by Mark Hebden
‘I’ve read about it. I’ve seen it on the television.’
‘Have no fear,’ Darcy said. ‘No matter how well they seal it, there are always a few grains that fail to go inside the bag. And that’s enough for the dogs. They’d find it. Then we’d turn the place upside down.’
‘My wife – ’ Archavanne started to say something then stopped.
‘Your wife knows nothing, of course?’ Pel said.
Archavanne shook his head, and Darcy shrugged.
‘She’s going to get a shock, my friend,’ he observed. ‘You could make it easier for her by coming clean.’
Archavanne’s face twisted, then he gave a vast shrug.
‘Did your lorries transport drugs?’
Archavanne’s hearty manner had vanished. ‘Sometimes,’ he said.
‘You’d better tell us.’
Archavanne indicated the door. His wife was singing in the kitchen.
‘Shut the door,’ he appealed. Darcy shut it quietly.
‘It’s easy to slip a packet in a marked crate,’ he went on. ‘I supervised the warehouse when they were due and I worked late after everyone had gone. I took the packet out and resealed the crate.’
‘Where did they come from?’
‘Austria.’
Pel’s eyebrows rose. ‘Not Germany? Not Munich?’
‘Chief,’ Darcy said quickly. ‘Munich’s the nearest airport to the Austrian border. The nearest to Innsbrück.’
Pel stared at Archavanne. His bounce had gone and he seemed to have shrunk. It was easy to see why he’d seemed so agitated when they’d first been to see him. He’d suspected at once that they were on to him and it was after they’d mentioned that Miollis was dead, Pel remembered, that he’d recovered his aplomb.
‘So you did know Nincic?’ he said.
Archavanne nodded heavily.
‘And Miollis?’
Archavanne nodded again, silently. ‘The drugs came from Austria,’ he said. ‘When I took them out of the crate, I wrapped them up with scented soap or disinfectant to kill any smell, then I sent them to the Central Post Office to be collected.’
‘When did this start?’
‘Two or three years ago. I posted them here. Or in the city. Anywhere. I was always moving about and always passing post offices. I sent them addressed “Poste Restante”.’
‘Who to? Miollis?’
‘Yes.’
‘How did you get into this?’
‘I met Nincic in a bar. He got talking. You know how it is.’
‘Tell me.’
‘I seemed to bump into him several times. We became friendly. He asked me to accept a parcel from Germany in one of my lorries. I agreed. He said it was a watch for a friend. It probably was. But there were others later and I got suspicious and guessed it was drugs. But when I tackled him with it, he told me I was as deeply in it as he was and that if I backed out, he’d tell the police.’
‘Was he running it?’
‘No. There was someone else. He said he got his instructions like I did.’
‘Who from? One of the gangs?’
‘I don’t know. I expect so.’
‘Which one? Tagliacci or Pépé le Cornet?’
‘I don’t know. The money always came in an unmarked envelope. I always knew what it was because there was always a blue cross on the corner and it was registered and marked “personal”. It always seemed to be posted in the Central Post Office.’
‘Did you never try to check who sent it?’
‘Yes.’ Archavanne was almost weeping now. ‘I even waited outside but I never saw anybody I knew who could have done it. I soon learned about Miollis. I wondered who was picking up what I left, so I put it in a brightly coloured paper. One time it was green. Then yellow. Then a sort of orange. And one day I saw this little fat guy come out with the packet under his arm. I followed him to where he was staying. It was the Lion d’Or. It’s a small hotel near the airport. I followed him and told him who I was. At first I thought he was going to go for me, but in the end, he saw I was bigger than he was, and we talked – chiefly about who was running it. He didn’t know either. We became quite friendly. We even trusted each other. We had to, you see, because neither of us knew who was behind it all. We didn’t think it was Nincic and we felt if we could ever find out, we should have a lever, too, as Nincic had a lever on us. So we could pull out. At least, that’s what I thought. I don’t think Miollis was so fussy. He didn’t look like a man who was fussy.’
‘Have you ever heard of a man called Alois Hofer?’
‘Yes. But I don’t know who he is. Nincic mentioned him. He’s the contact at the other end of the line.’
