by Mark Hebden
‘Cover the back,’ Pel said. ‘In case he tries to run.’
When they rang the doorbell, it was the Vicomte himself who appeared, a thin lanky figure in the shadows.
‘Chief Inspector,’ he said, particular as always to give Pel his full title. ‘Please come in. I was just about to take a walk before it grew too dark. What can I do for you?’
‘We wish to see your assembly shop,’ Pel said.
Rochemare saw the bleak look on Pel’s face and his smile faded. ‘But the workers have all gone home.’
‘It isn’t the workers we wish to see, Monsieur. I imagine you have a set of keys.’
Rochemare glanced again at Pel’s face. ‘Just a moment,’ he said. Reaching for the telephone he picked it up. When it clicked he spoke quietly.
‘Ignazi? I’m not to be disturbed. I shall be busy for a while. I’ve got Chief Inspector Pel here with me. He wants to see the assembly shop.’ Replacing the instrument, he reached into a drawer and produced a bunch of keys. ‘Please come with me, Messieurs.’
They followed him back to the front door. ‘Your car?’ he asked.
Pel opened the rear door. The car was full of all the cigarette ends he and De Troq’ and the Marseilles cops had smoked, together with a crumpled newspaper and a few toffee papers, even a few crushed wild flowers that had escaped Morel’s press. Rochemare climbed in fastidiously. After his own immaculate Citroën it was as if he were climbing into a grubby tumbril to go to the guillotine.
De Troq’ drove across the estate, by the broad, asphalted road towards the stables. The place was in darkness but Rochemare unlocked it and began switching on lights. ‘Just what is it you wish to see, Messieurs? The freezers? The packing?’
‘The assembly shop. That’s all.’
Rochemare opened a door for them and they passed through. In the glare of the electric lights set high up in the ceiling, the place looked bleak. Immediately in front of them was a pile of japanned boxes, alongside them a tea chest, scales, measures and waxed bags. Pel picked up one of the open tins and studied it, then he bent over the tea chest and sniffed. Plunging his hand into the tea, he felt around before straightening up, Rochemare watched him carefully.
‘What are you searching for, Chief Inspector?’
Pel said nothing but gestured at the sealed boxes which stood separately. Picking one up, he sniffed it, then ran his finger round the edge of the lid.
‘Sealed with wax.’
Rochemare nodded. ‘That’s to keep the flavour in.’
‘And the smell, of course.’
‘Of course. China tea is very fragrant.’
‘I’m not talking about tea, Monsieur,’ Pel said. ‘Open it, De Troq’.’
Taking out a penknife, De Troq’ cut the wax seal and opened the lid. Inside, the tin was full of tea but, dipping his fingers into it, De Troq’ brought out a small plastic bag.
Rochemare’s jaw dropped. ‘What’s that?’
‘Heroin, Monsieur,’ Pel said coldly.
‘Here!’ Rochemare looked aghast. ‘Here!’
‘Here.’ Pel moved across to the bench where the Rapido Minis lay. Panels, nuts, bolts, electric wiring, heating panels, and steel tubes lay in neat groups. He picked up several of the pieces then, putting them down again, turned to one of the completed machines. There were several on the bench and Pel studied them carefully, sniffing from time to time.
‘These are finished?’ he asked.
‘Of course. What’s going on, Chief Inspector?’
‘Are there others? Packed ready for leaving.’
‘I don’t know.’ Rochemare looked bewildered. ‘I’ve no idea. I don’t look after this.’
‘Who does?’
‘Tissandi.’
‘Where is he?’
‘In his flat, I suppose. Do you want me to send for him?’
As the Vicomte reached for the telephone, Pel’s hand slammed down on it. ‘Don’t touch that,’ he said sharply.
It was some time before they found the packaged machines. They were in cartons in another room where a van stood, obviously ready to take them down to the harbour. Six others stood to one side. Pel counted the six carefully then gestured to De Troq’.
‘Open them, De Troq’.’
‘Chief Inspector, those things have just been packaged ready for sale.’
‘Open them De Troq’.’
