening to me?”

He shook him; there were tears in his eyes.

“For us two,” he went on, “which side of the fence we’re on doesn’t matter any more. Look, there aren’t any fences any more! We’re just a couple of guys, Franky boy! Just two poor saps adrift in the lowest depths of hell!”

He fell silent, his chest raw from shouting.

“There’s still one bullet left, right?” asked Frank, holding up the revolver.

“Yeah, Frank. Just the one.”

“Good,” said Frank in a quiet voice. “It’s got your name on it.”

He made an effort to see where Hal was. But his vision was still blurred. Just grey shapes with wavy edges, and too bright, as usual…

“You’re crazy!” cried Hal. “I told you how she was going to put a bullet in your hide and that it was me who—”

“Pretty woman, isn’t she?” murmured Frank.

Hal look down at Dora’s lifeless body.

“Even prettier now she’s dead.”

Frank tried to take deep breaths. He had to ease the weight on his chest before he could speak again.

For he still had something else, something crucial to say: he had to explain something serious.

“Listen, Hal,” he began.

He felt Hal was giving him his full attention.

“Listen,” he resumed, “I’m going to shoot you… No, don’t argue, Hal… Try to understand…”

“I understand,” said Hal.

“You wouldn’t want all we’ve lived through to have been for nothing, would you, Hal?… There’s never been anything like it; it was diabolical, when you think… The only way it can be justified is for me to shoot you with this last bullet… If it were up to me, Hal, I’d shoot wide… Problem is, this bullet doesn’t belong to me. It belongs to society and I can’t just do whatever I like with it… Do you… Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Hal felt two tears roll down his bruised cheeks.

“Yes, Frank, I understand…”

“Fine… That’s good.”

Frank raised the gun.

“Wait a minute,” murmured Hal. “I’ve got something to tell you too… It’s quite true, Frank, that she wanted to bump you off… It’s also true that she hid the shooter…”

Frank believed him.

“OK.”

“Yeah, and you know why?”

“No,” said Frank, gripped by a sudden feeling of unease.

“Because she was my chief!”

“What did you say?”

“You heard… though it would take the skin off my voice box to say it again… She was the overall head of the section in France… When I was arrested she managed to get a message through to me. I remember it exactly: ‘A cop will come soon and help you to escape.’ She was a very smart lady and she anticipated everything.

“Later she smuggled another message in to me…”

“When?”

“When we were banged up in jail.”

Frank shook his head.

“Do you think I’m a fool?”

“No… She’d bribed one of the screws and while I was in the slammer…”

Hal ran a damp hand through his hair.

“Didn’t you suspect anything when we found that motorboat all ready to go? Normally they’re securely locked up… And the same goes for just happening to come across a gutsy lady who was hosting a party… A doll who got us out of a jam… Didn’t any of that surprise you?”

Frank shook his head.

“So why did we have to make a quick getaway from her place? All you had to do was put a slug in me and then go on your way.”

Hal looked at the floor.

“That was what I was supposed to do, Frank: lead you away
from the house and bump you off. But I couldn’t bring myself to do it… Then we fetched up here… She came looking for us…”

“Thanks, Hal,” said Frank. “Thanks for everything… Now go—get out of here. I’ll count to three. Try to dodge the last bullet in the chamber! Good luck, pal, and take care of yourself!”

Hal sensed that there was nothing more to be said. With a sigh, he turned on his heel and walked away slowly.

Frank raised the gun and pointed it at random. His eyesight was still blurred. To him, Hal was just a moving blot. He hesitated, then counted silently to three.

“Oh God,” he prayed, “make me miss!”

He pulled the trigger with a crisp action.

The shot made the gun jump in his hand. He let it drop to the ground. He did not dare move from the spot… He looked but could only make out the grey shape of his comrade. He saw that the shape was upright and his heart leapt with joy.

“Hal!” he called softly. “Hal!”

There was no answer. But the figure was still standing. Frank began walking towards it. Then he saw the grey shape measure its length silently on the sparse grass.

“Hal! Hal!”

He was shouting now… Then he was running. He stumbled over his friend and dropped to his knees.

“Did I hit you?” he panted. “Tell me, Hal, did I wing you? Come on, stop playing the fool, Hal! Get up! Get up!… Please!”

He patted the tall body on the ground in front of him… Suddenly it had become just an inert mass.

