Dupin recognized the sound immediately. With a speed and precision that would have seemed unthinkable judging from his heavy build, he flung himself to the ground on the left, where the narrow strip of grass fell steeply away to a reservoir pool. He rolled away skillfully, turning so that he slipped into the pool legs and feetfirst, and found his footing. The water was about half a meter deep. Dupin drew his weapon—a SIG Sauer 9mm—and instinctively trained it on the hut. It was far from perfect cover, but it was better than nothing. The bullet had hit nearby, to his right. He couldn’t tell exactly where it had come from, whether it was from the large hut or one of the smaller shacks nearby. He hadn’t seen anything at all. Dupin’s thoughts were racing. You didn’t think in a normal way in a situation like this. Instead a hundred things mingled at once: bright, sharp observations, reflexes, instincts, and scraps of thought muddled together feverishly and produced what people vaguely called “intuition.”
Dupin needed to work out where his assailant was. And hope that there was only one of them.
There were three sheds in his line of sight, all close together. The one closest to him was about ten meters away.
The shooter couldn’t have been all that close, otherwise he wouldn’t have missed his target.
Again the high-pitched noise—and another dull impact. Not far from him. And again. And once more birds took fright and rose screeching into the sky. Dupin slid lower into the pool, kneeling now with the water up to his stomach. A fourth one.
This time the bullet couldn’t have missed him by more than a matter of centimeters. He felt something on his left shoulder. It felt as though the shots were all coming from one direction now. Then suddenly there was silence. Perhaps the assailant was trying to find a better position.
It was clear to Dupin that taking cover in the pool was not a solution. He had to do something. His thoughts were racing. He could only have the element of surprise on his side once. Hopefully. Just once.
He leapt out of the pool at lightning speed, pointing his gun toward where he believed the shooter was, firing again and again as quickly as the gun would allow. He stormed toward the closest hut as he did so. He had emptied the magazine by the time he got there. Fifteen shots.
Dupin took a few deep breaths. There was a deathly silence. The commissaire was curiously calm, as he always was when a situation was volatile. Still, a cold sweat had broken out on his forehead. He didn’t have a second magazine with him. There was one in the glove compartment of his car, but not here. He had his mobile, but that was no use right now, although he should obviously try to file a report soon.
The hut he was now crouching behind was made from heavy-duty corrugated iron, but it was hard to tell how heavy-duty it was. And Dupin had no idea where the door was. Or whether it was unlocked. But it was probably his only chance. He was on one of the two longer sides of the hut. The most logical thing would be if the door was facing the path, which would mean it was to his left. He knew he didn’t have long to think about it. And he would get exactly one attempt to make this move.
With quick, cautious steps, he moved to the corner, pressing himself right up against the iron sheeting. He paused for a moment. Seconds later he lunged around the corner with a sudden movement, saw a door, wrenched it open, flung himself inside, and slammed it shut again after him.
The whole thing took two or three seconds. Either the assailant hadn’t seen Dupin or he had been caught truly off guard. The fact was, he hadn’t opened fire.
It was pitch black in the hut. The last of the dim light was only coming in through gaps in the door.
Dupin gripped the door handle firmly. It was just as he had suspected: he couldn’t lock the door from the inside. Dupin reached for his mobile—that was the most important thing now. Nolwenn’s number was the second-to-last one on redial. The small screen lit up a surprising amount of the space in the hut. Dupin looked around swiftly. The front half of the hut was empty, and there were half a dozen large sacks and some kind of rods in the back half. He gaped at the screen again. He had no reception.
This couldn’t be happening. No reception. Not a single bar. CONNECTION NOT POSSIBLE. The message on the screen was direct and unequivocal. He was used to this: here, at the end of the world, you were often cut off from the rest of the world, indeed. It was only in the large towns that you could occasionally get good reception. His radio must be in the car—next to the second magazine. In violation of every police regulation, Dupin seldom carried it on him. Perhaps he would have found a local officer on one frequency or another. He certainly could have found someone on the emergency frequency, but that didn’t matter now: he didn’t have it with him. And it was extremely unlikely anyone would happen to come past this secluded spot at this hour.
