by Mark Hebden
‘What in God’s name happened?’ he said.
‘I don’t know yet,’ Pel said. ‘It seems the Tuaregs have struck again. At Marix-sur-Larne. Nosjean and De Troq’ have gone out there. And there’s been another bomb and a shooting at the airport. It sounds like someone with a machine-gun. Four men have been hit. Nadauld’s in a bad way.’
There seemed to be men everywhere at the airport and lights blazed in every office and outbuilding. There was one Islander aircraft standing on the tarmac at the civil end of the field with a few privately owned small planes belonging to officers of the Armée de l’Air, whose heavy-shouldered grey Mirages stood at the other end of the tarmac in the official area of the field.
Goriot had deployed his men round the gate where the incident had taken place. Gehrer’s car was jammed hard up against a pole that supported a sign indicating the way to the headquarters and administration block. It was already taped off and a photographer with a flash camera was taking pictures. There were holes in the hood.
To Pel’s Surprise, Sarrazin, the freelance journalist, was there, too, trying to get past the guardroom. He was arguing with the orderly officer who had been called by the sergeant of the guard. The orderly officer was refusing Sarrazin permission to enter the field.
‘I can go to the civilian half and get in that way,’ Sarrazin was yelling. ‘All I have to do then is walk across to here!’
‘The civilian half of the airfield closes down at nine o’clock,’ the officer pointed out patiently. ‘And, should you try to get in here, I’ll see you’re arrested.’
‘I have a press pass.’
‘It’s not a pass to enter a restricted military area.’
As Pel appeared, Goriot emerged from the darkness. ‘Somebody seems to have sprayed the car with a sub-machine-gun,’ he said. ‘The Air Force have men looking for ejected cartridges.’
The colonel commanding the field, a man called Le Thiel, was in his office with another officer and the manager of the civil end of the field. He was in evening dress, having been called from an official dinner in the city. He shook hands briskly.
‘The shooting,’ he announced at once, ‘was done by one of the sentries. He’s admitted it. He’s been put under arrest. Since the last bomb scare they’ve had orders not to let anyone on to the field without identification and, as far as I can make out, when the bomb went off the adjutant informed your headquarters as we arranged after the last explosion. A car load of policemen arrived and when the sentry challenged them, they failed to hear and didn’t stop. The sentry opened fire.’
‘What with?’
‘His service rifle.’
‘And wounded four men? Did he keep on firing?’
‘He claims he fired once only.’
Cham appeared from nowhere. ‘Four men have been wounded,’ he said sharply. ‘Nadauld seriously. The other three received only flesh wounds. But the same bullet couldn’t have hit all four.’
‘What about the bomb?’ the Chief asked.
‘It was placed near the gate,’ the colonel said. ‘It was home-made again, we believe, but it was bigger than the last one. When it went off, the sergeant of the guard sounded the alarm, warned his men not to let anyone pass, and made a search. It was about this time that your men arrived and the sentry – a man called Girard – fired on them.’
‘Four times?’
‘He insists only once. So does the sergeant of the guard. I’ve seen Girard. He’s a conscript and not a technician. He’s a general duty entry. General duty men, if they aren’t aircrew, are available for anything that crops up. And, since the technicians are involved with the aircraft and do their own watches at the hangars, guards are usually done by this class of man. Girard doesn’t seem to be very bright and insists that he was only doing his duty. He claims he shouted twice at the car to stop and when it didn’t he fired.’
‘Four times?’ The question came again.
The colonel frowned. ‘Once,’ he insisted. ‘I’ve checked his rifle. Personally. It has certainly been fired but only one bullet from those issued to him is missing.’
‘Are you quite sure of that?’
‘It’s a standard FN rifle,’ Le Thiel said. ‘As issued to all our forces. It has a magazine of 20 rounds and can be fired automatically or for single shots. It’s a particularly good weapon for internal security. In view of terrorist activities and the recent bomb scare, the magazine’s loaded for night guard duties. But only one shot’s been fired.’
‘Nobody else fired?’
‘Nobody. We’ve checked.’
