by Noel Vindry
‘The theft might not be all that fruitful, but there was very little risk. That was vital to Allevaire, with his criminal record. In any case, he needed the money to sustain his lifestyle in Bordeaux, where he probably hadn’t had enough opportunities for theft. His pockets were empty and he was counting on his cousins to refill them. Hence the burglary.
‘But he might be a suspect, despite everything, and would need to be able to produce an alibi for the night of the theft. He thought of two, but seems to have had difficulty choosing between them.
‘The first, and most radical, was his own murder that same night. Once his family recognised the body—and I explained to you this morning why he had every reason to expect they would—nobody would be looking for any other proof, and from then on Allevaire would be presumed dead.
‘But, for that to happen, someone would have to be killed. No doubt he knew that, amongst the gang he frequented, one of the members had been singled out to die, and he could take advantage of that murder… but only if the execution took place on the same night. Maybe, at the last minute, he’d had reason to doubt it, and so conceived another alibi.
‘It was Serge Madras who would have to provide it. He would let an accomplice into the Clermon townhouse and pretend to discover him and identify him….’
‘But that would be like going from Scylla to Charybdis!’ exclaimed the deputy. ‘In order to avoid being suspected of the burglary of his cousins, he planned to get arrested for burglary of the Clermons!’
‘Not at all, my dear colleague. You’re forgetting that nothing was stolen from the Clermons.’
‘But the mere attempt is equally bad in the eyes of the law.’
‘Yes, and enough to keep the police occupied for a while and deflect suspicion from the Limonest theft. When interest in that has died down, Serge Madras will, little by little, change his attitude: either he’ll start to have doubts about his accusation and say he’s no longer sure to have recognised the culprit: or trivialise the theft, saying it was only a portrait of the young woman that was stolen.’
‘But, speaking of the young woman, your previous objection is still valid. Why didn’t she denounce the lie if she hadn’t, in fact recognised Allevaire? Unless you suspect her to be part of the gang as well?’
‘I don’t think so, or she would have been less hesitant in her accusation. No: quite simply she didn’t want to contradict the secretary, because she’s in love with him. So she stuck to her evasive deposition.’
‘Even supposing that to be true, wouldn’t it have been simpler for Serge Madras, instead of going through all that taradiddle, to have simply declared he’d run into Allevaire in Bordeaux the night of the Limonest theft?’
‘That wouldn’t have had the same weight as an accusation. And someone might have suspected a collusion between the two men, and followed that trail. In any case, given that Allevaire, for good reason, hadn’t spent the evening with the Clermons, where would the secretary have seen him? He would have had to arrange a late-night sortie, which would have astonished his employer and scandalised the young woman.’
‘True enough. So Allevaire had planned two alibis: one in Aubagne and the other in Bordeaux. But it was sheer madness to establish them for the same time! One alibi by itself is precious, but two are fatal!’
‘You can be sure,’ explained M. Allou, ‘that he planned things otherwise. I assume he thought about the Aubagne alibi first. Everything was in place: the man charged with carrying out the murder had the papers ready to place them on the corpse. Then, at the last moment Allevaire learns that, for some reason, the execution has been delayed. That’s when he organises the other alibi with Madras.
‘But the information was faulty and the murder took place after all. The man responsible, unaware of the precautions Allevaire has taken, carries out his orders to the letter and places the identification papers on the body. And that’s how our poor miscreant finds himself with a double alibi for the same night. By sheer bad luck, he gets caught out in Limonest!’
‘Well that’s certainly a trail worth following,’ murmured the deputy.
‘Yes, far more than the simple theft of some silverware. There’s an entire gang to be discovered—well-organised and with no compunction about dispatching any member they can’t trust. What a catch that would be!’
M. Allou’s bright, hard eyes gleamed like those of a hunter whose prey was getting near.
‘Don’t get too excited,’ counselled his colleague. ‘The entire organisation is in Bordeaux, outside your province, so you won’t be the one following the trail. Oh, I know there’ll be some ramifications involving Marseille—the “Black House” was obviously a place for rendezvous, maybe even a warehouse for stolen goods—but the central hub of the case is still Bordeaux.’
M. Allou fell silent for a few minutes. Then his eyes started gleaming anew.
‘My dear deputy,’ he said, ‘there may be other possible theories.’
‘That’s what I was thinking. Maybe—and this is probably your thinking as well—maybe we’ve been wrong in thinking the Lyon theft was an established fact. Maybe it was an artful piece of stage management.’
M. Allou smiled.
‘Explain your thinking. Are you saying that Misses Levalois, or even Aunt Dorothée, knowing that Allevaire’s crime was going to be committed here, or that he was going to commit theft in Bordeaux, arranged an alibi in Limonest for him?’
‘No!’ exclaimed his colleague. ‘That would have been stupid. In the first place, they’re peaceful people with an excellent reputation, according to the inspector. Allevaire would never have asked them for their help, and they would never have given it. Secondly, Limonest was far more serious than Bordeaux—a theft had actually been committed, so that alibi would have been disastrous for the miscreant.’
‘So what do you think happened?’ asked M. Allou.
