by Mark Hebden
Nosjean showed him the file. ‘It’s all here, Patron. Every bit of it. Xavier Sirdey married a girl called Léonie Gensoul, aged twenty-three, in Toulouse in 1933. For a man who seems to have liked women, he was pretty old – already thirty-five – so he’d probably married another girl – perhaps two – before then. The next thing we know is that he went through a form of marriage with Josée Celine, née Joséphine Cellino, in 1942, when he was already married to Léonie Gensoul. She disappeared and we then find him first in Dole as Georges Morot, then as Oscar Ferry and married now to Henriette Devoise, again 23, also in Dole. Then he disappears and turns up, again in Paris, still as Oscar Ferry, married to Monique Duat, daughter of a wealthy lawyer.’
‘He’s another Landru, this one.’
‘Yes, Patron, and I think he certainly did away with more than one of his wives. After Monique Duat, he changed his name to Jean-Jacques Bigéard and married Marianne Lefèvre, twenty-three again, in Royan. He was growing pretty wealthy by this time and went into property. It wasn’t long after the war and bombing had caused a lot of damage in Royan. He built several houses and bungalows at St. Georges-de-Didonne nearby, and acquired an interest in a cement firm which was very useful because most of Royan, including the church, was rebuilt with concrete. He was making a lot of money there when his wife was found dead with his gun alongside her. He admitted having an affair with another girl, Michelline Auriac, of Aix—’
‘Aged twenty-three?’
‘Yes, Patron. A verdict of suicide was recorded, but there was so much ill-feeling he left the district with the Auriac girl. By this time he was around sixty. But he hadn’t finished yet because we next find him married to her. He’s more than likely a bigamist two or three times over because we’ve only come up with one divorce. Nothing further is known of Michelline Auriac. She’s believed to have moved towards Mulhouse but it’s been impossible to confirm.’
‘Could he have killed her, too?’ Darcy asked.
‘We were in touch with Aix.’ Nosjean tossed another sheet of paper to the table. ‘They had their suspicions. They sent a photograph of Michelline Auriac and said they’d be grateful for any information we could supply. Finally—’ more sheets floated to the table ‘—under the name of Robert Sergeant he went through a form of marriage with Catherine Delorme, of Lyons, who left him when she discovered he was still married to Michelline Auriac and – if she was dead which we believe – to Marianne Lefèvre as well. Catherine Delorme was also twenty-three.’
‘There seems to be something magic about that age,’ Pel said. ‘You have seven you know about and two probables.’
‘Yes, Patron. But finally De Troq’ heard in Lyons that he’s moved north.’
‘Back to his home ground? Would he do that?’
‘My Indian Runners did,’ De Troq’ said.
Pel was silent for a moment. ‘And me?’ he asked. ‘Where do I come into this?’
Silently, Nosjean reached across and laid a photograph of Léonie Gensoul on the table in front of him. ‘She’s the wife in Toulouse,’ he said. ‘She’s one of those who disappeared, probably dead.’
Pel picked up the photograph and studied it closely. Then he looked up slowly. ‘She’s wearing the same necklet Dominique Pigny was wearing,’ he said.
There was a long silence, then Pel picked up another photograph.
‘Josée Celine,’ Nosjean said. ‘She’s also wearing the necklet. Claudie went to see Madame Frémion again. She has a lot of photographs of Josée Celine. The ones she originally picked out for us were all stage portraits and publicity pictures and were all taken before she met Sirdey. She wasn’t wearing the necklet in any of them so nothing clicked. But when Claudie asked to see all her photos, she found several like this.’
Nosjean shuffled them out like a pack of cards. ‘She’s wearing the necklet in every one of them,’ he said. ‘And these were taken after she met Sirdey. In that one—’ his finger jabbed ‘—she’s also wearing the diamond ring and the earrings he gave her. Madame Frémion said they were family heirlooms so perhaps all his women wore them at one time or another. But he knew their value and made sure he got them back when he finished with them. He not only removed the necklet from Josée’s neck, he also removed the ring from her finger and the earrings from her ears.’
