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Jean Ducret, head of De Gazelle's personal bodyguard, inclined his head.
«The Brigade Criminelle…» the Minister fixed Commissaire Bouvier with his eye, «obviously has a lot of underworld contacts in its pay. I want every one mobilised to keep an eye out for this man, name and description to be supplied. Right?»
Maurice Bouvier nodded gruffly. Privately he was disquieted. He had seen a few manhunts in his time, but this was gigantic. The moment Lebel provided a name and a passport number, not to mention a description, there would be nearly a hundred thousand men from the security forces to the underworld sca
«Is there any other source of information that I have overlooked?» asked the Minister.
Colonel Rolland glanced quickly at General Guibaud, then at Commissaire Bouvier. He coughed.
«There is always the Union Corse.»
General Guibaud studied his nails. Bouvier looked daggers. Most of the others looked embarrassed. The Union Corse, brotherhood of the Corsicans, descendants-of the Brothers of Ajaccio, sons of the vendetta, was and still is the biggest organised crime syndicate in France. They already ran Marseilles and most of the south coast. Some experts believed them to be older and more dangerous than the Mafia. Never having emigrated like the Mafia to America in the early years of this century, they had avoided the publicity that had since then made the Mafia a household word.
Twice already Gaullism had allied itself with the Union, and both times found it valuable but embarrassing. For the Union always asked for a kickback, usually in a relaxation of police surveillance of their crime rackets. The Union had helped the Allies to invade the south of France in August 1944, and had owned Marseilles and Toulon-ever since. It had helped again in the fight against the Algerian settlers and the OAS after April 1961, and for this had spread its tentacles far north and into Paris.
Maurice Bouvier, as a policeman, hated their guts, but he knew Rolland's Action Service used Corsicans heavily.
«You think they can help?» asked the Minister.
«If this Jackal is as astute as they say,» replied Rolland, «then I would reckon that if anyone in Paris can find him the Union can.»
«How many of them are there in Paris?» asked the Minister dubiously.
«About eighty thousand. Some in the police, Customs officers, CRS, Secret Service, and, of course, the underworld. And they are organised.»
«Use your discretion,» said the Minister.
There were no more suggestions.
«Well, that's it, then. Commissaire Lebel, all we want from you now is one name, one description, one photograph. After that I give this Jackal six hours of liberty.! 'Actually, we have three days,» said Lebel, who had been staring out of the window. His audience looked startled.
«How do you know that?» asked Max Fernet.
Lebel blinked rapidly several times.
«I must apologise. I have been very silly not to see it before. For a week now I have been certain that the Jackal had a plan, and that he had picked his day for killing the President. When he quit Gap, why did he not immediately become Pastor Jensen? Why did he not drive to Valence and pick up the express to Paris immediately? Why did he arrive in France and then spend a week killing time?»
«Well, why?» asked someone.
«Because he has picked his day,» said Lebel. «He knows when he is going to strike. Commissaire Ducret, has the President got any engagements outside the palace today, or tomorrow, or Saturday?»
Ducret shook his head.
«And what is Sunday, August 25th?» asked Lebel.
There was a sigh round the table like wind blowing through corn.
«Of course,» breathed the Minister, «Liberation Day. And the crazy thing is, most of us were here with him on that day, the Liberation of Paris, 1944.»
«Precisely,» said Lebel. «He is a bit of a psychologist, our Jackal. He knows there is one day of the year that General de Gaulle will never spend elsewhere than here. It is, so to speak, his great day. That is what the assassin has been waiting for.»
«In that case,» said the Minister briskly, «we have got him. With his source of information gone, there is no corner of Paris that he can hide, no single community of Parisians that will take him in, even unwittingly, and give him protection. We have him. Commissaire Lebel, give us that man's name.»
Claude Lebel rose and went to the door. The others were rising and preparing to leave for lunch.
«Oh, there is one thing,» the Minister called after Lebel, «how did you know to tap the telephone line of Colonel Saint-Clair's private flat?»
Lebel turned in the doorway and shrugged.
«I didn't,» he said, «so last night I tapped all your telephones. Good day, gentlemen.»
At five that afternoon, sitting over a beer at a cafe terrace just off the Place de L'Odeon, his face shielded from the sunlight by dark glasses such as everyone else was wearing, the Jackal got his idea. He got it from watching two men stroll by in the street. He paid for his beer, got up and left. A hundred yards down the street he found what he was looking for, a woman's beauty shop. He went in and made a few purchases.
At six the evening papers changed their headlines. The late editions carried a screaming ba
There was a photo beneath it of the Baro
The second man came over and accosted Rolland.
«Colonel Rolland?»
The head of the Action Service nodded.
«Please follow me.»
He led the way through a door at the back of the cafe and up to a small sitting room on the first floor, probably the owner's private dwelling. He knocked, and a voice inside said, «Entrez.»
As the door closed behind him; Rolland took the outstretched hand of the man who had risen from an armchair.
“Colonel Rolland? Enchante. I am the Capu of the Union Corse. I understand you are looking for a certain man…
It past eight o'clock when Superintendent Thomas came through from London. He sounded tired. It had not been an easy day. Some consulates had co-operated willingly, others had been extremely difficult. Apart from women, Negroes, Asiatics and shorties, eight foreign tourists had lost their passports in London during the previous fifty days, he said. Carefully and succinctly he listed them all, with passport numbers and descriptions.
«Now let's start to deduct those whom it ca
«Yes, that checks,» said Lebel. «We have discovered that part of his last journey out of London was spent in Paris. From July 7th until July 31st'
«Well,» said Thomas, his voice crackling on the London line, 'three of the passports were missed while he was not here. We can count them out, yes?»
“Right” said Lebel.
“Of the remaining five, one is immensely tall, six feet six inches, that's over two metres in your language. Besides which, he's Italian, which means that his height on the fly-leaf of his passport is given in metres and centimetres, which would be immediately understood by a French Customs officer who would notice the difference, unless the Jackal is walking on stilts.»