by Mark Hebden
‘Why don’t you tell someone of this?’
‘Who?’
‘There’s me. I’m listening.’
She studied him for a while. ‘He’s the enemy of the workers,’ she said eventually. ‘He puts no money into the soil.’
‘Do you?’
She looked startled.
‘You must have more money than they have,’ Pel pointed out. ‘Do you help them?’
‘I give my time.’
‘So does the Vicomte. If you don’t give away your earnings, why should he?’
‘He doesn’t live like the workers. I do.’ He had to admit that. The room they were in was among the ugliest and most uncomfortable he’d ever seen, but he wondered if it were because she believed in living like the island’s peasants or just because she’d never been educated to anything better. Caceolari had lived in a similar home and so did Magimel and Lesage and everybody else he’d talked to. The islanders didn’t exactly go in for a lot of interior decoration.
‘Could Riccio have been involved in the shooting of your son?’ he asked.
She stirred in her chair. ‘My son was his friend. I know they were friends. I saw they were friends. Turidu was heartbroken. He came to see me and swore vengeance. He swore he’d find out who did it.’
‘And did he?’
‘He went to Nice. But he brought nothing back.’
‘But when Caceolari was murdered, too, surely you must have wondered what those gangsters were doing here on the island.’
She was silent for a moment before she answered. ‘You learn to keep your own counsel. I’ve told you. I learned. What are you going to do?’
‘Look into it.’
‘Don’t mention I told you anything. You just came here to get money.’
‘They’ll think I’m another Beauregard taking bribes.’
‘I shall tell them that because of your protracted stay you were short and produced a banker’s card. There’s nothing illegal about that.’
‘Are you afraid of something?’
‘This place’s too near to Marseilles and Nice. Too near Corsica.’
‘They don’t go in for vendettas these days.’
‘All the same. We’re only two hundred kilometres away from Calvi. It’s also only a hundred to Bordighera in Italy. Easy trips by boat and there are no customs posts on the sea.’
‘What are you getting at, Madame?’
‘Nothing.’
Pel rose and reached for his hat.
‘Monsieur–’ as she opened the door back into the shop to let him out, she looked up ‘–take care of yourself.’
Twelve
Riccio confirmed what Madame Fleurie had said. ‘Where did you hear this, Chief?’ he asked.
‘I heard,’ Pel said cautiously. ‘I just heard.’
‘Well–’ Riccio gestured with the knife with which he was slicing vegetables ‘–of course I knew Jean-Bernard. He worked on my boat. In his spare time. Until he went to Marseilles, that is.’
‘Did you know he became involved with the gangs in Marseilles?’
Riccio pulled a face. ‘I do now. I warned him the last time he came to the island. I got him on one side just before the ferry left. But he was young. He knew it all. He took no notice.’
‘Do you remember that occasion? It wasn’t long before he was killed. He was sitting in the restaurant opposite his mother’s place. With five other men. They were the men who were shot in Nice.
Riccio frowned. ‘Yes, I saw them.’
‘You joined them. Drank with them. Did you know they were part of Maurice Tagliatti’s gang?’
‘I guessed they were part of something. From the way they were dressed. From the way they talked. But what am I supposed to do? I said “Hello” to Jean-Bernard and he pulled out a chair for me. I drank with them. They were in a good mood.’
‘Did you know the other five?’
‘No. But I soon found out that what I suspected was correct. When I read in the paper that they were all dead. I guessed why.’
‘Why?’
‘They’d been up to something. They were boasting they’d pulled off a big deal.’
‘They didn’t say what it was?’
‘Smuggling watches or something, I thought. It goes on. But I liked Jean-Bernard, though I thought he was stupid and young. I went to Nice, Monsieur. I swore I’d try to find out who killed him. I made enquiries.
‘That was a highly dangerous thing to do.’
Riccio shrugged. ‘I realise that now. I didn’t then. I went over there. I asked around.’
‘If it had got back to the people who did it, you could have been the next one.’
