The Executioner Weeps E-Book

Frédéric Dard

• Herausgeber: Pushkin Vertigo
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017

Seitenzahl: 180

Beschreibung

WINNER OF THE 1957 GRAND PRIX DE LA LITTÉRATURE POLICIÉREIt was fate that led her to step out in front of the car. A quiet mountain road. A crushed violin. And a beautiful woman lying motionless in the ditch.Carrying her back to his lodging on a beach near Barcelona, Daniel discovers that the woman is still alive but that she remembers nothing - not even her own name. And soon he has fallen for her mysterious allure. She is a blank canvas, a perfect muse, and his alone. But when Daniel travels to France in search of her past, he slips into a tangled vortex of lies, depravity and murder.The Executioner Weeps is a macabre thriller about the dangerous pitfalls of love.Frédéric Dard (1921-2000) was one of the best known and loved French crime writers of the twentieth century. Enormously prolific, he wrote more than three hundred thrillers, suspense stories, plays and screenplays, under a variety of noms de plume, throughout his long and illustrious career. Dard's Bird in a Cage, The Wicked Go to Hell, Crush, The Gravediggers' Bread and The King of Fools are also available or forthcoming from Pushkin Vertigo.

Leseprobe

Whose dark or troubled mind will you step into next? Detective or assassin, victim or accomplice? How can you tell reality from delusion when you’re spinning in the whirl of a thriller, or trapped in the grip of an unsolvable mystery? When you can’t trust your senses, or anyone you meet; that’s when you know you’re in the hands of the undisputed masters of crime fiction.

Writers of the greatest thrillers and mysteries on earth, who inspired those that followed. Their books are found on shelves all across their home countries—from Asia to Europe, and everywhere in between. Timeless tales that have been devoured, adored and handed down through the decades. Iconic books that have inspired films, and demand to be read and read again. And now we’ve introduced Pushkin Vertigo Originals—the greatest contemporary crime writing from across the globe, by some of today’s best authors.

So step inside a dizzying world of criminal masterminds with Pushkin Vertigo. The only trouble you might have is leaving them behind.

While many of the events in this story are true, all the characters who figure in it are wholly imaginary.

F.D.

Contents

Title PageEpigraph PART ONE123456PART TWO7891011PART THREE1213141516171819PART FOUR202122232425PART FIVE26272829Also Available from Pushkin VertigoCopyright

PART ONE

1

What is the saddest thing in the world? For me, it’s a broken violin. Which is as may be, but it was the sight of the smashed violin case on the road with the strings poking out of it that got to me most. It summed up the accident more completely than the young woman lying by the ditch, with her fingers dug into the dry soil and her skirt rucked up over her superb thighs. Oh yes, I felt that lifeless violin like a physical hurt. It was like a final twist of the fate which had led me to that place at that time.

I recall that only moments before I’d been thinking about my childhood, prompted probably by the Spanish night which teemed with fireflies and moths that flattened themselves against my windscreen with a dull, sickening, thudding sound… They reminded me of summer evenings long ago when, before I allowed myself to be put to bed, I’d breathe in the sweet fragrance of the old lime tree that stood at the back of our house.

Every evening I’d go outside and spend some time watching the sinister shadows gather against the pale night sky. The air was alive with countless frantic insects which surrounded me and danced the macabre farandole of dusk.

I’d been thinking of the lustrous lost land of my green youth. Like some luminous ploughshare, my headlights traced furrows in the dark. The air was warm and, to my left, the low murmur of the sea filled the cloud-streaked sky. I’d taken a room in a very modest inn beside the sea at Castelldefels called the Casa Patricio which was run by an elderly Catalan couple. The cooking was no better nor worse than anywhere else, and if the accommodation had proved to be basic, the place at least had the advantage of being located right on the beach. I had a clear view over the sea and it was its monotonous voice which always called to me when the sun transformed it into a great fiery brazier.

The ideal place for a holiday.

And then suddenly everything had changed. Yes, everything, and all on account of that now supine figure which had come out of the night and leapt into the bright lights of my car.

I had slammed on the brakes with all my strength, with all the power at my command. The split second which followed seemed to last longer than the longest years of my life. In a flash, the figure had come into focus; I’d seen that it was a woman and that she was young and pretty.

I’d told myself, in a horrible voiceless scream, that I was going to hit her. In all honesty, there was no way I could have avoided the collision.

