Pel and the Bombers

by Mark Hebden

  By now Pel was well aware that the men they were after must be conscious that their time had come. You didn’t have to see the policemen: Just the people in windows all staring towards Number Ninety-Seven, all aware that something unusual was about to happen and determined not to miss it.

  Barricades were erected out of sight round the corners and the crowd immediately assumed they’d been put there to enable them to see better. They pushed up to them, like spectators at a football match, youngsters sitting on them to get a better view, some actually climbing over, only to be driven back by the policemen.

  ‘All right, les gars! Back you go!’

  For the most part the police were still good-tempered but they were ready, if any one argued, to come down hard. One teenager who tried a slanging match was yanked out of the crowd at once and waltzed off to a police car whose crew rushed him down to headquarters to charge him with obstruction. Memories of Randolfi, Desouches and Lemadre were still strong in the minds of the police and they were in no mood to play games.

  Pel was checking the last details. ‘Darcy, inform the electricity, gas and water people that I want everything turned off.’

  Darcy vanished. After a while, he returned. ‘It’s not possible, Patron,’ he said. ‘The water cock for Number Ninety-Seven’s in the yard at the back.’

  ‘How about electricity?’

  ‘They can turn that off, but gas is a problem. It has to be done from the road. Right in front of the house.’

  ‘Right!’ Pel made up his mind at once. ‘Warn everybody what’s happening and turn it off for the whole area. Arrange for water to be supplied. Hot meals had also better be available. Get in touch with the emergency services.’

  By this time, the rain had stopped but it had grown stuffy, dark and threatening, and occasionally there was an ominous roll of thunder as the storm that had been gathering in the hills for over a week drew nearer. The heavy atmosphere seemed even more oppressive as Pel thought of the narrow staircase and how to deal with it.

  ‘If it comes to an all-out attack,’ the Chief said, ‘we shall have to ask for volunteers from among the unmarried men.’

  ‘Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,’ Pel growled.

  He finished his cigarette as if it were to be his last, dragging the smoke down until he coughed. The besieged house was still silent, the shutters on the ground floor closed. His eyes watering, he tossed the cigarette end away and gestured for a loud hailer. It was time to start the ball rolling.

  ‘Jaroslav Tyl,’ he called and the iron voice boomed round the narrow street. ‘Kasimir Hays. Sergei Toom Kotchkoff. We know you’re there. The house’s surrounded. There’s no escape. You’d better come out and give yourselves up.’

  There was no response and it was impossible to see what was going on inside. The ground floor windows were shuttered and the windows on the upper floors were blank, their curtains still drawn. Then Pel saw a curtain twitch in the top apartment and knew he’d been heard.

  ‘We have plenty of time,’ he went on. ‘We can wait as long as necessary. Eventually, you’ll run out of food. I’ve had the water, electricity and gas turned off. You’ll be unable to eat and drink very shortly, and you’ll have no light when it grows dark.’

  The curtain twitched again and he could just imagine the men in Number Ninety-Seven hurrying about the apartment, trying the taps. But there was no response.

  By afternoon there was still none and by this time a few tempers were growing ragged and the Chief was being nagged by the hordes of newspapermen to hold a press conference. It was clear they’d have to give way eventually because the newspapermen were beginning to get in everybody’s hair; Sarrazin, the freelance, had been warned that if he didn’t get out from under Pel’s feet he’d be arrested for obstructing the police in the performance of their duty.

  Television and radio vans helped to complete the confusion, the crews wandering about with their apparatus, hoping for a shot of something happening and, when it didn’t, having to fall back on pictures of policemen looking round corners, something they were more than willing to do so long as it wasn’t a corner that mattered, even putting on tense expressions for the occasion in case their families or girl friends happened to be watching.

  Because everybody wanted to see some action, the absence of it began to get on the nerves.

  ‘There are a lot of complaints,’ the Chief pointed out to Pel. ‘Don’t you think we should move in?’

  ‘No,’ Pel said.

  ‘People want to go about their business. The Press–’

  ‘Damn the Press!’

