The Day of the Jackal

‘Yessir. Great long coat. Military like the old soldiers used to wear. Too hot for this weather, though.’

‘What was wrong with him?’

‘Well, he was too hot, wasn’t he, sir?’

‘You said he was a war-wounded. What was wrong with him?’

‘One leg, sir. Only one leg. Hobbling along he was, on a crutch.’

From down in the square the first clear peals from the trumpets sounded. ‘Come, children of the Motherland, the day of glory has arrived …’ Several of the crowd took up the familiar chant of the Marseillaise.

‘Crutch?’ To himself, Lebel’s voice seemed a small thing, very far away. The CRS man looked at him solicitously.

‘Yessir. A crutch, like one-legged men always have. An aluminium crutch …’

Lebel was haring off down the street yelling at the CRS man to follow him.

They were drawn up in the sunlight in a hollow square. The cars were parked nose to tail along the wall of the station façade. Directly opposite the cars, along the railings that separated the forecourt from the square, were the ten recipients of the medals to be distributed by the Head of State. On the east side of the forecourt were the officials and diplomatic corps, a solid mass of charcoal-grey suiting, with here and there the red rosebud of the Legion of Honour.

The western side was occupied by the serried red plumes and burnished casques of the Garde Républicaine, the bandsmen standing a little out in front of the guard of honour itself.

Round one of the cars up against the station façade clustered a group of protocol officials and palace staff. The band started to play the Marseillaise.

The Jackal raised the rifle and squinted down into the forecourt. He picked the war veteran nearest to him, the man who would be the first to get his medal. He was a short, stocky man, standing very erect. His head came deafly into the sight, almost a complete profile. In a few minutes, facing this man, about one foot taller, would be another face, proud, arrogant, topped by a khaki képi adorned with two gold stars on the front.

‘Marchons, marchons, à la Victoire …’ Boom-ba-boom. The last notes of the National Anthem died away, replaced by a great silence. The roar of the Commander of the Guard echoed across the station yard. ‘General Salute … Prese-e-e-ent arms.’ There were three precise crashes as white-gloved hands smacked in unison across rifle-butts and magazines, and heels came down together. The crowd around the car parted, falling back in to halves. From the centre a single tall figure emerged and began to stalk towards the line of war veterans. At fifty metres from them the rest of the crowd stopped, except the Minister of Ancient Combattants, who would introduce the veterans to their President, and an official carrying a velvet cushion with a row of ten pieces of metal and ten coloured ribbons on it. Apart from these two, Charles de Gaulle marched forward alone.

‘This one?’

Lebel stopped, panting, and gestured towards a doorway.

‘I think so, sir. Yes, this was it, second from the end. This was where he came in.’

The little detective was gone down the hallway, and Valremy followed him, not displeased to be out of the street, where their odd behaviour in the middle of a serious occasion was attracting disapproving frowns from the higher brass standing at attention against the railings of the station yard. Well, if he was put on the carpet, he could always say that the funny little man had posed as a Commissaire of Police, and that he had been trying to detain him.

When he got into the hall the detective was shaking the door of the concierge’s parlour.

‘Where’s the concierge?’ he yelled.

‘I don’t know, sir.’

Before he could protest, the little man had smashed the frosted-glass panel with his elbow, reached inside and opened the door.

‘Follow me,’ he called, and dashed inside.

Too bloody right I’m going to follow you, thought Valremy. You’re off your chump.

He found the little detective at the door of the scullery. Looking over the man’s shoulder he saw the concierge tied up on the floor, still unconscious.

‘Blimey.’ Suddenly it occurred to him the little man was not joking. He was a police commissaire, and they were after a criminal. This was the big moment he had always dreamed of, and he wished he was back in barracks.

‘Top floor,’ shouted the detective, and was gone up the stairs with a speed that surprised Valremy, who pounded after him. unslinging his carbine as he ran.

The President of France paused before the first man in the line of veterans and stooped slightly to listen to the Minister explain who he was and what was his citation for valour shown on that day nineteen years before. When the Minister had finished he inclined his head towards the veteran, turned towards the man with the cushion, and took the proffered medal. As the band began a softly played rendering of ‘La Marjolaine’ the tall General pinned the medal on to the rounded chest of the elderly man in front of him. Then he stepped back for the salute.

Six floors up and a hundred and thirty metres away the Jackal held the rifle very steady and squinted down the telescopic sight. He could see the features quite clearly, the brow shaded by the peak of the képi, the peering eyes, the prow-like nose. He saw the raised saluting hand come down from the peak of the cap, the crossed wires of the sight were spot on the exposed temple. Softly, gently, he squeezed the trigger …

A split second later he was staring down into the station forecourt as if he could not believe his eyes. Before the bullet had passed out of the end of the barrel, the President of France had snapped his head forward without warning. As the assassin watched in disbelief, he solemnly planted a kiss on each cheek of the man in front of him. As he himself was a foot taller, he had had to bend forward and down to give the traditional kiss of congratulation that is habitual among the French and certain other nations, but which baffles Anglo-Saxons.