The instantaneousness of thought is remarkable. In less than a second I’d asked myself a whole lot of questions about my imminent victim. I found time to wonder who she was, what she was doing at that hour on that deserted road carrying a violin case, and especially why she’d deliberately thrown herself under the wheels of my car. But most particularly I’d asked myself another more secret, more human question: how many sins was I about to rack up with this disaster? At that time of night, there’d be no witnesses to testify that it was a case of suicide.

And then I’d hit her. The collision was actually duller than the impact made by the moths colliding with my windscreen, but the shock of it left my whole being shaking for some time. My engine must have stalled because everything went quiet, although I’d made no attempt to cut the ignition. Everything around me had gone quiet. I was rooted in a world which had frozen and the sound of the sea no longer reached me.

My first conscious look was directed at my two hands which were trembling. They suddenly seemed alien to me. I made considerable effort to remove them from the steering wheel. Then I flung open the passenger door and leapt out.

The mild evening air began to fill with life again. A flutter of wings eased its return… I saw the smashed violin case on the tarmac and was overwhelmed by the sight of it: it looked like a crushed wooden abdomen spilling its entrails… Something violent, something indefinable rose from the very heart of my being into my throat. I could have wept, but the enormous ball which blocked my gullet prevented me from doing any such thing… I turned and looked at my victim. She was lying at the side of the road, on the bank, in an abandoned pose. It was as if she’d submitted to death the way an exhausted body surrenders itself to sleep.

I bent over her. I was calm again now. I’d never before touched an inanimate body to check whether it was still alive, and I was filled with a sense of immense ineptitude. I had no idea how to set about it. I didn’t dare to touch her… My right-hand headlamp bathed her with yellow light which emphasized her blondness. My hand wandered vaguely over her warm body in search of a heartbeat… I found her heart at once, as if it had drawn my hand to it. She was alive! I was filled with a grim, almost painful elation.

Taking extreme care, I turned her onto her back. She was strikingly beautiful. This sudden closeness gave me a shock. Her hair was very long and she had slightly raised oriental cheekbones. Her features were perfectly regular. Her eyes remained closed. Her chest rose and fell in time with her rapid breathing. She gave a low moan.

“Do something!” I told myself.

I cursed myself for dithering. I took hold of the girl by the back of her neck and under her knees. Then, with one heave, I lifted her off the ground. Caught off balance, I almost fell backwards with my load. I steadied myself by holding her closer to my chest then carried her back to the car.

The vanity light was bright enough for me to examine her. Apart from a nasty graze on her left elbow, a few bruises on her legs and a bump on her temple, she appeared to be unharmed… But I didn’t dare give a sigh of relief.

Mechanically I turned the key in the ignition. The engine spluttered a few times before starting… I slipped it into gear and a splintering sound came from under the car: it was the violin case. I drove off into the night not knowing exactly what I was going to do with the injured girl. It was the first time I’d been in Spain and I didn’t speak the language. That is what dissuaded me from driving her to a hospital in Barcelona. I needed help, and old Señor Patricio seemed to be the only one who could get me out of the fix I was in… Since I was no more than about ten kilometres from Castelldefels and because the condition of the young woman didn’t seem critical I decided to carry straight on to the Casa on the beach.

I got there before my victim had regained consciousness. The place was still lit and this made me feel better. The inn consisted of one large whitewashed hall which was used as a dining area. The side looking out onto the beach was mostly window, while in the other three walls was a series of green-painted doors. These were doors to bedrooms which were hardly bigger than bathing cubicles and sparsely furnished with a bed and a chair. These alcoves were more like monks’ cells then hotel bedrooms, but life there was lived exclusively outdoors and these cubbyholes designed for sleep made you want to go out and frolic about over the vast beach which bristled with spiny plants.

The staff who worked at the Casa Patricio were seasonal and slept on mattresses laid out every night on the floor of the large communal room. At the back of the dining area a sizeable recess partitioned off by a metal shutter was used as a bar. Old Patricio, drinking from the bottle, was finishing his twentieth beer of the evening. He got drunk twice a day on red wine and then “cured” himself by downing staggering quantities of beer.

He was a short, gnarled old man with long white hair combed straight back and intensely blue eyes. He put his empty bottle down on the narrow counter running round the recess. A deep sigh emerged from between his lips.

He gave me a wink. His drunken face wore a leering expression.

“Had fun in Barcelona?” he said in a thick voice. “You did the barrio chino?”

By way of a reply I made a sign for him to follow me outside. Intrigued, he stepped over his employees, who were snoring on their thin mattresses.

