The special conference called by the Chief for the following morning looked like being a gloomy affair. Nadauld’s wound was appalling and he was in the intensive care unit.
When Pel appeared the Chief hadn’t yet arrived but they all knew Nadauld was on the danger list and, from the report from the hospital, it looked very much as if Gehrer still might lose the sight of an eye.
‘Fragment of glass,’ Cham said. ‘The bullet must have thrown it out from the windscreen. If it had been a bullet, it would have killed him.’
As Pel took his place, Darcy came up behind him quietly. ‘Goriot’s picked somebody up,’ he said.
‘Who? The bomber? The man who fired the shots?’
‘He thinks they’re the same man.’
‘Anybody we know?’
‘Not half. It’s Philippe Duche.’
‘What!’
‘He was stopping all the traffic in the area and Duche happened to be there with one of his trucks. Goriot hauled him out. He’s going to charge him.’
‘What happened?’
‘I told him not to be a damned fool.’
‘How did he react to that?’
‘He pulled rank.’
‘He has the same rank as you.’
‘He’s had it a bit longer, patron.’
‘And been out of action for a long time. You’d think he’d feel his way a bit.’
‘I think being blown up changed him, patron. I used to think of him as being a bit solid between the ears and slow to act. He isn’t now. Still solid between the ears but he’s too busy for my liking.’
‘Where’s Duche now?’
‘In the cells.’
‘And Goriot?’
‘Making out the charge.’
‘Go and see him. Duche’s to be allowed to go unless Goriot has a cast-iron case. Duche’s no fool and he’ll sue if he hasn’t.’
Goriot was in his office sitting at the desk writing. He had a look that was almost ecstasy on his face.
‘I hear you’ve picked up Philippe Duche for the affair at the airport,’ Darcy said.
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘He was there.’
‘Charged him?’
‘No. Not yet.’
‘Had he a gun?’
‘He’d hidden it.’
‘Where?’
‘I expect he threw it in the ditch.’
‘Searched the area?’
‘We’re doing it now.’
‘You’d better find something,’ Darcy warned. ‘Where did you pick him up?’
‘In traffic passing the airport gate.’
‘Going to the airport or away?’
‘Almost outside.’
‘Which way?’
‘To the airport.’
‘So he couldn’t have been there when the shots were fired. I think you’d better release him. Otherwise you’ll make a fool of yourself.’
‘Duche was known to possess a sub-machine-gun.’
‘Eight years ago.’
‘He must still have it. Four men have been hit. In quick succession. That indicates a machine pistol. Duche’s brother was the only man known to have one. Duche must have it now.’
‘Did he admit it?’
‘He denied having anything to do with it. Or with the bomb.’
‘Of course he did. He never went in for explosives and he’s straight these days.’
‘How do we know?’
‘We know.’
‘I don’t,’ Goriot retorted. ‘And I never take for granted statements made by habitual criminals.’
‘You heard what the Chief said. You’re making a mistake.’
‘I’m making an arrest!’ Nevertheless, Goriot, his eyes blazing, began to screw up the form he had been writing on. Indifferent to his look of hatred, Darcy turned away and descended the stairs. Philippe Duche was sitting in the interview room, glowering at the wall, watched by one of Goriot’s team. He didn’t rise as Darcy entered.
‘I haven’t even got a gun,’ he said at once.
‘You had one.’
Duche managed a smile. ‘More than one. But I handed them in. You know I did. I was even fined for possessing firearms without a licence. I thought it was worth it to have proof that I’d got rid of them. It all came out in court.’
‘Well, you’re free to leave.’
‘Who says I am?’
‘I do.’
‘The other guy – Goriot – says he wants to question me.’
‘He’s changed his mind.’
Duche’s expression changed at once. ‘No Strings?’
‘No strings. Just one question. What happened to that FN you had?’
Duche gave the hint of a smile. ‘I was once going to use it to kill your boss,’ he said. ‘I had it hidden. In my mother’s home. But when I escaped from gaol I daren’t go near it. Then you put me back in gaol. When I was finally discharged I smashed it. With a sledge hammer. I threw the pieces in the river.’