They left Riccio bent over his charcoal fire and De Troq’ grinned.
‘Fish again,’ he said. ‘At least, it smells like fish.’
‘It’s not the only thing round here that smells of fish,’ Pel growled. ‘Madame Fleurie seemed to be throwing out strong hints about connections with Corsica and Italy. Let’s see if any of the fishing boats ever went there. And do it quietly, too. I have the distinct impression that this island has a lot of ears.’
The following day, De Troq’ departed on the ferry for Nice. He was due for a long session with the Prefect of Police there and was going, with help from Marseilles, to Corsica and Italy.
During the afternoon, wanting to know more about the island, Pel searched for a library. But it turned out to consist of one room no bigger than a kitchen – a small kitchen at that – filled with tattered books that looked as if they’d been contributed by nobly-minded people from the stock of those they didn’t want on their own shelves. A few youngsters sat at tables alongside dozing old men who were pretending to read. Pel didn’t even bother to go past the door.
He was shocked. A chauvinist if ever there were one, he had never had any doubt that France was the most cultured nation in the world – with Burgundy as its focal spot, and the village where Evariste Clovis Désiré Pel had been born the very heart of that spot – and that such a country shouldn’t have a library within reach of every one of its citizens was an appalling indication of neglect. The Vicomte had a lot to answer for, he decided. Perhaps even, he thought, it was deliberate. His activities on the island called for an intelligent opposition but there was none at all and perhaps that was how he liked to keep it.
‘Monsieur would like to borrow a book or two perhaps?’ Nelly asked. ‘I have many James Bonds and a biography of Sophia Loren. I’ve even got War and Peace. I bought it when I saw the film but I’ve never read it.’
‘Has anyone?’ Pel asked. ‘I was wanting an encyclopaedia, as a matter of fact.’
On Nelly’s suggestion he telephoned the château and asked if he might use the library there.
‘Just an encyclopaedia,’ he explained.
It was Tissandi who answered. The Vicomte, he said, was in Paris, having crossed by launch to the mainland and taken a flight to the capital.
‘Business, of course, he said. ‘He has many interests, you understand, and a daughter who lives there. But, of course, he’d be more than pleased to have you visit the château. Why not bring Madame to tea? I’ll be happy to show you round the place.’
Madame was delighted but she wasn’t in the slightest deluded. ‘You couldn’t care less about the island,’ she pointed out. ‘You have other ideas, haven’t you?’
Pel shrugged. ‘Geneviève de mon coeur,’ he said, ‘I can see I’m going to be able to hide nothing from you.’
They didn’t even have to drive up to the château. The Vicomte’s personal Citroën was sent down for them and, sunk deep in its cushions, they were whirled in silence and comfort up the hill. Ignazi and Tissandi met them at the door. The sun was hot and they were glad to be in the cooler atmosphere of the château. Shown at once to the library, Ignazi indicated a vast encyclopaedia laid out, volume by volume, on a long oak table. All they had to do was turn the pages. None of your hoisting down of heavy volumes. That had all been done for them.
‘We’ll leave you here, Chief Inspector,’ Tissandi explained. ‘When you’ve done your research, pull the bell and we’ll take tea together.’
As they disappeared, Pel closed the door after them and stared round him. The library was situated in the round tower on the end of the château and comprised three circular floors like shelves so that it was possible to look down from the top to the ground floor. Above them was the turret, a magnificent affair of vast oak beams.
Madame looked at Pel, anxious to be of help.
‘Turn up St Yves,’ he suggested.
As she did so, he moved further along and, searching for the letter ‘I’, began to turn to Italy. Madame looked puzzled. ‘What am I looking for?’ she asked.
‘The island. They say it dates back to Roman times. Tiberius had a villa here, didn’t he?’
‘That was Capri.’
‘Then it must have been Julius Caesar. They also say that Georges Sand and Chopin came here once and that’s why they decided to take that winter in Majorca when it rained all the time and ruined the piano.