‘Why was Miollis used?’
‘He thought it was because he came from Paris and wasn’t known down here. When something was coming, he got a message, drove down, took a room at the Lion d’Or and kept going to the Post Office until the parcel turned up. He passed it on to Nincic and left again for Paris. He was paid like me, by post. Always a bundle of used notes.’
‘Did you kill him?’
‘No. Mon Dieu, no! I couldn’t kill anyone.’
‘You’ve probably done it already, between you,’ Darcy snapped. ‘There’s at least one student, by the name of Cortot, who’s dead. Probably others.’
‘I didn’t think of that.’
‘People like you never do. If you didn’t kill Miollis, who did?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Was it Nincic?’
‘Perhaps. He struck me as the sort of man who could.’ Archavanne was crying openly now. ‘I think Miollis was growing greedy. He’d been doing it for two years and he said he was only the bottom of the pyramid and, since he was taking the risks, he felt he ought to be higher. Perhaps that’s why.’
‘He was also helping himself,’ Pel said. ‘Taking a little for himself and selling it privately. I expect Nincic noticed.’
Archavanne moaned. ‘Well, whoever was behind it,’ he said, ‘they were making sure they were keeping their fingers clean. Nobody knew them, unless Nincic did.’
‘And he can’t tell us, can he?’ Darcy said. ‘Not now.’
Pel sighed and handed the slip of yellow paper to Darcy. ‘File it,’ he said. ‘And take him away.’
Archavanne choked on his sobs as he stared round the room. ‘All this,’ he said. ‘It’ll all go.’
‘You should have thought of that,’ Darcy said.
‘I was doing; all the time. What about my wife?’
‘You should have thought about that, too.’
Archavanne was a wreck now with streaming eyes. ‘But I built it all up. It was going so well.’ His chief worry seemed to be less that he was guilty than that he wouldn’t be able to carry out his life’s ambition.
‘Can I say something to my wife?’ he begged. ‘Tell her you’re wanting my help or something. It won’t be a lie.’
‘You can tell her what you like,’ Darcy said in a flat voice. ‘So long as I’m there when you say it.’
As Pel left the house, he could hear Archavanne explaining loudly.
‘But your meal’s almost ready,’ his wife was saying.
‘It can’t wait, chérie. These gentlemen say there’s something they want me to look at.’
‘Well, hurry back! Are you all right? You don’t look well.’
‘Indigestion. I had a beer too many tonight.’
As Archavanne appeared, he gave Pel a twisted smile. ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘She won’t worry now.’
Pel grunted. ‘She will, though,’ he said. ‘When you go away for a few years.’
Eighteen
With Archavanne safely lodged at 72 Rue d’Auxonne, better known to its inhabitants as the jail, the pressure lifted a little. Polverari was quick to offer his congratulations and even the Chief rang to say he was pleased.
They weren’t much nearer to finding out who had despatched three dead men, however, and Pépé le Cornet and Tagliacci were still around somew
here. The fact that they appeared to have vanished into thin air by no means indicated that they’d left the district. Nevertheless, with his dinner date just over the horizon, Pel decided he could safely take half an hour off to get his hair cut, and, since he had to see Polverari he appeared at the office in his second-best suit, to try himself out on everybody.
Nobody noticed him.
Only Darcy.
‘Patron!’ he said. ‘Turn round. Let me drink you in!’
Pel glared but he hadn’t the heart that morning to snap at anyone. His best suit was hanging in the wardrobe, pressed unwillingly by Madame Routy who had felt she was pressing herself out of a job. His blue shirt was ironed and his wine-red tie handy. He had even got around to imagining himself selling his house and buying a new one in Plombières. He could already see himself domesticated, walking a dog down the lane, digging the garden.
Didier had watched him leave, smiling his secret smile, as if he knew everything Pel was thinking and convinced, Pel was sure, that it was entirely due to him that everybody was in such a good mood. Perhaps, Pel thought, they might have him to stay with them. He could mow the lawn and water the flowers. It would undoubtedly be better than Aunt Routy and the television.
He took out a cigarette. If it caused him to drop dead, he decided, at least he would die a happy man with the prospect of a date with an attractive woman shining in his eyes.
