Nosjean was staring at a list of all the banks in the district. He had scored out the names of all the big ones and made a list of small country and suburban branches. It was still formidable and told him little. One of them, he felt, was due for the attention of the Tuaregs.
Going to the supermarket at Talant, he found Janine Ducassis in charge, with no sign of the manager or Pascal Dubois.
‘It’s her day off,’ Janine announced. ‘We’re open seven days a week here. We take our days off when we can.’
‘What about the manager?’
‘He’s gone to the bank to collect the wages. Everybody gets paid today.’
‘Much, is it?’
‘I don’t know. It must be a lot.’
‘Does he go on his own?’
‘No. Sergeant Blanqui goes with him. He’s an ex-paratrooper.’
‘Good-looking? Young and active?’
She grinned. ‘No. Ugly, old and randy. He tries to get me in his car.’
‘Which bank is it?’
‘Crédit Agricole.’
‘The one in the Place Dumanoir in the city?’
‘No. Monsieur Blond’s a bit nervous about the city. He says there are too many crooks about. He uses the branch of St-Florent. There’s an arrangement to draw the money there. I’ve been with him once. When Blanqui’s had too many brandies the night before.’
Returning to his office, Nosjean sat, frowning. While he waited, the radio squawked. It was Claudie Darel.
‘That flat,’ she said.
‘Yes?’
‘The owner’s name is–’
‘Arthur Tassigny de Bré.’
‘You knew?’
‘I wondered.’
Claudie laughed. ‘There’s movement,’ she said. ‘Pascal Dubois left. In her own car. So did De Rille. In the Ford Sierra. Twenty minutes ago. I couldn’t get through before. The radio packed up.’
‘Anything else?’
‘I think he’s got Tassigny with him. He must have been in the flat with him all night. It begins to link up. Dominique Tassigny seems to be De Rille’s girl-friend and De Rille’s the owner of the car we think was switched at Morbihaux. Pascal Dubois seems to be Arthur Tassigny’s girlfriend. I think she’s the one who passed on the information that Monique Vachonnière was in the habit of leaving her till with the key in it. The manager’s office overlooks the inside of the supermarket on one side and the forecourt on the other. She could easily have signalled to them if they were waiting across the road. I wonder if they’re going to do the supermarket again?’
‘Are they on their own?’
‘No. There’s another one doing the driving. I couldn’t see him properly. Small. Red hair.’
‘Dominique Tassigny,’ Nosjean breathed.
‘Who?’
‘The one who’s crazy about fast cars and never misses Le Mans. She’s wearing a wig. What else has she got on?’
‘One of those denim caps. Blue. With a peak. Makes her look like Lenin on a bad day.’
‘Which way did they go?’
‘They took the Savigny road out of the city. Towards Marcilly.’
‘St-Florent!’ Nosjean said.
‘What?’
‘St-Florent! It’s St-Florent!’
‘What is?’
‘The branch of Crédit Agricole. The bank Louis the Limp heard about. But they’re not doing the bank. They’re doing the manager. Get out there, Claudie!’
De Troq’ was already calling Pomereu and Turgot and telephoning the substation at St-Florent. Then he and De Troq’ left a message for Pel and ran for De Troq’s big roadster. It was bigger and faster than Nosjean’s car, a huge open affair with an enormous bonnet held down by a strap and headlights like enormous eyes. De Troq’ might be poor but it often seemed to Nosjean that poverty among the aristocracy was a comparative thing.
They found a crowd outside the bank, all huddled together with the manner of scared animals, and they knew at once they were too late. Propped against the wall was an elderly man wearing a gun and a uniform of sorts. His hat had gone and there was a livid bruise on his head and blood on his face. Alongside him was Blond, the manager of the supermarket at Talant. He was white and looked shocked and seemed barely able to speak.
‘What happened?’ Nosjean said.
‘They snatched the bag. With the wages.’
Nosjean looked about him, puzzled. The police were represented only by two constables. ‘Who’s handling this?’ he demanded.
As he turned away, Pomereu’s car screeched to a stop and policemen poured out. Almost immediately Turgot’s car arrived behind it and more men appeared, then a third car hurtled up containing Claudie Darel.
‘For the love of God,’ Nosjean yelled at the local cops, ‘who’s in control?’
‘Brigadier Maret.’
‘Well, where is he?’
One of the constables gestured and they saw there was another crowd of people several hundred metres away down the road. There was a police van there as well as an ambulance.
‘Come on!’
They fell into De Troq’s car and as it stopped again by the crowd, Nosjean jumped out.
‘What happened?’
Brigadier Maret, a fat man with steel-rimmed spectacles, gestured at a bloodstained shape in the road. Ambulance men were just covering it with a blanket.
‘Not us,’ they announced. ‘It’s the mortuary van you want. He’s dead. We can’t help him.’
The brigadier signed to one of his men. ‘Get on to them. Quick.’
‘See we get the blanket back,’ the ambulance man added. ‘We don’t want it getting lost like the last one.’
‘What happened?’ Nosjean asked him.