‘But four men have been hurt! One seriously!’ Pel turned to Cham. ‘What’s your view?’
‘They were in Sergeant Gehrer’s car. It’s a tourer with a hood and a plastic rear window. The bullet went through the rear window and struck Nadauld on the chin. Gehrer was hit in the right eye. It’s thought he might lose the sight of it. They’re working on him and Nadauld now at the hospital. The car went out of control and hit an iron post supporting a sign giving directions about the camp and came to a stop. Everybody in it had been hit. Nadauld has a severe wound in the face and a fracture of the lower jaw. There appear to be a number of bullet marks on the car, two in the windscreen and one on the windscreen frame, together with other smaller marks. It looks as if it’s been sprayed by a machine-gun.’
‘Only one shot was fired,’ Colonel Le Thiel insisted again.
‘That’s what Gehrer says,’ Cham agreed. ‘So do Aimedieu and Lotier who were the other two men in the car. They’re not much hurt. They insist they only heard one shot.’
‘Could the others have been fired by a gun with a silencer?’
‘The man who fired had been drinking,’ Colonel Le Thiel said. ‘To be fair, he hadn’t expected to be on sentry duty but when the bomb went off, everybody was turned out and general duty men were posted round the perimeter fence. Girard’s post was at the gate. He will, of course, be charged with assault and culpable homicide and tried by the courts in the proper way. I think we’ll find that, although subject to service discipline, he’ll still be within the reach of the ordinary law of the land and will not be able to plead exemption by being in the service.’
The hood of Gehrer’s old-fashioned VW was up. Gehrer had had the car for years because he was an open-air fiend and didn’t like closed cars. It still stood, with its right headlight broken, jammed against the post supporting the sign indicating the headquarters and administrative block. It was surrounded by broken glass.
When Leguyader of Forensic arrived, with the aid of a torch they examined it as carefully as they could. There were two holes in the windscreen, each apparently made by a separate bullet. The hood had been pierced, and there were several other marks. On the upper part of the windscreen frame there was an oval dent about two centimetres long which appeared to have been made by a 7.62 mm bullet. In and around the windscreen, on the frame of the front passenger seat, on the seat itself and on the hood, there appeared to be small pieces of lead and nickel and fragments of human tissue and bone, obviously from Nadauld’s wound. On the back seat was a portion of a 7.62 bullet, consisting of the aluminium tip and the cupro-nickel jacket.
‘It looks to me as if two or three bullets were fired,’ Leguyader said. ‘From the windscreen alone it seems more than one struck the car.’
Colonel Le Thiel frowned and shook his head. ‘The sergeant and the other members of the guard insist only one was fired,’ he said again. ‘We’ve made a search for used cartridge cases. We found only one.’
‘So, if only one bullet was fired by Girard,’ Pel said, ‘where did the others come from?’
Six
The special conference called by the Chief for the following morning looked like being a gloomy affair. Nadauld’s wound was appalling and he was in the intensive care unit.
When Pel appeared the Chief hadn’t yet arrived but they all knew Nadauld was on the danger list and, from the report from the hospital, it looked very much as if Gehrer
still might lose the sight of an eye.
‘Fragment of glass,’ Cham said. ‘The bullet must have thrown it out from the windscreen. If it had been a bullet, it would have killed him.’
As Pel took his place, Darcy came up behind him quietly. ‘Goriot’s picked somebody up,’ he said.
‘Who? The bomber? The man who fired the shots?’
‘He thinks they’re the same man.’
‘Anybody we know?’
‘Not half. It’s Philippe Duche.’
‘What!’
‘He was stopping all the traffic in the area and Duche happened to be there with one of his trucks. Goriot hauled him out. He’s going to charge him.’
‘What happened?’
‘I told him not to be a damned fool.’
‘How did he react to that?’
‘He pulled rank.’
‘He has the same rank as you.’
‘He’s had it a bit longer, patron.’
‘And been out of action for a long time. You’d think he’d feel his way a bit.’
‘I think being blown up changed him, patron. I used to think of him as being a bit solid between the ears and slow to act. He isn’t now. Still solid between the ears but he’s too busy for my liking.’