‘That’s what I heard. You’d better go before Goriot changes his mind.’
By the time Darcy returned to the conference, the Chief had arrived. He looked about as amenable as an atom bomb.
‘Nadauld’s in a bad way,’ he announced. ‘The hospital says it’s touch and go. There’s another point. I was telephoned by Sarrazin, the freelance. Apparently he heard of the bomb as soon as I did.’ He flourished a piece of paper. ‘And this morning in the post I received a letter from Councillor Lax wanting to know why police aren’t permanently on duty at the airport. Who informed Lax?’
‘Sarrazin?’ Pel offered mildly.
‘I’ll see Sarrazin,’ the Chief said in a way that boded ill for the journalist.
‘If he’s available,’ Pomereu observed. ‘I heard he spent most of the night in the guardroom. He was warned not to try to get into the field via the civilian half, but he bribed a night watchman. He was arrested.’
‘Good,’ the Chief said.
Eventually the bad temper subsided and they got down to discussing the puzzle of the four bullet wounds but only one shot.
Darcy looked up. ‘Perhaps there weren’t four bullets,’ he observed.
‘That’s nonsense,’ Goriot said. ‘Four men were hit. How would one bullet do that?’
‘Bullets do some funny things,’ Darcy pointed out. ‘There was that case in Marseilles when that cop was hit. Rifle bullet from a distance of ten to fifteen yards. It passed through both legs. The guy died from loss of blood within an hour. The bullet went through the fleshy part of the right thigh. Clean-cut entrance wound, but the damage increased as it left the leg and the exit hole was six centimetres across. It then entered the left thigh. The entrance hole this time was a lacerated wound sixteen centimetres by seven. It struck the lower end of the left femur and smashed it to bits. Several fragments made their exit on the other side of the thigh. It was thought for a long time that two shots had been fired. One from the left. One from the right. They thought they were looking for a gang. It turned out to be a kid of seventeen.’
‘That was different,’ Goriot argued. ‘Here there are four clear wounds. Four! Four different men were hit. Not a bullet through both of one man’s legs.’
‘We require expert help,’ Leguyader, of Forensic, said. ‘I’m not competent to speak much on the subject.’
It was a tremendous admission for Leguyader to make because he liked people to think he was an expert at everything. He was even said to read the Encyclopédie Larousse every evening after dinner so he could blind people with science the next day.
‘Ballistics is a specialised subject,’ he went on. ‘Gunshot wounds are not always as obvious as they look. There can be too many misleading signs. Distance, angle, type of weapon are all important. Where bone is close to the point of entry, anything can happen. It seems to have done so in poor Nadauld’s case. We need someone expert in ballistics who can tell us what happened.’
‘Try Judge Castéou,’ Pel said.
‘She’s an expert?’ Leguyader looked startled.
‘Her husband is. He’s Armand Castéou. He’s the top man in his field.’
The latest report on the injured men arrived as they talked. It indicated that Aimedieu and Lotier had both been allowed to leave the hospital, that Gehrer’s injury had been found to be less serious than at first thought, but that Nadauld’s condition had deteriorated.
A guarded announcement had already been made to the press, giving away little detail on the understanding that the press would find that out for themselves. Most of them reacted cautiously but Fiabon, of France Dimanche, gave it the full treatment.
‘BOMB AT AIRPORT’, he announced. ‘FOUR BADLY HURT.’ The report made it sound as though the bomb had done the damage. Fiabon had let his imagination run away with him and claimed the police had got a good lead and were on the track of the bomber.
‘It’ll keep the bastard quiet for a bit, at least,’ Darcy said. ‘He’ll not be planting any more bombs for a while.’
‘Why did he plant them in the first place?’ Pel asked.
