‘I agree, the man must be a giant. Count him out. What of the other four?’ asked Lebel.
‘Well, one is immensely fat, two hundred and forty-two pounds, or well over a hundred kilos. The Jackal would have to be so padded he could hardly walk.’
‘Count him out,’ said Lebel. ‘Who else?’
‘Another is too old. He’s the right height, but over seventy. The Jackal could hardly look that old unless a real expert in theatrical make-up went to work on his face.’
‘Count him out too,’ said Lebel. ‘What about the last two?’
‘One’s Norwegian, the other American,’ said Thomas. ‘Both fit the bill. Tall, wide-shouldered, between twenty and fifty. There are two things that militate against the Norwegian being your man. For one thing he is blond; I don’t think the Jackal, after being exposed as Duggan, would go back to his own hair-colouring, would he? He would look too much like Duggan. The other thing is, the Norwegian reported to his consul that he is certain his passport slipped out of his pocket when he fell fully clothed into the Serpentine while boating with a girlfriend. He swears the passport was in his breast pocket when he fell in, and was not there fifteen minutes later when he climbed out. On the other hand, the American made a sworn statement to the police at London Airport to the effect that his hand-grip with the passport inside it was stolen while he was looking the other way in the main hall of the airport building. What do you think?’
‘Send me,’ said Lebel, ‘all the details of the American Marty Schulberg. ‘I’ll get his photograph from the Passport Office in Washington. And thank you again for all your efforts.’
There was a second meeting in the Ministry at ten that evening. It was the briefest so far. Already an hour previously every department of the apparatus of the security of state had received mimeographed copies of the details of Marty Schulberg, wanted for murder. A photograph was expected before morning, in time for the first editions of the evening papers that would be appearing on the streets by ten in the morning.
The Minister rose.
‘Gentlemen, when we first met, we agreed to a suggestion by Commissaire Bouvier that the identification of the assassin known as the Jackal was basically a task for pure detective work. With hindsight, I would not disagree with that diagnosis. We have been fortunate in having had, for these past ten days, the services of Commissaire Lebel. Despite three changes of identity by the assassin, from Calthrop to Duggan, Duggan to Jensen, and Jensen to Schulberg, and despite a constant leak of information from within this room, he has managed both to identify and, within the limits of this city, to track down our man. We owe him our thanks.’ He inclined his head towards Lebel, who looked embarrassed.
‘However, from now on the task must devolve upon us all. We have a name, a description, a passport number, a nationality. Within hours we shall have a photograph. I am confident that with the forces at your disposal, within hours after that, we shall have our man. Already every policeman in Paris, every CRS man, every detective, has received his briefing. Before morning, or at the latest tomorrow noon, there will be no place to hide for this man.
‘And now let me congratulate you again, Commissaire Lebel, and remove from your shoulders the burden and the strain of this enquiry. We shall not be needing your invaluable assistance in the hours to come. Your task is done, and well done. Thank you.’
He waited patiently. Lebel blinked rapidly several times, and rose from his seat. He bobbed his head at the assembly of powerful men who commanded thousands of underlings and millions of francs. They smiled back at him. He turned and left the room.
For the first time in ten days Commissaire Claude Lebel went home to bed. As he turned the key in the lock and caught the first shrill rebuke of his wife, the clock chimed midnight and it was August 23rd.
20
THE JACKAL ENTERED the bar an hour before midnight. It was dark and for several seconds he could hardly make out the shape of the room. There was a long bar running down the left-hand wall, with an illuminated row of mirrors and bottles behind it. The barman stared at him as the door swung closed with unveiled curiosity.
The shape of the room was long and narrow down the length of the bar, with small tables set on the right-hand wall. At the far end the room broadened into a salon, and here there were larger tables where four or six could sit together. A row of bar stools were against the bar counter. Most of the chairs and stools were occupied by the night’s habitual clientele.