‘The buggers kept it. It made up their blanket numbers for one they lost some months before and–’
‘Here!’ Nosjean roared. ‘What happened here? For the love of God, a man’s dead and you’re worrying about a damned blanket!’
The ambulance man blushed and vanished and, as Nosjean showed his identity card, Brigadier Maret came to life at last. He indicated the body.
‘It’s Colonel Boileau,’ he said.
‘Who’s he?’
‘Colonel Amadéo Boileau. He lives at the other end of the village.’
‘How’s he come to be dead? What happened? Was he involved in the hold up?’
‘Well, yes and no. Some type was just coming out of the bank down there with a bag in his fist. There was another guy with him. Then these two other types appeared from a car that drew up. The first two were clubbed down and the bag snatched. The hold-up men ran back to the car and it shot off down here.’
‘And Boileau? Was he one of them?’
‘No, he wasn’t. He’s an old soldier. He was taking his daily walk.’ The brigadier indicated a cocker spaniel which was sniffing at the shape under the blanket. ‘With his dog. That’s it. He comes down here every day about this time. Before anyone knew what was happening, the car was heading this way. The colonel tried to stop it. He stepped out into the road and waved his arms.’
‘It knocked him down?’
‘They drove straight at him. They hadn’t much choice. It was either stop and be caught or knock him out of the way. He was flung into the air and hit the windscreen. The car swerved and he rolled off the bonnet and the wheels went over his chest. We have a witness, an old man coming out of the shop over there. Boileau was still lying in the road when the driver of a car down there backed into the road to stop the getaway.’
‘And?’
‘The driver of the getaway car saw the way was blocked so they reversed. Fast. They ran over the colonel a second time. Then they set off again and turned right to the main road. The colonel was caught by his jacket and dragged along. He was heard shouting for help. When people got to him his jacket had come off and he was lying in the road. The car had gone. He was already dead. The doctor says his lungs must have been crushed and penetrated by the ends of broken ribs when the car backed over him. He also has a broken neck and fractured skull.’
‘Is he married?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then don’t you think you’d better inform his wife?’
‘Oh, God,’ the brigadier said. ‘I suppose I had.’ He was obviously not looking forward to the task and Claudie stepped forward.
‘Give me the address,’ she said. ‘I’ll go.’
The brigadier obliged hurriedly.
‘Who else was in the car besides the two who did the snatch?’ De Troq’ asked as Claudie vanished.
‘Just the driver.’ The brigadier seemed shocked. ‘A kid with a linen cap on. One of those blue denim things with a peak. He had longish red hair.’
There was little doubt but that it was the Tuaregs, and this time they had gone too far. Up to now nobody had been hurt and people, reading of their exploits in the newspapers, had come to regard them as folk-heroes full of pranks and joie de vivre. Now it was different. A man was dead, a decent honourable man decorated by his country for bravery with the army. A woman was widowed. And the killing had been deliberate.
There had been plenty of witnesses who could swear to the clothing of the robbers – thick Canadiennes and scarves tied tightly round their noses and mouths. ‘Like motor cyclists.’ The phrase cropped up twice in half an hour.
Blond, the manager of the supermarket, had recovered a little by the time they returned to him and the guard was being attended by a doctor, assisted by a woman who said she was a nurse.
‘What happened?’ Nosjean asked.
‘I knew at once what was going to happen,’ Blond said, ‘because they were wearing the same coats as the men who did the supermarket.’
‘Go on.’
‘I yelled out “It’s them” and old Blanqui reached for his gun. But he’s old and too slow. He’s got enough medals to fill a cart but he got them a long time ago. I’ve been on to the owners demanding someone younger but they’ve never done anything about it. One of them hit him with what looked like a sawn-off shotgun and the other snatched the bag from me. I tried to hang on to it but he kneed me in the balls and I let go.’
‘Do you always collect the money at the same time?’
‘No. I try to vary it.’
‘Who’d know the time?’
‘Only me. And Blanqui, of course. Perhaps the office staff.’
The case occupied them for the whole of the rest of the day. The car which had been used in the hold-up was found late in the evening, parked badly, one door open, by a policeman in a prowling patrol car. Inevitably it had been stolen – from Chenove – and was the property of a doctor. It had been tuned for high speeds. There were no fingerprints – they hadn’t expected any – but the policeman who had found it had found a plastic carrier bag caught in a bush a few yards away.
‘It’s marked Supermarket Talant,’ he pointed out.
Nosjean and De Troq’ had a habit of thinking about the cases they were involved in separately, to see where their conclusions matched.
Nosjean was furious with himself. ‘An old man’s dead,’ he snarled. ‘Because I tried to be clever.’
‘Not you,’ De Troq’ pointed out. ‘De Rille and his friends.’
‘It’s as plain as a pikestaff.’
‘Now it is!’
‘De Rille and Tassigny did the job. The Tassigny girl was the driver. She’s an expert. She was probably the one who tuned up the car – at the De Rille family home. In what were the stables, remember? She learned from the people who knew – in the pits at Le Mans. We’ll give them time to get bedded down. Claudie’s keeping an eye on the place.’
