Pel & The Pirates (Chief Inspector Pel)

by Mark Hebden

  Because of the steeply rising ground behind the harbour, the church was set high above the sea wall and the priest was standing at the top of the steps dressed in a cream cope and a green and gold stole. They looked important and even new and, in that little community, splendid.

  ‘The Vicomte helps keep the church nice.’ Beauregard gave the explanation. ‘He gives a lot towards its upkeep.’

  The bearers, they noticed, included Lesage, Magimel, Rolland and Desplanques.

  ‘His pals from the Vieux Port,’ Beauregard said.

  They watched the little procession climb the steps to the church, the boots of the bearers fumbling carefully for a firm foothold. The door had been hung with black drapes decorated with silver braid and the priest raised his hand in blessing before turning to lead the cortège inside.

  ‘The rest all relatives?’ Pel asked.

  Beauregard shook his head. ‘He didn’t have that many. The graveyard’s just behind. There’s a family tomb. Mother and father there. The coffin doesn’t come back down here. Too tricky. About twenty years ago, one of the bearers stumbled and the whole lot crashed to the bottom.’ Beauregard seemed to find it amusing. ‘The coffin burst open and one of the bearers broke a leg. He sued. So did the dead man’s family. It would have bankrupted the Holy Father in Rome, the sums they asked. They said the steps were crooked and too steep and had winter lichen on them. As usual the Vicomte sorted it out and he had a door put in the church off the south side of the nave. You can go through there now straight to the churchyard. It makes it a lot easier.’

  ‘I can see it would.’ Pel agreed. ‘Is there another way into the churchyard apart from through the church?’

  Beauregard pointed to a winding set of stone steps. ‘Up there,’ he said. ‘Originally they used to have to come back down the church steps and then up there to get to the churchyard. I was told it led to all sorts of capers because sometimes the bearers had had a few drinks.’

  They found their way into the churchyard, shabby little patch as run down as the rest of the old part of the town, and waited under the tall cypresses for the procession to emerge. A gravedigger eyed them curiously as he leaned against one of the square family mausoleums. As the coffin reappeared, it was led by the priest, who, Pel noticed, was wearing rubber goloshes over his boots, and was followed by Madame Caceolari still supported by the woman and the youth.

  ‘Who’re those two?’ he asked.

  ‘That’s his sister Denise,’ Beauregard said. ‘And her son, his nephew. He’s a chef at the hotel in the Vieux Port.’

  ‘What about the pasty-faced type behind?’

  ‘That’s his brother-in-law, Albert Oudry, the baker. He married Caceolari’s sister.’

  Because it was handy and it was growing late, they telephoned Madame Pel and went to Riccio’s for lunch. Riccio met them as usual, his big hands black from the charcoal he’d been placing on the grill. Wiping his fingers carefully on his white apron, he shook hands and showed them to a scrubbed wooden table. Placing a wine glass containing one wilting flower in the centre, he followed it with three more empty ones and a carafe of white wine. ‘Drink, Monsieur?’

  ‘How do you know,’ Pel asked tartly, ‘that we shan’t be drinking red?’

  ‘Because Monsieur will be eating fish.’

  ‘Will we? Why?’

  ‘Because there’s only fish on the menu, Monsieur. Swordfish. Frozen. It’s very good, though.’

  Madame looked as though she would have preferred to get up and leave.

  As Riccio stoked up his stove and produced a salad containing nuts, onions and celery, they got on to the question of the fish.

  ‘There seems to be an extraordinary number of swordfish round here,’ Madame observed stiffly.

  ‘Well, not really,’ Riccio said apologetically from the stove. ‘Plenty of the other kind, though.’

  ‘Which, unfortunately, you don’t have.’

  ‘Well, actually, the fishing’s not been good this spring. Normally, it’s very good.’

  Madame seemed to be growing a little annoyed and Pel tried to bring the tension down from boiling point. ‘How often do you go?’

  Riccio shrugged. ‘When the tourists start coming, I have to look after the restaurant. The last time was a fortnight ago. I went out in the afternoon and came back early the next morning.’

  ‘Catch much?’

  Riccio smiled over his shoulder. ‘That was a good trip. We had a good catch.’