‘Why?’ Darcy looked startled. ‘Well, we’ve got the Free Burgundy Movement and the Friends of the Soil, who seem to like blowing holes in it to prove their loyalty to it. There are Communists and Nihilists and Anarchists. We’ve even had trouble with the Free Brittany lot and the Basque Separatists, though what the hell they have to do with us I don’t know.’
The talk moved to the Tuaregs’ latest coup. Because of the newspapermen’s concern with the bomb, they had only a sketchy version of the hold-up. But Nosjean was growing worried. He and De Troq’ had spent all the previous evening with the Dutch tourists, forty of them, in their hotel, all indignant at being robbed, with their holiday ruined. As usual, none of them was able to help much with descriptions. Some claimed the men who had robbed them had worn stocking masks, some said they hadn’t. Some said they’d been threatening, others said they’d been polite. Some said they were tall and thin, others short and fat, or dark, or fair. One man claimed he had struggled with them and tried to show a bruise, but apparently he was known to the others as a tall story type and he was shouted down.
It hadn’t been easy because the tourists didn’t speak French. Fortunately De Troq’, who seemed to be able to speak every language under the sun from Eskimo to Swahili, could speak German, and the Dutch were able to understand that. He gave the Chief the version he’d picked up.
‘Two pistol-carrying men appeared as the tourist bus stopped near Marix,’ he said. ‘It drew into a lay-by for a rest period and they appeared from the trees. They’d followed it in. The tourists were robbed of every valuable they possessed. The women had their necklaces, earrings and rings removed, and the men had to throw their watches, money, travellers’ cheques and passports into carrier bags that were held out.’
‘Any descriptions?’
‘They were so shocked they could only give the vaguest descriptions. We’ve issued them to the press, of course.’
There was just one clue. One of the tourists had noticed that the carrier bag into which he had tossed his money had been marked with red lettering and it had the name ‘Talant’ on it.
‘It was obviously one of those they used when they robbed the supermarket there,’ Nosjean said. ‘It doesn’t prove much, though, beyond that they were the same gang and that they’ve turned their attention to other means of earning their living.’
‘Is that all?’ the Chief asked.
‘Not quite. There was a bit of a scuffle. One of the women tried to resist and her glasses were knocked off. One of the Tuaregs trod on them. By accident. He picked them up and handed them to her. Trying to do a Claude Duval highwayman act. Bags of politeness, chivalry and apologies for damaging them. They were bent and the right lens was broken. I’ve passed them to Prélat in case there are fingerprints on them because the fingerprint from the till at Talant was no good. Too smudged. We might just get one from the glasses.’
‘Any theories?’
‘I still believe they’re first-timers who’ve found an exciting way of making money. In all their hold-ups they’ve used stolen cars – more than one – and switched from one to another until they picked up their own, which we now think might be a fawn Sierra 2000. But we’ve noticed that in all their earlier hold-ups, the cars they used were stolen from places like Lyons, Amiens, Auxerre, Strasbourg. The last three times they’ve been lifted here in the city. Two in the University district. They’re probably growing over-confident – or just lazy. I’d like to have someone watch the area.’
‘University’s a big district,’ the Chief said.
‘We could have someone prowling round. They might spot some youngster in a fawn Ford Sierra.’
‘What have you in mind?’
‘Claudie Darel. With another woman detective to alternate with her.’
The Chief looked at Pel.
‘It could work,’ Pel said. It had worked before. There was the famous case of the young cop who had arrested a driver for not wearing a seat belt and been startled to discover he’d picked up one of the most wanted men in the country.
‘Very well,’ the Chief said. ‘We’ll give it a try. Set it up. I’ll ask for a uniformed policewoman to help out.’
Nosjean and De Troq’ were chiefly intrigued by the fact that in their hold-up of the Dutch tourists, the Tuaregs had carried the loot in a plastic carrier bag from the supermarket at Talant.
‘That supermarket has the strange ability to be involved with us about once every other month,’ Nosjean said. ‘If it isn’t a break-in or a fire or a fight, it’s a carrier bag containing loot and bearing its name. Let’s go and have another word with that girl who got the gun stuffed up her nose.’
