Colin Forbes - The Stone leopard

The uniformed policeman who had halted Grelle, saluted and waved him on. Driving automatically, the prefect had half his mind on what Nash had told him. Up to half an hour ago his suspicions had been based on Gaston Martin's strange story and what he had heard from the Cayenne police chief, all of which was disturbing but by no means conclusive. Now the same story was coming from Washington, and soon rumours might start sweeping through the European capitals. As Grelle told Boisseau later, 'I don't believe a word of that fairy-tale Nash told me about a Soviet defector-he was protecting his real informant-but this is something we are going to have to investigate in the greatest secrecy…

As he crossed the crowded Pont Neuf on to the Ile de la Cite Grelle shivered, a nervous tremor which had nothing to do with the chill night air now settling over Paris. For the police prefect his world had suddenly become unstable, a place of shifting quicksands where anything might lie under the surface. 'Roger Danchin… Alain Blanc.. he muttered to himself. 'It's impossible.

Leaving the isolated farmhouse at about the same time when Grelle was returning to the prefecture, Lennox drove back to Saarbrucken through slashing rain with the distant rumble of thunder in the night. The storm suited his mood; he also was disturbed. At one point in the conversation he had asked the colonel who had typed out the list of names and addresses he now carried tucked away inside his wallet. 'Captain Moreau, my assistant, of course,' Lasalle had replied. 'He was the only officer who came with me when I left France and I trust him completely.'

`You didn't trust him with my real name until shortly before I arrived,' Lennox had pointed out. 'When I phoned from Saarbrucken he had no idea who I was…'

`That was to protect you until you arrived safely, I called Nash in London at a certain time and he gave me your name, but I withheld it from Moreau. If my assistant had been kidnapped while you were on the way he couldn't have identified you under pressure. For the same reason Moreau does not know I am in touch with the Americans…'

Under pressure… As he peered through the rain-swept windscreen Lennox grimaced. What a life the colonel was living since he had fled France. Locked away inside a German farmhouse, guarded at the gate by a man with a sub-machine gun, ready at any time for the intruders in the night who might arrive with chloroform-or something more lethal. And tomorrow Lennox himself would cross the border into France- after first meeting Peter Lanz of the BND.

While Alan Lennox was driving through the night to a hotel in Saarbrucken, Marc Grelle had returned to the prefecture from the reception at the American Embassy where he dealt with the paperwork which had accumulated in his absence. 'There are too many typewriters in Paris,' he muttered as he initialled minutes from Roger Danchin and ate the sandwich brought in from the local brasserie. He was just about to leave when the phone rang. 'Shit!' he muttered, picking up the receiver. It was Cassin, one of the phone operators in the special room at Surete headquarters.

`Another message has come in from Hugon, Mr Prefect.' `Routine?'

'No. There has been a development…

Grelle swore again under his breath. He would have liked to ask the operator to relay the message over the line, but that was impossible-he had personally issued strict orders that this must never be done. Phones can be tapped: all you need is a post office communications expert who knows how to leak off a private phone. Never mind about exotic electronic bugs; splicing the right wires will do the trick. 'I'll come over,' Grelle said and put down the receiver.

Rush hour was over as he drove along streets gleaming wetly under the lamps and turned into the rue des Saussales where Surete headquarters forms part of the huge block of buildings centred round the Ministry of the Interior. In the narrow street he waited while a uniformed policeman dropped the white-painted chain, and then drove under the archway into the courtyard beyond. The room was on the fourth floor and at that hour he met no one as he climbed the gloomy staircase, walked down an ill-lit corridor and used his key to open the locked door. Closing the door on the inside, Grelle stared down at Cassin, the night man. The room smelt of garlic, which meant the operator had eaten a snack recently. A half-filled glass of red wine was on the table beside the tape-recorder which was linked to the phone.

`Well?' the prefect asked.

`Hugon phoned at 6.45 pm… Cassin, a lean, pasty-faced man of thirty, was reading from a notebook in a bored tone. 'I recorded the message as usual and it's on tape.'

`How did he sound?' Grelle perched his buttocks on the edge of the table. He would hear what Hugon had said in a minute, but the recording was inclined to iron out a man's voice, to drain it of emotion, and Cassin had listened while the tape recorded.

`A bit excited, nervous, agitated-as though he hadn't much time and was afraid of being interrupted.'

`That's a precise analysis.'

`He's sending something through the post-a list of names and addresses. He didn't want to transmit them over the phone. Said it would take too long…

`Or he was being careful,' Grelle suggested. 'Did he say when he would post this list?'

`He's already done it. He was in the post office.'

`You look as though you could do with a bit of fresh air, Cassin. Come back in fifteen minutes-I'll stay and listen to the tape…

Alone, Grelle listened to the operator locking the door from the outside, then sat down in the chair and lit a cigarette. The room was sound-proofed and was checked daily for bugging devices, so every possible precaution had been taken to protect Hugon. Grelle pressed the replay button.

The tape which had recorded Cassin's conversation with Hugon was waiting on the machine. The man whose voice he was going to listen to had phoned one of the special numbers reserved for the Surete Nationale's private use, numbers unlisted in any directory. If anyone called the number by mistake, without giving the correct name, the operator informed him that he was the exchange, that the number had been disconnected. The machine crackled.

`What number are you calling?' Cassin inquired.

`Hugon speaking. Is that the Polyphone Institute? Good, I haven't much time…

`Where are you calling from?'

`The Saarbrucken post office. Look, I told you..

`Take it easy. I'm listening. Don't babble,' Cassin snapped.

Grelle was standing up now, perched against the table edge, watching the spools turn slowly, recording each word in his brain as the machine replayed them. And Cassin had been right: Hugon's agitation came through even the recording.

`The colonel had a meeting this evening with an Englishman. Name Alan Lennox…' Hugon spelt out the name. 'Thirty- five, dark-haired, clean-shaven, wearing…' A description of the clothes followed. 'They talked alone in the farmhouse…'

`How did this Lennox arrive? By taxi? By car?'

`In his own car. I can't stay here long. It's dangerous, you know. The car was a blue Citroen DS 2 I. Registration number BL 49120. Lennox came by appointment. I was able to get back to the farmhouse and overhear just a few words, but it was dangerous…'

`So you keep saying. Who is this man Lennox?'

`I've no idea. Stop interrupting me. For God's sake listen! When I heard them talking Lennox was asking about a man called the Leopard. .

Grelle stiffened, stopped the machine. Gabbling on, Hugon had blurred the words. He played it back again, listening carefully. Yes, for Christ's sake, Hugon had said 'the Leopard'. The recording continued.

`… and there was something about a list of witnesses. Yes, witnesses. If you don't let me get on I'm hanging up. Yesterday morning the colonel dictated to me a list of three people's names and addresses. I think this is the list they were talking about. I think the colonel gave Lennox this list..'