The conversation had stopped at the tables nearest the door while the customers examined him, and the hush spread down the room as others further away caught the glances of their companions and turned to study the tall athletic figure by the door. A few whispers were exchanged, and a giggle or two. He spotted a spare bar-stool at the far end and walked between the tables on the right and the bar on the left to reach it. He swung himself on to the bar-stool. Behind him he caught a quick whisper.
‘Oh, regarde-moi ça! Those muscles, darling I’m going out of my mind.’
The barman slipped down the length of the bar to stand opposite him and get a better look. The carmined lips widened in a coquettish smile.
‘Bonsoir … monsieur.’ There was a chorus of giggles from behind, most of them malicious.
‘Donnez-moi un Scotch.’
The barman waltzed away delighted. A man, a man, a man. Oh there was going to be such a row tonight. He could see the ‘petites folles’ on the far side of the corridor sharpening their claws. Most were waiting for their regular ‘butches’, but some were without a date and had turned up on spec. This new boy, he thought, was going to create an absolute sensation.
The client next to the Jackal turned towards him and gazed with unconcealed curiosity. The hair was a metallic gold, meticulously groomed down on to the forehead in a series of pointed spikes like a young Greek god on an ancient frieze. There the likeness ended. The eyes were mascara’ed, the lips a delicate coral, the cheeks dusted with powder. But the make-up could not conceal the tired lines of an ageing degenerate, nor the mascara the arid hungry eyes.
‘Tu m’invites?’ The voice was a girlish lisp.
The Jackal slowly shook his head. The drag shrugged and turned back to his companion. They went on with their conversation in whispers and squeaks of mock dismay. The Jackal had taken off his windcheater, and as he reached for his drink proffered by the barman, the muscles down the shoulders and back rippled under the T-shirt.
The barman was delighted. A ‘straight’? No, he couldn’t be, he wouldn’t be here. And not a butch looking for a nance, or why had he snubbed poor little Corinne when she asked for a drink. He must be … how marvellous! A handsome young butch looking for an old queen to take him home. What fun there was going to be tonight.
The butches started homing in just before midnight, sitting at the back, surveying the crowd, occasionally beckoning the barman for a whispered conversation. The barman would return to the bar and signal to one of the ‘girls’.
‘Monsieur Pierre wants to have a word with you, darling. Try and look your best, and for God’s sake don’t cry like you did last time.’
The Jackal made his mark shortly after midnight. Two of the men at the back had been eyeing him for several minutes. They were at different tables and occasionally shot each other venomous glances. Both were in late middle age; one was fat, with tiny eyes buried in obese lids and rolls on the back of his neck that flowed over his collar. He looked gross and piggish. The other was slim, elegant, with a vulture’s neck and balding pate across which the few strands of hair were elaborately plastered. He wore a beautifully tailored suit with narrow trousers and a jacket whose sleeves showed a hint of lace at the cuffs. There was a flowing silk foulard artfully knotted at the throat. Something to do with the world of the arts, fashion or hair-styling, the Jackal thought.
The fat one beckoned to the barman and whispered in his ear. A large note slipped into the barman’s tight trousers. He returned across the bar floor.
‘Th
e monsieur wonders if you would care to join him for a glass of champagne,’ whispered the barman, and regarded him archly.
The Jackal put down his whisky.
‘Tell the monsieur,’ he said clearly, so the pansies round the bar could hear, ‘that he does not attract me.’
There were gasps of horror, and several of the flick-knife-thin young men slipped off their bar-stools to come nearer so that they would not miss a word. The barman’s eyes opened wide with horror.
‘He’s offering you champagne, darling. We know him, he’s absolutely loaded. You’ve made a hit.’
For reply the Jackal slid off his bar-stool, took his glass of whisky and sauntered over to the other old queen.
‘Would you permit that I sit here?’ he asked. ‘One is embarrassing me.’
The arty one almost fainted with pleasure. A few minutes later the fat man, still glowering from the insult, left the bar, while his rival, his bony old hand indolently placed across that of the young American at his table, told his new-found friend what absolutely absolutely shocking manners some people had.