‘That maybe the slanderous accusation occurred at Limonest. The two sisters wanted their aunt’s inheritance and, to rule her nephew out of the picture, organised the theft of the silverware she loved so much. During a prior visit, they’d kept a spoon which their cousin had touched, and that’s how his fingerprints were found on it.’
M. Allou was still smiling.
‘So that way we may assume that Allevaire was in Aubagne that night, that it was he who killed the unknown gang member and, to avoid suspicion, placed his own wallet on the victim? Thus gaining the additional advantage of being presumed dead?’
‘Yes, but he could equally have committed the theft in Bordeaux.’
‘So what you’re saying is that either Allevaire arranged an alibi in Aubagne for his theft in Bordeaux or, conversely, an alibi in Bordeaux for the murder in Aubagne? And that, in either case, by an extraordinary coincidence, his cousins fabricated the scene in Limonest?’
‘Yes, that’s it. Unlike you, I’m not averse to chance.’
‘I only resign myself to it out of desperation.’
‘So you reject my solution?’
‘No.’
‘Well, that’s a change!’
‘At least, not officially. On the contrary, I’ll happily accept it and charge Allevaire with murder. Do you see any consequences?’
‘Quite a few,’ replied the other.
‘There’s one that interests me more than any other. Legally, I’ll have seized on the most serious crime to charge him with: the thefts in Bordeaux and Lyon pale in comparison. And, since the crimes are connected, I can ask the public prosecutors in both places to cede authority in my favour. That way, I’d be in charge of everything.’
‘Obviously,’ murmured the deputy, ‘I can but admire your zeal. But, however clairvoyant you may be—and I yield to no one in my admiration of your powers—do you really believe justice is best served that way? As you yourself have said, the central nub of the affair is Bordeaux, and your colleague on the spot there seems better placed than you to discover the truth.’
‘Maybe you’re right. I’ll have t
o think about it. Good day to you.’
***
But M. Allou didn’t reflect on the matter for long.
Slowly his eye wandered along the dusty shelves which decorated the walls and lingered on the boring files lying in disorder on the table.
‘All this paperwork,’ he murmured. ‘What am I doing here stuck with this mess?’
He’d chosen his profession in the hope of satisfying his two great passions: logic and adventure. He hadn’t been too disappointed about the first, having solved numerous interesting problems which rose above the daily grind. As for the second, it had been a disaster: more and more he felt his title of civil servant weighing on him.
Worst of all, he had tasted adventure: he’d allowed himself to be led along in the case of the pearl necklace, then those affairs in Eguille and Meillerie. At present, his resistance to temptation was weak.
‘Action,’ he said to himself. ‘Direct action, without paperwork.’
For a few seconds he stared at the telephone, then picked it up. The switchboard operator came on the line. The die had been cast.
‘Get me the public prosecutors of Bordeaux and Lyon urgently,’ he ordered, ‘and then the Sûreté in Paris.’
A few minutes later, the first communication was established.
He had no difficultly persuading his colleagues to defer to him on both cases.
To the Sûreté he explained that, because the cases involved small towns remotely situated, he needed assistance from Paris and specifically requested Superintendent Sallent.
The two had worked together on the case of the magic necklace and Sallent always obeyed him blindly, whatever he decided.
‘Send him to Bordeaux,’ he said. ‘There’s an inspector from Marseille there who can bring him up to speed… Yes, tomorrow morning at eight o’clock, in the Café Centrale… agreed, then.’
He hung up just as the deputy entered.
‘Have you come to a decision?’ asked the other.
‘Yes. Two, even.’
‘What are they?’
‘The first is to take control. My colleagues have agreed.’
‘Well, you certainly don’t shirk responsibility! What’s the other one?’
‘To take two weeks’ vacation.’
The deputy stood there for several seconds with his mouth open, then departed, telling anyone who would listen that his poor colleague did in fact need rest, and not just for two weeks. For a few months, more likely, or even years, alas!
Chapter VII
IN BORDEAUX
In Bordeaux, Superintendent Sallent was waiting on the terrace of the Café Centrale.
He was a beanpole, as tall and thin as Epicevieille, but much younger. He had the same bony face but not the same expression: it reflected energy, not compunction.
The superintendent was a good policeman, methodical, thoughtful, very thorough in his searches, and possessed of a magnificent courage. As for his intelligence, it was barely above average, and the more gifted of his colleagues joked about it amongst themselves.
A silent type, Sallent never sought the limelight, with the result that many underestimated him. But M. Allou understood him and appreciated his solid qualities. It was to Sallent’s skill, precision and sang-froid that the magistrate owed his life during the affair of the necklace, and he never forgot it.
As for the superintendent, his admiration for M. Allou knew no bounds.
Nonetheless, as he sipped his beer that morning, he did allow himself a slight criticism.
“Highly intelligent people are often forgetful,” he told himself. “M. Allou asked me to meet an inspector I’ve never seen… Couldn’t he at least have given me a description? There’s a customer over there who looks as though he might be waiting for someone as well.”
But suddenly he saw someone standing in front of him, smiling.
‘You, monsieur le juge!’
‘Sh! Here I’m not a magistrate, my dear Sallent. You can call me Dupont.’
