The Resistance Man (Bruno Chief of Police 6)

across to the
Mairie
, up to his office and opened the safe. He took out his MAB 9-millimetre, stripped, cleaned and lightly oiled it and then carefully wiped the bullets before loading the magazine. It could take fifteen rounds, but like most former soldiers he left out one to loosen the spring and reduce the chances of jamming. He reassembled his weapon, checked the safety catch and strapped his holster around his waist. Feeling self-conscious at its unaccustomed weight, Bruno went back to complete his patrol and watch over the market. To his surprise, none of his friends and neighbours seemed to notice he was armed.
    An hour later it was, however, the first thing Isabelle spotted when he responded to her phone call and arrived in his van at Crimson’s house. As he climbed out to greet her he could hear the distant sound of a helicopter and she called from the doorway: ‘Perfect timing, they’re on their way in and it’s good to see you with a gun again. That usually means matters are about to get interesting.’
    She opened the front of her leather jacket so he could see her shoulder holster but then went down on one knee as Bruno opened the rear of the van and little Balzac leaped out and sprinted towards her. Ears almost as long as Balzac himself flapped like giant wings as he leaped into her arms, his tongue raking her neck and cheek. She laughed and hugged him, and then seemed to lose her balance and toppled onto her back, Balzac standing four-square on her chest to nuzzle at her face. Bruno felt himself grinning even as he thought how much he would miss her.
    ‘Don’t just stand there, help me up,’ she called from the ground, and laughing he stretched out a hand. The helicopterwas much closer. She dusted herself down and watched Balzac follow his sniffing nose around the garden. Whether or not she missed him, Bruno thought, she’d certainly miss Balzac.
    One of the men in overalls who had been with her on her first day at Crimson’s house was standing on the edge of the covered swimming pool, holding a red flare, its smoke giving the pilot the wind direction. The military helicopter flew past the house, turned and came back into the wind as it dropped. Bruno clamped his képi firmly to his head, noticing that it was a Fennec, one of the unarmed models used to transport senior officers. Balzac, who had darted into the shelter of Bruno’s legs when he saw the helicopter descend, now barked defiance as its rotors stilled. The door opened and the Brigadier, dressed in a suit and tie, groped with his foot for the little step bar attached to the skids and jumped down. He turned to help a rather older man in grey slacks, blazer and open-neck shirt.
    Crimson was the only man Bruno knew who seemed to have his hair cut once a week. It was always of a perfect length and it never seemed to lose its parting, however strenuous the tennis or capricious the wind. At first, Bruno had thought it signified a touch of vanity, but now that he knew the man it seemed all of a piece with his self-possession and self-control.
    ‘Bruno,’ said the Brigadier, much more coldly than usual, reaching out for a curt handshake as Bruno’s arm came down from the salute. ‘I believe you know Monsieur Crimson.’
    ‘Bruno and I have been on first-name terms for years,’ said Crimson, in his grammatical but strongly-accented French. With careful courtesy he shook Isabelle’s hand before surprising Bruno with a kiss on both cheeks. They had beenamicable acquaintances but hardly good friends. Perhaps he was trying to send a signal to the Brigadier. ‘I gather you’ve pulled off a remarkable bit of police work.’
    ‘You’ll need to check the hoard, but I brought this as a token of the eventual return of your goods,’ said Bruno, and handed to Crimson the wrapped parcel he had brought with him from the back of his van. He was conscious of the Brigadier glowering impatiently at him. Whatever credit he’d gained from solving the burglary did not seem to have impressed the Brigadier.
    ‘Let’s do this inside the house,’ Crimson said, and looked down to where Balzac was sniffing at his cavalry twill trousers. ‘And who’s this little fellow? You finally managed to replace dear Gigi?’
    Inside his kitchen, he unwrapped the two Cotman water-colours, which Bruno had selected as the most portable and identifiable of the loot from the barn. He examined them both with deep satisfaction.
    ‘These were the wedding presents my