‘So, my friend,’ he murmured to Philpott, ‘at last, action.’ There was no reply. Poupon glanced over at his colleague: Philpott had slumped into a corner of the van, his head sunk on his chest. Poupon regarded him gravely, then rose, crossed the floor, and gently shook the sleeping man’s shoulder. Philpott jerked awake, looked up into Poupon’s face, and rubbed his eyes. ‘Christ,’ he murmured, ‘that’s a fine time for a cat-nap.’ He yawned, shook his head to clear the cobwebs, and asked the Commissioner if there had been any news. Poupon indicated that there had. ‘We parachuted a hundred soldiers into the château,’ he said proudly. ‘It was all over in less than half an hour. The Château Clérignault still stands, as glorious as ever, but now it’s in our hands.’ Philpott climbed groggily to his feet. ‘Fantastic,’ he grinned. ‘And the chopper pilot? Did you get him?’ Poupon nodded. ‘Well?’ Philpott demanded.