  The Chief’s voice grew harsher. ‘We’ve got to give them something,’ he said. ‘We depend on them as much as they do on us.’

  Pel scowled but the Chief was right and eventually they agreed to meet the pressmen in a nearby school. Démon was there, smooth, immaculate and handsome, the scratch Claudie Darel had put on his cheek clearly visible. Pel glared at him. Remembering Madame Routy, he had always known he would dislike television personalities in the flesh.

  There were the usual questions about their intentions. ‘We wait,’ Pel said.

  Then Démon got in on the act and Pel could see the cameras directed on him. ‘Wouldn’t you say you have rather a lot of men on the job, sir?’ Démon asked politely. ‘After all, there are only three men in there.’

  Pel frowned. ‘We would welcome the offer of anyone prepared to go in there to talk to them,’ he replied silkily. ‘Are you offering?’

  As Démon searched for a reply, Pel went on. ‘Let’s have no sentimental nonsense about it,’ he said firmly. ‘These men have killed three policemen and two other people, and wounded several others. They’re ruthless and prepared to kill again. I’d rather have them rotting in gaol than my men rotting on the pavement.’

  ‘Aren’t they the result of the system, sir?’ Démon was still smoothly polite but his questions were pointed. ‘Haven’t these types been created by aggressive policing?’

  ‘The state exists for the benefit of the decent citizen,’ Pel snapped. ‘Any criminal who thinks he’s being harshly treated has only to stop being a criminal.’

  ‘Isn’t there something in all men, though, sir, that should be sought and brought out? Wouldn’t closer contact with the criminal classes help?’

  ‘You should open your eyes,’ Pel snorted. ‘It’s the decent citizen not the criminal who finds himself being ambushed and beaten up. I’ve no room for men who make war on society. Because it is war, and war’s conducted in cold blood.’

  ‘Nevertheless, sir–’

  Pel glared. ‘I was brought here,’ he snarled, ‘to give the Press a report on what we’re doing, not to take part in a chat show. As far as I’m concerned, I’ve given it.’

  There wasn’t much of Pel but he could make his views felt and, as he stalked out of the schoolroom, it was left to the Chief to sort out what was left.

  The interview was on the early evening show an hour later and Pel watched it on a portable set the Chief had brought along. Pel’s words had not been changed but Démon had inserted a new lot of questions and comments and they made Pel sound aggressive, unsympathetic and harsh, and the police as mindless thugs eager to kill.

  Still nothing happened, despite Pel’s repeated requests on the loud-hailer, until abruptly two window panes fell out, one at the front, one at the back. They all knew what it meant. They’d been knocked out by weapons so that the men behind them could fire more easily.

  ‘How long are we going to wait?’ the Chief asked.

  ‘All week, if necessary’ Pel said. ‘They have no hostages because we’ve got everybody clear. We starve them out. It’s better than trying to rush them up those stairs.’

  By this time, lights had been brought up ready so that the whole street could be flooded with an ice-white glare when darkness came and there was a lot of grumbling by householders unable to get to their homes. With the exception of those with people sick in bed, most of them had be
en evacuated, while the sick had been moved to rooms at the back where they were safe. Schoolrooms had been taken over and, while parents were complaining, the children were enjoying themselves. The emergency services providing water, meals and bedding were treating it as an exercise. So far it was working well, and despite the drama that was taking place life in the streets around was continuing quite normally. Bakers and grocers and bars were operating, and a pop group, which had been rehearsing in a disused garage round the corner, had enlivened the hours with the thumping rhythm of their music. Despite the objections, they had refused to stop. ‘We’ve got a new number to work out,’ they insisted.

  Pel’s temper was mounting. Eventually there would be a demand for action but he was frightened by Number Ninety-Seven’s narrow stairs. There was still no sound from the apartment, however, and Pel even began to wonder if the men who’d been there had escaped. The policemen watching from top storey windows overlooking the back and front of the house, and the men in the neighbouring houses, in case an attempt was made to break through the walls or roof, assured him that nothing had changed.