The Jackal and his escort left the bar after one o’clock. Several minutes before, the queer, whose name was Jules Bernard, had asked the Jackal where he was staying. With a show of shamefacedness the Jackal admitted that he had nowhere to stay, and that he was flat broke, a student down on his luck. As for Bernard, he could hardly believe his good fortune. As chance would have it, he told his young friend, he had a beautiful flat, very nicely decorated, and quite quiet. He lived alone, no one ever disturbed him and he never had anything to do with the neighbours in the block, because in the past they had been terribly, terribly rude. He would be delighted if young Martin would stay with him while he was in Paris. With another show, this time of intense gratitude, the Jackal had accepted. Just before they left the bar he had slipped into the lavatory (there was only one) and had emerged a few minutes later with his eyes heavily mascara’ed, powder on his cheeks, and lipstick on his mouth. Bernard looked very put out, but concealed it while they were still in the bar.
Outside on the pavement he protested, ‘I don’t like you in that stuff. It makes you look like all those nasty pansies back in there. You’re a very good-looking young boy. You don’t need all that stuff.’
‘Sorry, Jules, I thought it would improve things for you. I’ll wipe it all off when we get home.’
Slightly mollified, Bernard led the way to his car. He agreed to drive his new friend first to the Gare d’Austerlitz to pick up his bags, before going home. At the first cross-roads a policeman stepped into the road and flagged them down. As the policeman’s head came down to the driver’s side window, the Jackal flicked the inside light on. The policeman stared for a minute, then his face drew back with an expression of revulsion.
‘Allez,’ he commanded without further ado. As the car rolled away he muttered, ‘Sales pédés.’
There was one more stop, just before the station, and the policeman asked for papers. The Jackal giggled seductively.
‘Is that all you want?’ he asked archly.
‘Sod off,’ said the policeman and withdrew.
‘Don’t annoy them like that,’ protested Bernard sotto voce. ‘You’ll get us arrested.’
The Jackal withdrew his two suitcases from the left-luggage office without more than a disgusted glance from the clerk in charge; and hefted them into the back of Bernard’s car.
There was one more stop on the way to Bernard’s flat. This time it was by two CRS men, one a sergeant and the other a private, who flagged them down at a street junction a few hundred metres from where Bernard lived. The private came round to the passenger door and stared into the Jackal’s face. Then he recoiled.
‘Oh my God. Where are you two going?’ he growled.
The Jackal pouted.
‘Where do you think, duckie?’
The CRS man screwed up his face in disgust.
‘You bloody pooves make me sick. Move on.’
‘You should have asked to see their identity papers,’ said the sergeant to the private as the tail-lights of Bernard’s car disappeared down the street.
‘Oh, come on, Sarge,’ protested the private, ‘we’re looking for a fellow who screwed the arse off a Baroness and did her in, not a couple of raving nances.’
Bernard and the Jackal were inside the flat by two o’clock. The Jackal insisted on spending the night on the studio couch in the drawing room and Bernard quelled his objections, although he peeked through the bedroom door as the young American undressed. It was evidently going to be a delicate but exciting chase to seduce the iron-muscled student from New York.
In the night the Jackal checked the fridge in the well-appointed and effeminately decorated kitchen, and decided there was enough food for one person for three days, but not for two. In the morning Bernard wanted to go out for fresh milk, but the Jackal detained him, insisting that he preferred tinned milk in his coffee. So they spent the morning indoors talking. The Jackal insisted on seeing the midday television news.
The first item concerned the hunt for the killer of Madame la Baronne de la Chalonnière forty-eight hours earlier. Jules Bernard squealed with horror.
‘Oooh, I can’t stand violence,’ he said.
