Hernu removed his glasses. “I loathe this time of the morning. Takes me back to Dien Bien Phu and the waiting for the end. Pour me another coffee, will you?”

Savary took his cup, went to the electric pot on the stand and poured the coffee, strong and black. “What do you think, sir?”

“These Jobert brothers, you believe they’re telling us everything?”

“Absolutely, sir, I’ve known them for years. Big Pierre was OAS, which he thinks gives him class, but they’re second-rate hoods really. They do well in stolen cars.”

“So this would be out of their league?”

“Very definitely. They’ve admitted to me that they’ve sold this man Rocard cars in the past.”

“Of the hot variety?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Of course they are telling the truth. The ten thousand dollars speak for them there. But this man Rocard, you’re an experienced copper, Inspector. How many years on the street?”

“Fifteen, sir.”

“Give me your opinion.”

“His physical description is interesting because according to the Jobert boys, there isn’t one. He’s small, no more than one sixty-five. No discernible color to the eyes, fair hair. Gaston says the first time they met him he thought he was a nothing, and then he apparently half-killed some guy twice his size in the bar in about five seconds flat.”

“Go on.” Hernu lit a cigarette.

“Pierre says his French is too perfect.”

“What does he mean by that?”

“He doesn’t know. It’s just that he always felt that there was something wrong.”

“That he wasn’t French?”

“Exactly. Two facts of interest there. He’s always whistling a funny little tune. Gaston picked it up because he plays accordion. He says Rocard told him once that it was Irish.”

“Now that is interesting.”

“A further point. When he was assembling the machine gun in the back of the Renault at Valenton he told the boys it was a Kalashnikov. Not just bullets. Tracer, armor piercing, the lot. He said he’d seen one take out a Land-Rover full of British paratroopers. Pierre didn’t like to ask him where.”