disillusioned by his long years in prison, by Lumel's confession, Martin had told the police chief everything. 'I think he realized that his entire life had been thrown away for an illusion—the illusion of the Communist ideal,' the Cayenne police chief commented in his report. 'I arranged for his immediate release. It will probably always be a mystery why Gaston Martin had to be condemned to the life of an animal for nearly all his days. . .
Grelle dropped the report on his desk. 'The bastard,' he said quietly. 'To go on concealing his identity he had people killed, a man imprisoned in that black jungle hell for life. God knows how many other poor devils died for the sake of the cause—in the report I read of the Leopard I noticed a number of his closer associates came to a sticky end before the war was over. It's a trail of blood this man has left behind him. . .
The prefect was walking round his office with his hands shoved down inside his slacks pockets. Boisseau had rarely seen his chief so angry. 'Remember this, Boisseau,' Grelle went on. `Do a job but never devote your life to a so-called cause. You will find yourself in pawn to scum. . .
`All this to protect the Leopard? A man who is dead ?'
`We'll see about that.' Grelle was putting on his leather raincoat. 'I'm going to the Elysee. If anyone asks for me, you don't know where I am.'
`I still don't understand it,' Boisseau persisted. 'The record shows the Leopard died in 1944. Gaston Martin, who we now know was Petit-Louis, the Leopard's right-hand man, says he saw him walk into the Elysee. . .'
`When you get a conflict of evidence, you test it. I'm starting to test it,' Grelle said brusquely.
The direct route to the Elysee would have led along the rue St Honore and the Faubourg St Honore beyond, but because of the one-way system Grelle drove via the Place de la Concorde, along the Avenue Gabriel, which took him past the American Embassy, and then up the Avenue Marigny, passing on his right the large walled garden which lies behind the Elysee itself. Arriving at the palace, he waited while a guard lowered the white-painted chain and then drove into the courtyard beyond. Getting out of his car, he went straight to the guardhouse.
`Can I see the register of visitors ?' the prefect asked casually.
The officer showed him the book which records the date, time of arrival and identity of everyone visiting the Elysee. It was the page for Thursday, 9 December, the day when Gaston Martin had stood outside the Elysee which interested Grelle. He checked the entries for visitors who had arrived between 7.30 and 8.30 in the evening; then, to throw the duty officer off the scent, he looked at one or two other pages.
`Thank you,' he said and went out into the courtyard and up the seven steps which led to the plate glass doors of the main entrance.
Not even a cabinet minister could have called as casually as this, but Marc Grelle was held in especially high regard by Guy Florian. 'He has no political ambition,' the president once informed a cabinet minister he knew to be excessively ambitious. 'I had to drag him away from Marseilles to Paris. Sometimes I think he is the only honest man in France. I would trust him with my life. . .
In fact, Guy Florian had entrusted Grelle with his life. While the president is inside the department of Paris the responsibility for his security—and that of cabinet ministers—is in the hands of the police prefect. On the morning after the assassination attempt Florian had ordered that from now on his personal safety was to be in the hands of Marc Grelle throughout the whole of France. With one stroke of his pen Florian had made the prefect the most powerful figure in the French Republic after himself—if he chose to exercise that power.
`The president will receive you,' a uniformed usher informed Grelle as he waited in the marble-floored lobby which is carpeted only down the centre. The interview took place in the president's study on
Grelle dropped the report on his desk. 'The bastard,' he said quietly. 'To go on concealing his identity he had people killed, a man imprisoned in that black jungle hell for life. God knows how many other poor devils died for the sake of the cause—in the report I read of the Leopard I noticed a number of his closer associates came to a sticky end before the war was over. It's a trail of blood this man has left behind him. . .
The prefect was walking round his office with his hands shoved down inside his slacks pockets. Boisseau had rarely seen his chief so angry. 'Remember this, Boisseau,' Grelle went on. `Do a job but never devote your life to a so-called cause. You will find yourself in pawn to scum. . .
`All this to protect the Leopard? A man who is dead ?'
`We'll see about that.' Grelle was putting on his leather raincoat. 'I'm going to the Elysee. If anyone asks for me, you don't know where I am.'
`I still don't understand it,' Boisseau persisted. 'The record shows the Leopard died in 1944. Gaston Martin, who we now know was Petit-Louis, the Leopard's right-hand man, says he saw him walk into the Elysee. . .'
`When you get a conflict of evidence, you test it. I'm starting to test it,' Grelle said brusquely.
The direct route to the Elysee would have led along the rue St Honore and the Faubourg St Honore beyond, but because of the one-way system Grelle drove via the Place de la Concorde, along the Avenue Gabriel, which took him past the American Embassy, and then up the Avenue Marigny, passing on his right the large walled garden which lies behind the Elysee itself. Arriving at the palace, he waited while a guard lowered the white-painted chain and then drove into the courtyard beyond. Getting out of his car, he went straight to the guardhouse.
`Can I see the register of visitors ?' the prefect asked casually.
The officer showed him the book which records the date, time of arrival and identity of everyone visiting the Elysee. It was the page for Thursday, 9 December, the day when Gaston Martin had stood outside the Elysee which interested Grelle. He checked the entries for visitors who had arrived between 7.30 and 8.30 in the evening; then, to throw the duty officer off the scent, he looked at one or two other pages.
`Thank you,' he said and went out into the courtyard and up the seven steps which led to the plate glass doors of the main entrance.
Not even a cabinet minister could have called as casually as this, but Marc Grelle was held in especially high regard by Guy Florian. 'He has no political ambition,' the president once informed a cabinet minister he knew to be excessively ambitious. 'I had to drag him away from Marseilles to Paris. Sometimes I think he is the only honest man in France. I would trust him with my life. . .
In fact, Guy Florian had entrusted Grelle with his life. While the president is inside the department of Paris the responsibility for his security—and that of cabinet ministers—is in the hands of the police prefect. On the morning after the assassination attempt Florian had ordered that from now on his personal safety was to be in the hands of Marc Grelle throughout the whole of France. With one stroke of his pen Florian had made the prefect the most powerful figure in the French Republic after himself—if he chose to exercise that power.
`The president will receive you,' a uniformed usher informed Grelle as he waited in the marble-floored lobby which is carpeted only down the centre. The interview took place in the president's study on
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