  ‘Then why is there none for us?’ Madame Pel demanded sharply.

  Riccio smiled. ‘Everyone likes fish, Madame.’

  ‘Don’t you freeze any of it?’ Pel asked.

  ‘It gets eaten too quickly. There’s never any left.’

  After the fiasco over the fish, Madame decided to treat De Troq’ that evening to a meal of her own cooking – complete with all the trimmings.

  Unfortunately, when they headed for the shops in the early evening they found them locked, bolted and barred. An old man sitting on the sea wall in the sunshine explained.

  ‘Gone shooting, I expect,’ he said.

  Pel stared round them. Every shop in the town seemed to have closed. ‘All of them?’

  ‘Everybody round here goes at this time of the year. I would, too, if I were younger.’

  Sure enough they could hear occasional fusillades from among the trees on the hills behind the town.

  ‘What do they shoot?’

  ‘Pigeons, Monsieur. They come over in thousands from North Africa about this time of the year so everybody shoots them. To protect the crops. They’re a menace and everybody goes. Even the Vicomte. He lets Maquin, his cooper, have the day off because he’s such a good shot.’

  ‘So when will the shops open?’

  ‘They won’t. Everybody did their shopping at lunchtime.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because they knew everybody would be going shooting.’

  ‘How did they know that?’

  ‘Well, they’ll have gone shooting, too.’

  In a strange sort of way it made sense.

  The old man prayed passionately as Pel dropped a coin in his hand that the saints might give him success, and they decided they’d eat instead at the hotel in the Vieux Port which, since it could be called on at any time to cater for a boatload of yachtsmen – even perhaps a whole flotilla of them from one of the sailing holiday organisations that infested the Mediterranean these days – would be unlikely to have its staff out shooting pigeons. They also decided that Nelly should join them and Nelly, her eyes on De Troq’, was more than delighted.

  The hotel was a lavish place and it was easy to see why it was popular with the people with money who came to the island in the summer with their boats. The bar counter was covered with cowhides, as were all the chairs and stools, and there were more cowhides hanging on the wall. A whole herd must have been slaughtered to decorate the place.

  ‘From Spain,’ the barman said proudly. ‘They use them a lot there. It’s easy to get to Majorca from here and we got the idea from a hotel there.’

  ‘Who got the idea?’ Pel asked.

  ‘The boss, I suppose.’

  ‘And who would that be?’

  ‘Rambert, I suppose. He’s one of them. They put the place up two years ago. To catch the yacht trade.’

  They ate on the terrasse under an awning of vines. The meal was good and had class in an international manner, but Pel was thinking about other things. When his wife reproved him he started to life and gestured.

  ‘I was looking round,’ he admitted. ‘This place doesn’t fit in with the rest of the island very well, does it? It’s modern. It’s like the harbour – it sticks out like a sore thumb. I keep wondering how they got permission for it. The Ministry of Beaux Arts is very sticky about that sort of thing these days. France isn’t like Spain and Italy where they stick these things up everywhere so fast they fall down the next year.’

  ‘You think there might have been a little–?
’ De Troq’ worked his finger and thumb together.

  ‘There seems to be a lot of it about,’ Pel said. ‘Perhaps it’s catching.’

  There was another burning in the night. They heard the fire brigade go past the house in the early hours and even saw the glow of the flames over the trees on the hill.

  ‘Belonged to a fabric manufacturer from Lyons,’ Babin, the postman, told them the next morning when he delivered his daily quota of pamphlets for the Duponts. ‘Nice place. But he had a lot of money, so I suppose it would be, wouldn’t it? He spent a small fortune on it. Overlooks the sea towards Corsica. Smashing views. There wasn’t much left of it.’

  ‘Did you see it burning?’ Pel said.

  ‘No. It started during the night. But I know the place. I deliver to Magimel who lives near there and he’s always sending for catalogues and seeds and his wife’s gone nuts on this mail order business. Buys half of what she wants by mail.’

  Beauregard seemed to be considering the arson with his usual unruffled calm. ‘Nobody knew a thing,’ he said.