I’d left my car door open, so the light would stay on. From the door of the Casa there was a clear view of the injured woman lying on her back on the seat. She might have been some saint or other resting inside a glass shrine. Patricio took a step back.

He asked me a question in Spanish which I didn’t understand, then started walking. The wind from the sea plastered his shirt to his sweating body.

He reached the car, stared at the woman then looked up at me. His polite expression had vanished and now as he turned to me his hard Catalan face seemed to have been carved out of boxwood with a knife.

“She threw herself in front of my car on the main road.”

He nodded.

“Doctor,” I muttered.

“Yes…”

We lifted the woman out of the car… Her clothes were white with dust… Her head flopped down over her left shoulder and the bump on her temple had turned purple.

“You have a room?”

Patricio gave an affirmative nod. He’d taken the girl’s legs and was walking sideways towards the Casa. We passed through the eating area without waking any of the staff. With his foot, the old man nudged open the green door nearest the kitchen. Taking great care, we set the injured woman down on the low bed which virtually filled the entire room.

Patricio examined her thoroughly. He undid my victim’s printed blouse and ran his thick fingers sedately over her chest. The sight revolted me, and with a quick movement of my arm I pushed his hand away.

“No! Doctor!”

“Yes… I’m going…”

And off he went muttering vague words under his breath which were doubtless not very flattering to me. A moment later I heard the roar of his two-stroke motorbike as it tore along the bumpy road. I dropped onto the foot of the bed, my legs giving way with the after-effects. It had been a terrible shock to the system and I was finding it hard to deal with. My hands had begun to tremble just as they had at the moment of impact.

Inwardly I sent up a prayer that there’d be no lasting consequences for the young woman… What was worrying me was the fact that she was so deeply unconscious…

I left the room and, as I passed the bar, I grabbed Mister Gin’s bottle. Mister Gin was an English tourist so named by the other guests staying at the Casa Patricio because he drank the equivalent of a full bottle of gin every day. He’d make an appearance after lunch and old Patricio would begin serving him continuously until he closed up for the night.

Usually he finished the bottle. But that evening he’d left about a wine-glassful which I drank straight from the bottle.

Patricio returned a quarter of an hour later, accompanied by the local doctor. And a strange sort of doctor he was too. He looked more like a street hawker with his thin canvas suit, his look of exhaustion, wire-rimmed glasses (one arm of which had been mended with white cotton) and his unshaven cheeks.

He crouched by the bed to examine the patient. First her head… then the rest of her body… As his examination progressed, he proceeded to remove her clothes. I felt my cheeks redden because she was pretty and had a good figure… When he’d finished, he gave a nod.

“No serious damage,” he said to me.

He cleaned her wounds and bandaged them up. He asked me for fifty pesetas which he slipped into his pocket with the quick gesture of a money-loving man.

“Hasta mañana!”

“See you tomorrow, doctor.”

I considered his diagnosis a trifle hasty and his treatment somewhat basic, but I said nothing. When he’d gone, I tucked the woman up then felt her brow. It was cool and she was now breathing regularly, as if she were asleep.

“Bed!” old Patricio said to me and showed me to my room.

“What about the police?”

He frowned. The word made him nervous.

I watched him shift his weight from one foot to another. He smelt of sweat and the rough red Spanish wine had left his lips covered with a purplish film which flaked at the corners of his mouth.

He was probably thinking about the carabineros, Spain’s border guards, who patrolled the beach each morning and always dropped in for a drink at the Casa.

“Mañana…”

“Mañana” would be time enough to take stock… No one hurries in Spain… It is a country that lives off its former glories and has yet to be gripped by the heady fever of progress.

I gave one last glance at the young woman lying on that monkish bed with her long fair hair for a pillow. She was something like a character out of a legend… There was mystery behind that delicate face.

I dragged myself away from my ruminations. I could have spent the rest of the night gazing at her, the way a sculptor of genius contemplates the recumbent figure on a tomb which was born of his chisel.

Mañana!

Yes, tomorrow… Tomorrow, perhaps I’d know…

2

It took me a long time to get to sleep. Outside on the beach, Tricornio, the Casa’s house dog, kept barking at the fishing boats whose riding lights out on the sea marked a sort of luminous frontier. I was riven with anxiety. In the darkness of my tiny room I relived the various phases of the accident… I couldn’t manage to surrender myself to sleep… The same series of events kept running through my head, and opening my eyes wasn’t enough to break the sequence: it was something that went on happening inside me. I saw the bright triangle of my headlights, the grey road, the hedges of lentisk and the shape—I knew at once it was human—which, I knew not why, was leaping out at me. My entire body became a brake, a mass of muscles bracing itself against the inevitable. I felt the shock… And again, as horrible as the never-endingness of hell, the same question would arise in my reeling brain: had she been badly hurt?

