by Mark Hebden
Pel said nothing. It had long been his opinion that frozen, packaged and preserved foods had ruined French culinary expertise. Doubtless Madame Routy, who had given him indigestion for years, had learned to cook with frozen food and it was well known that people were nowadays so stuffed with preservatives from the food they ate, there was no need to embalm them when they died.
They were shown into the library. On a table was a visitors’ book. Beauregard looked over Pel’s shoulder and opened it. ‘See that?’ he said. ‘Notice the names? Teddy Roosevelt. Edward VII. Queen Marie of Rumania. Alexander of Jugoslavia. Winston Churchill. Onassis. Callas. I bet he won’t ask us to sign it. Like his father before him, he’s had his good times here, believe me. Women, for instance. He had quite a reputation. Still has, come to that.
The Vicomte arrived soon afterwards, followed by a manservant with drinks. He looked more than ever like a broken-down roué.
‘Your wife, Monsieur?’ he said to Pel. ‘You didn’t bring her?’
‘I left her talking to the maid you sent down. They seemed to be getting on very well together.’
‘Next time you must bring her.’
‘I suspect I may be too busy to make social calls.’
‘Then I’ll look after her. We might have dinner together. You must send her up on her own.’
Not on your life, Pel thought. I wouldn’t trust you, mon brave, with anything under ninety. Perhaps not even that.
They were joined by a large broad-shouldered Italian-looking man called Tissandi, who turned out to be the Vicomte’s agent and handled all his business on the island, his freezer plants, his imports and exports, the boutiques and hotels he owned. Like the Vicomte, he was immaculately dressed in casual clothes which, Pel decided, must have cost a bomb, but were finished off as usual with the usual canvas-topped rope-soled shoes.
‘I live here in the château,’ he pointed out. ‘I have an office and an apartment at the back with my own entrance. I also have an office in the Vieux Port. If there’s anything you need just call in there. If I’m not there the clerk will put you through by telephone to my office here, and I can always send the car for you. Anyone will direct you, just ask for the Ufficio. It’s the old Italian name for it. The island was originally Italian. The Italians used to claim Nice and Corsica, of course, and a lot of people here have Italian backgrounds. I’m one.’
‘With twenty years of devotion to me,’ the Vicomte said. ‘He does all my worrying, all my dirty work, all my hard labour, so I can carry on with my decadent and slothful way of life, knowing perfectly well that my property, my estate, my business interests, my finances are in safe hands.
‘For which,’ Tissandi pointed out, ‘I’m very well repaid. When I first came here I was just a small boy with an Italian background and little education. You fitted me for the job.’
‘Doing what?’ It seemed to Pel to be about time to interrupt the duologue of mutual admiration with some blunt facts. ‘Exactly?’
Tissandi turned. ‘We’re involved in many things. Olive oil. Imports into the island. Aluminium-tube folding chairs. Tubular garden furniture. It comes from Italy–’
‘Coffee machines?’
‘You’ve seen them?’ Tissandi laughed. ‘They’ve come on the St Yves-Calvi ferry. There are other things too. Sulphur, for instance. It comes from the west side of the island, in a barren area known as L’Aride. It’s found in its free state in many volcanic districts like Sicily. This island was originally a volcano. To free it from impurites we stack it in brick kilns and ignite it with burning brushwood. The heat causes it to melt and flow into moulds and it’s then sent away by ship for purification.’ He gestured. ‘It’s obtained in other ways, of course, but this is the old simple method. It’s used for many things – metallurgy, chemicals, cements, petrol refining, medicaments, insecticides, fungicides, fertilisers. There are two natural reserves here and as an insurance against a possible shortage, the government pays us subsidies to store it, not sell it. It’s a new government policy. It’s been operating for some time now. They’re considering the possibility of some national emergency – war, disaster, strikes, something of that sort, even sabotage – and the likelihood of industry running short. It’s happening with most other countries in the Western block and with other producers both in France and abroad. Decided at Foreign Minister level, I believe. It’s my job to handle the business involved.’
