Pel & The Pirates (Chief Inspector Pel)

by Mark Hebden

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘What do you want? I’m busy at the moment.’ He gestured at the woman. ‘This is my – er – my wife. You’ll know me, of course. Everybody knows me. Who’re you? A sergeant from the Marseilles lot?’

  ‘I’m Chief Inspector Pel,’ Pel said coldly. ‘And this is my associate, Baron de Troquereau.’

  De Troq’ did his thing, clicking his heels and giving a little bow. Rambert was obviously impressed, because he promptly offered cigars and drinks.

  ‘What can I do for you?’ he said.

  ‘Smuggling,’ Pel said.

  Rambert flushed and Pel suddenly wondered if by accident he’d stumbled on something, because that was the way it sometimes went. Some dumb cop stopping a car because it had a faulty light could find the driver was some type wanted for mass-murder. And because the guy was trying to keep a low profile and look normal and innocent, he was wearing his seat belt as he should and couldn’t make a quick getaway, so that the cop found he’d got a medal for the capture of Public Enemy No 1. But Rambert recovered quickly. ‘What would I know about that?’ he said. ‘It’s not something I go in for. I make my money in easier ways.

  ‘Not you, Monsieur,’ Pel said blandly. ‘Islanders. I understand various commodities have been known to pass through this island from Italy, via Corsica, to the mainland. We’ve been investigating the beaches. Your house has a magnificent view–’

  ‘Best on the island. Chose it myself.’

  ‘I’m wondering if you ever saw anything unusual.’

  ‘Only that idiot, Flourmel, falling in the sea off his boat the other night when he was drunk. But I suppose it’s not all that unusual. He does it about once a fortnight. It’s a good job he can swim and that it sobers him up immediately.’

  ‘No strangers about?’

  ‘None I’ve ever seen.’

  ‘No strange motor cars?’

  ‘Most people move about by boat. It’s easier than going by road. We’ve all got boats here, of course, or we wouldn’t be here. That’s what this place’s all about. There are only about two decent cars on the island. Mine and the Vicomte de la Rochemare’s.’

  ‘You know the Vicomte?’

  ‘Of course.’ Rambert sounded indignant that Pel should even ask. ‘I expect you’ll meet him eventually in the course of your enquiries.’

  ‘I’ve already met him,’ Pel said smugly. ‘In fact, you could say I’ve been personally appointed by him to sort out the death of the taxi-driver, Caceolari. He’s put a house at my disposal.’ It wasn’t all quite true but it clearly impressed Rambert. ‘Did you know Caceolari?’

  ‘I’ve heard of him. His taxi never worked, I heard.’

  ‘That seems to be him. Did he ever come to see you?’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘That’s what I want to know. He was in trouble and he went to see someone.’

  ‘He wouldn’t come to me.’

  ‘He might. You’re a man of affairs who could give good advice.’

  Rambert was flattered. ‘Well, that’s true. But he never did.’

  Pel changed the subject. ‘This is a splendid area,’ he said.

  Rambert beamed. ‘My own idea. My own plan. I financed it.’

  ‘All part of the development of the island, I suppose? There’s a splendid harbour at the Vieux Port.’

  ‘I fixed that, too. It was a miserable place to come into before. People won’t come to that sort of place. They want a bit of glamour.’

  ‘I gather the islanders don’t like it very much.’

  ‘Well, they wouldn’t know their arse from their elbow when it comes to comfort, would they? Have you ever seen inside their houses? Nothing like this.’

  ‘Perhaps they don’t have as much money as you, Monsieur.’

  Rambert smiled. ‘Well, that’s true, I suppose. But the place needed jerking into the present century. They still behave as if it were 1870 and we’d just been beaten by the Prussians. I’ve wakened it up, I can tell you. This place shows what can be done. Eventually, we’ll start building round the Vieux Port. And then at Le Havre du Sud and Biz. There’s a fortune to be made here.’

  ‘Do the islanders want fortunes?’

  ‘In the end they do, I’ve found. I’ve developed plenty of places. In the Balearics. On Corsica and Elba. Development brings trade and trade brings money. And give them a taste of money and they realise what they’ve been missing and start joining in.’