‘Where’s Duche now?’
‘In the cells.’
‘And Goriot?’
‘Making out the charge.’
‘Go and see him. Duche’s to be allowed to go unless Goriot has a cast-iron case. Duche’s no fool and he’ll sue if he hasn’t.’
Goriot was in his office sitting at the desk writing. He had a look that was almost ecstasy on his face.
‘I hear you’ve picked up Philippe Duche for the affair at the airport,’ Darcy said.
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘He was there.’
‘Charged him?’
‘No. Not yet.’
‘Had he a gun?’
‘He’d hidden it.’
‘Where?’
‘I expect he threw it in the ditch.’
‘Searched the area?’
‘We’re doing it now.’
‘You’d better find something,’ Darcy warned. ‘Where did you pick him up?’
‘In traffic passing the airport gate.’
‘Going to the airport or away?’
‘Almost outside.’
‘Which way?’
‘To the airport.’
‘So he couldn’t have been there when the shots were fired. I think you’d better release him. Otherwise you’ll make a fool of yourself.’
‘Duche was known to possess a sub-machine-gun.’
‘Eight years ago.’
‘He must still have it. Four men have been hit. In quick succession. That indicates a machine pistol. Duche’s brother was the only man known to have one. Duche must have it now.’
‘Did he admit it?’
‘He denied having anything to do with it. Or with the bomb.’
‘Of course he did. He never went in for explosives and he’s straight these days.’
‘How do we know?’
‘We know.’
‘I don’t,’ Goriot retorted. ‘And I never take for granted statements made by habitual criminals.’
‘You heard what the Chief said. You’re making a mistake.’
‘I’m making an arrest!’ Nevertheless, Goriot, his eyes blazing, began to screw up the form he had been writing on. Indifferent to his look of hatred, Darcy turned away and descended the stairs. Philippe Duche was sitting in the interview room, glowering at the wall, watched by one of Goriot’s team. He didn’t rise as Darcy entered.
‘I haven’t even got a gun,’ he said at once.
‘You had one.’
Duche managed a smile. ‘More than one. But I handed them in. You know I did. I was even fined for possessing firearms without a licence. I thought it was worth it to have proof that I’d got rid of them. It all came out in court.’
‘Well, you’re free to leave.’
‘Who says I am?’
‘I do.’
‘The other guy – Goriot – says he wants to question me.’
‘He’s changed his mind.’
Duche’s expression changed at once. ‘No Strings?’
‘No strings. Just one question. What happened to that FN you had?’
Duche gave the hint of a smile. ‘I was once going to use it to kill your boss,’ he said. ‘I had it hidden. In my mother’s home. But when I escaped from gaol I daren’t go near it. Then you put me back in gaol. When I was finally discharged I smashed it. With a sledge hammer. I threw the pieces in the river.’
‘That’s what I heard. You’d better go before Goriot changes his mind.’
By the time Darcy returned to the conference, the Chief had arrived. He looked about as amenable as an atom bomb.
‘Nadauld’s in a bad way,’ he announced. ‘The hospital says it’s touch and go. There’s another point. I was telephoned by Sarrazin, the freelance. Apparently he heard of the bomb as soon as I did.’ He flourished a piece of paper. ‘And this morning in the post I received a letter from Councillor Lax wanting to know why police aren’t permanently on duty at the airport. Who informed Lax?’
‘Sarrazin?’ Pel offered mildly.
‘I’ll see Sarrazin,’ the Chief said in a way that boded ill for the journalist.
‘If he’s available,’ Pomereu observed. ‘I heard he spent most of the night in the guardroom. He was warned not to try to get into the field via the civilian half, but he bribed a night watchman. He was arrested.’
‘Good,’ the Chief said.
Eventually the bad temper subsided and they got down to discussing the puzzle of the four bullet wounds but only one shot.
Darcy looked up. ‘Perhaps there weren’t four bullets,’ he observed.
‘That’s nonsense,’ Goriot said. ‘Four men were hit. How would one bullet do that?’