‘Very well,’ said Sallent, without further discussion. ‘But I can’t see the inspector from Marseille whom I’m supposed to meet.’
‘Yes you can. He’s right in front of you. His name’s Dupont.’
‘But it’s you, mon—.’
‘Sh! Yes, it is. More precisely, I’m one of your collaborators from Paris: Inspector Dupont.’
‘But it’s—.’
‘A seizure of power? I know, and I don’t want to impose such a complication on you. If you have the slightest misgiving about it, I’ll take the next train back to Marseille.’
‘Oh, monsieur le … M. Dupont, you can order me to do anything.’
‘I’m not ordering you.’
‘You’re asking me. For me, it’s the same thing.’
‘Thank you, Sallent, that’s very kind of you.’
‘Not at all. I would never miss the opportunity to work with you.’
‘I think it could be interesting. We’re dealing with people who are well organised and ruthless with regard to anyone with a loose tongue.’
‘Thank you for having chosen me!’ exclaimed Sallent enthusiastically.
‘There’s not a minute to lose. We need to get in touch with the Bordeaux police. But please don’t call me “M. le juge,” or even “M. Dupont,” but simply “Dupont.”’
‘I’ll try, but it won’t be easy.’
‘Try.’
‘Yes.’
‘Say: “Yes, Dupont.”’
‘Yes, Du… Dupont,’ stammered the superintendent.
‘It doesn’t trip easily off the tongue, but that will come. Phone the local Sûreté and tell them you’ve made contact.’
***
After that, M. Allou brought his collaborator up to speed. Sallent listened attentively, nodding his head and forcing himself to say, from time to time:
‘Yes, Dupont. I understand, Dupont.’
It was only at the end that he risked a personal observation:
‘It’s a very strange business. It’s lucky you’re here… Dupont.’
Shortly thereafter, they arrived at the offices of the local Sûreté.
They were made to wait in one of the innumerable rooms, all the size of a prison cell, each furnished with a table and four chairs.
Suddenly the door opened and was completely blocked by a massive square shape. Inspector Protilato’s body, hands, face and head were all square.
He introduced himself with a deep chuckle:
‘Needless to say, you can call me “Proto,” like everyone else. My name’s so long that, when someone calls me, they no longer need me by the time they’ve finished pronouncing it.’
He had a magnificent accent and expansive gestures, which contrasted strongly with the reserve of his visitors. When they only responded with weak smiles, the inspector added:
‘I’m not quite sure why you’ve been sent here.’
Fearing that the man might be offended, M. Allou hastened to explain:
‘It’s a principle of the Marseille examining magistrate: when a case involves several regions, he enlists the police mobile, which speeds up searches considerably. But I don’t doubt that in Bordeaux you would have arrived—.’
‘Would have arrived?’ interrupted Proto. ‘I have arrived!’
‘And what have you concluded?’
‘As soon as I heard what had happened elsewhere, it wasn’t very difficult to understand. It was a slanderous accusation on the part of Serge Madras, motivated by jealousy.’
‘Do you have any information in support of that?’
‘No, but all you need to do is think. If Allevaire was in Lyon, he wasn’t here.’
‘Don’t you believe in complicity between the two of them to create an alibi for the culprit?’ asked M. Allou.
‘You’re talking nonsense, my friend. How they do complicate things in Paris! Serge Madras is a bit vindictive, I agree, but apart from that he’s perfectly honest. He doesn’t belong to any gangs.’
‘D
idn’t everyone believe the same of Allevaire before this business happened?’
‘Yes, but Madras is from around here.’
‘Yes, of course, that’s a guarantee.’
Proto turned to Sallent:
‘Believe me, superintendent, sir, there’s nothing to be found in this town. It’s a very banal affair. Take a few days off and relax. A short break will do you a world of good, especially beside the sea, at this time of year. Visit the coast, there are some delightful spots. And if I can be of help in any way, just let me know. I know all the cheap restaurants.’
Sallent gave an indistinct grunt. M. Allou replied on his behalf:
‘It’s an excellent idea. Nonetheless, to justify our expenses, we’ll need to go through a few formalities: a visit to the Clermon townhouse and a conversation with his secretary, that’s all.’
‘You’re right.’
‘Just one more question, if I may. It takes at least nine hours by car to reach either Marseille or Lyon. The three offences which have been attributed to Allevaire all took place on the night of the 9th to 10th, at exactly the same hour. So, if by chance he was seen here less than nine hours before the theft Madras accuses him of, then it’s the Bordeaux account which will be the true one.’
‘Nobody saw him here,’ declared Proto.
‘Are you sure? Did you conduct a thorough investigation?’
‘Very thorough, as always.’
‘What did they say in Clermon’s house?’
‘Nothing, there was no one there.’
‘A man in his situation without domestic staff?’
‘Your question surprises me,’ replied Proto. ‘You’re aware that his situation was a façade, I assume? He spent as little as possible on his residence, and his apartment, even though it was in a top location, was only looked after by one cleaning woman. She saw him at nine o’clock in the morning, fifteen hours before the events. He would have had all the time in the world to take a train.’
‘Quite so. Anything interesting in the house?’
