by Mark Hebden
‘Chevalliers’?’ Pel asked. ‘Of Châtillon?’
‘Yes. How did you know?’
‘Guessed,’ Pel said, thinking of the irony of Gérard Crussol about to act as pallbearer to the man whose fortune he’d hoped to acquire.
‘Were you fond of the old man?’ he asked.
Mademoiselle Guichet shrugged. ‘I suppose so,’ she said. ‘He was difficult, but he was old, and in my experience old people suffer a lot and don’t complain. I think he’d fallen out of bed during the night. Doctor Lecomte found bruising on his shoulders. But he didn’t ring and he didn’t call out so he must have got back on his own. Perhaps he’d hurt himself and that’s why he got out the whisky.’
‘Who gets this place now?’
She shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I expect his lawyers will know. He said he’d left me a little for looking after him, but I don’t know how much.’
Pel frowned. ‘He told me he had a gun. He offered to shoot you, in fact.’
‘He was always saying that. I think he was a rough man in his youth. He liked to boast about women – and about men he’d fought with.’
‘Where did he keep it?’
‘I often wished I knew. I don’t suppose we’ll ever find it now.’
Pet gestured at the cupboard alongside the bed, on top of which the old man had kept his glasses and his other belongings. ‘What about in there?’
‘It contained his whisky. That’s all. I’ve just emptied it.’
‘I’ll still look.’
Watched by the Guichets, Pel opened the cupboard. It was an ugly piece of furniture that seemed to belong more in a Rhineland castle than in the middle of Burgundy and its lowest shelf seemed a solid square of mahogany. Tapping it, Pel began to feel towards the back. His fingers found a little niche and he broke a nail trying to pull it forward. Fishing a coin from his pocket, he inserted it in the niche and slowly, stiffly, the shelf slid towards him. Beneath it was a deep space that contained several faded jewel boxes. Taking them out one at a time, he opened them. Most of them contained jewellery, all of it old-fashioned and some of it ugly but all expensive-looking, though there was one gold bracelet that he recognised at once as another piece by Lucie and a ring with a huge diamond in it, which he studied for a moment before holding it up for Darcy to see. There was no gun.
As he looked up, he saw Mademoiselle Guichet’s eyes on the jewellery. ‘I think I’d better lock that up,’ she said. ‘It ought to go to the lawyers dealing with his estate.’
‘For the time being we’ll keep it. We’ll give you a receipt.’
Still on his knees, Pel studied the space at the bottom of the cupboard, then he put the jewellery cases to his nose and sniffed. Watched by Darcy, he put his head in the cupboard and sniffed again. ‘I can’t smell a damn thing,’ he said. ‘I think I’m clogged up solid. You have a go, Daniel.’
‘What am I smelling for, Patron?’
‘Just sniff and tell me what you smell.’
Darcy lifted the jewellery cases to his nose, then he looked at Pel and, getting to his hands and knees, he put his head in the cupboard.
‘What is it?’ Guichet asked. ‘Drugs?’
‘No,’ Darcy said. ‘Gun oil. It has a smell all of its own. He kept a gun in there with the jewellery. Where is it now?’
Madame Guichet’s shoulders lifted in a shrug.
‘Have you ever seen the gun in there?’
‘I’ve never seen in there at all. I didn’t know it existed.’
On the way home, Darcy looked puzzled.
‘Surely, Patron,’ he said, ‘you don’t think the old man shot Jo-Jo?’
Pel gestured. Bells rang in his head and it felt as if the front was about to drop off and deposit his brains in his lap.
‘There was a report in France Soir last night,’ he said. ‘About an attempted rape by an old man of eighty-two. If he had urges like that, perhaps Stocklin did too. Perhaps they were strong enough to make him insane with fury if he learned that Dominique Pigny only wanted him for his money. He might have got Jo-Jo to kill her.’
‘But then he’d have to get rid of Jo-Jo, Patron.’
‘He gets out of bed. We’ve seen him.’
‘But could he also get out of the bedroom and out of the house, drive a car, meet Jo-Jo, shoot him, push him from the car, then climb out, cover him with leaves and hide the gun? Without being missed? Patron, it’s not possible.’