The meal was served on flattish metal plates of a pale yellow colour. Pel couldn’t take his eyes off them. Tissandi saw the way he was studying his meal and, as the Vicomte was called to the telephone, he leaned over and whispered.
‘Your suspicions do you credit, Chief,’ he murmured. ‘They are gold. The Vicomte likes to impress people sometimes. It seems he wanted to impress you.’
What with, Pel wondered. His power? His wealth? Or the fact that he held the island in the palm of his hand?
Beauregard had noticeably disappeared and Pel suspected he was being given his meal in the kitchen – if he were being given one at all.
There were several menservants to serve them, something which irritated Pel. If you couldn’t manage to eat a meal without half a dozen people waiting to hand you things, you had to be either damned lazy or suffering from a stroke. Several times he pushed away the white-gloved hands that reached forward to pass him a spoon.
‘Of course, I help run the estate, too,’ the Vicomte explained. ‘My father, the Duc de Dudecheville, who owns it, is gaga, you see. I think my wife is a little gaga, too. She spends all her time and all my money trying to provide baths for the caves of the gypsies in Spain.’
By this time Pel was beginning to wonder if they were ever going to get down to business. Caceolari was lying on a cold slab somewhere – in one of the Vicomte’s freezers, he’d been told, because there was no mortuary nearer than Nice where he could be kept – and the trail, if there were a trail, was cooling rapidly.
They took coffee on the terrasse where they were joined by a tall dark lanquid man in the same expensive casual dress and canvas shoes. He looked so wilting he seemed on the point of collapse.
‘My secretary,’ the Vicomte introduced. ‘Freddy Ignazi. He also lives in the château’.
Ignazi held out a limp hand to be shaken and managed a weak smile as he folded up into a cane chair. He was in the same mould as the Vicomte – thin body, thin arms and legs, and thin neck – but somehow while the Vicomte was whipcord, Ignazi was just strengthless pith.
‘Baron Ignazi,’ Tissandi whispered. ‘The Vicomte likes to be surrounded by titles.’
When they finally got down to business, Pel noticed that Beauregard had reappeared, an overweight, undershaved man with sly eyes. He looked satisfied with himself so Pel assumed he’d been adequately fed and watered. He hadn’t seen him arrive, had suddenly merely noticed him sitting in one of the cane chairs, stiffly upright as if he were on parade and on his best behaviour, trying hard to manipulate a minute cup and saucer with his huge hairy hands. He could only assume that when the coffee had been ordered, instructions had gone to the kitchen for him to put in an appearance.
‘This is the first major crime we’ve had on the island in years,’ the Vicomte said. ‘Of course there are these burnings of holiday homes, though I have a certain sympathy with whoever’s doing it.’
‘It’s against the law, whoever’s doing it,’ Pel said stiffly.
The Vicomte sighed. ‘Of course. But my sympathy tends to lie with the young people.
I’d like to keep them here and there are some who’d prefer to be here, in a house with a garden where they can grow things, keep chickens and see the sea.’ He gestured. ‘I’ve built a few houses to let, of course, and even helped a few youngsters with loans, especially if their parents or they themselves work for me. To be quite honest, it doesn’t worry me if we never catch our arsonist. It might discourage people from the mainland from buying our houses.
When they finally got around to Caceolari, Rochemare was
quick to understand the way Pel was thinking and was wondering what it was that Caceolari had been afraid of.
‘He was afraid of something and it led to his death,’ Pel said. ‘I think he’d have liked to have told me.’
Rochemare looked up. ‘Did he?’
‘No. He changed his mind.’ Pel paused. ‘Who were his friends? Whom did he know?’
Rochemare looked at Beauregard who just shrugged.
‘Everybody,’ Beauregard said. ‘Nobody in particular. He was the taxi-driver. The only one on the island. Everybody knew him.’
‘Was he involved in anything?’
Beauregard shrugged.
‘Politics?’
Another shrug.
‘The Mafia?’ Rochemare asked. ‘The Marseilles gangs? After all, we’re not far from either Marseilles or Italy.’
Another shrug.
