Pel & The Pirates (Chief Inspector Pel)

by Mark Hebden

  ‘Why have you brought this back?’ Pel asked. ‘We’re not investigating Hardy.’

  ‘We might be, Patron,’ De Troq’ said. ‘You remember we asked them to make enquiries about Rambert’s friends. Well, it seems Hardy might have been one. He had a house at Muriel. He sold it last year.’

  Pel leaned forward. ‘Tell me more. If he had a house here what we’re investigating might well be part of his set-up.’

  De Troq’ sank half his beer and smiled. ‘The fraud squad have been watching him closely,’ he said. ‘And it’s been noticed that his life style’s changed a lot in the last two years. He’s not inherited money and his wife has none so they’re wondering how it is he can start investing in property. None of his Ministry’s property’s involved, but it’s property nevertheless. He seems above board but anybody with money to throw around’s under suspicion, and it’s been noticed that he’s been doing just that. He has a woman in the 6th District of Paris. She’s got a title and–’ De Troq’ smiled ‘–people with titles have expensive tastes, Patron. I know. I’m one. He’s also just bought a large new car and, as well as a flat in Meudon, he has a yacht at Ste Marguerite which he bought from a financier called Addou. He didn’t get those out of his salary.’

  He flicked over the pages of his notebook. ‘He’s careful, of course,’ he went on. ‘And he seems to move about between his contacts with caution. He never seems to be with the same one twice, and let’s face it, the people he meets in the street and talks to could be merely acquaintances. Recently, though, he’s been seeing a tall chap who’s a bit of a dandy. They’re not sure what they can pin on him. They know he was in financial difficulties a few years ago but he’s now safely out of them and he claims he sorted himself out by means of a loan from an American called Elliott. They’ve seen Elliott, who’s agreed he lent the money but he was unable to produce any evidence in the form of a receipt or any notations in his bank account to prove it. It seems he has a somewhat shady reputation, too. Hardy’s now claiming to be a sick man and his doctors are producing proof that he shouldn’t be giving evidence to the enquiry. It’s a dodge to avoid answering questions, of course, because the fraud boys have a feeling they’ve got him. Some of his money has also been used to buy shares in a big plate glass combine that’s just gone public. It was owned by a man called Kern who stands to make a pile from the sale, while Hardy stands to pick up a bit from the shares. It’s where he got the money he used to buy them that puzzles everybody.’

  ‘It’s a pretty tenuous link with our case,’ Pel said.

  ‘Not as tenuous as you might think, Patron. Because Tagliatti owned shares in that company, too.’

  ‘Did he indeed?’ Pel was silent for a moment then stubbed out his cigarette. ‘And Tagliatti? Where’s he?’

  De Troq’ smiled. ‘Still out of the way in Switzerland,’ he said.

  Fifteen

  The case had begun to take on a new perspective. If Hardy and Tagliatti – especially Tagliatti – had interests on St Yves, then Caceolari’s death might have been due to something that had nothing at all to do with smuggling. Yet it was clear he’d seen something and surely Hardy and Tagliatti wouldn’t have been conducting any of their shifty financial deals down at the harbour on a moonlit night. Especially since Tagliatti had been in Switzerland at the time and Hardy was in Paris giving evidence to the committee of enquiry. Perhaps Caceolari had no connection with their affairs whatsoever.

  So what had he seen? They knew he’d talked to someone about it, though they didn’t know whom, and, apart from the talk with his wife when he’d said he’d seen Riccio’s boat returning from his fishing trip, he seemed to have said little else.

  At least to his wife.

  But he had seen something. And it had ended up with him being murdered. So whom had he told about it? He must have told someone, because that was surely the reason why he was dead. The word had surely got back that he’d seen something illegal and his mouth had been shut – for good.

  ‘By Riccio, Patron?’ De Troq’ asked. ‘Could it have been him?’

  Pel considered. ‘It was Riccio’s boat he saw that night,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘And Caceolari was obviously afraid of him. Why? Was Riccio involved in this smuggling everybody seems to talk about?’