He ran his hand over Hal’s clothes, searching for his chest… He finally found his heart… a barely detectable
beat… as faint and fitful as the ticking of a faulty wristwatch which has been shaken and, for just a few moments, seems to be working normally.

“Hal!”

His hand gently rubbed the heart that had run its course.

“Oh Hal, I feel so close to you, Hal!… You’re my best friend… my brother… I’m so sorry! Please forgive me! Can you hear me? I need you to hear me!…”

Frank’s fingers felt the heart stop beating. Then all that remained was just a hideous absence.

Slowly Frank’s head sank down until it came to rest on that dead chest. He began to cry.

Yes, I wept.

I’m not ashamed to say it. Tears like those are the noblest that a man can shed. They are what make a man a man.

I wept over the carcase of a bad man because I’d just understood a great truth: there are no bad men…

He’d saved my life twice; he had sacrificed his own self-interest and his ideology, his love, his past to me… And yet a man of action remains loyal to the laws he has lived by. A man as vibrantly alive as Hal stays true to his passions… And everyone cherishes his own past… That was a great gift he had taught me.

And in return I’d put a bullet in his back.

Listen, I’m going to admit something: when I pulled that trigger, I wasn’t aiming at him. The more I think about it, the more convinced I am that I really wanted to waste the shot. But I hit him all the same
because I couldn’t see!
When anyone talks to you about destiny, you’ll know now what it is…

Destiny… is another word for life’s irony, for the kicks in the teeth it administers when you least expect it… It’s… It’s life unvarnished… That’s what it is!

Sometimes of an evening, before I settle myself for sleep, I think of that tiny island, somewhere off the beaten track, beyond those treacherous quicksands which are periodically covered by the sea. Yes… My thoughts turn to the island and the two others… Dora, with her blonde hair and bare, golden legs…
Dora with the violet eyes whose steady gaze was unnerving… Dora and Hal…

But he was something else.

I remember that the sky that morning was white. You know, the sort of sky on which you’d like to scrawl portents in feathery writing! A sky that would stir up humankind to fashion the world anew… or to put an end to it once and for all!

The Old Man was waiting for me in his hermetically sealed office. From close by came the screams of some suspect being beaten up.

“Here’s my report,” I muttered, putting a sheaf of paper on his desk.

He nodded.

Then I took a crumpled envelope from my pocket.

“I must give you this as well.”

He understood at once. His grey wrinkles grew deeper.

“I suppose this is your resignation?”

“Yes, sir… I’m resigning.”

He picked up the envelope, weighed it in his hand and smiled. Then he tore it in two, having no intention of opening it, to destroy it.

The guy in the next room gave a scream, the loudest yet.

“Sit down.”

I made a gesture of refusal, I had words ready to object, but his piercing eyes were too much for me. After a while, I sat down.

And ever since then, life has gone on.

Did you know?

One of France’s most prolific and popular post-war writers, Frédéric Dard wrote no fewer than 284 thrillers over his career, selling more than 200 million copies in France alone. The actual number of titles he authored is under dispute, as he wrote under at least 17 different aliases (including the wonderful Cornel Milk and l’Ange Noir).

Dard’s most famous creation was San-Antonio, a James Bond-esque French secret agent, whose enormously popular adventures appeared under the San-Antonio pen name between 1949 and 2001. The thriller in your hands, however, is one of Dard’s “novels of the night” – a run of stand-alone, dark psychological thrillers written by Dard in his prime, and considered by many to be his best work.

Dard was greatly influenced by the great Georges Simenon. A mutual respect developed between the two, and eventually Simenon agreed to let Dard adapt one of his books for the stage in 1953. Dard was also a famous inventor of words – in fact, he dreamt up so many words and phrases in his lifetime that a ‘Dicodard’ was recently published to list them all.

Dard’s life was punctuated by drama; he attempted to hang himself when his first marriage ended, and in 1983 his daughter was kidnapped and held prisoner for 55 hours before being ransomed back to him for 2 million francs. He admitted afterwards that the experience traumatised him for ever, but he nonetheless used it as material for one of his later novels. This was typical of Dard, who drew heavily on his own life to fuel his extraordinary output of three to
five novels every year. In fact, when contemplating his own death, Dard said his one regret was that he would not be able to write about it.

If you feel like another novel of the night, try Dard’s
Bird in a Cage,
a brilliantly moody Parisian tale of suspense and murder.

Or for something even grittier, pick up a copy of Jonathan Ames’ shocking and unputdownable debut thriller,
You Were Never Really Here.