Returning from the Palais de Justice after reporting to Polverari, he found Darcy waiting for him. He’d had another go at Archavanne who was now like a limp rag. His wife was telephoning every half hour and it was finally beginning to dawn on her that the thing the police were wanting to investigate was Archavanne himself.
‘It hangs together, Patron,’ Darcy said. ‘Nincic was Jugoslav in origin, and Jugoslavia – at least Serbia – used to be part of the old Austrian Empire. It gives meaning to the bone button. Nosjean’s trying to find out if this Nedergasse he found’s Austrian, too.’ He put a file on the desk. ‘I think, in fact, that our luck’s beginning to change. While I was on to Marseilles about Tagliacci I started a few enquiries of my own going. This Escaut, for instance – ’
‘Which Escaut?’
‘The one who found Miollis. His name’s not Escaut. It’s Bourges. Patrice Bourges. Marseilles has come up with his picture and record. He was going to marry the Bétheot girl but agreed to back off on receipt of twenty thousand francs. There’s a case in Hyères too, and they think another in Toulon. He’s been working the racket for some time.’
Pel nodded. ‘That was a bit of luck.’
‘Not luck, Patron,’ Darcy corrected. ‘Mark I eyeballs.’
What Darcy said about their luck changing suddenly seemed to be right because soon afterwards Nosjean turned up the information that there was a Nedergasse in the old town of Innsbrück. Nosjean had then got on to the library there and with the aid of Krauss, who spoke Alsatian German, had discovered there was a Number 17 and, that, according to the directory, the occupant of the address was one Alois Hofer, a bookseller.
‘Get me the police in Innsbrück,’ Pel said. ‘Then get Krauss here.’
Krauss sat smugly in Pel’s office as he waited for his call.
‘Wonder if I could get a job as a translator when I retire,’ he said.
Pel sniffed. ‘You’d never stay awake long enough,’ he growled.
The telephone rang. It was the Innsbrück police, and Pel went to the point at once.
‘Ja, ja.’ The man on the other end spoke French with a strong German accent that was barely understandable and the conversation was punctuated with interruptions from Krauss who was hanging on to the extension. ‘We have the problem here also. We feel we have even become a distribution centre. After all, we, too, are very central and very handy for Eastern Europe.’
‘Where does it come from?’
‘Hungary. The Black Sea ports. Before that, Turkey and even farther afield.’
‘Do you know a man called Alois Hofer, of Nedergasse, 17?’
‘Oh, ja! Most certainly. He is a small-time crook. He calls himself a bookseller. What he sells are valuable books. Stolen ones.’
‘Is he in the drugs game?’
There was a long silence as the Austrian at the other end of the telephone thought it out. ‘He could be,’ he said slowly. ‘He’s known to have a brother-in-law in Hungary. His sister married a Hungarian who came here after the Hungarian revolution. They came in hundreds and we all dug in our pockets to help them, you remember. Then they all decided to go back.’
‘I remember.’ Pel had been caught with that one, too. ‘Go on about the brother-in-law.’
‘Perhaps he has a brother-in-law, too,’ the Austrian said. ‘In Romania. It’s possible.’
It’s also possible, Pel thought, that that brother-in-law had contacts in Black Sea ports close to Turkey and the Middle East, and right back to the poppy fields.
‘Can you get hold of this Hofer?’ he asked. ‘We’re pursuing an enquiry here and his name has come up.’
‘No,’ the Austrian said. ‘Is impossible.’
Pel thought he had misheard him. ‘We want to interview him,’ he persisted. ‘Can you get hold of him for us?’
The Austrian laughed. ‘No,’ he said.
Pel glared at the telephone. ‘Why not?’
The Austrian laughed again. ‘Because he’s disappeared,’ he said. ‘With his wife and all his family.’
Dismissing Krauss, Pel stared at his blotter for a while, then he rang his bell. It was Nosjean who answered.
‘Bring in Mortier,’ Pel said. ‘Cortot’s pal. We’ve run up against a brick wall.’