  ‘It’s not far to Italy, Patron.’

  ‘No.’ Pel frowned. ‘But it couldn’t have been smuggling that worried Caceolari. He’d done a bit himself. That wouldn’t upset him. It was seeing that boat.’

  De Troq’ didn’t interrupt Pel’s train of thought and he went on slowly.

  ‘There was something on that boat that worried him. Riccio said he’d been fishing – and he might well have been – but there was something else he brought back that Caceolari saw. What?’

  ‘Or who, Patron?’

  Pel acknowledged the possibility. ‘Or who? People? Illegal immigrants? Italians trying to get into France? It’s not unknown.’

  De Troq’ gestured. ‘He told his wife he saw them bringing fish ashore. A good catch, he said – which was also what Riccio said – and we know that it was heavy and they carried it ashore in a tarpaulin–’

  ‘Why not in baskets?’

  De Troq’s head lifted. ‘Baskets?’

  ‘You don’t usually carry fish in tarpaulins. You carry them in baskets.’

  ‘You think it might not have been fish, Patron?’

  ‘It’s a possibility.’

  ‘One of these illegal immigrants?’

  ‘That’s also a possibility?’

  ‘Dead?’

  ‘It has been known. There have been rackets where money’s been accepted to smuggle people in and then they’ve been found dead. Saves time and trouble.’

  ‘You think it was somebody they’d killed?’

  ‘Well, we know Riccio was there. And Maquin the cooper. Caceolari said so.’

  He had indeed – to his wife – but, whatever it was he saw, it seemed that for a week at least, from the night he saw it until the night Pel had arrived on the island, he had been sufficiently reassured that there was nothing to worry about to have gone about his normal business in roughly his normal manner. Which seemed to suggest that, if he saw anything, it wasn’t a body; because surely that would have frightened him enough to go to the police at once.

  But why in the end hadn’t the reassurance been enough and why had the sight of Riccio leaning against the wall of the bar when he’d arrived to collect Pel and his wife from the ferry been enough to start up his fears all over again? Since he was dead within a matter of hours, it seemed he’d had good reason to be afraid. Riccio’s presence at the harbour had been an implied threat. He must have been watching for some time where Caceolari went and had obviously followed him about the island. And Caceolari in the end had known he was being followed and had worried about it on and off from the moment he’d realised. Under the circumstances, it wasn’t surprising that he’d rushed to see Pel. But why? Why had Riccio’s presence frightened him? Why Riccio?

  Doubtless there’d been threats. Perhaps Caceolari had hoped to tell his fears to the Vicomte but, finding him on one of his trips away from the island, had told them to someone else instead. But, if that was so, why hadn’t that other person done more to protect Caceolari? There seemed to be a great many ramifications to the affair, all of them seemingly involved with corruption and double dealing, and instead of receiving the protection he’d expected, Caceolari had seen only the implied threat of Riccio leaning against the wall of the bar. And why was Riccio a menace? Had he been up to something shady? And if so, how had he learned that Caceolari had seen him?

  ‘The Robles woman, Patron?’

  Pel frowned. ‘It seems unlikely. They were an odd mixture but I got the impression that she actually liked him.’

  De Troq’ stared at the table. ‘Beauregard?’ he said. ‘He probably went to see Beauregard and told him what he thought.’

  It was a possibility.

  ‘It would explain what hap
pened to Doc Nicolas,’ Pel said thoughtfully. ‘Nicolas knew that Jean-Bernard Fleurie was a runner for Tagliatti’s gang. He’d watched him grow up and become a man and saw him go wrong. And he’d been a police surgeon in Marseilles so he probably recognised one or more of the others. The older ones, perhaps, whom he’d remember. The one they called The Chinese, perhaps. Or the man they called Mick the Brick. It seems very possible. And having seen them with young Fleurie, like Caceolari he must have put two and two together and guessed what Jean-Bernard was up to.’

  Cautiously they questioned Beauregard but the brigadier said that though Caceolari had often talked to him – they’d often been together in the Place du Port because of their different jobs – he had said nothing to him about anything that might have worried him.

