Death on the Pont Noir - By Adrian Magson Page 0,84

dropping two sugar lumps into his cup, ‘you did the right thing by throwing it back at him, although,’ she prodded him in the chest, ‘I was hoping you were going to knock his head off – but you didn’t.’

‘You saw me give it back?’ He felt a weight lift off his chest. It was no guarantee, bearing in mind that she was his neighbour and friend. But it offered a slim chance that his story might now be believed.

‘Of course I did.’ She looked up at him and nudged him with her elbow, eyes twinkling. ‘What good are nosey neighbours if they never see anything?’

Rocco smiled down at her. ‘Thank you.’

‘Now, don’t go getting all emotional,’ she told him. ‘You’re not out of the mud yet. Who do I speak to?’

Massin. It had to be. ‘Commissaire Massin is my immediate boss,’ he said. ‘He might pass you on to someone higher – maybe in another station. But he’s a start.’

‘How do you get on with this Massin? Is he a good boss?’

He shrugged. He wasn’t about to go into their shared history, but she might as well know that they were not exactly best copains. ‘We manage – but that’s about all.’

‘That’s good.’ She nodded approvingly. ‘Because if he believes you, you’re in with a chance.’ She walked to the door. ‘I’ll call him from the phone in the café tomorrow first thing and put him right. And don’t worry – I’ll make sure all the gossipmongers are out of the room when I do it.’

Half an hour later, there was a knock at the door.

It was Claude Lamotte, carrying a shoebox under one arm.

‘Sorry it’s late,’ he announced, although he didn’t look it. He was puffing against the cold. ‘Are you in to visitors?’ He sniffed. ‘Ah, coffee. Lovely. I could do with a cup, thank you.’ He brushed past Rocco and dropped the box on the table, then helped himself to a cup and looked into it as if searching for gold.

Rocco took the hint. He lifted a bottle of cognac from the cupboard and handed it over. Claude grinned and added a liberal dose to his cup. He took a sip and looked at Rocco, eyes suddenly serious.

‘You all right?’

‘I’ve felt better,’ said Rocco. The police grapevine worked, even out here. Or maybe Alix had filled her father in on his news.

Claude cleared his throat and pushed the shoebox across the table. ‘That might help.’

Rocco lifted the lid. From the weight, he knew instantly what was inside, even before he smelt the familiar soft tang of oil.

Claude said nothing, merely studied the ceiling, rocking back and forth on his heels and slurping his coffee.

Rocco dropped the lid to one side. Wrapped in cloth in the bottom of the box lay a Walther P38. It had a walnut grip and included several loose rounds of ammunition.

‘It’s not right,’ Claude said quickly, when Rocco looked up at him, ‘a cop without a gun. Where the hell do they think this is – England?’ He looked flushed and blew out his cheeks with indignation. ‘Never heard anything so outrageous.’

Rocco took the pistol out of the box and checked the mechanism. It was in perfect working order and lightly oiled, the metal parts sliding together with immaculate precision. It had been well cared for over the years.

‘I suppose it’s no good me asking where you got this,’ he said.

‘I found it in a field.’ Claude stared innocently back at him without blinking, then shrugged expansively, daring him to suggest different. ‘It’s criminal what people leave lying around.’

By ‘people’, Rocco figured it had been a member of the German military. He wondered if that was all he’d lost. He put the gun down. ‘Thank you.’

Claude looked pleased. ‘Hey, don’t thank me – it was Alix’s idea.’ His eyebrows lifted and he looked decidedly proud. ‘Bloody kids … no respect for regulations. Still, what can you do, huh?’

The phone rang. Rocco leant across and picked it up. It was Santer.

‘Right, two things,’ the captain said without preamble. ‘The Lilas garage in St Gervais is a chop shop. They don’t like casual callers; Caspar went in as a buyer and nearly got himself tenderised with iron bars.’

‘Is he all right?’

‘He’s fine. His radar was working and he ducked out. I told him to stay away, and he’s going after some OAS group he’s got word on. After that, I did some digging. The garage is owned by a woman called Debussy … who