‘Bullets do some funny things,’ Darcy pointed out. ‘There was that case in Marseilles when that cop was hit. Rifle bullet from a distance of ten to fifteen yards. It passed through both legs. The guy died from loss of blood within an hour. The bullet went through the fleshy part of the right thigh. Clean-cut entrance wound, but the damage increased as it left the leg and the exit hole was six centimetres across. It then entered the left thigh. The entrance hole this time was a lacerated wound sixteen centimetres by seven. It struck the lower end of the left femur and smashed it to bits. Several fragments made their exit on the other side of the thigh. It was thought for a long time that two shots had been fired. One from the left. One from the right. They thought they were looking for a gang. It turned out to be a kid of seventeen.’
‘That was different,’ Goriot argued. ‘Here there are four clear wounds. Four! Four different men were hit. Not a bullet through both of one man’s legs.’
‘We require expert help,’ Leguyader, of Forensic, said. ‘I’m not competent to speak much on the subject.’
It was a tremendous admission for Leguyader to make because he liked people to think he was an expert at everything. He was even said to read the Encyclopédie Larousse every evening after dinner so he could blind people with science the next day.
‘Ballistics is a specialised subject,’ he went on. ‘Gunshot wounds are not always as obvious as they look. There can be too many misleading signs. Distance, angle, type of weapon are all important. Where bone is close to the point of entry, anything can happen. It seems to have done so in poor Nadauld’s case. We need someone expert in ballistics who can tell us what happened.’
‘Try Judge Castéou,’ Pel said.
‘She’s an expert?’ Leguyader looked startled.
‘Her husband is. He’s Armand Castéou. He’s the top man in his field.’
The latest report on the injured men arrived as they talked. It indicated that Aimedieu and Lotier had both been allowed to leave the hospital, that Gehrer’s injury had been found to be less serious tha
n at first thought, but that Nadauld’s condition had deteriorated.
A guarded announcement had already been made to the press, giving away little detail on the understanding that the press would find that out for themselves. Most of them reacted cautiously but Fiabon, of France Dimanche, gave it the full treatment.
‘BOMB AT AIRPORT’, he announced. ‘FOUR BADLY HURT.’ The report made it sound as though the bomb had done the damage. Fiabon had let his imagination run away with him and claimed the police had got a good lead and were on the track of the bomber.
‘It’ll keep the bastard quiet for a bit, at least,’ Darcy said. ‘He’ll not be planting any more bombs for a while.’
‘Why did he plant them in the first place?’ Pel asked.
‘Why?’ Darcy looked startled. ‘Well, we’ve got the Free Burgundy Movement and the Friends of the Soil, who seem to like blowing holes in it to prove their loyalty to it. There are Communists and Nihilists and Anarchists. We’ve even had trouble with the Free Brittany lot and the Basque Separatists, though what the hell they have to do with us I don’t know.’
The talk moved to the Tuaregs’ latest coup. Because of the newspapermen’s concern with the bomb, they had only a sketchy version of the hold-up. But Nosjean was growing worried. He and De Troq’ had spent all the previous evening with the Dutch tourists, forty of them, in their hotel, all indignant at being robbed, with their holiday ruined. As usual, none of them was able to help much with descriptions. Some claimed the men who had robbed them had worn stocking masks, some said they hadn’t. Some said they’d been threatening, others said they’d been polite. Some said they were tall and thin, others short and fat, or dark, or fair. One man claimed he had struggled with them and tried to show a bruise, but apparently he was known to the others as a tall story type and he was shouted down.
It hadn’t been easy because the tourists didn’t speak French. Fortunately De Troq’, who seemed to be able to speak every language under the sun from Eskimo to Swahili, could speak German, and the Dutch were able to understand that. He gave the Chief the version he’d picked up.
‘Two pistol-carrying men appeared as the tourist bus stopped near Marix,’ he said. ‘It drew into a lay-by for a rest period and they appeared from the trees. They’d followed it in. The tourists were robbed of every valuable they possessed. The women had their necklaces, earrings and rings removed, and the men had to throw their watches, money, travellers’ cheques and passports into carrier bags that were held out.’