  ‘We can hear them,’ Darcy reported from next door.

  They were still anxious to know exactly how many men were in the house. They could be anywhere now, but the general opinion was that there were two on the top floor – one watching the front, one watching the back – and the third watching the stairs. Three different voices had been heard, low and gruff as the besieged group discussed what was happening, and the Lefèvre woman had also insisted there were only three men.

  There were policemen clinging to the chimneys and in every window fronting the silent house. There were rifles with telescopic sights, submachine guns, concussion grenades, tear gas, everything that was needed. What places of vantage weren’t occupied by the police were occupied by the citizenry who, if someone was going to die, wanted to be in the front seats. But, because there were so many police about, a considerable amount of sympathy for the besieged men was running as an undercurrent to the indignation against the killers. It was a David and Goliath situation and sympathy in such cases was invariably with the underdog.

  They tried the loud-hailer again. ‘You three in there!’ This time it was the Chief who was at the microphone. ‘Can you hear me?’

  There was no reply and he went on slowly, enunciating carefully so no one could suggest the warning hadn’t been clear.

  ‘This street and the streets around are blocked and we have men with guns in every window and on every rooftop, front and rear. You’re trapped. Is that clear?’ There was still no answer. ‘Are you coming out or do we have to come in and get you?’

  The curtain twitched once more but there was no sound from the empty apartment. There was another long silence while the crowd held its breath. The Chief turned to Inspector Nadauld.

  ‘Very well’ he said. ‘Let them have the tear gas.’

  Tear gas bombs shattered glass but cupboards and wardrobes had been pushed up against the windows behind the curtains and the bombs bounced back to the pavement to fill the street with smoke. Carried on a slight breeze, it began to drift towards the crowd and a wail went up as those who caught a whiff of it stumbled away, cursing and crying. Pel scowled. Somewhere in the background he could hear Démon’s voice gleefully informing his viewers of yet another police manoeuvre that had gone wrong.

  As it happened, the weather came to their aid. The storm which had been threatening for some time arrived suddenly and unexpectedly. There was a flash of lightning and a tremendous crash of thunder, then the rain came down like stair rods, huge drops bouncing off the roadway and lashing at the men sheltering in the doorways. It washed away the gas and thinned the crowd but it didn’t drive them away. They were there to see blood and they were determined to see it. Instead, the men sent their wives off for umbrellas and raincoats and kept their vigil, determined not to be cheated.

  They were still wondering what to do next when suddenly, quite unexpectedly, a figure appeared in the doorway of the besieged house. It was as though the men inside had decided to take advantage of the storm, and those policemen who hadn’t turned their heads away from the downpour found themselves staring at a solitary gunman, hardly able to believe their eyes. They had long since come to the conclusion that nobody was coming out and for a second they all stared, frozen. The man had a weapon in each hand and was looking for someone to fire at. As he pointed the guns towards the crowd, hoping in the confusion of a new killing to escape, one of the watching policemen lifted his rifle and fired quickly.

  The figure in the doorway reeled back, then lunged forward, firing with both weapons. At once, now that the spell had been broken, every weapon in the area started hammering and the bullets began to chip chunks out of the brickwork. Caught in a crossfire, the man by the doorway staggered to the right, only to be blasted back by the shooting from that side. For a second he clutched the doorpost then struggled forward again, head down, red splotches already on his clothing. This time the firing seemed to lift him clean off his feet and dropped him on his back near the door.

  A policeman, with more courage than sense, stepped forward to see if he was dead and, as he did so, a hail of bullets, the first that had been fired from inside the house, struck the pavement about him and he bolted for cover, the bullets ricochetting and whining over the heads of the screaming, ducking onlookers.

  Taking advantage of the panic, policemen started to barge at the crowd. ‘Now, in the name of God, will you get away from here to where it’s safe?’

  A few decided it might be safer inside their own homes but, as the firing died down, the rest elected to see it out. The man on the pavement lay on his back, his knees up, his arms spread wide, blood flowing from chest, throat, face and legs.