  ‘It must have cost something.’

  Rambert grinned. ‘I’ve got something.’

  ‘But surely you couldn’t do it on your own?’

  Rambert’s grin came again. ‘Not likely. I don’t put all my eggs in one basket and, until the islanders get the hang of it, I spread it around. I let a few others help to hold the eggs until I have the thing going. There are plenty who’re willing to put up money.’

  ‘From the mainland, I suppose? Marseilles and Nice?’

  Rambert was suddenly wary. ‘Some. Not all.’

  ‘And, of course, you’d need the permission of the Ministry of Beaux Arts.’

  Rambert gestured airily. ‘We can get that sort of thing without difficulty.’

  ‘Do they approve?’

  ‘They seem to.’

  Pel paused. He didn’t like Rambert. He was being thoroughly impartial, of course. He normally always just settled for disliking everybody, but Rambert had the charm of Attila the Hun, so that Pel half-hoped he was involved in what they were investigating so that he could enjoy sending him to jail.

  To make it worse, having refused Rambert’s offer of a cigar, he’d just discovered that his cigarette, the last of his daytime allowance, had a split in it and, to avoid fuss, he was trying to smoke it with one finger over the tear. The effort was making his eyes stick out and his temper was shortening in proportion.

  He decided to try a sneak attack while Rambert wasn’t ready. ‘Do you know a man called Hardy?’ he asked.

  It obviously succeeded. Rambert, who had been idly toying with a glass, looked up, as startled as a choirboy who suddenly discovers he’s singing bass. He recovered quickly.

  ‘Who’s he?’ he said. ‘That politician who’s involved in that enquiry?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Why are you asking me about him?’

  ‘I understand he had a house here.’

  ‘Yes, he did. I sold it to him. He got rid of it about two years later.’

  ‘Ever meet him socially?’

  ‘Once.’

  ‘How did that happen?’

  ‘We gave a big party. We invited him.’

  ‘Was he a friend of yours then?’

  ‘No, but you know how it is.’

  ‘No, I don’t. Inform me.’

  ‘Well, in my profession, you keep your ear close to the ground. It pays to know the right people and politicians are the right people. It pays to be seen with people like that. So we included him.’

  ‘Just once?’

  ‘Just once. I never saw him again, as far as I know. He didn’t return the invitation. Then I went to America on business. Soon afterwards he sold the house.’

  ‘What about a man called Tagliatti? Maurice Tagliatti?’

  Rambert had become very still. ‘Isn’t that the gangster chap?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What are you suggesting?’

  Pel had a feeling that he’d got another bite. ‘Nothing, Monsieur,’ he said. ‘I thought perhaps one of your staff might have been involved and you might have heard his name mentioned.’

  ‘My staff are absolutely loyal to me.’

  ‘Of course. Did you know Tagliatti?’

  Rambert hesitated. ‘Everybody in Marseilles knew about Tagliatti.’

  ‘That wasn’t what I asked. I asked did you know him?’

  Rambert suddenly looked shifty. ‘Well, as a matter of fact, yes, though I don’t go around boasting about it. We grew up together and went to the same school. I playe
d in goal and he was right-wing. He’s left the country.’

  ‘So I understand.’

  ‘Tax problems. Everybody has those. ‘He’s in Switzerland. He always goes to Switzerland for that. He’s a fugitive from the Inland Revenue but that doesn’t count as a crime, does it?’

  Though Rambert laughed at his joke, Pel didn’t.

  ‘Was he involved with the casinos in Nice?’ he asked. ‘There’s been trouble over them.’

  ‘He had interests in one of them.’

  ‘How about you?’

  ‘How about me what?’

  ‘Did you have interests in them?’

  Rambert shifted in his seat. ‘I’d like to see them operating again, of course. But I’m not involved. Except with a little money, but there’s nothing wrong with that, is there?’

  Pel managed a smile. It was as dry as old chicken bones. He rose. ‘Well, I imagine this isn’t the place where we’ll find our smugglers, Monsieur.