“Crap.”
He had blurted this out far too loudly. A moment later there was a deafening, metallic sound and Dupin nearly dropped his phone. A gunshot. And another. A third. The same hellish noise each time. Dupin held his breath. He had no idea whether the iron sheeting could withstand the bullets. Especially if the shooter was clever and kept shooting at the same place. He couldn’t make out any bullet holes yet. The sound of a bullet on the corrugated iron rang out again, and this time it was louder—the shooter seemed to be coming closer to the hut. Two more gunshots in quick succession. Dupin knelt down and propped one elbow on his knee, the heel of his hand wedged underneath the door handle. But even like this it would be difficult to stop someone opening the door. The leverage he had was much worse. He had to hope that the assailant would not dare to try the door for fear of an exchange of fire. All of a sudden there was a dull impact against the door. It wasn’t a gunshot, but as if a massive object had slammed into the door, then a kind of loud scraping. The door handle rattled for a moment. Somebody was right outside the door, a few centimeters away from him. Dupin thought he could hear a quiet voice saying a few words but he wasn’t sure. Then things went silent again.
Nothing happened for the next few minutes. It was nerve-racking. He didn’t know what his assailant would do next and there was no way to find out. There wasn’t a thing he could do, except hope that the person wouldn’t try to storm the hut. The one thing he would surely guess was that Dupin’s mobile didn’t have good reception here and he wasn’t able to call for help.
But it was very likely his assailant would look around and see the patrol car. Or else there was a patrol out on the road anyway and it would report the police car directly. It also depended on the scale of whatever was going on here.
Suddenly Dupin heard a car engine, not close to the hut, but not that far away either. He hadn’t seen any cars on his way here. The engine was kept running for a while and nothing was happening. Then the car moved off. Dupin could hear it, muffled but unmistakable. What was happening? Was his assailant fleeing? He had achieved something. After a few more meters the car braked abruptly. Dupin waited for the sound of doors opening. But nothing happened.
Suddenly his mobile rang. Moving automatically, he reached for the device.
“Hello?” he barked, his voice low.
All he could hear was crackling and hissing.
“This is an emergency. I’m in the Guérande salt marshes. In a hut. I’m being fired on. My car is on a side road off the Route des Marais. I walked west along the gravel path from there. Hello?”
Dupin hoped that the caller would hear some of what he was saying and raise the alarm. But it was very unlikely.
“Hello? This is an emergency!” He was practically screaming now, without intending to. “I’m being shot at, I…”
“—just calling to—table—eight o’clock.”
Dupin didn’t recognize the distorted voice. But the phrases “table” and “eight o’clock” had been oddly easy to make out. This was unbelievable. It must be La Palette calling about his reservation for tomorrow evening. Stéphane perhaps, the headwaiter, who knew it was always best to remind Dupin of his exact booking.
“A police emergency
—please call the Commissariat Concarneau—Hello, Stéphane?”
The caller obviously hadn’t understood a word. But Dupin had to make use of this phone reception, no matter how bad it was. For as long as it was still there at all. There was just one solitary bar. He quickly pressed the red button and then immediately hit redial for Nolwenn’s mobile number. It was ringing. Dupin could hear it clearly. Once. Then the connection dropped. He tried again. No luck. He stared at the screen in disbelief: the solitary bar had vanished.
A moment later, he heard the car, whose engine had been running the whole time, driving away at speed.
Dupin put his mobile back on the ground. He had to keep an eye on the screen. But nothing happened.
The car was out of earshot now. It had left the salt marshes. Had there been just one assailant or were there two or perhaps more? If there had been more than one, had one stayed behind? And were they now simply waiting for Dupin to leave the hut? Were they laying a trap for him?
It would be too risky to leave now. He would have to stay put. He would have to keep on waiting in this stuffy hut, unable to do anything. The situation wasn’t over yet.