  They didn’t mention their suspicions, half hoping Beauregard might let something drop that would indicate that he knew what they were after, but he was either very careful or he really didn’t know. And none of his constables had mentioned anything. They could only assume that Caceolari had told nobody anything beyond the mysterious individual Lesage thought he’d been to see.

  Since Beauregard couldn’t – or wouldn’t – help them, they tried Madame Caceolari again. But she was as vague as before, as were Caceolari’s friends, Lesage, Magimel, Rolland and Desplanques.

  They also asked among the people Caceolari knew in the Vieux Port, Biz and Le Havre du Sud. Warily, though, giving nothing away, causing no alarm. But nobody knew a thing, and nobody else had noticed the boat Caceolari said he’d seen. Since it had been in the early hours of the morning, it wasn’t surprising.

  As a last resort they telephoned the château. The Vicomte was still on his jaunt out of the island. ‘He’s in Calvi.’ Ignazi answered Pel’s question cheerfully. ‘On business. Flew from Marseilles. He has a house there, as you probably know. He would never stay in a hotel.’

  ‘Suppose he went to India?’ Pel said coldly. ‘He’d have to stay in a hotel then.’

  ‘Not on your life. He knows people all over the world. He’d get someone to lend him or rent him an apartment. And it’d be a good one, too. You can bet on that.’

  Obtaining the Vicomte’s telephone number, Pel returned to Beauregard’s office. It was going to be a long call going a long way and it was going to cost the Vicomte something. But Rochemare greeted him warmly and agreed to answer any questions he wished to ask.

  Pel got down to the job at once. ‘The taxi-driver, Caceolari,’ he said.

  ‘We used him on a temporary basis, occasionally,’ Rochemare admitted. ‘I believe Tissandi represented me at the funeral. I’m often invited to funerals. Weddings, too. Even to christenings. I’m regularly asked to be godfather. It costs me money, I have to admit.’

  Probably with reason, Pel thought. Especially if the children happened to be the Vicomte’s own. Since he had so much control over everybody’s lives on the island, it was just possible that he also had control of the droits de seigneur, too.

  ‘Caceolari was worried,’ he said.

  ‘So I understand.’

  ‘He wanted to see somebody to talk about it. Did he see you?’

  ‘No. I’m quite sure about that. I was away from the island from the 13th – that was the night when the murders in Nice took place – until the end of the week. And all that weekend – the 21st – I had guests.’

  ‘Who, Monsieur?’

  ‘Paul de Mor and his wife and family. That’s Baron de Mor, of course, you understand.’

  ‘Of course.’ Pel answered gravely as if he had known Paul, Baron de Mor, since childhood.

  ‘They’re old friends. They returned to the mainland the day before the storm. The day before you arrived. The day before Caceolari was murdered.’

  ‘That still left the whole day, Monsieur.’

  ‘He didn’t come and see me. I’d arranged for him to do so but he didn’t turn up, and I was occupied with Ignazi. I’d been away a lot and my affairs had been neglected. You can check, if you like. We were moving about the estate the whole day. Ignazi will give you the itinerary and you can check with the people we saw. I had no time that day to see anybody else.’

  Sixteen

  They were unable to check the Vicomte’s movements with Ignazi because when they rang back to the château he’d just left to go to L’Aride at the other side of the island on business connected with the sulphur, while Tissandi was away making the rounds of the electrical appliance companies in the South of France that sold the Rapido Miniature.

  ‘Baron Ignazi will be back late, the clerk said. ‘The sulphur always takes time. We store it, of course. The government arranged a lease for all we produce. It’s top quality and they pay us a subsidy to stockpile it. Some arrangement against a possible emergency.’

  Since there was little they could do, they decided to make a lazy day of it. De Troq’ arranged to go swimming with Nelly who, despite her boy friend on the mainland, was more than willing to show him the best beach, and Pel took a leisurely lunch with Madame on the Duponts’ verandah.

