Pel and the Party Spirit

by Mark Hebden

  ‘I feel a bit like it.’ Darcy shrugged. ‘That money Goillac wants, Patron – the coins Fouché was after: they’re not going to get it.’

  ‘Oh?’

  Darcy grinned. ‘Unfortunately, neither are we.’ Pel sat back. Knowing Darcy, he was certain something important was on its way. ‘Inform me,’ he said.

  ‘I told you I contacted the Los Angeles police department. They found where Lupin went to.’

  Pel sat up. His guess hadn’t been wrong. ‘They did?’

  ‘I think we’ve got the whole story now, Patron. I’ve been in touch with his son. He was trying to contact me when I came in.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘By telephone.’

  ‘What!’ Pel jerked upright. ‘That’ll take some explaining to the Chief. He doesn’t like long-distance calls to foreign parts.’

  ‘He won’t worry about this one. Lupin’s son’s wealthy. He paid for it. He heard about my enquiry and decided to get in touch. It was six o’clock in the morning where he is. He got up specially. It’s cleared up the whole story.’

  ‘You’d better pass it on.’

  ‘It’s a long one. I’d better start at the beginning.’

  ‘I can think of no better place.’

  Darcy pulled a chair forward. ‘Caillas – or perhaps I’d better call him Luzeau – he and his boys stole those coins, Patron. Agents for the generals raised them but they weren’t careful enough and it leaked out. Luzeau heard about them. That we know. But Luzeau was as clumsy as the generals and he and his boys left clues all over the place. Goillac police were on to them pretty smartly, and when they learned they’d been named as the thieves they decided they’d better get rid of the swag. There’d been no violence at the heist and I expect they thought the people who’d raised the coins, being dissidents and against the government, could hardly raise a fuss. In fact, nobody could make much of a charge stick. I reckon they thought that at the most they might be sent to prison for conspiracy and that would be all, and that when they came out the coins would still be there for them to pick up. This is pure speculation, of course, but I bet I’m right.’

  ‘You’re not doing badly so far.’

  Darcy grinned. ‘The Cat House, with the tower, was available at the time,’ he went on. ‘So they bought it. On a loan. Low deposit. Not much expenditure and not much expense. They called on Fouché, whom I expect one of them knew from prison, to put the stuff in the tower and seal it up for them.’

  Darcy lit a cigarette and passed the packet. ‘But soon afterwards,’ he went on, ‘there was an alarm. In the papers. I found it in Le Bien Public. Henriot told me of it. He owes us a few favours and he looked it up for me. The story was about the stolen coins being hidden at Puyceldome, but whoever wrote it got it wrong. It was a different collection and they weren’t stolen, just mislaid.’

  Darcy sat back. ‘But Luzeau and his boys panicked,’ he went on. ‘They decided to remove the coins, so they called on Fouché again to get them out. Because he was strong and it had to be done quickly. Unfortunately for them, he had a heart attack and instead of getting the loot out, he fell inside on top of it. And while it was easy enough to deposit the box of coins inside, it was a different matter to get it out, because first they had to remove a heavy man. In addition, it was the period when they were holding the celebrations for the 700th anniversary of the founding of Puyceldome. Son et lumière. Same as now only more so. Dancing in the streets. Singing. Bands.

  ‘The Prime Minister came with a descendant of the Ducs of Burgundy. Le Bernard’s got a picture of it. You can see the Cat Tower in it – even a bit of scaffolding. Fouchés scaffolding, I reckon. It’s surrounded by people. They wouldn’t be able to do anything suspicious because of all the people around. I expect the local cops were there in full force, too. So, when Fouché died inside the tower they just had to leave him. The celebrations went on for a week and they’d have had to use something pretty clever to get at the coins because there’s barely enough room in the tower for one man, let alone a second trying to get Fouché out. And they couldn’t do it after dark because the place wasn’t dark. Not ever. It was illuminated with floodlights and there was all-night dancing. They decided it was impossible and had to leave him. But they began to worry about the smell and perhaps people were growing curious about what they were up to. So they decided they’d better put things aside for a while until the fuss had died down. They sealed the tower and intended to return later. But they didn’t and that’s why the coins were never found.’

  ‘But they were!’ Pel said. ‘They aren’t there now!’

  ‘No,’ Darcy agreed. ‘But Luzeau’s lot didn’t get them. They never returned because they were knocked off in Marseilles. The police thought it must have been some gang vendetta and still do, but I reckon it was someone connected with the conspirators who raised the coins – the guys who were against de Gaulle over Algeria.’