De Troq’ cut the plastic binding round the cartons with his knife. Taking out a machine from inside he held it up to his nose then held it out to Pel.
‘Waxed round the joints, Patron.’
He had the top off in minutes with the Vicomte constantly demanding to know what was happening. Lifting the lid of the machine, he peered inside the cube-shaped upright column, then, pushing his fingers in, from among the wires it contained he produced a long narrow plastic package filled with white powder.
‘Two, Patron,’ he said, producing a second and laying it on the bench.
Pel turned to Rochemare. ‘Do the others also contain them?’
‘I’ve no idea. I don’t even know–’
‘Open them all, De Troq’.’
Half an hour later they had every one of the machines open and there were twelve long tubular-shaped packages of white powder, the same size and shape as the package found on Madeleine Rou and her friends in the Kit Kat Klub in Nice.
‘What is it?’ Rochemare asked. ‘Is that heroin, too?’
‘Didn’t you know?’
‘Chief Inspector, I don’t know what’s going on but I ought to warn you that I possess considerable influence–’
It was a mistake. Even now, Pel wasn’t certain how involved the Vicomte was in the movement of drugs – or even if at all – but they had plenty of proof that he’d been involved – even if only through Tissandi and Ignazi – in a little speculation in island land and the granting of permission by the Ministry of Beaux Arts.
‘I’m well aware of that,’ he said coldly, his intelligence in top gear. ‘I’m also aware how well you’ve used it to your own advantage.’ He gestured at the plastic bags. ‘It came from Taiwan in the japanned boxes. Doubtless you or someone you employed – Tissandi for instance – knew exactly when they arrived in Calvi because you could see from that house of yours. It was probably even landed there and brought over here in your launch – probably with a handout to Beauregard to look the other way until it was placed in the selected machines to go to the mainland. Probably also in the suntan beds that your organisation imported. And the tubular folding chairs and garden furniture. Most of what you import seems to be hollow and very useful as containers.’
‘Are you accusing me, Chief Inspector?’
‘As far as this is concerned, I’m accusing nobody until I know the full facts. As for the other – the influence you boast of and how it’s been used – that’s another matter and will doubtless be looked into by another department than mine. At the moment, I think we’ll go and pick up Tissandi.’
Even as he spoke, Morel, one of the Nice cops appeared in the doorway. He was red in the face and panting.
‘Patron,’ he said. ‘He’s not there! The place seemed quiet so, instead of waiting for the word from you, we investigated. He wasn’t there. There’s a way out through the cellar. He’s gone!’
Pel’s eyes blazed with anger. ‘Where to?’
‘The Range Rover’s just shot off from the front of the house down the hill. I think they’re both in it!’
‘Patron!’ It was De Troq’. ‘The Vicomte’s launch! It’s faster than anything else in the harbour! They’re probably going to bolt to North Africa or somewhere!’
‘Let’s go,’ Pel snapped. ‘Morel! Look after this lot!’
Dashing outside with De Troq’, they quickly scrambled into the Duponts’ Peugeot and De Troq’ took off the brake. The vehicle was rolling down the slope under its own weight even before he started the engine. As it roared to life, he let in the clutch and they shot out of the huge wrought-iron gates
and headed down the hill.
The port was lit up. Now that the season was starting, coloured lights had been strung outside all the bars and they could hear the raucous music from a discotheque. The big Peugeot swung off the road with a slash of gravel and began to thunder along the harbour, past Riccio’s silent darkened premises, past the Duponts’ house where Madame waited. It was followed by a few angry shouts from holidaymakers sitting outside the bars and restaurants who were splashed as it shot through the puddles.
Pel was already running for the gangplank as it shrieked to a stop alongside the Range Rover parked near the Vicomte’s cruiser. But De Troq’ was faster and passed him, shoving him aside to leap on board ahead of him. As their feet thundered on the deck, Ignazi’s head popped up out of a hatchway. He had a gun in his fist so De Troq’ kicked him in the face like a footballer taking a running kick at goal. The gun shot into the air and plopped into the water alongside while Ignazi, his eyes rolling, blood on his mouth, dropped out of sight. As De Troq’ scrambled through the hatchway after him, he found a sailor standing near Ignazi’s crumpled shape. He looked bewildered. De Troq’s gun appeared. ‘Back up against the wall!’ he snapped. ‘Where’s Tissandi?’
