Death on the Pont Noir - By Adrian Magson Page 0,109

from outside the café door, and Claude appeared with Desmoulins close behind. Godard was in the background, shaking his head.

‘They can’t see him anywhere,’ said Claude. He shuffled his feet. ‘I called home, but Alix isn’t there. Thierry said he saw her walking down the lane towards your place less than twenty minutes ago.’

Then came the sound of a gunshot.

CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

Commissaire François Massin was suffering a mix of emotions.

A part of him was still recoiling at the earlier idea that Rocco, whom he’d found himself believing capable of many things, could be guilty of taking a bribe from a known criminal. For any commanding officer, discovering an officer under his command guilty of corruption was almost inevitably a stain on his own record, ignorance being rarely forgiven among the higher ranks of the Ministry. But now he was facing incontrovertible evidence that Rocco had been set up, and the possibility that he himself had been too easily led into believing the worst of a subordinate.

He walked around his office, trying to make sense of the thoughts swirling around in his head. How had this happened? One moment everything was proceeding smoothly, the next an unwelcome focus of attention was on him, evidenced by the extended volley of telephone calls from the Ministry demanding reports and updates on the events leading up to the attack on de Gaulle’s car, closely followed by the press requesting comments about the bank robbery at Béthune and rumours of an attack on an unnamed VIP at an unknown location.

Massin’s only meagre consolation was that sorting out the flow of paperwork and briefings over the next few days would probably be the only way of extending his stay here. After that …

He stopped suddenly. The station was down to a skeleton staff, all other available officers taking part in securing the scene of the attack, helping with the Béthune bank investigation or joining the hunt for the Englishmen. The building had been left as quiet as the morgue it did not yet possess.

Yet he’d heard a noise from along the corridor. It had come from the empty office; at least, the office which had been empty until Colonel Saint-Cloud had commandeered it for his temporary base. He’d thought the security man was long gone, hard on the heels of his master now that the visit and the drama were over, no doubt sharing the president’s relief at being back in the relative safety and comfort of Paris.

He walked along the corridor. If it was Saint-Cloud, he wanted to impress on him that Rocco was innocent; that no stain could therefore attach to his own position as commissaire. He felt almost ashamed at this instinct for self-interest, but it was too ingrained to change.

He stopped outside the office door and hesitated before entering. The security chief hadn’t heard him coming, and was unlocking a steel cabinet and taking out some papers Massin had seen him placing inside when he had first arrived. On the top were four buff folders tied with ribbon. He knew these contained details of groups and individuals opposing the president. Next came a small sheaf of papers he recognised as official travel expense sheets; he’d used them himself when attending conferences or training classes. Then a thick folder he had seen going into the drawer of Saint-Cloud the first day, when he had requested the full use of the office along with the only set of keys to the drawer. The folder, he had explained, was his personal operations manual which went everywhere with him; a personal quirk, he’d explained with unaccustomed reserve, which detailed everything to be done in the event of something catastrophic happening to the president. Massin even recalled Saint-Cloud saying that he rarely if ever looked at it, the contents committed to memory, but always close by just in case. Massin had read it at the time as a not-so-subtle reminder of the importance of Saint-Cloud’s office and a need for detailed procedure to be followed if necessary.

Saint-Cloud finally sensed his presence. He turned and looked at Massin with no degree of warmth.

‘I trust you have that man of yours in custody,’ he said curtly. ‘Actually, no.’ Massin stepped into the office and walked across to the window, trying to formulate his words in as confident a manner as he could without sounding deferential. Anything he said now could find its way back to the Ministry through this man’s lips, and he couldn’t afford any misunderstanding. He had enough