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‘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.
‘Oh, regarde-moi ça! Those muscles, darling I’m going out of my mind.’
The barman slipped down the length of the bar to stand opposite him and get a better look. The carmined lips widened in a coquettish smile.
‘Bonsoir … monsieur.’ There was a chorus of giggles from behind, most of them malicious.
‘Donnez-moi un Scotch.’
The barman waltzed away delighted. A man, a man, a man. Oh there was going to be such a row tonight. He could see the ‘petites folles’ on the far side of the corridor sharpening their claws. Most were waiting for their regular ‘butches’, but some were without a date and had turned up on spec. This new boy, he thought, was going to create an absolute sensation.
The client next to the Jackal turned towards him and gazed with unconcealed curiosity. The hair was a metallic gold, meticulously groomed down on to the forehead in a series of pointed spikes like a young Greek god on an ancient frieze. There the likeness ended. The eyes were mascara’ed, the lips a delicate coral, the cheeks dusted with powder. But the make-up could not conceal the tired lines of an ageing degenerate, nor the mascara the arid hungry eyes.
‘Tu m’invites?’ The voice was a girlish lisp.
The Jackal slowly shook his head. The drag shrugged and turned back to his companion. They went on with their conversation in whispers and squeaks of mock dismay. The Jackal had taken off his windcheater, and as he reached for his drink proffered by the barman, the muscles down the shoulders and back rippled under the T-shirt.
The barman was delighted. A ‘straight’? No, he couldn’t be, he wouldn’t be here. And not a butch looking for a nance, or why had he snubbed poor little Corinne when she asked for a drink. He must be … how marvellous! A handsome young butch looking for an old queen to take him home. What fun there was going to be tonight.
The butches started homing in just before midnight, sitting at the back, surveying the crowd, occasionally beckoning the barman for a whispered conversation. The barman would return to the bar and signal to one of the ‘girls’.
‘Monsieur Pierre wants to have a word with you, darling. Try and look your best, and for God’s sake don’t cry like you did last time.’
The Jackal made his mark shortly after midnight. Two of the men at the back had been eyeing him for several minutes. They were at different tables and occasionally shot each other venomous glances. Both were in late middle age; one was fat, with tiny eyes buried in obese lids and rolls on the back of his neck that flowed over his collar. He looked gross and piggish. The other was slim, elegant, with a vulture’s neck and balding pate across which the few strands of hair were elaborately plastered. He wore a beautifully tailored suit with narrow trousers and a jacket whose sleeves showed a hint of lace at the cuffs. There was a flowing silk foulard artfully knotted at the throat. Something to do with the world of the arts, fashion or hair-styling, the Jackal thought.
The fat one beckoned to the barman and whispered in his ear. A large note slipped into the barman’s tight trousers. He returned across the bar floor.
