Cross of Fire (43 page)

'This happened last night?' Tweed asked.

'Yes.' Lasalle explained. 'Apparently there is some old
castle where a Jewish group gathered to discuss the scrip
tures. I gather it was some kind of club - that they attended meetings regularly. So the fiends who did this knew when their victims would be there.'

'It's horrific,' Paula whispered. 'Why?

'Obvious, I'd have thought,' Newman commented. 'We
all know there's anti-Semitism below the surface in many countries. Someone in France is working up the population
- that part of it which is anti-Jewish.'

'But this is a massacre,' Paula protested.

'Exactly,' said Newman. 'A vicious atrocity to work up more chaos. The man behind this is a monster.'

'Dubois, I'm sure.' Lasalle said. 'His speeches are vitriolic
against all foreign elements, as he terms them. Especially
the Jews.'

'What about the reporter? Newman probed.

'My DST chief who is in charge in Bordeaux says he was kidnapped at gunpoint. Then he was forced to take these foul pictures. The President is appalled. The trouble is he's just about to leave on the TGV for Lyons.'

Today, you mean?' Tweed queried.

'Yes. And he's taking the Prime Minister with him. The
security problem is a nightmare. Still, that's simply some
thing else to pigeonhole in my mind. As Churchill once
said, my mental culvert is almost overflowing - something like that. What I'm about to tell you now is top secret.'

'Understood.' said Newman, knowing he was the visitor
Lasalle was bothered about.

'The Prefect of Paris was assassinated last night.'

'Oh, my God!' Paula burst out. 'He was one of the few
strong men you could rely on in an emergency.'

'Which was why he was a target. Now, listen, we have
decided to keep it quiet, away from the public and the
press.'

'How on earth can you do that?' Newman protested.

'By saying he has gone on holiday. He was due for some
leave. I'd cancelled it but no one knows that. There was a
witness to the killing. The disturbing thing is I had a phone
call from a Frenchman calling himself
Manteau.
He claimed
he had shot the Prefect. We have been hearing rumours
about this new professional assassin,
Manteau.
A pro
fessional. So now we have two to cope with - Kalmar and
Manteau.'

'Unless,' Tweed said quietly,
'Manteau
is Kalmar. He
could be cleverly confusing the search for him.'

Lasalle stared at Tweed. 'I had never thought of that. It
fits in with the pattern of mounting chaos. I've kept the
witness downstairs. You might like to question her. With
your skill at interrogation you might extract something I've
missed...'

He spoke into his intercom. Paula watched the door,
curious to see who was the witness. Tweed accepted Las-alle's offer to sit in the chak behind his desk, sat with his hands clasped. The door opened and a DST officer ushered inside the last type of witness Paula had expected.

A short overweight bag lady shuffled into the office. She clutched a large bundle held together with a piece of soiled
cloth. Glaring at the DST officer she spoke to Tweed,
assum
ing he was the boss, that Lasalle must be an underling.

'They tried to take my bundle. All my possessions in the world are inside it. Never let it out of my sight. I sleep under one of the Seine bridges. The
flics
keep moving me on. Say I'm not nice for the tourists. Who gives a monkey's cuss for the tourists?'

'Please sit down, Madame,' Tweed said in French. 'And I will personally ensure no one touches your possessions.'

'You'd better if you want to ask me questions. And I'd
like more money first.'

Lasalle, standing to one side, brought out his hands from behind his back. He riffled through the wad of banknotes he was holding.

'You get these later. But only if my chief is satisfied with
your answers.'

'I've already told
you,'
she went on grumbling. 'Why
don't you tell him?'

'Because.' Tweed intervened in a sympathetic tone, 'it's
important I hear what happened to the Prefect from you.
You strike me as a woman who keeps her eyes open.'

'Don't miss much, I can tell you,' the bag lady replied,
mollified by Tweed's manner.

'So tell me, please, what you saw.'

'I was crossing the lie de la Cite on my way to doss
down. It was one o'clock in the morning. I know that
because I'd looked at a clock. The Prefecture is on the lie de
la Cite. But you know that. I know the Prefect by sight. I
should do. In the past he's given me a few francs. More than
any
flic
would do.'

'So tell me what you saw last night.'

Paula was studying the bag lady's clothing. She was
wrapped in a khaki-coloured army blanket, fastened at the
neck with a huge safety-pin. Round her head she wore a
large scarf, the colours faded, wisps of grey hair protruding. Newspaper projected from the worn pair of man's shoes
encasing her large feet. But her bare red hands looked strong
and her jaw jutted as she began, staring at Tweed.

