The barricades were coming down and the crowds had disappeared except for the last few soaked and dogged watchers determined to wrest the last ounce of drama from the siege. Firemen and police stood in groups clearing up the last details. Misset was in hospital but the wounded uniformed man and Doctor Lacoste had been allowed to go home. The dead had been carted away and were now lying silent and still at the mortuary where they’d been joined by a last unexpected victim; as the firemen had entered the burnt-out house, a wall had collapsed and buried one of them.
Pel was in a bitter mood as he watched the pressmen trying to get eye-witness accounts to go with their stories, Démon prominent among them, immaculate and handsome, a microphone in his hand.
‘There’ll be a press conference at headquarters at midnight,’ he said abruptly.
Darcy’s head jerked round. ‘Bit soon, isn’t it, Patron?’ he asked.
‘No,’ Pel snapped. ‘I’m not having any martyrs made out of this business. They’re going to know this time how the thing was done.’
Darcy looked sideways at his chief. Pel was never one to crow at a triumph, any more than he was one to whine when things went wrong. But he was in a strange mood.
‘For once,’ he said, ‘they’re going to get it right. They do a lot of talking but they never bother to listen much, and you can learn a lot by listening. This time they’ll make no mistakes. Three policemen are dead and four are wounded. I want you to set the facts down, Daniel, for a statement and I want it ready for when they arrive. Nosjean, let the press know.’
But Nosjean wasn’t listening. Or at least he was listening to something in his own head that Pel’s words had stirred up, something which had nothing to do with what Pel was saying, and he knew suddenly what it was that had troubled him about Madame Crébert.
‘Nosjean!’
Nosjean’s head turned. ‘Patron,’ he said slowly. ‘Could you give the job to someone else?’
Pel’s eyes narrowed. He never liked people dodging duties. But it was unlike Nosjean to beg off. ‘Inform me,’ he said.
‘I’ve just had an idea, Patron.’
‘This is a funny time to have ideas.’
‘It was something you said, Patron. Things clicked together. It isn’t a hunch. It all fits. I think I know who killed the Crébert boy. I’d like to go and sort it out.’
Pel eyed him, blank-faced. Nosjean’s hunches were sometimes right, and Pel believed in hunches. His mind slipped back to the night of July 14th, and the dark woods outside Vieilly, even to Madame Faivre-Perret being driven home in a police car when Pel had hoped to have that privilege himself.
‘I’ll need de Troq’, Patron,’ Nosjean said.
‘Would you also perhaps like Lagé and Darcy and Aimedieu? Perhaps also myself and Inspector Nadauld. Perhaps, even, you’d like Inspector Pomereu, of Traffic, to set up a few diversions?’
Nosjean blushed. ‘No, Patron,’ he said. ‘Just De Troq’. I think we can clear it up between us. An hour or so will be long enough. We can be back for the press conference.’
Pel was silent for a second then he gestured. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Tell Lagé to tell the press.’
Nosjean hurried away to make a telephone call and find De Troquereau. Pel’s words had started up an idea in his mind: You can learn a lot by watching and listening. The words echoed Solange Caillaux’s sentiments and seemed to fill in the gaps that had been worrying him.
Away from the Rue Daubenon the city was functioning normally. People were going about their business, heading homewards in the darkness. Considering what had been happening, the place looked remarkably placid.
The lights in the Delacolonges’ apartment were all out save one which they assumed was the bedroom.
‘Reading in bed,’ De Troq’ said.
‘Doing something in bed at any rate,’ Nosjean agreed. ‘Her husband’s not at home. He’s on night duty. I checked with St Saviour’s.’
He looked up at the flat. It was on the first floor, its balcony roughly twelve feet above the ground. ‘You stay here,’ he said. ‘You ought to have some fun.’
The apartment block was silent as Nosjean mounted the short flight of stairs. As he rang the bell, he heard voices beyond the door. For a long time he waited, then he knocked and rang the bell again. The bolts were already being drawn as he walked slowly back down the stairs. As he reached the entrance to the block, he heard a cry and, as he went outside, he saw De Troq’ holding a man in the shadows.
‘You were right,’ he said cheerfully. ‘A lot of fun. He came through the window and over the balcony.’
He pushed forward the man he was holding. It was Martinelle. He looked a great deal tougher than De Troq’ but De Troq’ had his arm and his hand was up near the back of his head, so that his face was twisted with pain.
As they pushed him up the stairs, Madame Delacolonge was looking out of the door. She was wearing a housecoat and didn’t appear to have much on underneath. When she saw Martinelle, her face fell.
‘Oh, my God,’ she groaned.
‘Look,’ Martinelle said, as they thrust him into the flat. ‘It isn’t what it seems.’
‘Isn’t it?’ Nosjean said blandly. ‘What is it then?’
‘She’s frightened of being alone when her husband’s on nights.’
‘And you come to hold her hand?’ Nosjean gestured at the settee and as Martinelle and Madame Delacolonge sat together he looked at them coldly. ‘How long has it been going on?’ he asked.
‘A few months,’ Martinelle admitted eventually. ‘We got to know each other when she brought the boy to the gymnasium when his bicycle was punctured.’
Nosjean looked at Madame Delacolonge. ‘Regularly?’ he asked. ‘When your husband’s on night duty.’
She nodded silently.
‘Does he know?’
‘No.’ She paused. ‘He wouldn’t object, anyway. He’s so pathetic.’ She gave a weary gesture. ‘He was about as good at that as he was at everything else.’
Nosjean broke in. ‘I have a question,’ he said. ‘You can both answer it, if you like. Were you here together the night young Crébert was murdered?’
They glanced at each other then decided there was no point in denying the matter.