The sailor gave him the contemptuous look of a seafaring man for a landlubber. ‘It’s not a wall,’ he said. ‘It’s a bulkhead. And Tissandi isn’t here.’
For a moment they were nonplussed. Without doubt Ignazi had driven Tissandi from the château to the harbour. The big Range Rover he’d used was there alongside the gangplank with the Duponts’ Peugeot. Tissandi ought to have been there, too.
Pel turned to the sailor. ‘Where is he?’
‘Who?’
‘Tissandi.’
The sailor shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I haven’t seen him since we brought him back this afternoon.’
De Troq’ grabbed Ignazi and lifted him to his feet. ‘What’s going on?’ he said. ‘Where is he?’
Ignazi refused to answer and De Troq’ turned again to the sailor. ‘What was this one doing here?’
The sailor shrugged. ‘He told me to get the boat ready for a long trip. She’s fuelled up, of course. She’s always fuelled to the top the minute she comes back so she’s ready any time the Old Man wants her.’
‘Where was she going?’
The sailor gestured at the moaning Ignazi. ‘He said something about Corsica and then on to Sicily.’
‘On his own?’
‘No. Look–’ the sailor gestured ‘–can I put my hands down? It makes my arms ache and this, whatever it is, is nothing to do with me. I only run the boat’
‘Put them down,’ Pel said. ‘Was Ignazi going on his own?’
‘No. He said Tissandi was coming along later. With someone else.’
‘Rochemare?’
‘It might have been. But they wouldn’t lock him in the cabin, would they?’
‘Is somebody locked in the cabin?’
‘Not yet. But they were going to, I reckon.
Ignazi tried the door, locked it and took the key out. I reckon they were going to take somebody with them. Especially as they said I needn’t go. I think they weren’t coming back.’
‘Why–?’ Pel stared about him, puzzled, then he whirled round and yelled at De Troq’. ‘The house! Tissandi’s gone for Geneviève! Ignazi dropped him off as they passed the house. I’m going up there! Shove this one under lock and key and come after me!’
It wasn’t worth starting the car to reach the house and Pel ran as he’d not run for years. Pel’s run had always had an old man’s sort of action and he normally preferred to let the younger men in his team do it for him, but this time he was at it like an olympic sprinter. He knew exactly what was happening. Hostages! It was the latest element in the game of cops versus robbers. If the big deal you’d planned didn’t come off and you found yourself in trouble, you collared a hostage or two – more if possible – and used them to bargain for your liberty. A car to the frontier. An aeroplane to carry you to some country where they weren’t so fussy about having criminals within their boundaries.
Damn St Yves, he thought. Why had they ever come here? He might have known that anywhere outside Burgundy would cause trouble. Next time he had a honeymoon, he’d spend it in Dijon, or Auxerre or Avallon or somewhere sensible like that.
Reaching the house he slowed down, panting. His knees seemed to have come unhooked and he felt as if he’d lost a lung somewhere. Name of God, why did he persist in smoking so much? It left him no wind to handle emergencies. It was all he could do to breathe.
From where he stood he could see the front door of the house and knew that if Tissandi were inside, he couldn’t get away without being spotted.
A minute or two later, De Troq’ arrived alongside him. ‘I tossed him in the police station and told the guy on duty to lock him up, and that if he let him get away I’d have his head. I didn’t worry about the seafaring type. He doesn’t seem to be part of it.’
Pel gestured. He was getting his breath back now. ‘You take the back door,’ he said. ‘I’ll go in through the front.’
As De Troq’ vanished, Pel moved into the shadows of the verandah. Turning the door handle slowly, he discovered it was unfastened. Pushing inside, he headed warily for the living room. He almost hoped there’d be a fight and it would be wrecked and all the Duponts’ precious objects d’art would be ruined. It would pay them back for enticing them with their lying brochures to this cursed island.