'I was a distance away from the entrance to the Prefect's
building. A car was parked on the opposite side of the
street, the side I was on. A man was crouched behind the
car, seemed to be doing up his shoe lace. I recognized
the Prefect as soon as he came down the steps towards his car ...'

Her previous rasping tone had sunk to a monotone, like
a woman reciting by rote. Of course, Paula thought, she's
told this same story before to Lasalle.

'The man crouched behind the car stood up. He was
holding what looked like a rifle. He steadied it on the roof
of his car, took aim, fired. The Prefect stopped halfway
down the steps, then collapsed.'

'And the assassin?' Tweed coaxed.

'Jumped into his car, didn't he, and drove off like hell.
Don't ask me the make of the car.
I don't know them. Never
owned a car.'

'What did the assassin look like? Height? Weight? Was
he bare-headed? What colour of hair if he was ...'

'Stop! Stop! For God's sake...'

'Sorry. Take your time.' Tweed spoke very slowly. 'I
expect you noticed how he was dressed?'

'Wore a cloak, didn't he? A dark cloak. Dark like his hat.

Don't see them much these days. Cloaks. Except sometimes
when the toffs are going into the Opera.' Her mouth clamped shut.

'You probably noticed something else about - the Cloak
.'

'That's it. All happened so quickly. I wouldn't know him if I saw him again. Then the police came running out of the building, waving their guns. Too late, as usual. That's it. Except they grabbed me. What about my money?'

Tweed nodded. Lasalle held out the wad of banknotes,
then withdrew it as she reached out. His voice was harsh.

'You remember the conditions. You don't talk about this to the press, the radio, to anyone on God's earth. If you do you lose the bigger sum I'll give you later.'

'Bigger? How much?' Quick as a flash.

'That you'll find out when I decide you've earned it. I'm having you watched twenty-four hours a day.'

He gave her the banknotes. Without checking the amount
she stuffed them somewhere under her blanket, glared at Tweed, stood, picked up her bundle, refusing help from
Lasalle who opened the door. The DST officer was waiting in the corridor, escorted her away. Lasalle closed the door and looked at his three visitors with raised eyebrows.

'I know that
Manteau
isn't Kalmar,' Newman said flatly.

They all stared at him. Newman shrugged, rubbed one
eye and spoke again.

'I didn't phrase that well. I was up half the night. I don't
believe
Manteau
is Kalmar.'

'Why not?' Lasalle enquired, his tone soft.

'The
modus operandi.
Kalmar strangles his victims. Carey in Bordeaux at the Gare St Jean. Karin Rosewater in Aldeburgh.
Manteau
shot the Prefect.

'The assassin would have had trouble getting close
enough to the Prefect to strangle him,' Tweed pointed out.

'As you learned from your SAS training, Bob, there's more than one way of killing - and men skilled with different techniques.'

Lasalle waved an impatient hand. 'There was also a
witness to that hideous massacre of the Jews near Tarbes.
He's waiting downstairs. I think you ought to meet him.
The head of the discussion group. Moshe Stein...'

Moshe Stein was a heavily built man of medium height with
a tough face and a gentle smile. Above his beaky nose, dark alert eyes took in everyone in the room. His thick black hair
was neatly brushed back from a high forehead. He wore a
well-pressed dark blue business suit and above the firm
mouth was a bushy moustache. Lasalle introduced his other
guests as 'members of a top security organization'. He spoke
in English and as Stein responded in the same language he smiled warmly.

'Moshe Stein.' Lasalle explained, 'is the sole survivor of the Tarbes massacre.'

'I am afraid I am a coward,' Stein said to Paula, settling in his chair. 'I saw this horrific attack from our HQ, the chateau. Very old but very small. I realized I couldn't help
- there were too many of the killers. I felt someone should live to tell the authorities. So I hid in a secret cellar. When
they had gone I walked to the local station, took a train to
where I could board the Paris Express. I feel ashamed and guilty.'

'Nonsense,' Paula said robustly. 'You did the sensible
thing. You may even end up avenging your friends ...'

Stein talked in his quiet voice, recalling the arrival of the
assault force. He thought they'd imitated the American Ku
Klux Klan which, he understood, had revived in a small
way in the deep South of the States. He looked at Newman.

'I'm going back to my small villa in the Landes. That is a
beautiful area of France. Great forests of firs and pines
spread a great distance until the Atlantic stops them. Even
the beach is beautiful - great sand dunes rear up, concealing the endless cold blue water beyond.'

Paula thought Stein was rather poetic: as he spoke a
dreamy look came over his weatherbeaten face. Again he
looked at Newman.

'There is something mysterious going on in the Landes.
You are a newspaper reporter. I thought we'd travel
together. That is, if you think there may be a story.'