by Elaine Young
Chapter 10
PANTIN
August 1974
Pantin sat uneasily on the edge of his chair. The young secretary made him nervous. She was chewing gum and filing her carmine nails, totally disinterested in anything else. She had told him that Dubois was busy and as he did not have an appointment, there was no way that he could see the chief.
‘Tell him it is Pantin,’ he insisted, ‘he will see me right away. He always does.’ She ignored him so he sat forward, shoulders hunched, rough hands clasped between his knees. As he waited there, he tried to dispel the image of Eduard’s suffused face and bulging eyes that lurked uninvited in his consciousness. In war-time this sort of thing had come easily but now, he realised, he was no longer used to killing; the memory of his friend’s terror as he tightened the noose suddenly made him feel nauseous. He pushed those feelings aside. He had faithfully completed a commission from Le Patron. He had done it for Jacques. All that mattered was the great man’s approval. After a long wait he stood up and tried to open the door to Dubois’ office. The young woman leapt up to stop him but, as though at a signal, the door opened. Dubois stood in the doorway.
‘Pantin. Come in. I have been expecting you. I hope you have brought good news for me . . .’ said Dubois smoothly.
Pantin turned triumphantly to the secretary to show her that he should have been admitted long ago, but she had turned away and was looking for something in her desk drawer. ‘Mission accomplished mon Capitaine,’ he said, saluting as he passed Dubois, who closed the door gently behind him.
Pantin’s smile faded as he saw two men wearing dark glasses and dark suits sitting on the sofa in the office. They look like the Mafia on the Télé . . . Dubois introduced them simply as Pierre and Bruno. At that, they stood up wordlessly and came to stand on either side of him. One was taller than he; both were younger and powerfully built. He flicked a sideways glance at them, then frowned, mystified, at Dubois’ smiling face.
Pantin tried to step forward, but was held back by a massive grip on both of his arms. He struggled, but he knew it was useless. As the one man held his arms, the other put a gag in his mouth and tied it behind his neck. Pantin could not believe what was happening. His eyes beseeched Dubois who merely nodded at the other two. Pantin was dragged, struggling, to the desk.
‘I want you to write a letter to your sister. I have made it easy for you. All you have to do is copy a letter I have written.’
Implacable hands held him down and a pencil was put in his hand. As he read the letter he was supposed to copy, his eyes bulged and he began sweating as he tried to wrench himself away.
‘Come, it is a mere formality. After all you did kill Eduard. You were too hasty, you know. . . Oh yes, your foolish little nurse friend told us all about it! We could have found out a great deal more from Faron, but it is done and there is only one way to mend it now.’ The silky voice spoke almost caressingly.
Great tears fell from Pantin’s eyes and splashed onto the sheet of writing paper. As he copied the letter he could hardly read what was written. He was shaking uncontrollably as he finished. Then a muscular arm encircled his neck and he knew no more.
The door opened as the two men were busy arranging the pitiful remains of Pantin on the Persian rug. Madame Dubois stood in the doorway. Her eyes widened with shock and she made to leave the room, but Dubois motioned her in and told her to close the door. He took her arm in a vicelike grip and compelled her to watch as the men folded the floppy arms across the chest and rolled the body in the carpet. Silently they put the gruesome bundle on their shoulders and left the room by the garden door.
When they had gone, Elise Dubois wrenched herself out of her husband’s grasp. He shrugged and sat down and placed his fingertips together, elbows on the desk, as he looked at her expressionlessly. She was shaking violently as she covered her mouth with both hands. Through the open windows, she could hear the soft thwack of tennis balls and the light-hearted banter of her daughters playing tennis. They might as well have been in another world. The odour of cheap cologne left behind by the departing men made her want to be sick.
‘He outlived his usefulness and he knew more than was healthy,’ he said impassively. ‘Now you do too. You will not speak of this, my dear Elise, lest you end up like that, too. At the very least I will expose your oh, so respectable father for the charlatan that he is. Your family will never recover from the scandal.’
‘His money was good enough for you when you married me for the settlement wasn’t it, and now you despise him and want to destroy him? What about our daughters? Will you destroy them too? They love you and believe in you. Would you be proud to have them come into the room and witness what I . . . what you . . .’ she stopped, so appalled at what she had seen she couldn’t carry on. He stood up, moved to the drinks cabinet and poured himself a whisky. He went over to the window with his back to the room as he gazed out at the well-kept garden. He gave no indication that he had even heard her.
Without another word, she flung herself from the room, slamming the door behind her.