‘Then something must have sparked it off while I was on my way here,’ Pel said. ‘What was it?’
Rochemare and Beauregard studied each other. ‘Nothing ever happens here,’ Rochemare said. ‘Except that Fleurie, the storekeeper behind the harbour of the Vieux Port, ran off with Pinchon’s wife. Madame Fleurie runs a foreign exchange on the island. She’s known as the Black Widow. She isn’t a widow but she’s always looked like one. It’s no wonder Fleurie ran off with Madame Pinchon. I heard they were in Toulouse.’
‘He was always telephoning her to meet him,’ Beauregard said.
‘How do you know?’ Pel asked.
Beauregard grinned. ‘Everybody knows everything on this island. Most of the telephones are party lines. You know how they work. Six people on the same line. One ring for the first, two for the second and so on. Easiest thing in the world to listen in to someone else’s conversation so long as you don’t have a coughing fit. It used to be a favourite pastime listening in to Fleurie and Madame Pinchon.’
‘There can’t be many secrets.’
‘There aren’t. Mademoiselle Misard, who runs the exchange, always listens in anyway. It’s still hand-operated and she has to get you your number. She’s been doing it for years.’
‘Is that the limit of what goes on?’
They all looked at each other and shrugged. ‘What about the mainland? Nice has it’s problems and it’s not very far away. And I know there’s been trouble between the groups operating rival casinos. People have disappeared suddenly. Events there could have their effect here.’
Rochemare’s shoulders moved. ‘I thought statistics showed that serious crime there was diminishing.’
‘It doesn’t alter the fact that they still have crime,’ Pel said. ‘Every city has crime. The way a dog has fleas. The casinos were even shut down. And there was that big shooting there last week. Six men mown down in a bar. It’s out of my parish, but I’ll want to know about it. A thing like that could send ripples out to a lot of strange places. Could Caceolari have been involved?’
Tissandi leaned forward. ‘He went to the mainland from time to time,’ he said.
‘Could he have picked something up? Heard something? Something he shouldn’t have?’
Nobody could suggest anything so Pel tried from another angle.
‘Where was he just before he arrived in my courtyard?’ he asked. ‘He obviously wasn’t at home with his wife. Did he have a girl friend?’
Rochemare smiled. ‘There’s that woman at Mortcerf. That’s a village in the hills. Name of Robles. Luz Robles. Claims to be Spanish. Supposed to be the ex-madame of a Marseilles brothel. She runs a bar. It’s called “La Nida de la Paloma”. It means “The Dove’s Nest”. I heard he sometimes went there at night after she closed.’
‘What time does she close?’
‘In summer, when the holidaymakers are here, after midnight. At this time of the year, around ten. If she bothers to open at all.’
‘I think we’d better go and see her as soon as we’ve seen his widow.’
‘Might be a good idea to go and see her first,’ Beauregard suggested. ‘His widow’s in no state to see anyone at the moment.’
Six
The Ile de St Ives was a strange place. The Vieux Port was in a flat basin of fertile land called by its old Italian name, the Conca d’Argento, the Silver Shell, and around it the sea showed through the trees in an ever-changing pattern of blue, purple and green, while the hills behind cut into the azure sky like pointed teeth.
The lower slopes were fringed with a straggly covering of cactus – chiefly the prickly pear and the spiky sisal that grew so abundantly further south in places like Riccio’s Sicily, each tapering leaf ending in a long black spike hard as ebony and sharp as a needle. Passing carts and occasional cars stirred up a white dust that left all foliage by the roadside greyish and dead-looking, and the land itself looked as dry as a desert.
Dark valleys were obscured by big sweeps of strong colour, the deep ultramarine of the sea, and the pale grey-green of the surrounding olives. Here and there were patches of wheat but, despite the cultivation, there seemed little sign of habitation beyond an occasional herd of cattle or a few goats or sheep. There were no small birds and no bird song and it was a harsh unfriendly terrain with no wild life apart from green and black adders, lizards, large spiders, and a few big bright butterflies, a hybrid sort of place that belonged further south yet somehow seemed to flourish just off the southern coast of France.