The next second the screen was filled with a face: a good-looking young face, with chestnut-brown hair and heavy-rimmed glasses, belonging, so the announcer said, to the killer, an American student by the name of Marty Schulberg. Would anybody having seen this man or having any knowledge …
Bernard, who was sitting on the sofa, turned round and looked up. The last thing he thought was that the announcer had not been right, for he had said Schulberg’s eyes were blue; but the eyes looking down at him from behind the steel fingers that gripped his throat were grey …
A few minutes later the door of the hall coat-cupboard closed on the staring distorted features, hair awry and tongue protruding, of Jules Bernard. The Jackal took a magazine out of the rack in the drawing room and settled down to wait for two days.
During those two days Paris was searched as it never had been before. Every hotel from the smartest and most expensive to the sleaziest whorehouse was visited and the guest-list checked; every pension, rooming house, doss-house and hostel was searched. Bars, restaurants, night-clubs, cabarets and cafés were haunted by plain-clothes men, who showed the picture of the wanted man to waiters, barmen and bouncers. The house or flat of every known OAS sympathiser was raided and turned over. More than seventy young men bearing a passing resemblance to the killer were taken for questioning, later to be released with routine apologies, even these only because they were all foreigners and foreigners have to be more courteously treated than indigenes.
Hundreds of thousands in the streets, in taxis and on buses were stopped and their papers examined. Road-blocks appeared on all the major access points for Paris, and late-night strollers were accosted several times within the space of a mile or two.
In the underworld the Corsicans were at work, silently slipping through the haunts of pimps, prostitutes, hustlers, pickpockets, hoodlums, thieves and conmen, warning that anyone withholding information would incur the wrath of the Union, with all that that could entail.
A hundred thousand men in the employ of the state, in various capacities from senior detectives to soldiers and gendarmes, were on the look-out. The estimated fifty thousand of the underworld and its fringe industries vetted the passing faces. Those making a living off the tourist industry by day or night were briefed to keep their eyes open. Students’ cafés, bars and talking clubs, social groups and unions were infiltrated with youthful-looking detectives. Agencies specialising in placing foreign-exchange students with French families were visited and warned.
It was on the evening of August 24th that Commissaire Claude Lebel, who had spent the Saturday afternoon pottering about his garden in a cardigan and patched trousers, was summoned by telephone to report to the Minister in his private office. A car came for him at six.
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br /> When he saw the Minister he was surprised. The dynamic chief of the whole of France’s internal security apparatus looked tired and strained. He seemed to have grown older inside forty-eight hours, and there were lines of sleeplessness round his eyes. He gestured Lebel to a chair opposite his desk, and seated himself in the swivel chair in which he liked to be able to spin round from the window with its view of the Place Beauvau back to the desk. This time he did not look out of the window.
‘We can’t find him,’ he said briefly. ‘He’s vanished, just disappeared off the face of the earth. The OAS people, we are convinced, just don’t know where he is any more than we do. The underworld hasn’t had sight nor sound of him. The Union Corse reckons he can’t be in town.’
He paused and sighed, contemplating the little detective across the desk, who blinked several times but said nothing.
‘I don’t think we ever really had any idea what kind of a man you have been pursuing these past two weeks. What do you think?’
‘He’s here, somewhere,’ said Lebel. ‘What are the arrangements like for tomorrow?’
The Minister looked as if he was in physical pain.
‘The President won’t change a thing or permit any of his planned itinerary to be altered. I spoke to him this morning. He was not pleased. So tomorrow remains the same as published. He will re-kindle the Eternal Flame under the Arc de Triomphe at ten. High Mass in Notre Dame at eleven. Private meditation at the shrine of the martyred resistants at Mont-Valérien at 12.30, then back to the palace for lunch, and siesta. One ceremony in the afternoon, presentation of Médailles de la Libération to a group of ten veterans of the Resistance whose services to the resistance are being rather belatedly recognised.
‘That’s at four o’clock on the square in front of the Gare de Montparnasse. He chose the place himself. As you know work has already started on the foundations for the new station, which will be set back five hundred metres from the present site. Where the station buildings now stand is due to become an office block and shopping precinct. If construction goes ahead according to plan it may be the last Liberation Day that the old façade of the station remains untouched.’
The Day of the Jackal Page 38
