Mangin smiled broadly without opening his mouth.
Silence fell. The two w****s gazed outside with a melancholy air. It wasn’t warm in the room but the slender one fanned herself with a piece of paper.
“Where’s she been found?” Duan asked. His fingers stroked the dusty absinthe bottle.
“Underneath the Pont des Arts.”
Duan smiled and Mangin recognized in the giant the romantic death-wish, so characteristic of his race.
“Of course. No better place to die than under a bridge.”
Mangin waited patiently.
“I know a man,” the Turk went on. “An exalted madman, as I said. A few months ago, he surfaced with the Apaches, trumpeting forth that he was seeking companions who wanted to share an ‘unbelievable nihilism’. That’s what he calls it – he wants to commit an act that is simultaneously everyth
