Death at the Clos du Lac

CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

Once he was across the footbridge, Delombre found himself in the quiet and funereal atmosphere surrounding the lake. From the solid ground underfoot of the field leading down from the house, and the immediate area around the canal, he felt the springiness of a different kind of terrain, and the tug of vegetation against his legs, the night’s moisture soaking through to his skin. Urgent bursts of movement in the dark preceded him as waterfowl moved to avoid his approach, slapping at the surface of the lake, and the rustle of reeds and grass betrayed larger animals, perhaps fox and rabbit, slipping further into cover until he passed.

He ignored them all and pressed on, knowing that each one was a potential signal of betrayal for anybody following.

He spun round at a curse in the gloom, his gun swinging up.

‘Wait — it’s me!’ It was Jean-Pierre, clumsy and unsure, swinging a weapon above the tall reeds as he emerged from cover by the lake. He was breathing hard as if he’d run a marathon, and his movements were echoed by a sloshing sound from soaked boots and lower legs.

Delombre considered pulling the trigger anyway; this idiot was going to get him killed if he couldn’t move more quietly than that. But he relaxed his finger. Maybe he could use him.

‘What the hell are you doing? I thought you’d gone.’

‘I tried, but I didn’t know what to do.’ He sounded like a petulant child who’d run out of games to play during the holidays.

Delombre thought quickly. Letting this oaf stick close by meant certain capture, even death. The police would have flooded men into the area by first light, but he didn’t discount the idea of that bastard Rocco coming into the marais after him, eager to finish off what he’d started. Then he had an idea. ‘Are you any good with that thing or do you use it to frighten small girls?’

‘What, this?’ Jean-Pierre swung the weapon up and Delombre grabbed the barrel. He recognised it as a MAT -49 sub-machine gun with a long 32-round magazine. Out here, good for spraying holes in the air; but the followers wouldn’t know that.

He pointed back at the footbridge. ‘You’ve got control of anyone coming over here if you hold the bridge. I’ll go round the other side of the lake and across the canal further down, then double back up the other side and shout when we’re clear to go. There are vehicles at the sanitarium — we can be in Paris before midnight. Can you do that?’

Jean-Pierre nodded, and Delombre saw his teeth flash in the dark. ‘No problem. It’ll be a duck shoot. But don’t go without me, will you?’

‘Are you kidding? After this I might need a good right-hand man.’ Delombre clapped him on the shoulder, then slid away into the dark, shaking his head.

Progress for the three officers in pursuit was slow, with Claude leading the way using dead ground and a hedgerow for cover, and listening for the movement of waterfowl in the night. Any sudden upsurge would mean a man was nearby. They crossed the field immediately below the Clos du Lac, then slowed as they approached the canal, Claude whispering caution.

Rocco called a halt and said, ‘If there’s trouble, it will be at the footbridge. It’s the only way across and Delombre is ex-Legion; he’ll know all about ambushes and fighting in rough terrain. We need to flush him out first.’

‘I know a bit about fighting dirty, too,’ Claude said. ‘Let’s spread out along the bank, me in the centre with the Darne, you two twenty metres either side. When I make a signal, let’s see if we can get him to move.’

‘What sort of signal?’ asked Desmoulins. ‘You put one foot on that wooden bridge and he’ll hear you.’

‘Don’t worry, I don’t intend to do that. Wait and see — and be ready.’

Rocco and Desmoulins moved away, while Claude edged closer to the canal and the footbridge. He was listening to the sound of water, which was slow moving here, sluggish and gentle, swirling occasionally as it encountered a fallen branch or a landfall in the bank. But he knew that if he was able to isolate that noise, any alien sound would stand out.

He stopped a few short paces from the bridge, knowing he couldn’t be seen among the tall grass. This was his terrain, as familiar as his own garden, with every stretch of water and marshland embedded in his memory through many nights and days of patrolling; and he would defy any man to be able to use the cover here more effectively. He hunkered down and breathed easily, giving time for Desmoulins and Rocco to get into position. While he waited, he took a slim, half-litre bottle and a handkerchief from the inside pocket of his hunting jacket. He took out the cork and tore the handkerchief in half, then stuffed the material into the neck of the bottle, leaving a good length trailing down the outside.

He was ready. He took out a lighter. Holding the bottle in his left hand, he snapped the lighter’s wheel and lit the trailing end of the handkerchief. It flared instantly, the material now soaked in spirit. Without hesitation, he pulled his arm back and hurled the petrol bomb high in the air, then rolled sideways, grabbing his shotgun.

The flame arced over the canal and fell to earth on the other side of the footbridge. But Claude didn’t watch it fall. Instead he watched for movement nearby.

When the bottle landed and burst, there was a cry of dismay and a figure stood up just a couple of metres from the spreading flame, caught in the flickering glare. It was Jean-Pierre. He was holding a sub-machine gun and yelling at a tongue of fire burning on one leg of his trousers, where some of the burning spirit had splashed him.

Claude shouted, ‘Police! Drop the gun!’ He fired a round into the air, the shot echoing across the marais and sending up a frantic clatter of birds from the trees and reeds around them.

But Jean-Pierre was beyond listening. Instead he looked about wildly, trying to locate the source of the voice. Then he swung the sub-machine gun and sent a burst of bullets spraying across the canal, spitting harmlessly into the night.

Two shots sounded from either side of Claude, and he saw Jean-Pierre step sideways, like a dancer. He dropped the gun, then his legs refused to carry him further and he fell over without a sound, and lay still.