by Mark Hebden
‘It’s Doctor Nicolas,’ she said in a shocked voice.
‘Yes.’
‘Why him? He was a good man.’
‘Did you see what happened?’
‘No. The noise of people shouting wakened me.’
‘You saw no one?’
‘No one at all except the fire brigade.’
A grimy figure appeared alongside them. Through his mask of caked sweat and soot, Pel recognised Lesage, the garage proprietor.
‘We hadn’t a chance,’ he said. ‘It was going up like a furnace. He didn’t have a chance either. They’re trying to get him out now. We’ve found him. He was in bed. He’s not much burned. Suffocated on the smoke, I reckon. I suppose he’d had one too many brandies.
‘He’d been smoking in bed?’
‘No sign of it. But there was a hell of a fire going. It started near the bottom of the stairs. He had two or three cane chairs there that he used outside in the hot weather. They were burned out.’
‘So how did it happen?’
‘Well, it wasn’t Billy the Burner.’ Lesage’s view was the same as the postman’s. ‘It’s different. He sprinkles paraffin about and he always does his stuff when the place’s unoccupied. Besides he’d never do it to Doc Nicolas. Not if he was an islander, which he must be. This is different.’
‘How different? Inform me.
Lesage wiped some of the grime off his face. ‘We found a window undone,’ he said. ‘But that’s not unusual. People don’t lock their houses here when they’re in them and besides–’ he gestured with his head at the body of the cat ‘–he had that old cat of his, Minou. He was fond of it and always left a window open for it to go in and out. Somebody saw that open window and used it. It’s near the bottom of the stairs close to where those cane chairs were. If you ask me, someone tossed something in and chucked a match after it. If he’d had one or two drinks, he wouldn’t know a thing about it. The place would be full of smoke and the staircase would be like a funnel full of flames in minutes.’
‘Couldn’t he have jumped out?’
‘He might have if he’d been sober. But most evenings he wasn’t. If there were an emergency – a baby or something – they always had to send me and the wife to make strong black coffee to bring him round.’
The ambulance men – like the firemen all volunteers and amateurs – appeared, carrying a stretcher containing a long narrow shape covered with a blanket.
‘Old Doc was all right,’ Lesage said. ‘He was a good doctor. And as often as not he forgot to charge people for his visits.’
‘So why set his house on fire?’
‘God knows. If it was this type who’s done it round the island, he’s gone too far this time.’
Yes, Pel thought. If it were the type who was doing it round the island. But this time, like Lesage, he had a feeling it wasn’t.
Doctor Nicolas had been a shadowy character, keeping to himself, with no friends beyond his old cat. Nobody had seen him speaking to anyone after he had seen Pel. Indeed, no one had noticed him at all because he had a cobwebby sort of manner of moving about, quiet, shadowy, alone, and seemed to have a habit of disappearing into the wallpaper.
Madame Fleurie had heard, though. ‘He’s dead, isn’t he?’ she asked.
‘Yes, he is.’
She showed no emotion. ‘He was a good man. Somebody killed him.’
‘That seems to be the case,’ Pel agreed. ‘Would you know who might wish to?’
She shrugged. ‘Doctor Nicolas knew everything that went on, on the island. He was always moving about. He knew every family.’
Riccio had also heard. ‘Think someone saw you talking to me about those types with Jean-Bernard, Chief?’ he demanded.
‘Why do you ask.’
‘Well, if someone did, he probably thought Doctor Nicolas had put you up to it. He did, didn’t he? That was why you asked.’
There was no point in denying. ‘Yes,’ Pel agreed. ‘Indirectly he did.’
‘That’s why he was killed.’ Riccio slapped his forehead with the heel of his hand. ‘If you need help, Chief, ask for me. I’ll do what I can. I liked old Nicolas.’
It seemed to indicate another visit to the château. The Vicomte was still on the mainland but Tissandi promised to attend to all the details of the burial.
‘No point in looking for relations,’ he said. ‘Because he hadn’t got any. The only ones we knew about were his wife and son and they’re dead. Still–’ he shrugged ‘–there’s not much to interest anyone. He hadn’t any money. He hadn’t any possessions. Just a few sticks of furniture, an old car, that cat and what he stood up in. Even the house wasn’t his. We let him have it. For nothing.’
