The Day of the Jackal

‘Dear God, I’m getting slow in my old age. The name of the Baroness de la Chalonnière was on the guest list at the Hôtel du Cerf the night the Jackal stayed there.’

The car was found in a back street in Tulle at 7.30 by a policeman on the beat. It was 7.45 before he was back in the police station at Tulle and 7.55 before Tulle had contacted Valentin. The Commissaire of Auvergne rang Lebel at 8.05.

‘About five hundred metres from the railway station,’ he told Lebel.

‘Have you got a railway timetable there?’

‘Yes, there should be one here somewhere.’

‘What was the time of the morning train to Paris from Tulle, and what time is it due at the Gare d’Austerlitz? Hurry, for God’s sake hurry.’

There was a murmured conversation at the Egletons end of the line.

‘Only two a day,’ said Valentin. ‘The morning train left at eleven-fifty and is due in Paris at … here we are, ten past eight …’

Lebel left the phone hanging and was halfway out of the office yelling at Caron to follow him.

The eight-ten express steamed majestically into the Gare d’Austerlitz precisely on time. It had hardly stopped when the doors down its gleaming length were flung open and the passengers were spilling on to the platform, some to be greeted by waiting relatives, others to stride towards the series of arches that led from the main hall into the taxi-rank. One of these was a tall grey-haired person in a dog collar. He was one of the first at the taxi-rank, and humped his three bags into the back of a Mercedes diesel.

The driver slammed the meter over and eased away from the entrance to slide down the incline towards the street. The forecourt had a semicircular driveway, with one gate for coming and one for going out. The taxi rolled down the slope towards the exit. Both driver and passenger became aware of a wailing sound rising over and above the clamour of passengers trying to attract the attention of taxi-drivers before their turn had arrived. As the taxi reached the level of the street and paused before entering the traffic, three squad cars and two Black Marias swept into the entrance an

d drew to a halt before the main arches leading to the station hall.

‘Huh, they’re busy tonight, the sods,’ said the taxi-driver. ‘Where to, Monsieur l’Abbé?’

The parson gave him the address of a small hotel on the Quai des Grands Augustins.

Claude Lebel was back in his office at nine o’clock, to find a message asking him to ring Commissaire Valentin at the commissariat in Tulle. He was through in five minutes. While Valentin talked, he took notes.

‘Have you fingerprinted the car?’ asked Lebel.

‘Of course, and the room at the château. Hundreds of sets, all matching.’

‘Get them up here as fast as you can.’

‘Right, will do. Do you want me to send the CRS man from Tulle railway station up as well?’

‘No, thanks, he can’t tell us more than he already has. Thanks for trying, Valentin. You can stand your boys down. He’s in our territory now. We’ll have to handle it from here.’

‘You’re sure it is the Danish pastor?’ asked Valentin. ‘It could be coincidence.’

‘No,’ said Lebel, ‘it’s him all right. He’s junked one of the suitcases, you’ll probably find it somewhere between Haute Chalonnière and Tulle. Try the rivers and ravines. But the other three pieces of luggage match too closely. It’s him all right.’

He hung up.

‘A parson this time,’ he said bitterly to Caron, ‘a Danish parson. Name unknown, the CRS man couldn’t remember the name on the passport. The human element, always the human element. A taxi-driver goes to sleep by the roadside, a gardener is too nervous to investigate his employer oversleeping by six hours, a policeman doesn’t remember a name in a passport. One thing I can tell you, Lucien, this is my last case. I’m getting too old. Old and slow. Get my car ready, would you. Time for the evening roasting.’

The meeting at the Ministry was strained and tense. For forty minutes the group listened to a step by step account of the trail from the forest clearing to Egletons, the absence of the vital taxi-driver, the murder in the château, the tall grey Dane boarding the Paris express at Tulle.

‘The long and the short of it,’ said Saint-Clair icily, when he had finished, ‘is that the killer is now in Paris, with a new name and a new face. You seem to have failed once again, my dear commissaire.’

‘Let us save the recriminations for later,’ interposed the Minister. ‘How many Danes are there in Paris tonight?’

‘Probably several hundreds, Monsieur le Ministre.’

‘Can we check them?’

‘Only in the morning, when the hotel registration cards come in to the Prefecture,’ said Lebel.