Pel had to admit it didn’t seem so.
Driven home in Aimedieu’s car, Pel once more took the whisky bottle to bed with a hot water bottle. Madame Routy showed no interest in him at all. Considering he was clearly dying, he felt it showed a certain lack of good manners.
Snuffling and miserable, he huddled beneath the blankets but sleep refused to come. He had too much on his mind. Nothing seemed to make sense. Who had killed Dominique Pigny? If she were on the point of making a fortune out of the old man at Arne, surely, it couldn’t have been Crussol. So was Jo-Jo la Canne somehow involved with her? And if so, why was he dead? And who’d killed him? Had the old man found out? He had a gun, but surely he couldn’t have done it himself.
He finally fell into a fitful sleep with the questions still revolving round his brain. When he woke the following morning he decided he wasn’t going to die after all, only linger on to a weak and feeble old age. Struggling into his clothes, he rejected Madame Routy’s coffee. How she managed with the best beans available to make it taste like shellac he couldn’t imagine.
Aimedieu appeared soon afterwards and, reaching his office and needing a cup of decent coffee, he rang his bell. It was Cadet Martin who answered it.
‘Where’s Claudie?’ Pel demanded. He’d grown used to seeing Claudie’s smile every morning and it irritated him to see Martin’s anxious-rabbit look instead.
‘She’s up to something with Nosjean and De Troq’, Patron. Nosjean’s gone to Aix and De Troq’ to Lyons.’
‘I hope they’ll be able to justify their expenses.’
For a while Pel sat staring at this blotter then, wearily, he put on his coat and hat again and, calling for Aimedieu, tottered off to the Bar Transvaal. Even though Aimedieu might not have to fend off assassins, he could always carry him back if he passed out. Catching sight of himself in the mirror above the bar, he thanked God Madame Faivre-Perret hadn’t ever seen him at this hour of the morning.
A heavy hand slapped his shoulder. It was Darcy. He looked fit and well and in full possession of all his faculties. Pel hated him.
‘How do you feel, Patron?’ he said.
‘I think I’m dying. Unless, of course, I’m dead already. I might well be.’
Darcy grinned, showing the white teeth he was so proud of. He looked as though he’d spent the night industriously and to his advantage.
‘I hear Nosjean’s on to a new scent,’ he said.
‘I wish I were. This whole thing is wrong. What was Dominique la Panique up to? Was she blackmailing Stocklin? Why otherwise collect press cuttings from Concarneau and Lyons? What had she found out? And what’s the connection with Josée Celine who was dead before she was born? There must have been some to make her ask questions at the caves. And why did old Stocklin make a will when he had no relations? It’s something we need to find out.’
None of the local lawyers had handled Stocklin’s business but, because of the size of his property, it occurred to Pel that one of the estate agents might know something. One did and gave them the name of a lawyer in Auxerre who had handled the purchase.
Cadet Martin found the number of the lawyer and Pel spoke for a long time. As he listened, he sat up sharply then, for the next hour, holding a handkerchief to his nose while Cadet Martin alternately brought him cups of strong black coffee to keep him awake, and bottles of cold beer from the Bar Transvaal to slake the thirst caused by his fever, he crouched over the instrument.
His office grew stuffy enough for Martin to gasp for breath as he appeared but Pel remained on the telephone. Fir
st to Concarneau, then to Lyons. He seemed to be tracing old people, talking to newspapers and to police. It went on until midday and when Cadet Martin went for lunch, the man on the switchboard turned round. ‘What’s happening up there?’ he asked. ‘Has war been declared? The Old Man’s making enough telephone calls for a general mobilisation.’
At three o’clock, Pel decided he’d had enough and, calling for Aimedieu, had himself driven home. Madame Routy took one look at him and turned down the volume of the television. Despite his headache, it made Pel feel better. He was finally winning the war against her.
He was unable to sleep because his mind was too busy and he spent the time tossing and turning underneath the blankets like a wounded whale. About eleven o’clock, the telephone went. It was Brochard, who was doing telephone duty at the Hôtel de Police.