  ‘I shouldn’t think so. There are plenty of crooks, of course.’ Rambert laughed. ‘But not that kind.’

  ‘Have you ever been threatened, Monsieur?’

  Rambert’s face fell. ‘What with?’

  ‘Houses have been set alight. Holiday homes. A lot, as a matter of fact. By someone on the island who doesn’t approve of people coming here from the mainland and taking the place over. What you might call a sort of mini-nationalism.’

  ‘They’d better not try it here,’ Rambert growled. ‘I have dogs around the garden after dark. If anybody comes they bark as if Cossacks were sacking the place. Besides, I thought the objection was the people who’ve taken over houses that were already here and converted them to holiday homes. I haven’t converted anything. I built. From the ground up. For a different class of people. The islanders can’t afford my homes. St Yves is a good place to live.’

  ‘That’s probably what the islanders feel, Monsieur.’ Pel smiled and rose. ‘I should take great care.’

  They left Rambert looking uneasy. As they stepped on to the porch, the blank-faced butler was polishing the handle of the door. There was something ostentatious about the way he was doing it, as if he were there deliberately. Sure enough he was.

  ‘Have a word with Luz Robles,’ he murmured as he closed the door. ‘She knows.’

  ‘Knows what?’

  ‘What the old bastard’s been up to.’

  He’d obviously been eavesdropping on the questioning and Pel smiled as he climbed into the car. So much for the loyalty of Rambert’s staff.

  Seventeen

  When Ignazi returned, it wasn’t hard to check that what the Vicomte had said was true. Ignazi still had the itinerary that he’d prepared. It included the vineyard, the olive groves, the farms, the freezer plant, the sulphur, the hotel, everything the Vicomte owned on the island.

  ‘He makes a point of keeping an eye on them all,’ Ignazi said ‘Personally.’

  Judging by the times, it seemed unlikely that the Vicomte had had time to see Caceolari and when De Troq’ did a little checking everything that the Vicomte had said seemed to be true.

  So if it weren’t the Vicomte Caceolari had seen, who had it been? They went back to Tissandi. If Caceolari hadn’t seen the Vicomte, could Tissandi have seen him?

  ‘Sure,’ Tissandi said. ‘I saw him.’

  They were standing in the warehouse behind the château, surrounded by chattering girls and acres of paper and corrugated card, watching the packing of the japanned boxes and Rapido Minis. Tissandi wore the same casual clothes as everybody else but there was nothing rough and ready about them and he made Pel feel like the man who came to empty the dustbins.

  ‘So he did come?’ Pel said.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Tissandi agreed cheerfully. ‘He came. He seemed anxious to talk to me.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘Nothing.’ Tissandi looked puzzled.

  ‘Was he worried?’

  Tissandi considered for a moment before replying. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I would say he was worried and I tried to get out of him what he was worried about. But he was vague. Very vague. I couldn’t make out what it was all about.’

  ‘Did you do anything about it?’

  ‘What could I have done?’

  ‘You could have reported it to the police.’

  ‘To Beauregard?’ Tissandi smiled.

  Pel saw the point. ‘There were always the police on the mainland,’ he said.

  ‘I didn’t really think it was that important. I didn’t even understand what he was afraid of.’

  ‘But if he was afraid, he would surely have reason to be.’

  ‘I suppose that’s true.’

  ‘But you did nothing?’

  Tissandi shrugged. ‘I wasn’t even sure it was a matter for the police,’ he said. ‘He was so vague, it might even have been a family matter. Something between him and his wife. Something of that sort. It was as if he wanted to tell me something but hadn’t the courage and could only hint. I thought about it then let it go. And arranged that he should see the Vicomte when he returned. He was to have seen him on the 23rd. The Vicomte’s a busy man, of course, and these things have to be fitted in. But before then, of course, Caceolari was dead.’

  Indeed he was. And someone knew why.

  But the interview with Rambert had opened up a whole new field of interest, and Pel was certain he was involved somewhere in what was going on. Nobody as sharp and shrewd – and crafty – as he was could fail to be.

  It seemed to be time to see Madame Robles again. He’d always intended to and at the second time of asking sometimes people remembered.

