The second man came over and accosted Rolland.
‘Colonel Rolland?’
The head of the Action Service nodded.
‘Please follow me.’
He led the way through a door at the back of the café and up to a small sitting room on the first floor, probably the owner’s private dwelling. He knocked, and a voice inside said, ‘Entrez.’
As the door closed behind him, Rolland took the outstretched hand of the man who had risen from an armchair.
‘Colonel Rolland? Enchanté. I am the Capu of the Union Corse. I understand you are looking for a certain man …’
It was eight o’clock when Superintendent Thomas came through from London. He sounded tired. It had not been an easy day. Some consulates had co-operated willingly, others had been extremely difficult.
Apart from women, Negroes, Asiatics and shorties, eight foreign male tourists had lost their passports in London during the previous fifty days, he said. Carefully and succinctly he listed them all, with names, passport numbers and descriptions.
‘Now let’s start to deduct those whom it cannot be,’ he suggested to Lebel. ‘Three lost their passports during periods when we know that the Jackal, alias Duggan, was not in London. We’ve been checking airline bookings and ticket sales right back to July first as well. It seems on July 18th he took the evening flight to Copenhagen. According to BEA he bought a ticket at their counter in Brussels, paying cash, and flew back to England on the evening of August 6th.’
‘Yes, that checks,’ said Lebel. ‘We have discovered that part of that journey out of London was spent in Paris. From July 22nd until July 31st.’
‘Well,’ said Thomas, his voice crackling on the London line, ‘three of the passports were missed while he was not here. We can count them out, yes?’
‘Right,’ said Lebel.
‘Of the remaining five, one is immensely tall, six feet six inches, that’s over two metres in your language. Besides which, he’s Italian, which means that his height on the fly-leaf of his passport is given in metres and centimetres, which would be immediately understood by a French Customs officer who would notice the difference, unless the Jackal is walking on stilts.’
‘I agree, the man must be a giant. Count him out. What of the other four?’ asked Lebel.
‘Well, one is immensely fat, two hundred and forty-two pounds, or well over a hundred kilos. The Jackal would have to be so padded he could hardly walk.’
‘Count him out,’ said Lebel. ‘Who else?’
‘Another is too old. He’s the right height, but over seventy. The Jackal could hardly look that old unless a real expert in theatrical make-up went to work on his face.’
‘Count him out too,’ said Lebel. ‘What about the last two?’
‘One’s Norwegian, the other American,’ said Thomas. ‘Both fit the bill. Tall, wide-shouldered, between twenty and fifty. There are two things that militate against the Norwegian being your man. For one thing he is blond; I don’t think the Jackal, after being exposed as Duggan, would go back to his own hair-colouring, would he? He would look too much like Duggan. The other thing is, the Norwegian reported to his consul that he is certain his passport slipped out of his pocket when he fell fully clothed into the Serpentine while boating with a girlfriend. He swears the passport was in his breast pocket when he fell in, and was not there fifteen minutes later when he climbed out. On the other hand, the American made a sworn statement to the police at London Airport to the effect that his hand-grip with the passport inside it was stolen while he was looking the other way in the main hall of the airport building. What do you think?’
‘Send me,’ said Lebel, ‘all the details of the American Marty Schulberg. ‘I’ll get his photograph from the Passport Office in Washington. And thank you again for all your efforts.’
There was a second meeting in the Ministry at ten that evening. It was the briefest so far. Already an hour previously every department of the apparatus of the security of state had received mimeographed copies of the details of Marty Schulberg, wanted for murder. A photograph was expected before morning, in time for the first editions of the evening papers that would be appearing on the streets by ten in the morning.
The Minister rose.
‘Gentlemen, when we first met, we agreed to a suggestion by Commissaire Bouvier that the identification of the assassin known as the Jackal was basically a task for pure detective work. With hindsight, I would not disagree with that diagnosis. We have been fortunate in having had, for these past ten days, the services of Commissaire Lebel. Despite three changes of identity by the assassin, from Calthrop to Duggan, Duggan to Jensen, and Jensen to Schulberg, and despite a constant leak of information from within this room, he has managed both to identify and, within the limits of this city, to track down our man. We owe him our thanks.’ He inclined his head towards Lebel, who looked embarrassed.
‘However, from now on the task must devolve upon us all. We have a name, a description, a passport number, a nationality. Within hours we shall have a photograph. I am confident that with the forces at your disposal, within hours after that, we shall have our man. Already every policeman in Paris, every CRS man, every detective, has received his briefing. Before morning, or at the latest tomorrow noon, there will be no place to hide for this man.
‘And now let me congratulate you again, Commissaire Lebel, and remove from your shoulders the burden and the strain of this enquiry. We shall not be needing your invaluable assistance in the hours to come. Your task is done, and well done. Thank you.’
He waited patiently. Lebel blinked rapidly several times, and rose from his seat. He bobbed his head at the assembly of powerful men who commanded thousands of underlings and millions of francs. They smiled back at him. He turned and left the room.
For the first time in ten days Commissaire Claude Lebel went home to bed. As he turned the key in the lock and caught the first shrill rebuke of his wife, the clock chimed midnight and it was August 23rd.
20
THE JACKAL ENTERED the bar an hour before midnight. It was dark and for several seconds he could hardly make out the shape of the room. There was a long bar running down the left-hand wall, with an illuminated row of mirrors and bottles behind it. The barman stared at him as the door swung closed with unveiled curiosity.
The shape of the room was long and narrow down the length of the bar, with small tables set on the right-hand wall. At the far end the room broadened into a salon, and here there were larger tables where four or six could sit together. A row of bar stools were against the bar counter. Most of the chairs and stools were occupied by the night’s habitual clientele.
The conversation had stopped at the tables nearest the door while the customers examined him, and the hush spread down the room as others further away caught the glances of their companions and turned to study the tall athletic figure by the door. A few whispers were exchanged, and a giggle or two. He spotted a spare bar-stool at the far end and walked between the tables on the right and the bar on the left to reach it. He swung himself on to the bar-stool. Behind him he caught a quick whisper.