When Pel reached the Duponts’ house, Lesage was waiting for him. He had formed an opinion about the cause of the fire. ‘Weed killer, sugar and acid,’ he said. ‘Put that lot together and there’s an instantaneous and violent outbreak. We’ve found the bottle. We’re still clearing up. The acid eats through the cork and flows through on to the other mixture. When that happens there are flames.
‘Who’d know how to do it?’
Lesage shook his head. ‘Don’t ask me. It’s not hard to find out these things these days. Kids learn them at school. They learn them from the television. I don’t tell them. I didn’t tell you but I expect you know them, too.’
‘I know them.’
‘I’ll let you have the bottle. I expect you’ll want it. To send to the forensic people.’
‘Yes,’ Pel agreed. ‘I shall want it. But I doubt if it will tell us anything.’
Lesage shook his head. ‘Somebody had it in for Old Doc. Perhaps someone he once gave evidence against. When he was a police surgeon. They tried to make it look like one of Billy the Burner’s jobs. But it wasn’t the same. We knew that from the start.’
With Doctor Nicolas dead, there was nobody to give any opinions on exactly what had killed him. Arrangements were made for a police surgeon to come from the mainland but it wasn’t desperately necessary. Somebody, for some reason, had taken an objection to the old man and killed him by setting his house on fire so that he’d suffocated on the smoke when he’d had one too many brandies and sodas.
But why?
Had someone seen the old man talking to Pel and guessed at the hints he’d dropped? It seemed more than likely. So who was it? Hell’s Half-Acre was big enough with enough small bars round it to hide the whole of Tagliatti’s gang, if need be. Had someone been watching and seen Doctor Nicolas’ little performance when he’d advised Pel to see Madame Fleurie? It could have been anyone on the island, and Madame Fleurie was clearly wise to mind her own business.
So who knew Doc Nicolas’ habits? To whom had he spoken after seeing Pel? Who were his friends? It had to be one of his friends because the consensus of opinion was that he’d had no enemies. But neither, so they claimed, had Caceolari, who’d been too lazy to make them. The only conclusion that could be reached, therefore, was that Nicolas had been murdered for much the same reason as Caceolari. Because he knew something.
Fourteen
Feeling they needed to get away from the depressing facts of Doctor Nicolas’ death, Pel took his wife back to Luigi’s at Le Havre du Sud. Anything was better than Riccio’s swordfish and Luigi’s food was as good as he claimed.
As the waiter took Madame’s coat, Luigi drew Pel to one side again. He had heard of Doctor Nicolas’ death and, like Riccio, was quick to assume it was because he’d been seen talking to Pel.
‘It’s my fault,’ he said in grieving tones. ‘I put you on to him.’
‘Nobody knew that but you,’ Pel pointed out acridly.
Apéritifs appeared quickly – almost, Pel thought, as a sop to Luigi’s conscience – and because Pel was never in favour of cool night air, they ate inside rather than among a group of tourists from Denmark who were outside under the coloured lights. Because it was something they were rarely able to do in their own country, sitting outside – despite the fact
that their food congealed at great speed – made them feel they were really on holiday.
They ate fish followed by veal in cream and drank a bottle of house wine which was rough but good. For a long time they sat in silence then Madame touched Pel’s hand.
‘You know, Pel,’ she said. ‘I think you’re actually enjoying yourself.’
Pel gave her a sombre look. ‘It’s a good meal,’ he said.
‘I don’t mean that. I mean you’re enjoying what’s happening.’
‘With Doctor Nicolas dead?’
She pulled a face. ‘I didn’t mean that either, of course. I mean because you’re busy. I don’t think you’d enjoy merely being on holiday and sitting in the sun.’
Pel admitted the fact. He was the worst sightseer and sitter in the sun in the world. He normally had enough energy for half a dozen – except between waking and drinking his first cup of coffee and smoking his first cigarette. Even to the point of needing less sleep than most people, something which had often been a problem because he’d always been convinced he couldn’t sleep, when the real trouble was that he went to bed too early. In the days of Madame Routy early nights had seemed to be important but now he was married they no longer seemed so and he could only assume he’d been bored. As for seeing sights, he could think of nothing more dull.