Pel’s search seemed to cover a lot of ground and not much of it seemed to concern the island, but Madame was already learning, as his squad back home had long since learned, that when Pel was on a scent his mind worked in weird and wonderful ways and he was best left alone. She’d been given the task of reading about the island merely to give her something to do, so she idly turned the pages and looked at the pictures, and left him to it.
When he’d finished what he was doing, he pulled the bell. Tissandi must have been waiting on the edge of his chair down the corridor because he arrived within seconds.
‘Let’s go to the terrasse,’ he said.
The terrasse, different from the one where Pel had sat taking apéritifs with the Vicomte on his first visit, looked over the harbour of the Vieux Port. Below them through the trees they could see the russet tiles of the old houses. It was the hottest part of the day and coloured umbrellas had been erected to keep the sun off them. As the tray of tea arrived, Tissandi produced a bottle of champagne.
‘More interesting than tea,’ he smiled.
‘Do you produce wine here?’ Madame asked.
‘Of course. Let me present you with some. The Vicomte would approve. I’m sure.’ Ringing the bell, Tissandi murmured to the manservant who appeared. ‘We have the perfect place for the vines,’ he explained as the footman vanished. ‘Slatey slopes facing south.’
When the manservant reappeared he was carrying a carton.
‘Château Rochemare,’ Tissandi said. ‘Make sure it’s uncorked long enough and you’ll have a splendid wine for your main course.’
He whispered to the manservant and turned to Pel. ‘It’ll be waiting for you when you leave.’
When they’d finished the champagne and cakes, Tissandi suggested they might like to see the freezers. Climbing into the Citroën, they were driven across the estate to what had once been the stables. Inside were vast freezing plants. Several women were moving about, one or two of them with children.
‘They come from the villages,’ Tissandi explained. ‘The Vicomte takes an interest in everything, even his workers.’
Especially his female workers, Pel thought. Behind the stables there were vast warehouses, filled with cartons.
‘Raisins,’ Tissandi explained. ‘Dried grapes.’
In another of the buildings men and women were putting together the red Rapido coffee machines. Nearby, other smaller machines were being assembled.
‘Rapido Miniatures,’ Tissandi explained. ‘They’ve become tremendously popular in the last year or two. We import them from Italy as kits and assemble them here. It reduces the import duties and increases the profits. The Vicomte’s a very good businessman. We get them from Calvi.’
‘Who gets them from Calvi?’
Tissandi turned. ‘Well, sometimes I go over there and make the arrangements. Sometimes it’s Freddy Ignazi here. If the Vicomte fancies a holiday, he goes himself. He takes his boat across. You’ll have seen his launch – we all enjoy it – and he has a house near the harbour there. He can do the journey in a few hours and, of course, he always chooses a calm day. When your time’s your own, why make yourself miserable?’
In another part of the stables, there were more cartons and the japanned boxes that Madame Fleurie had mentioned standing on the table. ‘From Taiwan,’ Tissandi explained. ‘They contain tea. They’re popular because they’re so attractive.’ His fingers ran over the fire-breathing dragons on the outside. ‘Traditional Chinese dragons, of course. We have an agent in Hong Kong who imports them and ships them here. We’re the agents for the southern half of France.’
Pel ran his finger round the edge of one of the boxes. The lid had been heavily waxed.
‘To keep the flavour in, of course,’ Tissandi explained. ‘China tea is much more delicate than Indian tea.’
They left in the Range Rover, the case of wine in the rear, and were driven in style down the hill to the Duponts’ house. Standing on the verandah with the case of wine in his arms, Pel watched the car drive away, then placing the case on the kitchen table, he took out his notebook.
‘Corsica,’ he said, reading what he’d written. ‘Chief exports: wool, wood, wheat, wine, cork, tobacco, silk-worms, oranges. Switzerland – via Italy, of course – watches, optical and scientific instruments. Italy: cheap typewriters, radios, televisions, bicycles.’
And coffee making machines,’ Madame Pel pointed out.