Janine Ducassis seemed to have recovered well from her ordeal, particularly as the manager, also recovering, had praised her and made her a till supervisor. Her job was no longer to sit at a till and take money, but to collect notes when the tills became too full and convey them to the office accounts department.
They found her sitting at a desk counting money and she beamed at them as they appeared. Carefully – the manager had obviously chosen well – she finished the counting, put the money in the safe and motioned them to a couple of unoccupied chairs.
As they sat down, the manager’s secretary, Pascal Dubois, entered with a cup of coffee. She seemed surprised to see Nosjean and De Troq’ but Janine Ducassis gestured.
‘I think we can run to two more cups, Pascal,’ she said. ‘Decent ones. Not from the machine.’
By the time the coffee came and Pascal Dubois had left again, they had been through all the rules and regulations governing the giving away of plastic carrier bags.
‘Except,’ Janine said, ‘that I didn’t give him one. They’re free with fifty francs’ worth of goods. Below that you have to pay for them. Twenty centimes.’
‘I don’t suppose he paid, did he?’ De Troq’ asked.
‘No,’ she said. ‘He just reached under the counter and helped himself to several. From the other side.’
‘So he knew where they were?’
‘He must have done. He didn’t fiddle around searching for them. He didn’t even look.’
‘Have you ever seen him before? I mean, could he have made a point of coming in to case the joint? I expect he did at some point – or someone did – but had you ever noticed anyone of that sort?’
Janine Ducassis hadn’t. Nor had she ever before noticed anyone in the store wearing Canadiennes such as the robbers had used.
‘And I didn’t see their faces,’ she said. ‘They had these scarves over them. Tied tightly. Like motor cyclists. And dark glasses. Did you get any fingerprints?’
‘One,’ Nosjean said. ‘Not a very good one. What about the girl who left her key in the till? Did she get the sack?’
‘Yes.’ Janine Ducassis nodded. ‘Monique Vachonnière. It’s against the rules to leave the key in the till. You have to collect it at the office and sign for it and even if you leave your till for a minute, you take it with you. But I’d seen Monique do it before. More than once.’
‘What’s her address?’
‘She lives on the housing estate at Talant. Rue Marcel-Sembatte. I don’t know the number, but it’s only a short street. You could find her at the Supermarket Sport at Chenove. She got a job there. Filling shelves.’
The Supermarket Sport at Chenove was smaller than the one at Talant and they found Monique Vachonnière, who was plump and spectacled and nervous, busy stacking packets of washing powder on the shelves from a huge trolley. The manager had to be approached and he was wary.
‘Police?’ he asked. ‘Why do you want to see her? Has she a record?’
‘She hasn’t a record,’ Nosjean said. ‘But she was at the supermarket at Talant when it was robbed and we’d like to speak to her.’
‘Was she involved? You have to be very careful whom you employ these days.’
Well, Nosjean thought, in a way she was involved, but it seemed it was carelessness rather than criminal intent.
In the end the manager gave his permission for them to talk to the girl and she took them to a store room, where they leaned against the cartons of washing powder to interview her.
‘I wouldn’t have left the damned till,’ she said, her eyes filling with tears. ‘But Pascal Dubois once told me it was all right for a few seconds. I had to. I’d had a cup of coffee and – well, you know. The tills can’t be opened in a second. But that man opened it straight away so he must have known how to. I was just coming back and I saw him. I was paralysed and started screaming when Janine started. I told the manager what Pascal had said but she said she didn’t and, of course, he believed her rather than me. She’s better looking. It cost me my job. Filling shelves isn’t as good as handling cash.’
It didn’t lead them very far but they still had the Ford Sierra that the old man had seen left at Morbihaux which appeared to have been swopped for the car used in the hold-up. Claudie had managed to see a similar car briefly heading past the Faculty of Science in the area of the University, containing a man and a girl. They were a handsome couple and not at all what they were looking for, but it seemed worth while keeping a look-out for them. It was late in the evening and the girl just might have been Janine Ducassis.