The Resistance Man (Bruno Chief of Police 6)

handed the phone to J-J and went back to Sergeant Jules, who was chewing on a sandwich. He offered another to Bruno, who shook his head.
    ‘Since nobody else will do anything, I’m going to try,’ he said. ‘I’ll need you to break a window on the upper floor and pull down the bike that’s leaning against the front door, both at the same time. Ten seconds after that, I want the bike leaning against the back door to be pulled away. There’s an alarm rigged to each one and it will distract them. And I’ll need those bolt-cutters you have for traffic accidents.’
    ‘Alright, do you want me to come with you?’
    ‘I’m not sure you’d squeeze through the gap I’m planning to use, old friend, but thanks for offering. Who’s the best of your team?’
    ‘Françoise, no question. She’s also the best shot. By the way, Yveline’s back, holding the fort like you asked, and calling every few minutes to ask if anything’s happened. She had one bit of news. Somebody left a cardboard box on the steps of the Gendarmerie with an old silver coffee pot inside. It must have happened just after I left. She says it looks like the American one that was stolen and what do you want her to do?’
    ‘Tell her to call the owner and see if she can identify it,’ Bruno replied. ‘But first, let’s talk to Françoise.’
    Jules beckoned Françoise to join them and asked if she was ready to volunteer to go in with Bruno.
    ‘About time somebody did something,’ she said. ‘If he’s shot Florence …’
    Bruno explained his plan. He went to the back of his Land Rover, pulled out his spare roll of fishing line and measured out two lengths of twenty metres each. He gave one to Françoise and sent her to creep to the front door and tie the line to the bike while he did the same at the rear.
    They rejoined Sergeant Jules, who had collected a handful of fist-sized stones and positioned himself by the landing window that looked onto the garage. Each of them gave the sergeant an end of fishing line.
    ‘Pull on that and the bike topples and the alarm goes off,’ said Bruno. ‘When you hear the click of the bolt-cutters, count to twenty and then pull the back-door bike.’
    Jules repeated the instructions.
    ‘Then count to ten and break that bloody window and start shouting. Stay tucked up against the wall so they can’t see you or shoot you but keep on throwing stones until that glass breaks.’
    ‘Count to ten, window.’
    ‘Then count to ten again and pull the front-door bike. I’ll go first and try to get up the stairs to the landing to get the high ground and Françoise stays at the top of the cellar stairs.’
    ‘What’s this?’ J-J demanded, joining them. ‘What are you up to, Bruno?’
    ‘Since you lot won’t do anything, the Mayor has told me to do something.’
    ‘You’re not doing anything.’
    ‘You’re not my boss.’
    ‘No, you damn fool, I’m your friend. What have you got in mind?’
    Bruno explained his plan. J-J nodded. ‘I suppose it might help if I were to call him and say we’d just heard from Paris when I hear your bolt-cutters.’
    ‘It would help a lot. If I can open the front door on the way up, I’ll try it.’
    Bolt-cutters in hand, with Françoise carrying an aerosol can of lubricant, they crept around the rear of the house to the edge of the terrace and the access for the fuel oil. Françoise sprayed the lubricant onto the hinges and then held the padlock so Bruno could get a purchase. With a powerful heave of his shoulders he closed the long handles of the cutters and heard a loud snap. Françoise pulled out the broken padlock and then Bruno took a deep breath, seized the edges of the two metal plates and in a swift move pulled them upand open. Better a short, sharp sound than a long-drawn-out squeak of protesting rust.
    He let himself into the hole, counting under his breath, lowered himself on his arms until his feet touched the floor and the count was ten. He whispered to Françoise to follow, helped her down and then took out his gun. He released the safety catch. Fifteen.
    He opened the door to find the cellar in darkness. He groped his way to the stairs and began climbing at the count of eighteen. He had just reached the top of the stairs when he heard glass break and then a noisy clatter. He opened the door, the light suddenly very bright, and heard a woman’s voice shout ‘Back door.’ Footsteps ran down the stairs from the upper floor. This was a count of ten and he