‘I’ve got a message for you, Patron,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry it’s so late. It was a type called Le Bihan. He said you’d want to know at once. He said he’s found out about that old woman you were asking about. He just said “Tell him that the family house was used as an old people’s home.” Does it make sense to you?’
‘Yes,’ Pel said. ‘It does. I think I’ll be able to sleep now.’
Twenty-three
Pel wasn’t the only man receiving late night telephone calls. Nosjean received one, too. He lived with his parents and three adoring unmarried sisters who loved to accept messages which they felt took their brother into all the corridors of espionage, top secrecy and crime.
‘It’s for you.’ Nosjean, fast asleep on the settee, supposedly watching the late night film on television, sat up sharply.
‘Who is it?’
‘He said his name was De Troq’. Is he that baron you know?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is he a secret service man?’
Nosjean grinned. ‘He’s a cop. Like me.’
De Troq’s voice was excited. ‘I’ve found him!’ he yelled. ‘He’s our man! And what’s more I know where he went to from here.’
‘Where?’
De Troq’ told him and Nosjean grinned. ‘Something to celebrate,’ he said.
‘I’ve already celebrated.’
‘I thought you had,’ Nosjean said. ‘Make sure you’re here first thing in the morning. We’ll need to catch the Old Man.’
Unfortunately the Old Man arrived before they were ready. He looked like death because, despite what he’d said, he hadn’t been able to sleep after all; but, because he hadn’t been able to sleep, he’d been doing a lot of thinking and there was an aggressive glint in his eyes. Darcy arrived shortly afterwards, brisk and businesslike.
‘I’ve laid on Aimedieu and Brochard,’ he said. ‘And I’ve telephoned Bardolle.’
‘That’ll be enough,’ Pel said. ‘We don’t need a division of tanks.’
They climbed into Darcy’s car and they had no sooner disappeared from sight when Nosjean arrived. He entered the building looking tired but pleased with himself. Under his arm was a thick file of documents. Cadet Martin was in the office going through the newspapers like a propaganda minister on the look-out for slip-ups.
‘Where’s the Chief?’ Nosjean asked.
‘He’s out.’
‘Where?’
Martin told him and as Nosjean headed at speed back for the sergeants’ room, De Troq’ appeared with Claudie Darel.
‘He’s out,’ Nosjean said. ‘I think we ought to contact him.’
They ran down the stairs, deciding to take De Troq’s car because it was bigger and faster than Nosjean’s. Piling in, they shot from the car park as if they were coming out from the start at Le Mans.
The churchyard was a bleak little patch surrounded by a high wall, the grass between the tombs brown and withered after the sun. The smell of dead flowers seemed to pervade the place as Pel, Darcy and the other two detectives took up a position under the trees where they couldn’t be seen.
A few black-clad people whom they recognised from Arne were standing near the open grave, sheepish-looking as if they’d been paid to attend – the Guichets, the man from the village café, the young man who drove the tractor at the farm, his heavy hands screwing at his cap. The sun was warm and the place was silent, not a breath of wind stirring the trees.
‘It’s peaceful, isn’t it?’ Brochard said.
‘You’d hardly expect it to be a riot,’ Darcy snapped. ‘And you’re not here to admire the place, you’re here to keep your eyes open for men with guns.’
When the priest’s muttering had finished, the few mourners moved round the grave, tossing handfuls of earth into the hole from a spade held out to them by the grave-digger, then they crossed themselves and headed for the exit. There were only two cars, the station wagon from the château which had brought the Guichets, and a shabby old Renault into which the rest of the mourners crammed.
As they disappeared, Pel jerked his head and they headed towards their car. They had just left when De Troquereau’s big roadster hurtled round the corner and slid to a stop in the dust. There appeared to be no sign of their quarry. Then Claudie’s hand jerked out.
‘There,’ she said, pointing. ‘Going up the hill there! That’s Darcy’s car!’
They were just leaving the village when Darcy frowned.
‘There’s some damned lunatic behind us flashing his lights,’ he said. ‘I’ve a good mind to run him in for dangerous driving. He’s – Mother of God, it’s that damned liner of De Troq’s! What the hell does he want? He’s got Nosjean in the front with him.’