  ‘Who is it?’ Sarrazin asked.

  ‘Well, it’s not Tyl,’ Pel said. ‘And, since he hasn’t got red hair, I’d judge that it’s Hays, the one they call the Weasel.’

  ‘Is he dead?’

  ‘You’re welcome to go and see for yourself.’

  Sarrazin declined the offer and for a long time there was silence except for an excited murmur from the crowd as everybody craned their necks to see the dead man. The firing had stopped completely now, both from the house and from the street.

  ‘Can we get him in?’ the Chief asked from his vantage point at the end of the street.

  ‘I’m sending none of my men out there,’ Pel said sharply.

  Inspector Nadauld gestured. ‘It’s not important, anyway,’ he said. ‘The important thing is that there are now only two of them. One at the back and one at the front. There can’t be anyone watching the stairs. If we rush the place we’re bound to make it.’

  The Chief looked at Pel. It was still Pel’s view that they should wait but it was clearly becoming more difficult, and eventually the Chief overruled him. Conferring with Brisard and Polverari, he decided that a group of Nadauld’s men should make the rush.

  ‘We’ve got to make the attempt,’ he said. ‘The Palais des Ducs wants to know what’s happening.’

  ‘Tell them we’re waiting,’ Pel growled.

  The Chief shrugged and it was finally decided to make the attempt with volunteers from the unmarried men.

  ‘Two groups to keep their heads down front and rear,’ Nadauld said. ‘Another to rush the door and go up the stairs.’

  ‘There’s a builder’s yard at the back,’ Judge Brisard pointed out. ‘With a garage backing up against the wall of the yard of Number Ninety-Seven. With ladders, we could get men over the garage roof and in through the back door.’

  ‘You’ll be leading them, of course?’ Pel asked, his eye running over Brisard’s plump figure.

  ‘That isn’t my job,’ Brisard said stiffly.

  ‘Neither is tackling criminals,’ Pel snapped.

  Brisard disappeared with a flea in his ear but his idea had taken root and a fourth group was organised to go over the roof of the garage to the back door.

  Pel
didn’t like it at all but he had no option. ‘Divide your men,’ he told Darcy. ‘One lot with each group. If they’re going in, we’ll need our people in there before Nadauld’s lot destroys every scrap of evidence with their great boots.’

  As the policemen hitched at their belts and checked their weapons, Darcy moved among them. ‘The rear party goes first,’ he was saying. ‘It’s going to be harder for them. They’ve got to clear the wall and get to the back door. The front party moves as soon as firing starts.’

  The rear party hurried off, their heads down against the rain, and a few minutes later a radio message came that they were in position. Almost immediately, they heard the outbreak of firing from the houses in the Rue Mozart overlooking the back windows of Number Ninety-Seven as the marksmen there tried to keep the gunmen’s heads down.

  ‘Stand by!’

  As firing started at the front, the group of uniformed and plain clothes men gathered against the wall. Firing came from the upper windows every time a policeman raised his head to shoot and they received a message by radio that the rear windows of the house were similarly guarded.

  ‘They’re both fully occupied now,’ Nadauld said. ‘Go!’

  There was a yell and the clatter of boots as the policemen rushed for the door. Immediately, they heard firing inside the house and a second later one of the policemen burst out and crouched against the wall outside, just out of range of the upper front windows. He lifted his head and yelled to the watching officers across the street.

  ‘There are still three of the cons!’ he yelled. ‘There was one on the stairs! They hit the man in front of me!’

  ‘So much for Brisard’s splendid plan!’ Pel growled.

  There were a few more shots then Nadauld’s men reappeared, their heads down, and crouched against the wall by the doorway, before bolting for shelter. There was a derisive cheer from the crowd and Pel scowled as he heard Démon’s voice, surprisingly loud over the chatter, describing what had happened. ‘Despite the numbers,’ he was saying, ‘the attack ended in a failure.’ It made them sound incompetent idiots.