Death on the Pont Noir - By Adrian Magson Page 0,53

a piece of waste ground next to the café, and walked over to join them as Rocco pulled up.

‘See this?’ He gestured at the four roads in turn. ‘This crossroads is my concern. There is a possibility that the president will come here, to open a new library dedicated to the fallen of the two world wars.’ He pointed east, along a straight stretch of road. ‘He will have to come along this route, which is the quickest approach from the capital. Any other route takes him through too much traffic and narrow streets. But it makes this spot an ideal choke point for an attack.’

Rocco couldn’t disagree. It was ideal. Multiple routes in, escape routes out and enough nearby streets and dwellings to cause confusion and for attackers to get lost in. Anyone wishing to fire on the presidential car would be able to cause an obstruction anywhere here and simply hose down the vehicle as it went by. The technique had almost worked in Le Petit-Clamart last August, avoided only by the chauffeur’s driving skill.

But this wasn’t Le Petit-Clamart.

He wasn’t convinced. ‘So is he coming here, then?’

‘That is not for public consumption.’ Saint-Cloud seemed pleased, as if Rocco’s lack of dissent signalled a victory. ‘But we must be prepared. Should he decide to do so, I will arrange blanket coverage of the area.’ He gave a humourless smile, looking beyond them. ‘Anyone trying anything will suffer the same fate as the previous ones.’

By the time Rocco dropped Caspar off at the railway station, the light was fading. He went to his office to check for messages and found Berthier waiting for him with a note in his hand. He was scratching his head.

‘A man named Bellin rang for you. Sounded drunk or mad. Said something about his dog, and how he’s been marked.’ He shrugged. ‘I don’t know what that means, but he wasn’t making much sense. Is that Bellin at the scrapyard?’

Rocco dialled the number on the piece of paper. ‘Yes. You know him?’

‘Unfortunately. He’s one of the lower orders around here.’

The phone rang ten times before Bellin picked up. He sounded stressed, his words pouring out in a mad jumble once he recognised Rocco’s voice. ‘You’ve got to help me – they’ve killed Oscar!’ His breathing was hoarse, as if he’d run a marathon and was at the end of his reserves.

‘Who the hell is Oscar? And who killed him?’

‘I don’t know … some men – a man … They don’t have the guts to come out into the open. You’ve got to come – please!’

Then the phone went dead.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Rocco dropped the phone and called across to Berthier. ‘Where’s Desmoulins?’

‘Out on a job. He’s due back at any time. Can I help?’ He looked excited at the prospect of going out on a call, but Rocco had to disappoint him. This could be a fuss about nothing, Bellin’s imagination overcoming rational thought. The dog might simply have run off, as he would have in its place. But if it hadn’t, he couldn’t place a man on desk work in the line of fire.

‘Get him to follow me to Bellin’s yard.’

He drove as fast as traffic would allow, wondering if this was a panic over nothing, or whether this might finally produce results. A name was all he needed, then he could make some progress. Soon he was bumping down the lane to Bellin’s yard, pulling to a stop clear of the entrance.

He took out his gun and slipped through the gates as he’d done before. The light was fading, throwing the junkyard into something resembling a horror movie scene of jagged edges and shadows. There were no lights on in the cabin and no sign of Bellin. He strode across the yard, slipping on the mud, and peered through the doorway. Empty.

The telephone handset was lying on the floor.

Rocco turned and looked back at the telegraph pole outside the gates, which had once fed the phone line in a loop overhead to the cabin.

The wire had been cut.

He debated the wisdom of going further into the yard alone in search of Bellin. If anything happened, he’d be an easy target. On the other hand, Bellin had asked for his help.

He walked along the first open row, sticking close to the line of junked vehicle bodies, checking every few steps as he came across a gap. He stopped, listening for sounds of voices or movement, but there was nothing. The breeze was just sufficient through the