* * *
It was a little after ten. Nothing at all had happened in the last half hour—it felt like it had gone on forever. Dupin had stayed in this unbelievable position, sweating more and more, switching between his left and right arms every two or three minutes to block the door handle. It wasn’t long before everything hurt, then gradually he had lost all feeling in his hands, arms, and legs, and at some point he went numb throughout his body. All he could feel was the occasional sharp pain in a spot on his left shoulder. He reckoned the temperature inside the hut was over eighty-five degrees, and almost all of the oxygen seemed to have been used up.
He needed to get out of the hut. And there wasn’t a single bar of reception on his mobile screen. He had to risk it. He had a plan.
Cautiously, he tried to press the door handle downward.
To no avail. It wouldn’t budge. Not one millimeter. His assailant had jammed the door handle. So that was what those strange noises had been when someone was fiddling with the door. Something was wedged underneath the handle on the outside. Dupin shook the handle as hard as he could. Nothing moved.
It was stuck fast. And his assailant was probably miles away.
Dupin sank into a heap. He crawled slightly to the right and stretched himself out on the floor of the hut. He was upset about what was happening but also, he could sense now, relieved that the immediate threat seemed to be over.
He had lain there for perhaps a minute, trying to get some life back into his arms and legs, which had gone to sleep, and thinking about what to do next, when he heard a crack. Quite loud. Distinct. He was certain it hadn’t been an animal.
Someone was out there. In a flash, Dupin moved back into his earlier position, securing the door. He heard a soft murmuring. He pressed an ear to the iron sheeting, straining extremely hard to hear what was happening outside.
For a minute or two, everything remained quiet. Then suddenly—Dupin flinched—a loud, echoing sound cut through the night air: “This is the police. We’ve got the area surrounded. You must surrender immediately. We will not hesitate to make use of our firearms.”
Dupin leapt to his feet. And almost fell over.
“I’m here. In this hut.” He screamed and hammered on the door. “Commissaire Georges Dupin—Commissariat de Police Concarneau. I’m in this hut. Alone. The threat is over.”
Dupin was about to call out again when he paused. What if this was a trick? Who could have alerted the police, anyway? A megaphone didn’t prove anything. Why hadn’t anyone responded to him? On the other hand, if it really was the police, his colleagues had to establish what the situation was first. They had to make sure that the danger had definitely passed.
A moment later the door handle gave a jerk.
“We’ve unblocked the door. Come out with your hands up and fully open. I want to see the palms of your hands. Nice and slow.”
The tinny voice had come from some distance away at the same time as the door handle was being rattled, so there had to be at least two people.
Dupin thought for a moment, then called out: “Identify yourself. I need to be sure that you’re really with the police.”
The answer came right away. “I will do nothing of the kind. Come out now.”
This response was probably the best proof possible.
“Okay, I’m coming.”
“As I said: hands in the air and very, very slow.”
“I’m Commissaire Georges Dupin, Commissariat Concarneau.”
“Come on, then.” The tone of voice was steely.
Dupin opened the door. A bright, clean-edged cone of light fell into the hut; it must have been one of those new high-power LED torches. He stayed where he was for a few moments to make sure he had got his balance back. A moment later he stepped calmly out of the hut, his right hand in front of his eyes, his mobile in his left.
“I need a working phone. I have to make a call immediately.” He had to speak to Lilou Breval. Straightaway.
“I said, hands in the air. I—” The voice broke off. And then a person was coming toward him from the right.
“What are you doing here? What the hell is going on?” It was a woman’s voice, somewhat rasping. Aggressive, but composed and not even very loud. “What happened here?”
Someone switched the torch beam from focused to diffuse and Dupin was able to take his hand away from his eyes.
An attractive woman was standing in front of him, tall, with shoulder-length, wavy dark hair and wearing a light gray pantsuit, a dark blouse, and elegant dark ankle boots with rather high heels. A half-drawn SIG Sauer in her right hand.