  ‘I think Nelly’s fallen for De Troq’,’ Madame pointed out.

  ‘She’ll get over it,’ Pel said. ‘Especially when De Troq’ disappears, as he’s bound to when this is all cleared up. She’ll go back to work for the Vicomte.’

  ‘She’s not keen,’ Madame said.

  ‘Oh?’ Pel looked up, suspecting something interesting. ‘Why not?’

  It turned out to be no more than a minor scandal – so minor, in fact, it was really only a talking point.

  ‘Nelly says he chases the girls on his staff. He tried to chase her but she told him her boy friend was big and useful with his fists – he isn’t really, but it didn’t matter, it sounded good – so he’s left her alone since. All the same, she fancies a change. Nevertheless–’ Madame smiled ‘–I gather there’s more than one child on the estate which doesn’t know who its father is.’

  It was very much as Pel thought.

  ‘Nelly knows everything that happens on the island,’ Madame went on cheerfully. ‘She’s lived here all her life. She says there were a lot of tongues wagging about that new harbour that’s been built. Everybody thought a few bribes were handed over.’

  ‘They did?’

  ‘She says this man at the other side of the island – a man called Rambert – a Marseilles financier, she said – was involved.’

  ‘How did she find that out? It’s not the sort of thing that people talk about.’

  ‘Try to stop women gossiping. They had big parties over there and sometimes hired girls from the Vieux Port to help serve the meals. There’s no one to call on at that side of the island, of course, because it’s a new development and there’s no village handy, so they had to get the help from this side and take them over by car.’

  ‘Rambert.’ Pel looked intrigued. ‘Rambert,’ he said again.

  ‘Do you think he’s involved?’

  ‘He’s a financier,’ Pel said. ‘Financiers are always involved. I think I’d better go and turn a few stones over and see what crawls out.’

  Leaving Madame and Nelly preparing to take a picnic on the beach near Le Havre du Sud, Pel and De Troq’ climbed into the car and crossed the island by the twisting roads through the olive groves. Muriel came upon them suddenly, something quite different from the Vieux Port, Le Havre du Sud or Biz. They were old, shabby island towns with a few new houses. This was a totally modern suburb.

  Street lights had been erected and the streets had obviously been laid out in a large complex long before the houses had been built, because it had clearly been planned and had not grown up haphazardly like the other towns on St Yves. Trees had been planted and were flourishing, and gardens, obviously well hosed, had been grown. It looked like a better-class suburb from somewhere on the south coast and was quite alien to the rest of the island, as if someone wanting to get away from everyday life on the mainland had started a new life on the island and made it exactly the same as the one he’d left.


  Large white houses with verandahs, sun-blinds and umbrellas sloped down to the beach and nearby were a few expensive boutiques of the sort that none of the islanders could ever afford to patronise. Yachts lay at anchor in the little bay and men and women in expensive clothes moved about the harbour.

  Rambert’s was the biggest house of the lot. There were three gardeners working on the terraces, and the door was opened by a butler in black trousers and a yellow-and-black-striped waistcoat.

  ‘Monsieur Rambert’s busy at the moment,’ he said. ‘He can’t be disturbed.’

  ‘I think he can,’ Pel said briskly, showing his identity card. ‘We’re police.’

  The butler didn’t even blink. ‘I’ll ask him,’ he said.

  ‘Don’t ask him,’ Pel advised, his eye as sharp as a wall topped with broken glass. ‘Tell him.’

  The butler left them in the hall and disappeared silently. Shortly afterwards he returned. ‘This way,’ he said.

  He led them through corridors as long as the Champs Elysées. Rambert, a fat man wearing dark glasses, was sitting at a vast desk smoking a cigar like a telegraph pole and holding a telephone to his ear. ‘Buy!’ he was saying. ‘And don’t waste time!’

  Behind him, lounging on a chaise longue with a small dog on her lap, was a statuesque blonde, who gave them a smile like a toothpaste advert.

  Rambert slammed down the telephone and rose, but he didn’t offer his hand. ‘Police, I was told,’ he said.