  ‘I think’, Pel said slowly, ‘that after thirty years, we can safely forget them.’

  ‘Yes. Anyway, Fouché had told his wife he was on a tricky job. That we know. But he didn’t tell her what it was. He came home very pleased and she assumed everything had gone well. Then a few days later he was called out. He told his wife it was urgent and that something had gone wrong. He left and never came back. She worked out the date exactly because it was her daughter’s birthday about that time and she thought he ought to have been there. That was the day the newspapers said the police were on the track of the coins. But when I checked I found it wasn’t the coins we’re interested in. It was another set that had only been left temporarily in Puyceldome and were thought to have been stolen.’

  Darcy shifted the papers in front of him. ‘It was enough, though,’ he said, ‘to send Luzeau and his friends bolting for safety. Unfortunately, they made the mistake of going back to Marseilles and Luzeau and Pulot were shot. Pirioux was killed in a car crash. Sammonix went to America where he died of cancer. That meant there was no one left who knew about the tower. Until later.’

  ‘Later?’

  ‘Lupin.’

  ‘Lupin?’

  ‘All this is speculation, as I say, Patron, but it’s borne out by what I got from Los Angeles. Lupin got into the tower from the top – that again we know – but then he told Poulex he’d have to tackle the job from the bottom. So he bricked up the hole he’d made at the top and went away. Two or three days later he returned and opened the tower at the bottom and said he’d do what he could. He worked all through the night, you’ll remember. Kept Poulex awake. Next day he said it couldn’t be done and bricked up that hole, too. Then he disappeared. Poulex never saw him again. All this is fact.’

  ‘And it was Lupin who took away the coins?’

  ‘He must have, Patron. He told Poulex the tower was going to collapse, remember. But he had another go in spite of his warning, trying from the bottom. I think when he got in from the top he found the coins, grabbed one or two that he could reach and went off and had them valued. That was the day or two when he disappeared. Then he came back, all bright and smiling, and told Poulex he’d have one last go – from the bottom.’

  Darcy grinned. ‘He would, wouldn’t he? He’d learned that the coins were valuable and there were a lot of them. So he made a hole and wriggled through. He’d got guts, because the tower might well have come down on top of him. But he was only a little guy so he didn’t have to make a big hole, and I expect he made sure it wasn’t big enough for Poulex to get inside. When he came out he said he felt ill.’

  ‘Well, he would be, wouldn’t he, fishing about under a corpse?’

  ‘I don’t think for a minute he was ill, Patron. By that time Fouché wasn’t much better than a mummy.’

  ‘Did the Los Angeles police provide all this?’

  ‘No. But they did contact his son who told them that about that time his father went to Switzerland. He thinks he opened an account there. He often wondered where he got the money because Swiss accounts are big-tim
e and Lupin was only a bricklayer.’

  ‘And Swiss accounts are also usually dirty money that people don’t want anybody to know about.’

  ‘Exactly. Then suddenly the family all took off for America. The son was only young but he’s got a good memory. I reckon Lupin scooped the box that contained the coins from under Fouchés body – leaving behind one he missed, which we found. He hid the box in his car or van or whatever he had, and bricked up the tower again without telling Poulex what he’d found. He disappeared back to Goillac, arranged to sell the coins, and having done so, bolted to America before he could be stopped.’

  ‘What happened to him?’

  Darcy’s grin came again. ‘He didn’t make his fortune there as we heard,’ he said. ‘He took it with him.’

  Pel sat back in his chair – extra comfortable for chief inspectors and above, to go with the carpet, and the picture on the wall. ‘Have you proof?’

  ‘Yes. Now: wherever Lupin obtained his money, he certainly invested it wisely and his family are rich.’

  ‘Go on. And Lupin? Have the Los Angeles police spoken to him?’

  ‘No. Lupin’s dead. He died ten years ago. His wife soon after. That’s why I talked to the son. He said they were living happily but very ordinarily at Goillac when suddenly, overnight, it seemed to him – he was only a boy at the time – they just packed up and went. He remembers there was no trouble about visas, so you can bet Father Lupin already had enough money in the bank to enable him to do without a work permit. The Americans are pretty fussy about that sort of thing. They just upped and went and when they got there they took an apartment. Soon afterwards they moved to a bigger one and started living in style. Unfortunately, it did for Lupin. He took to the booze.’

  ‘Did the son ever find out where his father’s money came from?’