Pel turned. ‘And Claudie in the rear. Pull over, Daniel.’
As Darcy pulled into the grass verge, De Troq’s car swung in front of it and came to a stop. The doors flew open and Nosjean, De Troq’ and Claudie Darel fell out.
Pel stepped from Darcy’s car. ‘What in the name of God’s going on?’ he said.
‘We have to talk to you, Patron,’ Nosjean said.
‘Not now!’
Nosjean glanced at De Troq’ and drew a deep breath. ‘Patron—’
‘NOT NOW!’
‘We’ve got something for you.’
Pel glared. ‘Not now, I said. I’ve got enough on at the moment and I feel like death, anyway.’
Nosjean drew a deep breath. ‘Patron,’ he said loudly, ‘there’s something you should know.’
‘I don’t want to know anything.’
‘It’s about Josée Celine.’
‘That’s your case.’
‘No, Patron,’ Nosjean said firmly. ‘I think it’s become yours.’
There was a long silence. Pel stared at Nosjean, then he blew his nose heavily. Nosjean, De Troq’ and Claudie stood in front of him like the accused at a murder trial. Darcy watched, puzzled.
‘Inform me,’ Pel said.
Nosjean fished inside De Troq’s car for the folder he’d brought. ‘It’s all here, Patron,’ he said. ‘Every last bit of it.’
Pel frowned. ‘I’m not in the habit of reading reports or holding conferences in the middle of the highway,’ he growled.
‘There’s a café about a kilometre further on, Patron,’ Nosjean urged. ‘Perhaps we could go there.’
‘I’m also not in the habit of dealing with police business in public places.’
‘Patron,’ Nosjean said earnestly. ‘It’s important. They have a back room. I’m sure they’d lend it to us.’
Without a word, Pel climbed back into Darcy’s car and allowed Nosjean to lead the way. The café smelled of stale wine but there were two rooms and the proprietor agreed to close the door of one of them. They sat down round a table stained with the rings from wine glasses and beer mugs and began to light cigarettes. Eventually the proprietor arrived with two bottles of wine.
Pel waited without speaking until the wine had been poured and the door closed. Then he gestured at Nosjean’s file.
‘Inform me,’ he said.
Watched by the others, Nosjean opened the file and began to spread papers across the table. ‘I to
ld you it would be difficult, Patron,’ he said, ‘because Sirdey covered his tracks so well. But he did join the Milice – we established that – and he did work with the Nazis for a while. He was even wanted by the Resistance down near Vercors. He also made money through the Black Market and when the war ended he disappeared. That was where it became difficult.’
Nosjean paused, moving the papers with his hands. Pel listened quietly, his face impassive, holding a handkerchief to his nose.
‘But then it suddenly took off,’ Nosjean said. ‘And when it did, it went like wildfire. I knew it would. After covering his tracks for twenty years, he finally decided he was safe and grew less careful. Paris turned him up for us. They had a photograph, which we didn’t have because all ours were destroyed by a bomb during the war. It seemed to match the one we’d picked up which is a pretty indifferent one taken from the newspaper files. Photography, like a lot of other things, was difficult at the time because all photographic material was directed towards the Germans, and the newspapers didn’t publish any pictures.’
He gestured at a photograph on the table. It showed a tall, heavily bearded man wearing thick dark-rimmed spectacles.
‘It seemed like our man,’ Nosjean went on. ‘But it could just as easily have been Yves Montand with a false beard. But we did a bit of checking and finally we decided it was him. He’d started a business buying surplus war material. After that, though, there were no photographs because he’d started being very careful. We traced him to Royan but he didn’t stay there long. He’d had three or four wives we knew about but he was over fifty by this time, Patron, so he must have had a way with him. He went to Nantes.’
‘And then?’
‘And then we lost him, Patron.’ Nosjean smiled. ‘But now we’ve got the lot. I went to Aix and De Troq’ took on Lyons. We tied it up. We’ve got the whole history.’
Pel said nothing, merely waving to Nosjean to explain.
