The Day of the Jackal

can report on my conversation with President de Gaulle. He has refused point blank to change an item of his itinerary for the future to shield himself from this killer. Frankly, it was to be expected. However, I was able to obtain one concession. The ban on publicity may now be lifted, at least in this respect. The Jackal is now a common murderer. He has slain the Baroness de la Chalonnière in her own home in the course of a burglary of which the objective was her jewellery. He is believed to have fled to Paris and to be hiding here. All right, gentlemen?

‘That is what will be released for the afternoon papers, at least the last editions. As soon as you are quite certain as to the new identity, or choice of two or three alternative identities, under which he is now masquerading Commissaire, you are authorised to release that name or those names to the Press. This will enable the morning papers to up-date the story with a new lead.

‘When the photograph of the unfortunate tourist who lost his passport in London comes through tomorrow morning you can release it to the evening papers, radio and television for a second up-date to the murder-hunt story.

‘Apart from that, the moment we get a name, every policeman and CRS man in Paris will be on the street stopping every soul in sight to examine their papers.’

The Prefect of Police, chief of the CRS and Director of the PJ were taking furious notes. The Minister resumed:

‘The DST will check every sympathiser of the OAS known to them, with the assistance of the Central Records Office. Understood?’

The heads of the DST and the RG office nodded vigorously.

‘The Police Judiciaire will take every one of its detectives off whatever he is on and transfer them to the murder hunt.’

Max Fernet of the PJ nodded.

‘As regards the palace itself, evidently I shall need a complete list of every movement the President intends to take from now on, even if he himself has not been informed of the extra precautions being taken in his interest. This is one of those occasions when we must risk his wrath in his own interest. And, of course, I can rely on the Presidential Security Corps to tighten up the ring round the President as never before. Commissaire Ducret?’

Jean Ducret, head of De Gaulle’s personal bodyguard, inclined his head.

‘The Brigade Criminelle …’ the Minister fixed Commissaire Bouvier with his eye, ‘obviously has a lot of underworld contacts in its pay. I want every one mobilised to keep an eye out for this man, name and description to be supplied. Right?’

Maurice Bouvier nodded gruffly. Privately he was disquieted. He had seen a few manhunts in his time, but this was gigantic. The moment Lebel provided a name and a passport number, not to mention a description, there would be nearly a hundred thousand men from the security forces to the underworld scanning the streets, hotels, bars and restaurants for one man.

‘Is there any other source of information that I have overlooked?’ asked the Minister.

Colonel Rolland glanced quickly at General Guibaud, then at Commissaire Bouvier. He coughed.

‘There is always the Union Corse.’

General Guibaud studied his nails. Bouvier looked daggers. Most of the others looked embarrassed. The Union Corse, brotherhood of the Corsicans, descendants of the Brothers of Ajaccio, sons of the vendetta, was and still is the biggest organised crime syndicate in France. They already ran Marseilles and most of the south coast. Some experts believed them to be older and more dangerous than the Mafia. Never having emigrated like the Mafia to America in the early years of this century, they had avoided the publicity that had since then made the Mafia a household word.

Twice already Gaullism had allied itself with the Union, and both times found it valuable but embarrassing. For the Union always asked for a kickback, usually in a relaxation of police surveillance of their crime rackets. The Union had helped the Allies to invade the south of France in August 1944, and had owned Marseilles and Toulon ever since. It had helped again in the fight against the Algerian settlers and the OAS after April 1961, and for this had spread its tentacles far north and into Paris.

Maurice Bouvier, as a policeman, hated their guts, but he knew Rolland’s Action Service used Corsicans heavily.

‘You think they can help?’ asked the Minister.

‘If this Jackal is as astute as they say,’ replied Rolland, ‘then I would reckon that if anyone in Paris can find him the Union can.’

‘How many of them are there in Paris?’ asked the Minister dubiously.

‘About eighty thousand. Some in the police, Customs officers, CRS, Secret Service, and, of course, the underworld. And they are organised.’

‘Use your discretion,’ said the Minister.

There were no more suggestions.

‘Well, that’s it, then. Commissaire Lebel, all we want from you now is one name, one description, one photograph. After that I give this Jackal six hours of liberty.’

‘Actually, we have three days,’ said Lebel, who had been staring out of the window. His audience looked startled.

‘How do you know that?’ asked Max Fernet.

Lebel blinked rapidly several times.

‘I must apologise. I have been very silly not to see it before. For a week now I have been certain that the Jackal had a plan, and that he had picked his day for killing the President. When he quit Gap, why did he not immediately become Pastor Jensen? Why did he not drive to Valence and pick up the express to Paris immediately? Why did he arrive in France and then spend a week killing time?’