When Nosjean arrived at Mortier’s flat, there was no answer to his knock but as he continued to thunder on the door, there was a blurred call from inside and, after scuffling sounds and what seemed ages of waiting, the door opened. Mortier’s hair was dishevelled and he looked half asleep.
‘You all right?’ Nosjean said.
Mortier struggled to keep his eyes open. ‘Yes, I’m all right.’
For once Mortier’s brisk manner was absent. He seemed dazed and, suddenly, Nosjean realised that he wasn’t the strong breezy young man he had thought he was. His chin was weak, and there was a looseness about his mouth. As Nosjean stepped inside the apartment, he sniffed.
‘Something wrong?’ Mortier asked.
‘No.’ Nosjean shook his head and peered again at Mortier. ‘Are you on drugs, too?’
Mortier managed an indignant expression. ‘No, I’m not.’
‘I think you’re a liar!’
‘What!’
‘Are you an addict?’
‘No.’
Nosjean turned away and headed for the bedroom. There was a syringe on the dressing table. Swinging round, he reached out, grabbed Mortier’s sleeve and pushed it up. The tell-tale pricks were there in the soft flesh on the inside of the elbow.
Nosjean stared at the student, disgusted with himself. He hadn’t thought of Mortier. His briskness had put him off. Either he was more able to control himself or – because he had plenty of money – he managed to get hold of more of the stuff than most. In his anger, he pushed Mortier from him so that he reeled and fell into a chair.
‘Salaud,’ he said quietly. ‘You’re on it as well.’
Mortier’s expression changed to one of defiance. ‘So what?’ he said. ‘I just have a bit of fun.’
‘Fun? You’re on the hard stuff. How did it start?’
Mortier gave a huge shrug. ‘Same way as everybody else, I suppose. At a party. Someone was trying marijuana. I started like that – over-the-counter stuff and LSD. Then mescalin and hashish.’
‘Then cocaine,’ Nosjean said. ‘And finally heroin. You’ve had it, mon vieux.’
‘Look, cop–’
‘Never mind “cop”,’ Nosjean snapped. ‘Where did you get it?’
‘Here and there.’
‘Did you get it from Nincic?’
‘Well – yes.�
��
‘Did you know he’d been murdered?’
Mortier’s face fell. ‘I didn’t know–’
‘Don’t you read the papers?’
‘They don’t interest me.’
‘Nothing interests you lot,’ Nosjean snapped, ‘except your own half-baked ideas. You should wake up. It might be you next. You told me you didn’t know Cortot was on it.’
‘Well, what if I did? Who cares?’
Nosjean stared at him for a moment, his eyes narrowed with dislike. ‘Take your shirt off,’ he said.
‘What? What for?’
‘Take it off!’ Nosjean yelled. ‘Or I’ll tear it off.’
Unwillingly, Mortier unbuttoned his shirt. Nosjean couldn’t wait and wrenched at it before he’d finished. A button shot off and rattled in a corner. On Mortier’s back were the same whiplash scars he’d seen on Cortot’s.
‘You did it?’ he said. ‘You tied him up.’
‘Look, I–’
‘You two bastards! You whipped each other! You scourged each other! Did he ever tie you up?’
‘Yes.’ Mortier’s eyes were shifty. ‘Occasionally.’
‘Why? Because it gave you pleasure? Because you’re twisted? Was he a homosexual?’
‘Look–’
‘Was he?’
‘Yes.’
‘You, too?’
‘We can’t help it if we’re born with something missing.’
It was all quite clear suddenly. The two of them had been in the habit of indulging in erotic practices, beating, whipping, scourging, tying each other up. And this time it had gone wrong. The knots wouldn’t come undone and Cortot had died.
‘I couldn’t unfasten the damned things!’ Mortier’s eyes were suddenly full of tears. ‘He was choking! He wanted to get free, and I couldn’t get him free! I panicked. The more I tried the more he struggled. Then I saw he was dead. I was frightened! I went out and locked the door! I knew my parents were in Paris so I went to see them. This was Friday. I came back on Sunday and rang the Police and told them I’d found him.’
Nosjean stared at him bitterly. ‘Get your shirt on,’ he said. ‘We have questions to ask you and this time you’d better answer them truthfully.’
