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What finally stopped the robbers was the rise of water in the sewage system, the result of heavy late-weekend rains. Otherwise, they might have doubled or trebled their loot. Said one policeman: "If it hadn't rained, God knows how much more they would have taken."
Aghast Officials. The gang floated its swag back through the sewers and to the waiting vans in a collapsible rubber boat and on a raft made of inner tubes. A note that the industrious looters left behind, signed with an inverted peace symbol, said simply: "No gunplay, no violence, no hate."
Bank officials were aghast, as well they might be. The managing director, Jacques Guenet, had been so convinced of his vault's impregnability that he had failed to install any kind of electronic alarm system. To save on wages, he had even sent the night watchman home on weekends. Guenet's wealthy depositors were displeased, to put it mildly. On the day following the discovery, angry crowds clogged the streets in front of the Société Générale.
A promise that the bank would make good any losses only seemed to darken the mood. Indeed, one old woman fainted at the news and had to be brought around with brandy. To gain restitution, the depositors would have to declare the contents of their boxes, something that the law does not normally require of them. But in France, where hiding wealth from tax collectors under mattresses and in bank vaults is a national custom, such declarations promised to expose many depositors to trouble from the government.