“Commissaire Sylvaine Rose. Commissariat de Police Guérande.” She paused briefly, then said, emphasizing every syllable: “Département Loire-Atlantique.”
“I have to make a call. Do you have a satellite phone?”
“Unlike the Commissariat Concarneau, we carry the necessary equipment when we’re on duty. What are you doing here? What kind of unprofessional operation was this?”
Dupin checked himself at the last minute, just before he might have blurted out something gruff.
“I … Who informed you that I”—he broke off briefly—“that I’m here?”
“You have a waiter from Paris to thank for your rescue. The one who called you about your reservation tomorrow evening. He might not have been able to understand you, but thought he heard the word ‘shot,’ and as a precaution called the police in the sixth. And as a precaution they called us. Apparently you’re still remembered there; your departure must have been spectacular. And then as a precaution we stopped by.” Suddenly, her tone of voice changed: “What are you doing in the salt marshes? How did you end up in this hut? What’s going on? You are going to explain everything to me, right down to the last detail. You won’t be making any calls beforehand. You won’t be doing anything at all beforehand.”
Dupin would have been impressed if a burning rage had not bubbled up within him in the previous hour, a rage that had eclipsed all other feelings, including the feeling of powerlessness, and the pain in his arms and legs and shoulder. He was furious—at his assailant, at the whole situation, but mostly at himself. He knew he had been an incredible idiot. He wanted to know who had shot at him! And what on earth was going on! He had the same questions as Commissaire Rose. But, apart from telling her what he’d seen, he would not be able to give any kind of answers. He needed to find out what Lilou Breval knew right now, whatever it was she hadn’t told him yesterday.
“Give me the satellite telephone,” he hissed.
“I will do nothing until you’ve told me everything.” She could not have said this more calmly.
“I—” Dupin broke off. He understood where his colleague was coming from. He wouldn’t have behaved any differently, but he didn’t have time for all this. “What are you going to do, arrest me
here?”
“I can’t do that, unfortunately. But I will drive you to the hospital in Guérande right now. And not budge a millimeter from your side until I know everything. I’m not fond of shootings on my watch. We’ve seen a huge number of cartridges; it must have been quite the operation. I hope you’re not making up your mind to slow down my investigation. The brass are going to love you as it is.”
By now a dozen police officers had come into view, each armed with a heavy torch. It had been pitch dark for some time now. Two police cars had come down the path in quick succession and were almost at the hut. The scene was dazzlingly lit up by their headlights on full beam.
Dupin thought it over. Perhaps he should cooperate. This was not his jurisdiction. Nobody was listening to him. He couldn’t achieve anything here by himself; he was dependent on this commissaire, for a start. No matter how difficult he found that.
“It was because of suspicious barrels here in the salt marshes. I was following up a tip from a journalist. Lilou Breval from the Ouest-France. When I arrived, somebody opened fire. I couldn’t make anyone out; I don’t know how many people there were or whether it was more than one person. I was able to take refuge in this hut. The assailant or assailants probably left the scene around nine thirty-five.”
“What kind of barrels?”
“I don’t know. Blue plastic barrels. That’s why I need to speak to this journalist right now, only she can tell us—”
“You don’t know? You got yourself into this grossly negligent situation because somebody told you to check out these barrels? Without having a clue what it might be about? In a département you have no business being in?”
“I have to use the phone.”
“You have to go to the hospital.”
“Why do you keep going on about a hospital?” Dupin’s anger was returning.
Commissaire Rose looked doubtfully at him for a second, then turned aside and called in the direction of a policewoman who was just about to tackle the hut: “Chadron. Put out a search: one person. Maybe more. No clues as to their identity. We don’t know what car they’re in either. The only thing we know is this: a car drove away from the salt marshes around nine thirty-five P.M., direction and destination unknown. Pointless really, but put out the message anyway.”
The Fleur de Sel Murders_A Brittany Mystery Page 2