The crushed violin case… Details I’d paid no attention to but which my senses had registered now came flooding back through the dense darkness… I saw the black pegs still attached to their strings strewn over the tarmac… The velvety-purple sheen of the case…

I eventually dozed off before finally sinking into a heavy sleep at the bottom of which the Mediterranean boomed.

Then, as happened every morning, it was the bustle of the hotel staff which woke me. There were three of them. There was Tejero, the bone-idle waiter; Pilar, who washed the dishes; and Pablo, a rather simple-minded adolescent who did everything and nothing and whose main usefulness lay in soothing the nerves of old Patricio when he’d been overdoing the manzanilla.

When they were awake the three of them sang heart-rending flamencos as they cleaned the hall. Usually I made myself scarce and went for my first bathe. When I opened my eyes that morning, I found that my anxiety was intact. All the same thoughts were there, lying in wait for me.

I leapt out of bed and hurried barefoot to the anonymous woman’s room.

The staff, who hadn’t been told anything, watched me with surprise.

“Amigo?” Tejero asked me.

“Si…”

I opened the door.

She was awake and sitting on the bed with her back against the plaster of the wall examining the grazes covering her arms.

At the sound I made as I entered she looked up and for the first time I saw her eyes.

They were tawny and filled with flecks of gold. They added intelligence to her good looks, which is truly the finest gift that can be bestowed on a pretty face.

She stared at me. The sudden appearance in that tiny room of a man in pyjamas must have left her nonplussed. I smiled at her as I tried to work out where to begin.

Of course, I came out with the most banal words that only an idiot like me could have found.

“Did you sleep well?”

She didn’t reply. Her blazing eyes burned into my very soul. In them I saw a burning need to know.

“I… It was me driving the car that knocked you over last night… How do you feel?”

Suddenly I realized I was speaking to her in French and that consequently there was every chance that she didn’t understand me.

The hotel staff were standing motionless in the doorway, staring with surprise at this new guest they hadn’t seen arrive… Pablo’s pale stupid face irritated me. I pushed the door shut with my foot. Above the head of my victim was a skylight which allowed the sun to shine in. In the bright light her skin glowed in a most extraordinary way. I’d never seen skin so tempting; it seemed so soft and warm that I wanted to stroke it.

I sat down on the bed.

“Do you mind?”

She held me with those tawny eyes, but her anxious expression relaxed and she seemed calmer now.

“What happened to me?”

I give a start. She’d just spoken in a clipped voice, in French, and with no trace of an accent.

“You’re French?”

“French?”

She thought about this for a moment, as if she didn’t quite understand the meaning of the word. Then she nodded.

“Yes… French…”

The accident seemed to have affected her memory. Again I felt a surge of anxiety.

“You don’t remember?”

A spasm shook her whole body. Each word passed through a filter before reaching her understanding.

“No.”

I could see that she bitterly regretted not being able to remember. The need to know was like a physical ache.

“Last night on the road… You…”

I hesitated. I couldn’t very well bring up the subject of her failed suicide attempt. The word “accident” seemed more appropriate.

“I bumped you with my car. You really don’t remember?”

“No…”

“Where do you live?”

She raised one hand to her head… Her forehead was furrowed with the effort.

“I don’t know.”

“Do you live in Spain?”

She started. Then in a disbelieving voice she stammered:

“Spain? Why in Spain?”

“You really don’t know that we’re in Spain?”

A flicker of amusement appeared in her eyes, but it was fleeting.

“You’re joking!”

“I’m not joking… We’re in Castelldefels, a few kilometres south of Barcelona. Barcelona. Come, doesn’t that ring any bells?”

My throat had gone dry. If she couldn’t remember that she was in Spain then she must be in a bad way.

Again, in a voice that barely carried, I stammered:

“Barcelona.”

“No! Is this true?”

Suddenly, without anything to lead up to it, she began to sob. She cried the way a small girl cries, without any of that instinctive embarrassed need to hide her tears.

“What happened to me? What happened?”

I put my hand on the back of her neck. It was warm and even smoother than I thought.