‘And coffee making machines,’ Pel agreed. ‘Now, apart from the coffee making machines which we know about, which of those articles are coming through St Yves into France?’
‘Is that what you think those people who were killed were up to? Smuggling?’
Pel shook his head. ‘Not really,’ he admitted. ‘They don’t seem to have been important enough. There was somebody bigger than them behind it. Tagliatti? I doubt it.’
He frowned. Tagliatti was a smooth young man who wore suits of a type Pel could never afford to wear, drove Mercedes and Rolls-Royce cars, and was surrounded by a bevy of girls who looked as if they had been borrowed from the French and Italian film industries.
‘All the same,’ he said aloud, ‘he’s just the sort, if it were worth it.’
Thirteen
The house of Lesage, the garage owner, lay behind the Vieux Port, where the road climbed from the town and began to curl into the hills. As the telephone bell rang, Lesage sat bolt upright in bed, his ferret face alert, his wife alongside him, awake as fast as he was, also on the alert. They came to consciousness quickly because they were used to being awakened.
As Lesage reached for the telephone his wife hurried downstairs and a moment later her husband shouted after her. ‘Call the boys out!’ he yelled.
Half-dressed in parts of a seedy uniform, he flung himself out of the house to his car and by the time he had reached the town, several other members of the island’s little fire brigade were edging out the fire engine. It wasn’t a very modern fire engine. It dated back to World War II and had actually done service in Marseilles when that city had been in danger of bombing. Sold eventually, when no one else wanted it, it had finally been refurbished and re-engined and had found its way to St Yves. It still wasn’t a very good apparatus but there wasn’t much for it to do on St Yves – at least not until recently when the cases of arson had appeared among the holiday homes – and there wasn’t a single house on the island more than two storeys, save the hotel in the Vieux Port which was fitted with a fire alarm system and had staff drilled to handle emergencies. Moreover, its crew knew that if a fire grew too big for them they could always rely for support on the Vicomte de la Rochemare’s own private apparatus, which was kept in one of the stables behind the château in case of fire there and had occasionally been called out when brush fires had broken out on the dry hillsides in summer.
As they scrambled aboard, someone tugged at the bell. The electric bell had long since given up the
ghost and they had to use a hand bell, which was operated by a cord attached to the windscreen. As the machine gathered speed, a car appeared, drew up among the other cars hurriedly parked on the patch of bare earth alongside the fire station by their owners, the fire engine’s crew, and its driver scrambled out carrying his uniform, and was heaved aboard the fire engine.
As they hurtled along the harbour front, the engine roaring, the equipment clattering, the bell ringing in sporadic bursts, the noise was enough to disturb Pel. He listened for a moment, assuming that the island’s arsonist had been at work again, and went back to sleep.
The following morning he learned that Doctor Nicolas was dead.
Babin, the postman, brought the news and it seemed to have shocked him. ‘It went up like a bomb,’ he said.
Pel was shocked, too. He’d taken a curious liking to the old doctor, scruffy as he was.
‘Another one for Billy the Burner?’
Babin was white. ‘No, no! Not this time! After all, Doc Nicolas lived here. He’d been here for fifteen years or so. Besides, I reckon it must have been petrol. All the others were paraffin.’
‘They were?’
‘So Beauregard said. Everybody knew about it.
‘How did you find out?’
‘I was up there delivering letters. I don’t know who gave the alarm. But whoever it was, it was too late. The place was well alight.’
‘I think,’ Pel said, ‘that I’d better go and have a look.’
Doctor Nicolas’ house was little more than a heap of charred timbers inside a square of scorched, blackened and half-fallen walls. There was an ancient van there doing duty for an ambulance and the island fire brigade, collecting their gear to depart, looked dirty, stained with water and utterly baffled. On the path was the scorched and saturated body of a ginger cat.
There were a few people from the nearby houses watching what was going on. Among them was Luz Robles. Her face was stiff and her make-up smudged, and her hair was loosely tied in a coil.