  ‘Do you have any suspects?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Somebody ought to have.’ Pel already had a suspicion but it wasn’t his affair and he knew his interference wouldn’t be welcomed.

  De Troq’ found out who had financed the building of the harbour simply by buying drinks for the manager of the hotel in the Vieux Port.

  ‘Rambert,’ he said. ‘This type we keep hearing about. It’s a consortium but Rambert’s the one who runs it. Comes from Marseilles and has a house at Muriel, that development area at the other side of the island. He comes in regularly with a yacht. He’s a financier. One of those who don’t seem to do any work except from their yachts. Worth a fortune.’

  ‘And who bribed the officials in the Ministry of Beaux Arts?’

  ‘That, Patron,’ De Troq’ admitted, ‘I haven’t found out yet. I suspect it’ll take a little longer. Miracles do. And it will be a miracle if we find that one out. However, there is one interesting little point. I learned that our friend Rambert’s related to – guess who? – our friend Hoff, who was involved in that little deal over the Paris petrol stations. You’ll remember it was all investigated after that type, Boris de Fé, was murdered in Marseilles. They got nothing on Hoff but he turned out to be rather a dubious type.’

  ‘Now that’s interesting,’ Pel agreed. ‘Let’s get on to Paris and have them dig around a bit and see if they can find out who Hoff’s friends are. They might turn out to be interesting, too.’

  Even if there had been corruption over the building of the harbour and the hotel – and it looked very much as though there might have been – somehow it didn’t seem likely to be what had worried Caceolari. Nevertheless, it was becoming fairly obvious that he’d seen something he shouldn’t have seen and it seemed important to have another talk with his wife, to find out if he’d ever let anything slip which might indicate more to them.

  Madame Caceolari was surprised to see them back, but she went through the same rigmarole as before without turning a hair. Bang went the bottle to the table, bang-bang-bang went the glasses, then she sat down, her fingers entwined, and waited for them to speak.

  ‘When your husband came back on the morning of the 14th,’ Pel said, ‘did he say where he’d been? After he left Mortcerf.’

  ‘He said he’d been with Magimel.’

  ‘He left Magimel’s at 2.30. Did he say whether he’d been anywhere else?’

  ‘He said he’d had trouble with his car.’

  ‘Well, he had no petrol. And no lights. He came down from Magimel’s on the car’s own momentum. Did he say he’d stopped anywhere?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did he say he’d seen anything?’

  ‘Only Riccio’s boat coming in. He’d been fishing.’

  ‘Well, Riccio said he was out that night so it’s likely. But how did he know it was Riccio?’

  ‘It was moonlight and they’ve all got numbers. And Riccio has the only yellow boat in the harbour. All the others are blue or green or red. It’s there for you to see. Anybody can see it. It hasn’t been out of the harbour since. I suppose Riccio had been out with his pals.’

  ‘Which pals? Did your husband say?’

  ‘He said he saw Maquin, the cooper at the olive oil plant.’

  ‘Did he see the catch?’

  ‘He said he saw them carrying it ashore to the restaurant. It looked heavy. As if they’d had a good trip.’

  ‘Did he say what sort of fish they were.’

  ‘He couldn’t see. He said they had it wrapped in canvas. He saw them put it inside Riccio’s place. Then they locked up again and left. I expect they went somewhere to do some drinking to celebrate.’

  ‘At that hour?’

  ‘It’s nothing for Riccio.’

  ‘Have you eaten recently at Riccio’s?’

  ‘The islanders don’t. He charges too much. Tourist prices. We notice it.

  Pel had noticed it, too.

  ‘Besides,’ Madame Caceolari went on, ‘he’s only just opened. Two or three days ago. Just after my husband was murdered. He’s been painting. Getting ready for the season.’

  ‘What about the following days? Did your husband behave normally?’

  ‘Well, he seemed worried. But he always worried a bit when he was short of money. Or because his taxi wouldn’t work. Or because he couldn’t afford a new battery. Things like that.’

  ‘Did he go on being worried?’

  She considered for a moment. ‘Come to think of it, he didn’t have much to say.’

  ‘Would you say he had something on his mind? He seemed a cheerful enough type, from what I hear.’