‘Aren’t you bored?’ he asked. ‘All day on your own.’
‘Oh, I’m all right,’ Madame said. ‘Nelly and I prepare the meals together then we go out for the day in the Duponts’ Renault – it always pleases me that it’s theirs because I keep thinking how they tried to swindle us over the Villa des Roses.’
Pel managed a smile. ‘The Vicomte has his own ways of dealing with people.’
‘Exactly. So we drive to the harbour and have coffee in the sun there. At first Nelly was a little dubious but I told her I wanted her to come with me. She shows me where to go on the island. We went to a church on a cliff yesterday. Near L’Aride. Just big enough to hold a dozen people. Built for a tiny community that used to live there. It overlooks a sheer drop of five hundred feet into the sea. You should let me take you. It’s time you had a day or two off.’
‘I think I’m going to be too busy.’
‘Well, one day then. Tomorrow.’
With some reluctance, Pel agreed. ‘Just one,’ he agreed. ‘While De Troq’s away.’ He ordered another carafe of wine and explained. ‘He’s bringing back a couple of cops from the mainland.’
Her eyes lit up. ‘Are you going to arrest someone?’
‘Not immediately. But he’s bringing help and he has instructions to arrange that the men he brings will be relieved at the end of a fortnight with, at the end of another fortnight, another group to relieve them.’
Madame looked startled. ‘Are we likely to be here that long?’
‘Are you worried about your business?’
‘Oh, no.’ She beamed at him. ‘That will be quite safe. I can use the telephone to check up on things. I’m quite enjoying myself as a matter of fact.’
‘When will your sister be here?’
‘She won’t. She telephoned to say she’s ill. I’m quite happy.’ Madame touched Pel’s hand and beamed at him. ‘I’m far too busy to want her here, anyway. She always talks about her illnesses and goes to church all the time. And she doesn’t drink because she considers it not only sinful but bad for you. I only thought of her because I thought I might be bored. But I’m not. Nelly’s an excellent companion. So good, in fact, I thought of asking her to come and work for me.’
‘Instead of Madame Routy?’ Pel asked hopefully.
‘No. In my business. But she’s getting married next year. To a man who runs an estate agency near St Trop’.’
They ate breakfast in the sunshine, with good strong coffee of the sort that Madame Routy had never managed to produce and fresh croissants fetched by Nelly from the bakery near the church. She also brought back a newspaper, a day old but enough to read over breakfast. The shootings in Marseilles had disappeared beneath all the other murders, rapes and butcheries, the scandals and the oppressions in foreign countries that filled the pages. It was a sick sort of world when you considered it. Pel had always believed this but, on holiday, he had to admit, it was inclined to look different and much further away.
Dressing leisurely, he allowed his wife to drive him to the church she’d found, but refused to stand at the rail at the cliff edge.
‘Come close, Pel,’ she said. ‘The view’s, breathtaking.’
Pel stayed firmly where he was. Breathtaking views, he’d always found, meant a sheer drop and sheer drops made his stomach churn.
They found a farmhouse in the hills where they ate lunch. There was nothing very special about it – the hors d’oeuvres looked like hors d’oeuvres, the meat was meat-coloured; all that was lacking was the flavour – but there was an excellent local wine and it cost so little Pel was prepared to forget about the taste. Apparently, the farm often had walkers up from the Vieux Port-Britons, usually, who were mad enough to want to climb into the hills during the heat of the summer and, having arrived there, breathless, lost and almost in a state of collapse, promptly started demanding refreshments. The farmer’s wife had turned it into a useful business by always encouraging them to stay for lunch which she served in the garden among the flowers. The fact that her customers were usually English, Pel decided, probably accounted for the indifferent cuisine because every Frenchman knew that the English lived on fish and chips, or roast meat and soggy vegetables.
Afterwards, they drove back towards the harbour and, leaving the car under the trees, walked along the rocks. There were several private gardens, all liberally plastered with notices to keep inquisitive holidaymakers out. One, obviously intended for the invading British, read Entry is forbiten. Violaters will be denounced.