They went in De Troq’s car. They had a search warrant. Judge Brisard, who should have been available, was missing and Nosjean suspected he was visiting the woman he kept at Beaune. Judge Castéou obliged with a signature.
‘The Tuaregs?’ she asked.
‘Yes.’
Ten minutes later they drew up outside 17, Rue Barnabas with a quiet squeak of brakes. Pomereu and Turgot waited a little further down the street.
Nosjean gave his instructions. ‘Two men on the front staircase, one watching the lift, and two watching the service staircase.
The block of flats where De Rille lived was silent as they paused outside.
‘Ready?’ Nosjean asked.
De Troq’ nodded.
There was no reply to Nosjean’s knock so he leaned on the bell, knocking with his other hand. Eventually they heard movement inside the flat and the door was opened. De Rille was wearing a silk dressing-gown and apparently nothing else. They pushed their way past him.
‘What the hell’s going on?’ he demanded. ‘Do you know what time it is?’
‘I have a search warrant,’ Nosjean said.
‘The hell you have! My lawyer will want to know about this.’ Nosjean pushed into the bedroom. Sitting up in bed, as naked as De Rille, was Dominique Tassigny.
‘What in God’s name’s this?’ she said. There was nothing rhapsodic or melodic about her voice this time. It was harsh and frightened and she looked as if she’d been crying.
‘Out of bed, please,’ Nosjean said. ‘Get dressed.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I say so and, if you don’t want to accompany us to the Hôtel de Police looking like that, you’ll do as I say.’
She got out of bed. De Rille was in the living-room pouring himself a whisky. As he raised it, she took it from his hand and swallowed it at a gulp. He shrugged and began to pour another. As he did so, Inspector Turgot appeared, followed by two of his men pushing in front of them Arthur Tassigny. With him was Pascal Dubois. They were both only half-clothed.
‘They came down the fire escape,’ Turgot said.
All four of them were drunk and now that the policemen could get a good look at them they saw they were all scared. Their latest prank had gone very wrong and they’d been trying to calm their nerves. There was an empty whisky bottle on its side on the kitchen floor.
De Rille made a weak effort at bluster. ‘What is this?’ he said. ‘You have nothing on us.’
‘We have a great deal on you,’ Nosjean said. ‘For instance, a wages snatch at St-Florent this morning.’
‘That’s nonsense. We have no firearms here beyond what you’ve already seen. Quite legitimate and fully licensed.’
He looked too nervous and ill at ease to convince Nosjean. ‘Search the place,’ he said.
The policemen went through the flat carefully but they turned nothing up. By this time, the four occupants, all dressed and drinking whisky, were sitting in armchairs and on the settee, beginning to look smug.
‘Nice place you have here,’ Nosjean said. ‘Ideal for two lively young couples. Two large double beds – king size are they? – plenty to drink, plenty of money. I noticed a plastic carrier bag marked “Talant Supermarket” hanging behind the pantry door.’
‘Pascal brings those,’ De Rille said easily. ‘She works there and keeps us supplied with food and drink. As staff, she gets it cheaply.’
In the main bedroom, De Troq’ was studying the bed. It was huge and seemed as large as the Parc des Princes. He tried it. It was solid and heavy and felt as if it weighed as much as a tank. He studied it for a while, then he went to the next bedroom. The bed there moved at his touch, sliding easily on castors across the thick pile carpet. De Troq’ gazed at it and pushed it a little further. A moment or two later he appeared in the door of the living-room, and gestured to Nosjean.
‘Come and look at this,’ he said.
‘Sawn-off shotguns wrapped in Canadiennes and stuffed under the floor,’ Nosjean told Pel when he appeared. ‘Together with the wages and a red wig. They’d cut a square out of the carpet and lifted four of the boards. There was no ammunition. Pascal Dubois tipped them off about the time Blond was drawing the wages. The fingerprint on the till at Talant could be Tassigny’s, and the driver was his sister wearing a red wig.’
It was almost morning by this time and De Rille, the two Tassignys and Pascal Dubois were sitting in cells.
‘They’d been doing it for a lark,’ Nosjean said. ‘De Rille had worked his way through a lot of his legacy, though there was still a bit left. But he began to grow worried that it wouldn’t last and they started this game. The Tassignys, who were always short of cash, fell in with it easily enough. Arthur Tassigny had been going around with Pascal Dubois for a long time – originally because she could get hold of cheap food and drink. They didn’t intend to go on with the game, but when the press got hold of it and started to build them up as folk-heroes, they began to enjoy it.’
Pel looked puzzled. ‘Why didn’t they bolt?’
Nosjean gave a contemptuous shrug. ‘Because they’re amateurs, patron. A professional would have thought of that.’ He was still angry with himself, feeling he should have worked it out earlier than he had. ‘They’re a lot of spoiled kids and all they can think of now is to blame each other for what happened. They thought it was just fun and the guns weren’t ever loaded. Fun! With poor old Boileau dead, with crushed ribs, a fractured skull, a broken leg, a broken neck and punctured lungs. Know what De Rille said when I charged them, patron?’
‘Inform me.’
‘“We never intended to hurt anyone.”’