  Yes, it seemed that Caceolari had seemed different. Quieter than usual. Once he’d mentioned Beauregard. ‘He seemed to want to talk to him. But he kept putting it off. I wondered if he’d been mixed up in something.’

  ‘What sort of something?’

  ‘Well, there’s only one sort of thing to get mixed up in here. Smuggling.’

  ‘Had he ever been involved in anything like that?’

  ‘Once or twice. But not much. I told you. He was too lazy to smuggle things. It meant being up all night.’

  ‘He was sometimes up all night drinking.’

  ‘That’s different.

  ‘Were you worried?’

  ‘I suppose I was a bit. I mentioned it to his sister, Denise Oudry, but she said he’d always had periods when he’d gone moody. Even as a boy.’

  Ten

  That night they decided to go mad and eat at Luigi’s in Le Havre du Sud.

  Luigi André himself met them with a beaming smile. ‘I thought you’d come and see me eventually,’ he said. ‘I told you this is the best place on the island. That other lot–’ his contempt was enormous ‘–they only provide the sort of food tourists eat.’ He took the straw hat Pel had brought so he wouldn’t drop dead of sunstroke, and hung it up. ‘Of course, when I went on about cops on the boat, I didn’t know you were one. If I had known, I’d have held my tongue. I was talking about the cops on the island. Have you caught our murderer yet?’

  ‘I think you’d have heard if we had,’ Pel said dryly.

  ‘That’s so.’ Luigi laughed. ‘Everybody hears everything on this island. Well–’ he paused ‘–not everything. The cops don’t hear much. Not even when there’s plenty to hear.’

  ‘Such as what?’ Pel asked.

  Luigi shrugged. ‘We’re on the direct route from Italy to Nice, my friend. Via Corsica.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘Swiss watches, Monsieur. They go into Italy across the lake at Lugano. Very useful that lake. Half of it’s Italian. Half of it’s Swiss.’

  ‘There’s nothing very new in Swiss watches,’ Pel pointed out. ‘It goes on all the time. Is there something else? Is somebody on the island up to something?’

  Luigi shrugged, making a great show of indifference. ‘I imagine so, Monsieur.’

  ‘Wh
o? The Vicomte?’

  ‘Why do you suggest the Vicomte?’

  ‘Because he seems to be the only person on the island with enough money to get up to something.’

  ‘There are others, Monsieur.’

  ‘Well, who?’

  Luigi’s eyes flickered and he drew Pel aside as the others took their seats. ‘The people in Nice and Marseilles use us as a stepping stone,’ he said quietly.

  ‘For what?’

  ‘Monsieur, I don’t know. But there are some unexpected people on this island these days.’

  ‘Such as this type, Rambert, who lives at Muriel?’

  ‘He might be one. He developed Muriel.’

  ‘With his own money?’

  ‘He’d have needed a lot.’

  ‘So where did he get it? The Vicomte?’ Luigi was wary. ‘You go on a lot about the Vicomte, Monsieur.

  ‘You go on a lot about mysterious people. I have to make guesses.’

  ‘There were more than the Vicomte in it.’

  ‘But he was in it?’

  ‘I think so. I suppose so.’

  ‘What about these others? Who were they?’

  ‘Why do you want to know, Monsieur?’

  ‘Because everything seems to be connected.’

  ‘Even Caceolari’s death?’

  ‘Even that.’

  ‘I thought he saw something he shouldn’t.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Well, didn’t he?’

  ‘Inform me.’

  ‘That’s what I heard.’

  Pel sniffed. ‘That’s what I heard, too. But if he did see something, what was it? Was he somehow a witness to some sort of shady deal?’

  Luigi was wary. ‘Who between?’

  ‘Between these people who set up the Muriel project – and perhaps someone else.’

  ‘Who, for instance?’

  Pel was losing his temper. ‘I’m the one who’s asking the questions,’ he snapped. ‘We’re not far from Marseilles and there are a few shady characters there. Come to that, Nice, too. Finally, we’re not far from Italy where they have the Mafia. Would anybody like that be involved?’

  Luigi was beginning to grow nervous. ‘Monsieur, I don’t know,’ he said. ‘But some of them got hurt a little while ago you’ll remember. Six of them.’