‘And your husband?’
‘He went to see his sister,’ Madame Delacolonge snapped. ‘He was always going. They wept on each other’s shoulders. They were a perfect pair.’
Doctor Bazin, the director of St Saviour’s, was none too pleased to be disturbed when off duty.
‘Of course it’s possible for a patient to get out,’ he said. ‘Nothing in this world can be considered perfect.’
‘Then,’ Nosjean asked, ‘how do you know he didn’t get out?’
‘I can only take the word of my staff.’
‘This staff: Are they at hand when the doctors do their rounds?’
‘Of course.’
‘Do they make notes?’
‘Some do. It depends on their skill or their enthusiasm.’
‘Could they learn from what they hear? Could they learn symptoms?’
Bazin sniffed. ‘Some are even able to diagnose and several are quite capable of prescribing. They don’t, of course, and only the sister in charge is able to obtain drugs.’
‘Never the nurses?’
‘Never!’
‘Never?’
Bazin hesitated. This, he recognised, was a dangerous question. ‘We try not to make mistakes, of course,’ he said, ‘but this place is staffed by human beings.’
Neither Nosjean nor De Troq’ spoke as they drove back into the city.
The Créberts’ door was opened by Crébert himself. ‘Good God,’ he said, when he saw them. ‘At this time of night?’
‘I’m afraid so,’ Nosjean said. ‘We’d like to see your wife.’
‘She’s gone to bed.’
‘Then I’d be grateful if you’d ask her to come downstairs, Monsieur.’
Crébert frowned. ‘Is it absolutely essential?’
‘I’m afraid it is.’
‘You realise what this will do to her, don’t you? She’s just beginning to get over the thing.’
‘Monsieur,’ Nosjean said stiffly, ‘we’re trying to bring the murderer of your son to justice.’
Crébert studied them for a long time then he shrugged. ‘Very well,’ he said.
Madame Crébert came down the stairs nervously. Nosjean said nothing until she was sitting down and Crébert had placed a brandy in her hand. Nosjean watched her carefully. He understood now the feeling he’d had about her being torn between two loyalties.
‘I’d be grateful if you’d make it as quick as possible,’ Crébert said.
‘We’ll do our best,’ Nosjean promised as Madame Crébert watched him warily. ‘It consists really of just one question. On the night of your son’s death, Madame, you said your husband was away on business and that, because you were feeling low in spirits, your brother, Robert Delacolonge, came to keep you company.’ Nosjean paused. ‘Was that true?’
Crébert gestured. ‘If my wife says so, then it must be.’
‘I have to make sure, Monsieur. Was it, Madame?’
Madame Crébert lifted a pale beautiful face towards her husband, then she looked at Nosjean again and inexplicably burst into tears.
‘Damn you!’ Crébert snarled at Nosjean. ‘Now look what you’ve done. You’d better go.’
‘I haven’t yet had an answer,’ Nosjean persisted.
‘You can see–’
‘I have to insist, Monsieur.’ Nosjean’s voice grew harder. ‘Much as I dislike distressing your wife.’
Crébert turned to his wife. ‘In the name of God, Régine, answer them!’
She gazed at her husband, the tears streaming down her cheeks. Crébert turned to a drawer, took out a tablet and handed it to her. She swallowed it quickly and took a sip of her drink. Nosjean suspected she wasn’t as distressed as she appeared to be, that she’d become skilful like her son at putting on an act to get her own way and that she was playing for time, hoping that by appearing distressed she’d put them off and they’d go.
‘Well, Madame?’ he said. ‘Was your brother here that night or not?’
Still she didn’t answer and Crébert gestured at the door. ‘You’d better go,’ he said.
‘I must insist on an answer,’ Nosjean said stiffly. ‘If I can’t get one, then I shall have to ask your wife to come to headquarters where, doubtless, the juge d’instruction will be able to persuade her.’
Crébert looked angrily at them, then back at his wife. ‘You heard what he said, Régine,’ he said harshly. ‘For God’s sake say “yes” or “no” and let’s be rid of them.’
Her eyes were huge and swimming with tears. Nosjean steeled himself. ‘Well, Madame?’ he said. ‘Was he or was he not?’
She looked at him for a moment and then she seemed to throw back her head and howl like a dog. ‘No-o-o-o!’
Nosjean and De Troq’ escaped as fast as they could. Crébert was still staring, shocked, at his wife as they let themselves out.
De Troq’ was deep in thought. ‘There’s still one thing we can’t get round,’ he said slowly. ‘The boy was seen to get into a grey car. Was it hers?’
‘It was at the Porte Guillaume,’ Nosjean pointed out. ‘A roundabout. And like all roundabouts it’s lit with sodium lights.’
He headed for the Porte Guillaume and drove the little red Renault round it slowly, giving De Troq’ time to take a good long look.
‘It’s grey!’ De Troq’ said.
‘Exactly,’ Nosjean agreed. ‘What those boys saw as a grey car was a red car. The colour had been changed by the lights.’ He drew a deep breath. ‘She knew,’ he went on. ‘She knew what her brother suffered from. She knew, because it was the same thing she suffered from. The same thing her elder son, her parents, her whole family suffered from: Mental instability. She guessed where he really was but she couldn’t say because he was the only one who could get her out of her moods. Only an unbalanced woman could have entertained such a division of loyalties for a minute.’
‘God help her husband,’ De Troq’ said. ‘It’s funny the people you can find you’ve married.’
‘Yes,’ Nosjean agreed, remembering Odile Chenandier. As he considered her, he realised he hadn’t thought of her for days. It had been easier than he had imagined. A month before he’d been wondering whether to join the Foreign Legion.