Pel remained silent and Nosjean went on. ‘Sirdey would be around eight-five or six now. He was born in 1896, the second son to the third wife of Alphonse Sirdey, of Nevers. His father, who died in 1916, was born in 1821. 1821, Patron!’ Nosjean sounded awed. ‘Which means, Patron, that he was ninety-five when he died and seventy-five when he sired Xavier Sirdey. They’re long livers.’
‘They’re also long fornicators,’ Darcy said bluntly. He looked at Pel. ‘Patron, that old bastard at Arne – what Crussol said makes sense. Perhaps he did get the girl in his bed. Perhaps even they had some fun and games. If his father could, perhaps he could, too.’
Pel was deep in thought as Nosjean placed his file in front of him.
‘Yours, I’m afraid, Patron,’ he said. ‘Everything on Xavier Sirdey, alias Georges Morot, alias Oscar Ferry, alias Jean-Jacques Bigéard, alias Robert Sergeant. I’ve seen the photographs of the bullet that killed Jo-Jo la Canne and the photographs of the one that killed Michelline Auriac. Whether she died by accident or design, she was killed by the same gun. A MAS 6.35. The only thing that doesn’t fit snugly into it all is that Dominique Pigny was thirty-one.’
Pel looked up. ‘That,’ he said, ‘is because she was careful to ask him what age he preferred and when he told her, that was what she decided to be. It must have been twenty-three.’
Nosjean nodded. ‘Your Stocklin, Patron,’ he said, ‘is our Sirdey.’
Twenty-four
‘Three murders,’ Nosjean said, still excited with their success. ‘Possibly four.’
Pel finished his wine. ‘More than that,’ he said mildly. ‘Probably two or three others you don’t know about.’
‘Hadn’t we better get up there then, Patron, and haul him in?’
‘I don’t think he’ll run away,’ Pel said. ‘He’s dead. He was buried this afternoon. We’ve just watched him put down.’
Nosjean’s jaw dropped and he glanced at De Troq’ and Claudie. They looked like stockbrokers who’d had a bad day.
‘Don’t worry,’ Pel said, ‘your journey won’t be wasted.’ He reached into his brief case and started to lay his own documents on the table.
‘Jacqueline Cochet,’ he said. ‘Nurse. Thirty-nine years old. Alias Jacqueline Poupon. Alias Bernadine Guichet. Two years ago she visited the Château d’Ivry, knowing it to be owned by an old part-bedridden man. I got her name and description from the lawyer in Auxerre who had handled the sale of the property to Sirdey-Stocklin-or-whatever-you- like-to-call-him. She’d found out about the sale and she was wondering if there would be a chance in the near future of the property changing hands again because she was interested. She was on the look-out for a rest home she could use for old people, which was something she knew about because when her mother died in Concarneau in circumstances which, it seems, were somewhat dubious, she used her house for that purpose.’
Pel sniffed and dabbed at his nose with his handkerchief. ‘She later tried to get a loan from the bank to start another bigger home with another house in Lyons,’ he went on. ‘The bank turned her down but, by a strange coincidence, the owner of the house, one Raoul Zeller, who was an old man in his terminal illness, nursed by a woman called Jacqueline Poupon, died very soon afterwards. “Natural causes” was given as the reason but, in view of what I’ve told them, the police in Lyons are seeking an exhumation order and there’s more than a chance that they’ll find arsenic, because not only does Jacqueline Poupon bear a marked resemblance to Jacqueline Cochet but someone who answers to the description of Hubert Guichet found a job with Zeller as a gardener just before his death and was engaged in killing rats that were nesting under the garage.’
Pel paused. ‘After Z
eller’s death,’ he went on, ‘Made- moiselle Cochet, alias Poupon, alias Guichet, inherited the house and did well enough to think of expanding yet again. Then she heard of the Château d’Ivry. Stocklin had just frightened his last housekeeper out of the house and was considering moving, but instead he took a fancy to her because she isn’t bad-looking. So she began to think she might even get the place for nothing because she had a way with men, which is not surprising because it seems she once worked as a prostitute in Marseilles, where she still has three children in a children’s home. Instead of continuing her efforts to buy the property, she took a job with Stocklin as his housekeeper and so on afterwards established Hubert Guichet as her assistant. She was beginning to do very well with Stocklin by this time and he had even made a will in her favour when Dominique Pigny arrived on the scene. And Dominique Pigny was younger than she was, had a better figure and even claimed to be twenty-three – which, as you’ve discovered, seems to have been a sort of talisman to Stocklin or Sirdey or whatever you wish to call him – and an age and shape Bernadine Guichet most manifestly was not. In Dominique Pigny also, Bernadine Guichet – née Cochet – came up against someone as clever as she was. Her nose was pushed out and something had to be done.