  Luz Robles greeted Pel more warmly than the first time. Without asking, she pulled out chairs and produced a bottle.

  Pel gestured at De Troq’. ‘This is Baron de Troquereau.’

  De Troq’ smiled his aloof smile, clicked his heels, gave a little bow, grabbed Madame Robles’ hand and kissed it. She was clearly very impressed and kept her eyes on him all the time they were speaking.

  ‘My Cousin Eugenia married a baron,’ she said. ‘An Italian baron. But he was a bit shifty. He had no money and when he’d spent all hers he left her. I could have told her the minute I met him.’ She looked at Pel. ‘But you didn’t come here to talk about my Cousin Eugenia. What do you want?’

  ‘Do you know Rambert?’ Pel asked. ‘The financier type at the other side of the island.’

  She was immediately wary.’ Why should I know Rambert?’ she asked.

  ‘He has money. He has style.’ Pel paused. ‘You have style.’

  She seemed flattered and he went on. ‘I’d have thought that people of style on an island like this where there isn’t a lot of style would naturally gravitate together.’

  Madame Robles smiled. ‘You’d be surprised how much style there is during the summer.

  It comes in on the yachts.’

  ‘It doesn’t seem to have spread to the islanders.’

  ‘Well, it wouldn’t, would it? You know how it is. The islanders are suspicious of money. They think they’re wealthy if they can afford a new car or a new suit, if they have three cows instead of two. They don’t know what wealth is. Wealth is what they keep in a sock under the bed and they turn up for weddings in vans and trucks because a car would be an extravagance when they’ve already got something on wheels. They don’t have style. The people who come in yachts know how to behave.’

  ‘Do they come here? To this bar?’

  ‘Sometimes. More often than not they go to the hotel.’

  ‘Do you go there?’

  ‘Sometimes.

  ‘When Rambert’s there?’

  ‘I have done.’

  ‘So you do know him?’

  She flushed. ‘Yes, I know him.’

  ‘It might have saved time,’ Pel said dryly, ‘if you’d said that when I first asked.’

  She recovered quickly. ‘You people have to work for your living,’ she said sharply. ‘You can’t expect to have things handed
to you on a plate.’

  ‘There is such a thing,’ Pel retorted coldly, ‘as refusing to help the police. Now, Madame, shall we start again? Do you know Rambert?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well enough to visit his house?’

  ‘I have done.’

  ‘Have you ever been threatened with having your house burned down?’

  ‘I live here. All the time. I don’t just come occasionally.’

  ‘What about Rambert? He doesn’t live here all the time.’

  ‘There’s a permanent staff there. With guard dogs. They wouldn’t burn that down, would they?’

  ‘Does Rambert ever come here?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘I thought he might. In fact, I’ve been informed he might.’

  He hadn’t, but it was worth trying and she immediately looked uneasy. ‘Well, he has once or twice.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why does anyone come to a bar?’

  ‘I don’t think Rambert’s the type to drink in a bar like this.’

  ‘What’s wrong with it?’

  ‘It’s not big enough and glossy enough for Rambert. Did he come to see you, Madame?’

  She didn’t answer and Pel pressed the question. In the end she nodded.

  ‘How well do you know him?’

  ‘How well do you think?’

  ‘I can guess.’

  She gestured irritably. ‘That blonde he’s got there,’ she said. ‘She’s not his wife, of course. His wife’s in Marseilles. They can’t stand each other. He took up with the blonde and now he’s sick of her, too. She’s got the brains of that poodle she nurses all day. Rambert’s got drive. He needs intelligence.’

  ‘And something else?’

  ‘And something else,’ she admitted defiantly.

  ‘Ever meet a man called Hardy?’

  ‘Who’s he?’

  ‘He’s a politician. You may have read of him.’

  She frowned. ‘Once Rambert brought someone here who might have been him. They didn’t introduce him to me. But I heard them talking. He sounded as if he might have been a politician. Things he said. References to the House of Representatives. That sort of thing.’

  ‘You said, “they” didn’t introduce him. Who are “they”?’