Frederick Forsyth - The Day of the Jackal

Nor did she hear the bedroom door locked from the inside, the limp body of her mistress arranged in a natural sleeping position on the bed with the clothes tucked up to the chin, the snap of the bedroom window as it shut behind the grey-haired man crouching outside on the sill, nor the thud as he dropped in a clean fall down to the lawn.

She did hear the roar as Madame's Renault was gunned into life in the converted stable at the side of the chateau and peering through the scullery window she caught a glimpse as it swung round into the driveway leading to the front courtyard and away down the drive.

«Now what is that young lady up to?» she muttered as she scuttled back upstairs.

In front of the bedroom door the tray of coffee was still lukewarm but untouched. After knocking several times, she tried the door but it would not open. The gentleman's bedroom door was also locked. Nobody would answer her. 'Ernestine decided there were goings-on, the sort of goings-on that had not happened since the Boche came to stay as guests of the unwilling Baron back in the old days and ask him silly questions about the Young Master.

She decided to consult Louison. He would be at market, and someone in the local cafe would go to fetch him. She did not understand the telephone, but believed that if you picked it up people spoke to you and went and found the person you really wanted to speak to. But it was all nonsense. She picked it up and held it for ten minutes but no one spoke to her. She failed to notice the neat slice through the cord where it joined the skirting board of the library. Claude Lebel took the helicopter back to Paris shortly after breakfast. As he said later to Caron, Valentin had been doing a first-class job, despite the obstructions of those damned peasants. By breakfast time he had traced the jackal to a cafe in Egletons where he had had breakfast, and was looking for a taxi-driver who had been summoned. Meanwhile he had arranged for road blocks to be erected in a twenty-kilometre radius around Egletons, and they should be in place by midday.

Because of the calibre of Valentin he had given him a hint of the importance of finding the Jackal, and Valentin had agreed to put a ring round Egletons, in his own words «tighter than a mouse's arsehole'.

From Haute Chalonniere the little Renault sped off through the mountains heading south towards Tulle. The jackal estimated that if the police had been enquiring since the previous evening in everwidening circles from where the Alfa had been found they must have reached Egletons by dawn. The cafe barman would talk, the taxi driver would talk, and they would be at the chateau by the afternoon, unless he had a lucky break.

But even then they would be looking for a blond Englishman, for he had taken good care that no one had seen him as a grey-haired priest. All the same, it was going to be a close-run thing. He whipped the little car through the mountain byways, finally emerging on to the RN8 eighteen kilometres south-west of Egletons on the road to Tulle, which lay another twenty kilometres ahead. He checked his watch: twenty to ten.

As he vanished round a bend at the end of a stretch of straight, a small convoy came buzzing down from Egletons. It comprised a police squad car and two closed vans. The convoy stopped in the middle of the straight, and six policemen started to erect a steel road block.

«What do you mean, he's out?» roared Valentin to the weeping wife of a taxi-driver in Egletons. «Where did he go?»

«I don't know, monsieur. I don't know. He waits every morning at the station square when the morning train comes in from Ussel. If there are no passengers he comes back here to the garage and gets on with some repair work. If he does not come back it means he has picked up a fare.»

Valentin looked around gloomily. It was no use bawling out the woman. It was a one-man taxi business run by a fellow who also did a bit of repair work on cars.

«Did he take anyone anywhere on Friday morning?» he asked, more patiently.

«Yes, monsieur. He had come back from the station because there was no one there, and a call from the cafe that somebody there wanted a taxi. He had got one of the wheels off, and was worried in case the customer should leave and go in another taxi. So he was cussing all through the twenty minutes it took to put the wheel back on. Then he left. He got the fare, but he never said where he took him.»

She snuffled. «He doesn't talk to me much,» she added by way of explanation.

Valentin patted her on the shoulder.

«All right, madame. Don't upset yourself. We'll wait till he gets back.»

He turned to one of the sergeants. «Get a man to the main station, another to the square, to the cafe. You know the number of that taxi. The moment he shows up I want to see him-fast.»

He left the garage and strode to his car.

«The commissariat,» he said. He had transferred the headquarters of the search to Egletons police station, which had not seen activity like it in years.

In a ravine six miles outside Tulle the jackal dumped the suitcase containing all his English clothes and the passport of Alexander Duggan. It had served him well. The case plummeted over the parapet of the bridge and vanished with a crash into the dense undergrowth at the foot of the gorge.

After circling Tulle and finding the station, he parked the car unobtrusively three streets away and carried his two suitcases and grip the half-mile to the railway booking office.

«I would like a single ticket to Paris, second class please,» he told the clerk. «How much is that?»

He peered over his glasses and through the little grille into the cubbyhole where the clerk worked.

«Ninety-seven new francs, monsieur.»

«And what time is the next train please?»

«Eleven-fifty. You've got nearly an hour to wait. There's a restaurant down the platform. Platform One for Paris, je vous en prie. The Jackal picked up his luggage and headed for the barrier. The ticket was clipped, he picked up the cases again and walked through. His path was barred by a blue uniform.

«Vos papiers, s'il vous plait.»

The CRS man was young, trying to look sterner than his years would allow. He carried a submachine carbine slung over his shoulder. The jackal put down his luggage again and proffered his Danish passport. The CRS man flicked through it, not understanding a word.

«Vous etes Danois?»

«Pardon?»

«Vous… Danois.»

He tapped the cover of the passport.

The Jackal beamed and nodded in delight.

«Daruke… ja, ja.»

The CRS man handed the passport back and jerked his head towards the platform. Without further interest he stepped forward to bar passage to another traveller coming through the barrier.

It was not until nearly one o'clock that Louison came back, and he had had a glass of wine or two. His distraught wife poured out her tale of woe. Louison took the matter in hand.

«I shall,» he announced, «mount to the window and look in.»

He had trouble with the ladder to start with. It kept wanting to go its own way. But eventually it was propped against the brickwork beneath the window of the Baroness's bedroom and Louison made his unsteady way to the top. He came down five minutes later.

«Madame la Baronne is asleep,» he announced.

But she never sleeps this late,» protested Ernestine.

«Well, she is doing today,» replied Louison, «one must not disturb her.»

The Paris train was slightly late. It arrived at Tulle on the dot of one o'clock. Among the passengers who boarded it was a grey-haired Protestant pastor. He took a corner seat in a compartment inhabited only by two middle-aged women, put on a pair of gold-rimmed reading glasses, took a large book on churches and cathedrals from his hand-grip, and started to read. The arrival time at Paris, he learned, was ten past eight that evening.