‘Hubert Guichet – who has a record and is not her brother but her husband – knew Jo-Jo la Canne from their days in Marseilles. By this time, Dominique Pigny had discovered what the Guichets were up to. She’d recognised them from reports which had appeared in the newspapers at the time of the death of Jacqueline Cochet’s mother. Dominique Pigny had lived around Concarneau as a teenager, you’ll remember, and doubtless read of it in the papers when it happened. When she saw the Guichets she doubtless remembered and took a trip to Concarneau to look up the newspaper files. When she found out what she wanted to know, she went to Lyons and learned what they’d been up to there. Now she only had to warn Stocklin and they’d have been out on their ears. She could even have made it more permanent by informing the police. I don’t think this is what she was going to tell Crussol but I believe the Guichets thought it was.
‘As it happened, she had other better irons in the fire which she had to attend to first. She was out to get Sirdey’s name on a will leaving everything to her. She was probably even hoping to blackmail him into it because he must have let something drop at some point about the cave at Drax and she’d been to Drax and paid her three francs fifty to get in. But nobody knew anything and she was in the wrong cave, anyway, so she found nothing. But that didn’t stop her making guesses. And her guesses told her what you’ve just found out as fact. She probably also made a few enquiries around the newspaper offices and came to the conclusion that Stocklin was Sirdey. Perhaps she found photographs. Or papers. I don’t know, but she was determined to get her hands on his money and, having got it, as his wife she could blackmail him to her heart’s content to let her spend it.
‘She didn’t consider the Guichets a problem because she had something on them, too. But, if they didn’t know what she’d got on Stocklin, they must have guessed what she’d got on them and when she telephoned Crussol they heard her and that’s what they thought she was talking about. They arranged for Jo-Jo to remove her. He stole the Mercedes and waited. The Guichets were watching from Stocklin’s room and doubtless tipped him off to her identity with some sort of signal from a window as she left – a flapping towel or something of that sort. Jo-Jo ran her down, pushed her into the boot and drove through the night to Concarneau.’
The room was silent as everybody hung on Pel’s words as they had on Nosjean’s.
‘By this time,’ he went on, ‘the Guichets were growing worried because we’d started asking questions. When we produced pictures of La Panique, the old man appeared to have lost his spectacles and couldn’t identify her. But, you’ll remember, Daniel, Mademoiselle Guichet went to his room first to make sure he was awake and I expect she removed them. Having got rid of Dominique, the Guichets were prepared to wait for old Stocklin to die, only to have Dr Lecomte inform them that he was likely to live to be a hundred. That was a long time to wait and they liked quick results. They wanted Stocklin’s money, but they also now had to get rid of Jo-Jo who was obviously going to be dangerous. So one of them – Hubert, I expect – shot him with Stocklin’s gun. They said they didn’t know it existed, but I think they did. It didn’t take Dominique long to spot the hiding place and they’d been in the house longer than she had.’
‘They hadn’t touched the jewellery, Patron,’ Darcy said.
Pel sniffed, blew his nose and shrugged. ‘They didn’t have to,’ he pointed out. ‘According to Stocklin’s will – the one he didn’t have time to alter – the house and its contents were theirs for the taking. All they had to do was exactly what they proceeded to do – get rid of Stocklin.’
Twenty-five
As Pel stopped talking, there was a long silence. For a moment nobody moved, then De Troq’ shifted restlessly in his seat and Nosjean scraped back his chair.
Pel looked at his watch. ‘I think perhaps we’d better be on our way,’ he said quietly.
As he rose, Darcy pushed him back into his chair. ‘I’ll go ahead,’ he said. ‘Duche’s probably prowling about out there Give me ten minutes.’
Pel frowned. ‘I’m growing a little tired of this tomfoolery, Daniel.’
