Страница 91 из 93
The next section of the crutch was unscrewed, and from it slid the silencer. The second section came away to disgorge the telescopic sight. The thickest part of the crutch, where the two upper supports merged into the main stem, revealed the breech and barrel of the rifle.
From the Y-shaped frame above the join, he slid the two steel rods which, when fitted together would become the frame of the rifle's stock. Lastly the padded armpit support of the crutch; this alone concealed nothing except the trigger of the rifle embedded in the padding. Otherwise the armpit support slid on to the stock of the gun as it was, to become the shoulder-guard.
Lovingly and meticulously he assembled the rifle-breech and barrel, upper and lower component of the stock, shoulder-guard, silencer and trigger. Lastly he slid on the telescopic sight and clipped it fast.
Sitting on a chair behind the table, leaning slightly forward with the gun barrel resting on top of the upper cushion, he squinted through the telescope. The sunlit square beyond the windows and fifty feet down leapt into focus. The head of one of the men still marking out the standing positions for the forthcoming ceremony passed across the line of sight. He tracked the target with the gun. The head appeared large and dear, as large as a melon had looked in the forest glade in the Arde
Satisfied at last, he lined the three cartridges up on the edge of the table like soldiers in a row. With finger and thumb he slid back the rifle's bolt and eased the first shell into the breech. One should be enough, but he had two spare. He pushed the bolt forward again until it closed on the base of the cartridge, gave a half-twist and locked it. Finally he lay the rifle carefully among the cushions and fumbled for cigarettes and matches.
Drawing hard on his first cigarette, he leant back to wait for another hour and three-quarters.
TWENTY-ONE
COMMISSAIRE CLAUDE LEBEL felt as if he had never had a drink in his life. His mouth was dry and the tongue stuck to the roof of it as though it were welded there. Nor was it just the heat that caused this feeling. For the first time in many years he was really frightened. Something, he was sure, was going to happen during that afternoon, and he still could find no clue as to how or when.
He had been at the Arc de Triomphe that morning, and at Notre Dame and at Montvalerien. Nothing had happened. Over lunch with some of the men from the committee which had met for the last time at the Ministry that day at dawn he had heard the mood change from tenseness and anger to something almost of euphoria. There was only one more ceremony to go, and the Place du 18 Juin, he was assured, had been scoured and sealed off.
«He's gone,» said Rolland, as the group who had lunched together at a brasserie not far from the Elysee Palace while General de Gaulle lunched inside it, emerged into the sunlight. «He's gone, pissed off. And a very wise thing too. He'll surface somewhere, sometime, and my boys will get him.»
Now Lebel prowled disconsolately round the edge of the crowd held two hundred metres down the Boulevard de Montparnasse, so far away from the square that no one could see what was going on. Each policeman and CRS man he spoke to on the barriers had the same message. No one had passed through since the barriers went up at twelve.
The main roads were blocked, the side roads were blocked, the alleys were blocked. The roof-tops were watched and guarded, the station itself, honeycombed with officers and attics facing down on to the forecourt, was crawling with security men. They perched atop the great engine sheds, high above the silent platforms from which all trains had been diverted for the afternoon to the Gare Saint Lazare.
Inside the perimeter every building had been scoured from basement to attic. Most of the fiats were empty, their occupants away on holiday at the seaside or in the mountains.
In short, the area of the Place du 18 Juin was sealed off, as Valentin would say, «tighter than a mouse's arsehole'. Lebel smiled at the memory of the language of the Auvergnat policeman. Suddenly the grin was wiped off. Valentin had not been able to stop the jackal either.
He slipped through the side streets, showing his police pass to take a short cut, and emerged in the Rue de Re
Seen anyone? No, sir. Anyone been past, anyone at all? No, sir. Down in the forecourt of the station he heard the band of the Garde Republicaine tuning their instruments. He glanced at his watch. The General would be arriving any time now. Seen anybody pass, anyone at all? No, sir. Not this way. All right, carry on.
Down in the square he heard a shouted order, and from one end of the Boulevard de Montparnasse a motorcade swept into the Place du 18 Juin. He watched it turn into the gates of the station forecourt, police erect and at the salute. All eyes down the street were watching the sleek black cars. The crowd behind the barrier a few yards from him strained to get through. He looked up at the roof-tops. Good boys. The watchers of the roof ignored the spectacle below them; their eyes never stopped flickering across the roof-tops and windows across the road from where they crouched on the parapets, watching for a slight movement at a window.
He had reached the western side of the Rue de Re
«Anybody passed this way?»
«No, sir”
«How long have you been here?»
«Since twelve o'clock, sir, when the street was closed.»
«Nobody been through that gap?»
«No, sir. Well… only the old cripple, and he lives down there.»
«What cripple?»
“Oldish chap, sir. Looked sick as a dog. He had his ID card, and Mutile de Guerre card. Address given as 154 Rue de Re
«Greatcoat?»
“Yessir. Great long coat. Military like the old soldiers used to wear. Too hot for this weather, though.»
«What was wrong with him?»
«Well, he was too hot, wasn't he, sir?»
«You said he was a war-wounded. What was wrong with him?»
«One leg, sir. Only one leg. Hobbling along he was, on a crutch.»
From down in the square the first clear peals from the trumpets sounded. «Come, children of the Motherland, the day of glory has arrived…» Several of the crowd took up the familiar chant of the Marseillaise.
«Crutch?»
To himself, Lebel's voice seemed a small thing, very far away. The CRS man looked at him solicitously.
“Yessir. A crutch, like one-legged men always have. An aluminium crutch…: Lebel was haring off down the street yelling at the CRS man to follow him.
They were drawn up in the sunlight in a hollow square. The cars were parked nose to tail along the wall of the station facade. Directly opposite the cars, along the railings that separated the forecourt from the square, were the ten recipients of the medals to be distributed by the Head of State. On the east side of the forecourt were the officials and diplomatic corps, a solid mass of charcoal-grey suiting, with here and there the red rosebud of the Legion of Honour.
The western side was occupied by the serried red plumes and burnished casques of the Garde Republicaine, the bandsmen standing a little out in front of the guard of honour itself.
Round one of the cars up against the station facade clustered a group of protocol officials and palace staff. The band started to play the Marseillaise.