As they turned away, Pel found himself staring down at a dozen figures enjoying the hot sun on a small beach. Among them, a man was rubbing sun tan oil on himself. He was as bald as an egg and his body was the colour of old mahogany. Then, as he moved, Pel saw that he was stark naked and it dawned on him that everyone else on the beach, women and children, were stark naked too.
Grasping Madame’s hand, he turned her briskly round and headed back for the car. While it didn’t worry him to see other people naked, he knew that the unwritten rule about nudist beaches was that they didn’t allow people on them wearing clothes, and the thought of himself without his clothes standing in the full searchlight glare of the sun was enough to put him completely off his stroke.
De Troq’ arrived back on the afternoon ferry with forensic information on the bullets taken from the bodies in the Bar-Tabac de la Porte.
‘They thought we might like to have it,’ he said, tapping his briefcase. ‘Photographs and everything. The ballistic boys say they were killed by 9 mm bullets fired, they think, from a British Sterling or Patchett sub-machine gun. Common among British Nato forces. A few have found their way underground. They think this was one. Probably came south from Germany.’
Taking De Troq’ to one of the harbour bars, Pel found seats in the centre of the half-acre of plastic chairs so that they couldn’t be overheard, and ordered drinks. De Troq’ nodded to three young men in jeans and striped shirts a few tables away.
‘Claverie, Lebrun and Manguin,’ he said quietly. ‘Detective sergeants. They stay for a fortnight as holidaymakers, then they’re relieved by three more, Ledoyer, Berthelot and Morel. They hope we’ll have sorted it all out by then. They’re staying at a hotel in Le Havre du Sud. We can contact them by telephone. It only requires a word and they’ll meet us here and we can get into conversation, accidentally-on-purpose. They’ve brought a radio we can use to contact Nice at anytime.’
A certain Inspector Maillet was handling the case on the mainland. Nice didn’t consider the affairs of a small island warranted one of their senior officers, all of whom were involved with affairs of their own house, with six murders on their hands and being so close t
o Marseilles, Nice wasn’t exactly noted as a city of lily-white morals.
‘He’s also watching the wives and girl friends of the dead men.’ De Troq’ smiled. ‘Because they noticed that Tagliatti’s boys are watching them, too. So Maillet’s wondering if those six who were shot stashed away some loot somewhere first. Was that why they were shot, in fact?’
‘And if so, who’s got it now?’
‘Exactly. When they find out, there’ll be a rush between the cops and Tagliatti’s mob to get there first.’
‘What about Italy? Have any fishing boats from St Yves been seen in Italian ports?’
De Troq’ smiled. ‘Yes,’ he said and, as Pel sat up, interested, he went on. ‘All of them.’
‘Their identification numbers,’ he continued, ‘are prefixed by IY-Ile de St Yves – and the coastguards and harbourmasters always make a note of visiting boats. We did a check and they’ve all been spotted at one time or another. Chiefly they go to Bordighera – because it’s closest, I suppose – but everything always seems to be above board. They buy cartons of food because it’s cheaper in Italy than it is in France and they appear to be on ordinary fishing trips. But that’s fairly normal. Everybody does it and they didn’t exceed the allowance. That’s all there is to it.’
‘And Corsica?’
‘They’ve been seen in Calvi, too.’
Pel lit a cigarette. He had fought them off all day but now, with De Troq’s information, they were rushing at him again, demanding to be smoked. He shook out the match guiltily, noticing that De Troq’s eyes were on him.
‘Calvi to Bordighera,’ he mused. ‘Bordighera to the Ile de St Yves. The Ile de St Yves to Marseilles. Marseilles to the rest of France. It makes sense.’
De Troq’ smiled. ‘There’s more, Patron,’ he said.
‘Inform me.’
De Troq’ had also brought back a thick sheaf of papers on the enquiry into the affairs of the Bureau of Environmental Surveys. The Government, it seemed, had long since noticed that the Ministry of Beaux Arts was getting itself involved in a surprising number of shady deals. Nobody suspected the Ministry of Beaux Arts, of course, but it appeared that quite a lot of people were making money from development projects when they shouldn’t have been and there was a great deal of suspicion centred on the Bureau of Environmental Surveys, and suddenly particularly on the deputy minister, Jean-Jacques Hardy, who had been watched for some time and was at that moment appearing before a sub-committee of the House of Representatives to give evidence against the Minister.