Darcy was unrepentant. ‘I’m not, Patron. You’d better have another drink. See that he does, Claudie.’
Heading up the hill, he found Bardolle in the woods near the entrance to the château. He looked worried.
‘There’s somebody creeping about up there,’ he said, gesturing at the slopes.
They climbed the hill, Bardolle surprisingly quick considering his bulk. As they reached the brow, working along the fence by the line of trees, Bardolle gestured.
‘There he is!’ he said.
In the valley, moving towards the road, they could see a man in a khaki shirt and trousers wearing a dark, square-shaped cap.
‘It’s a cop,’ Darcy said.
‘It’s not one of my men,’ Bardolle growled. ‘I told them to stay up high where they could see.’
As they hurried down the slope, they heard cars arriving at the château. As they swung in to the drive and halted outside the door, Darcy began to push forward at greater speed.
At the great front door, still draped with its silver-decorated black draperies, the party paused. As Nosjean pushed it open and they stepped inside, Guichet appeared from his sitting room. He was holding a glass in his hand.
‘Champagne?’ Pel’s voice was at its silkiest. ‘Are you celebrating something?’
At his words, Bernadine Guichet appeared, also holding a glass. She was quicker to recover than her husband.
‘Stocklin,’ she said. ‘It’s a relief for him.’
‘I wouldn’t have thought it an occasion for champagne, all the same. Unless, of course, he left you something in his will. Did he?’
She glanced at her husband. ‘Well, yes,’ she said. ‘A little.’
‘How much?’
‘As a matter of fact, he left it all to me.’
‘I thought he might have. What a pity you won’t be able to enjoy it.’
She frowned. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I’m afraid I’m going to ask you to accompany us to the city. There are a few questions I wish to ask you. About the death of your mother, Madame Cochet, of Concarneau, and about the death of a certain Raoul Zeller, of Lyons.’
She went pale.
‘Finally,’ Pel ended, ‘about the death of one Charles- Louis Stocklin, once known, it seems, as Xavier Sirdey and numerous other names.’
‘He died in his bed!’
‘I expect the Forensic Lab and those bruises on his shoulders will show how.’
The Guichets stared at them, their faces as blank as brick walls, then, suddenly, Hubert Guichet dived for the door. As he leapt past, Nosjean stuck out his foot and he went down, to slide on his front along the polished floor, t
aking with him the rug and a three-legged mahogany stand holding a plant. As he struggled among the scattered earth to rise, De Troq’ wrenched his hands behind him and clapped on the handcuffs.
Claudie moved towards his wife, whose face went red.
‘You bastards,’ she spat.
As the party appeared in the doorway, Darcy was drawing nearer his quarry. He could see Duche clearly now through the bushes. He looked haggard and dirty as if he’d been sleeping rough, but his elbows were resting on the low branch of a tree, the rifle pointing towards the château for a perfect, unimpeded shot. So much for Pel’s contempt, he thought.
He was afraid he was going to be too late and Duche heard the frantic crashing of the undergrowth and turned. As Darcy broke free he swung with the rifle barrel. Darcy ducked but it caught him a glancing blow on the side of the head to send him flying into the bushes. But Bardolle was just behind him, his big bulk smashing through the trees, and as Duche turned to meet him, he kicked his feet from under him then, as he scrambled to his knees, clasped his great hands together and brought them down together on the back of Duche’s head. The rifle dropped and Duche took a nose dive into the grass, his face buried in the turned earth. Bardolle dusted his trousers carefully, took out his handcuffs and, whipping Duche’s hands up, clamped them together behind his back.
Pel listened carefully as Darcy explained.
‘I’m glad it’s over,’ he said quietly. ‘And thank you, Daniel, for taking care of it. I’ll make a point of seeing Bardolle and thanking him, too.’
‘He’s useful, that one,’ Darcy said, his eyes still rolling from the crack on the head. ‘He thinks a lot and moves fast when he has to.’
As they gathered by the cars, the two Guichets sitting stiff-backed alongside the dazed Philippe Duche, Pel sniffled and blew his nose. He’d decided he didn’t like working on cases involving old people. They reminded him too much of how life shot by, and now that the excitement had died he was feeling terrible again.