Though he was in the affair now too deeply to back out, Pel had no liking for it because the island was like some of the highland villages in mainland France where he’d had to conduct enquiries on other occasions. Away from the harbours and beaches frequented by the tourists, there was no sound just an incredible silence in the sunshine; and among the hills, with their rocky slopes and crowding trees, the village streets were empty. Even the chickens moved as little as possible in the open because of the hawks that circled the sky. The everlasting wind corroded the landscape and lifted the dust in whorls, and there seemed to be no such thing as an island community. In some of the villages the houses had long been empty and the isolated farms saw no visitors with the exception of Caceolari and perhaps the postman, as they went about their business.
The road from the Vieux Port lifted sharply round the slopes between tall pines and past the little stony track that led to the Villa des Roses. As it lifted higher, the pines gave way to olive groves, the trees twisted into unimaginable shapes like hobgoblins among the rocks.
Mortcerf was a mere huddle of houses all built of the same grey stone as the rest of the island but not plastered and painted white like the houses where the tourists congregated. ‘The Dove’s Nest’ was a simple bar without any sign, but with a small vine-covered terrasse containing a few tables and chairs. The interior was dark and practically bare of furniture, the high counter taking up most of the room.
Luz Robles was a full-busted woman with what had once been a good figure but was now in middle age running to fat. She wore a bright red skirt and yellow blouse which showed every contour of her full breasts. Round her shoulders she wore a purple scarf and the colours clashed abominably but somehow, with her swarthy complexion, the brilliant black eyes on which she had plastered mascara like a barrier and the thick dark hair only just touched with grey, she was able to get away with them. She looked Spanish all right and only needed a comb and a mantilla to complete the picture.
‘Hé, Alois,’ she said as Beauregard climbed from the little van he drove.
He nodded warily, so that Pel wondered if he, too, were in the habit of visiting her after hours. Come to that, did Rochemare himself? Despite the colours, it was easy to see that Madame Robles’ clothes were good and didn’t come from one of the indifferent little boutiques of the Vieux Port that intrigued Madame Pel. They looked fashionable as if they came from Nice, or even Paris.
Beauregard was introducing him. ‘This,’ he said, ‘is Chief Inspector Pel. He’s from the mainland. You’ll have heard about Paolo.’
The smile faded, ‘I heard,’ she said.
&nbs
p; Beauregard shrugged. ‘We’d like to ask you a few questions.
‘Why not his wife?’
‘Come on, Luz.’ Beauregard’s voice grew harsher. ‘We all knew about you and him.’
Her eyes hardened. ‘A lot of people did a lot of talking,’ she said. ‘But they knew nothing. He had a shrew of a wife and he came here for company. I gave it to him. And that’s all. Company. Nothing more.’
‘Was he here the night he was killed?’ Pel asked.
‘No.’
‘You’d better tell the truth, Madame. I can soon find out.’ Pel gestured at the other houses of the little hamlet. ‘They’ll know. People on this island seem to know everything.’
She said nothing for a moment, then she indicated one of the tables. ‘Sit down.’
She disappeared into the bar and returned with glasses and a bottle of white wine. ‘Local,’ she said to Pel. ‘It won’t be what you’re used to.’
She sloshed the wine into the glasses and stood with one elbow on the bar counter like a Paris prostitute waiting for a customer. Boire sur le zinc was definitely her style. As she refilled his glass, Pel found himself staring straight down the front of her blouse. The cleavage was like the Grand Canyon and, to a newly-married man, disturbing.
‘Well?’ Beauregard asked.
‘Yes.’ She nodded. ‘He was here. For an hour or so. No more.’
‘Why didn’t you say so at first?’
The dark eyes blazed. ‘Because it was nobody’s business but his – and mine.
‘It is now,’ Pel rapped. ‘He’s been murdered! Why did he come?’
‘To see me. That’s all.’
‘How was he?’
‘Same as always. Complaining about his wife.’
‘What did you talk about?’
‘All sorts of things. His wife chiefly.’
‘What time did he leave?’
‘Before midnight. I don’t know exactly.’