The light was on and, as he crossed the darkened hall, he saw Madame standing by the table. He couldn’t see all of her but he knew at once from her position that something was wrong. Then, as he moved closer, he saw Tissandi alongside her, tall and bulky against the light. He had wrenched her arm up behind her and in his other hand he held a Luger 9 mm at her cheek. As Pell stepped into the light, he gestured with his head.
‘Throw your gun on the floor.’
Pel stared at Tissandi but he did as he was told. He saw his wife watching him, her eyes appealing, obviously expecting him to do something miraculous to rescue her.
‘Stand back,’ Tissandi ordered. ‘She’s going with me. And if you attempt to follow us, she’ll be shot and thrown overboard.’
Madame’s eyes widened but she didn’t move. Pel said nothing, aware that Tissandi had not yet realised that they’d visited the boat first.
‘Move away,’ Tissandi went on. ‘I’m coming out through the door. But I’ll have the gun. Pick it up and hand it to me. Butt first.’ The Luger swung towards Pel and, as he reached forward to pick up his gun, he knew exactly what Tissandi intended. He was going to bring the Luger down on the back of his head and braced himself for the blow. But, as he did so, bending with his head at the level of Tissandi’s knees, he saw his wife’s foot lift. The elegant high-heeled court shoes she’d put on for the celebration she’d hoped for when they returned with it all over and done with, caught the glow of the lights as her foot rose cautiously and Pel moved as slowly as he dared. As she jammed down the high spiked heel on to Tissandi’s canvas-clad foot, he gave a strangled yell and Pel immediately dived for his legs.
All three of them crashed in a heap to the floor. Madame screamed and Pel got a foot in his face, but he managed to grab his gun and bring it down on Tissandi’s head. Tissandi’s gun fell from his hand as he yelled in pain and Pel saw his wife’s foot jerk forward and kick it out of reach. Then the door burst open and De Troq’ crashed in and fell on top of the struggling heap.
When the shouting and yelling died down, De Troq’ had wrenched Tissandi’s hands up behind his back and slapped on the handcuffs. Madame was standing by the table supporting herself and, as he crossed to her, Pel was pleased to see the Duponts’ whatnot table had been upset and half their objects d’art were lying in pieces. Serve them right, he thought savagely.
His wife gave him a shaky smile as he put his arm round her. ‘You all right?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’
‘You sure?’
‘I’m perfectly all right. I have a bruise on my hip that’ll probably be there when I’m an old woman, but otherwise I’m unharmed.’
Pel kissed her gently and made her sit down. From the Duponts’ cupboard he produced the Duponts’ brandy bottle and three glasses and, watched by the glowering Tissandi, they toasted their success. Then Pel gestured at De Troq’.
‘He’s all yours,’ he said. ‘Put him with the other one and telephone Nice to come and get them in the morning. And keep an eye on them.’
‘Patron,’ De Troq’ said. ‘I’ll be sitting up all night. I wouldn’t trust a damn soul on this island.’
Twenty-three
By the time they went to bed, Chief Inspector and Madame Pel were a little light-headed. Though De Troq’ and the cops from Nice were standing guard at the police station, they’d all called in at various intervals to celebrate with a drink.
As Madame climbed into bed, Pel studied her. ‘You’re sure you’re all right?’ he asked for the hundredth time.
Madame looked at him, her eyes strangely bright. ‘Of course I’m all right,’ she said briskly. ‘In fact, at the moment I’m feeling wonderful. They always say champagne is good after a disaster, a triumph, an operation or going to bed with someone, don’t they?’
Pel turned, startled. There were hidden depths to his new wife, he decided.
‘You’re not hurt?’
‘I’m stronger than I look. I used to ride, you know, but I was always falling off. I don’t remember suffering much harm.’
Pel frowned. ‘It turned out to be rather more than we expected,’ he admitted. ‘From being a simple murder enquiry, it progressed into a very complicated affair indeed. What Caceolari saw that night above the harbour was just the tip. We turned over a few perfectly ordinary stones and all sorts of surprising things crawled out.’ He paused and his frown grew deeper. ‘That was a warning he sent, you know,’ he said.
