Sergeant Bayer turned into the lane that led to Lucien Bouchard’s house, the outbuildings spread behind it. “The truck is still gone,” he said. “It doesn’t look like anyone is here.”
“They probably fled together,” Ziegler muttered, annoyed he had missed an opportunity. “We’ll start by searching the cottage again.”
They went to the entrance. Bayer knocked. They waited, but only for a moment. When no one replied he shoved the door. With the jamb already splintered, it swung open with little resistance. He drew his pistol and stepped inside. Ziegler followed.
“Is anyone here?” Bayer called in French. He walked through the house, room by room, while Ziegler waited at the entrance. “It’s empty, sir.”
They went through each room, again searching closets and going through kitchen cabinets. Th
