We fought our way through the crowd while the sirens of police vehicles and emergency ambulances were already blaring in the background. Then we ran across the street. The van of a pizza delivery service braked with screeching tires. The driver flipped me the bird and I showed him my Marseille police ID card.
We finally reached the other side of the road.
François had long since contacted our headquarters at the office by cell phone. All further measures deemed necessary would be taken from there.
We reached the entrance to the building, which was certainly a little older, but in top condition. An upmarket office building - without the comfort of modern glass palaces, but with the charm and style of 1930s architecture.
Law firms resided here. The immediate proximity to the courthouse was undoubtedly an advantage of the location, which made it appear more attractive, at least for mid-range law firms, to rent space here rather than on a floor of some expensive glass palace.
Members of a private security service in black uniforms were patrolling the entrance hall. They carried six-shot, short-barreled Smith& Wesson 38-caliber revolvers on their belts. I went up to the first member of security, showed him my badge and said:"Pierre Marquanteur, FoPoCri. The portal of the courthouse has been shot at from the third window on the seventh floor. Take your men and make sure that the exits, the stairwell and the elevators are guarded! Nobody is allowed to leave the building until our reinforcements have arrived and have been able to check the people."
"Yes, no problem."
I gave him my card.
"It's got my cell phone number on it. Contact me immediately if anything happens down here!"
"All right." He pocketed the card."Third window, seventh floor, did you say?"
"Yes."
"This must be Watton& Partner's premises. They moved out last week. Since then, the floor has been empty because no new tenant has been found who was prepared to pay the horrendous rent!" The security employee turned around. His name was written in capital letters on his uniform shirt: B. Borné.
"Hey, Jacques! Take the commissaires to the seventh! But watch out! There might be a trigger-happy killer up there."
Jacques - his name was Jacques Tihange according to the print on his shirt - drew his revolver and master key and motioned for us to follow him.
In the meantime, Borné was barking orders to his men through the entrance hall. Another member of the security staff, who had his place in a cube made of bulletproof glass and monitored the entrance from there, picked up the phone to pass on instructions.
Jacques Tihange led us to the stairwell. We could only hope that Borné would really follow my instructions and that a few more members of security would soon be in position here and that theblack sheriffs wouldnot just concentrate on the elevators. After all, the perpetrator had to be deprived of any chance of escape in the shortest possible time and every hole, however small, had to be plugged.
If it wasn't already too late anyway.
We took two to three steps at a time. It turned out that in terms of fitness, Jacques Tihange was a match for two well-trained commissaires like François and me.
Finally, we reach the seventh floor. A short corridor led to the offices of Watton& Partner. The company sign had been taken down.
Only an outline and the screw holes were still visible.
"Wasn't one of Grenadille's defenders called Watton?" asked François.
"Absolutely!"
The access door to the Watton& Partner area was separated from the entrance area by a glass door, which also provided access to the elevators. We checked these first. ...