  ‘No. But he often asked. All he got for a reply was that it came from investments. He had a feeling though, that his father had won the national lottery or something and didn’t like to admit it, preferring to let people think he’d made it by the sweat of his brow or by his own acuity as an investor. There are, in fact, two children, both now married to Americans and very well off, thank you. The son handles real estate. The daughter ended up as personal assistant to a lawyer whom she later married. They both have children but neither has the foggiest idea where Daddy obtained his money.’

  Darcy gave a wry smile. ‘We’ll never get the money back now, Patron. It’s thirty years ago and it was raised by a group of dissident generals to overthrow the government, so none of them is in a position to worry about it. The gangsters who stole it are all dead. So is the bricklayer who tried to get it from the tower for them – and the bricklayer who finally managed it. It seems his family’s enjoying it and it’s been put to better use than if the generals had had it. So we might as well forget it. At least it’s sorted out and we can now concentrate on Sybille Junot.’

  Nineteen

  When Aimedieu appeared at her door, Mrs Briddon was still looking like death warmed up, her face pale enough to be almost green, her nose pink, her eyes hollow. She studied Aimedieu sadly as he entered.

  ‘I thought it was finished,’ she said.

  Aimedieu gave her a chaste kiss on the forehead, standing well back so she couldn’t clutch him. ‘It is,’ he said.

  She turned away. There was a cup of black coffee on the table. ‘You see what you’ve done to me,’ she accused.

  He tried to look anguished and guilty. ‘You’ll feel better tonight,’ he said. ‘Once you’ve had your first drink, it’ll be all right.’

  ‘I shan’t feel all right inside,’ she retorted. ‘It won’t be the same. In fact, I think I’ll leave this place. I think I’ll sell. I don’t suppose my husband will argue. He never agreed with buying it, anyway.’ She paused, took a sip of coffee, and looked reproachfully at Aimedieu. ‘Anyway,’ she said, ‘why have you come back?’

  Aimedieu gestured. ‘I thought I’d like a photograph,’ he said.

  ‘Of me?’

  ‘Just to remember you.’

  She looked pleased and even seemed to recover a little. There was a portrait of her standing on a table by the window and she picked it up. It was a studio portrait and flattered her. She obviously thought it was a good one.

  ‘You’d better have this,’ she said.

  ‘No.’ Aimedieu shook his head. ‘I’d prefer a less formal one. The one I took of you last night at the end of the show, remember.’

  She gave him a defeated look. ‘I haven’t even looked at them yet,’ she admitted. ‘I wasn’t sure I’d be able to see them.’

  She rummaged in her handbag and produced the envelope Aimedieu had brought her. Taking out the photographs, she spread them on the table and studied them.

  ‘They’re not bad,’ Aimedieu said.

  ‘That’s the camera,’ she said. ‘Not me. I was never any good at working out lighting and distance and all the other rubbish so I bought a camera that does it all for you.’

  Aimedieu picked up one of the photographs – the one he had taken outside the bar. It showed her beaming at him, bright in the light of the flash with the background dark and only one or two other people in the picture clearly illumined.

  ‘It’s not very good,’ she said doubtfully. ‘The wind’s blowing my hair.’

  ‘It’s how I remember you,’ Aimedieu said. ‘It’s how I’ll always remember you.’ It sounded tragic and romantic and she gave him a damp look.

  ‘It needn’t happen,’ she said hopefully.

  ‘It has to,’ Aimedieu said. He had no intention of being involved in some sort of court action against George Briddon over her.

  She picked up the other pictures. ‘There are one or two good ones of you,’ she said.

  There should be, Aimedieu decided. She’d taken thirty-five of them and he’d been on almost every one.

  As he left, he passed the newsagent’s and stationer’s under the arcades. Didier was in there talking to Bernard Buffel Bis’ sister. He seemed to be considering buying a notebook.

  ‘You seem to get through a lot of them,’ she was saying. ‘Oh, I don’t want to buy one,’ Didier said. ‘I just wanted to look at a few. Have you sold many of them?’

  ‘I haven’t,’ she said. ‘Aunt Bernadine might have. I don’t know.’

  As Didier emerged, he saw Aimedieu. He stood looking at him for a while, deep in thought, then he started to life. ‘Can I have a word with you?’ he asked.

  Aimedieu eyed the boy, wondering what he had in mind. ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘Let’s have a drink.’

  As they sat down, Didier was nervous. ‘I think I’ve found a clue,’ he said.

  ‘Oh?’ Aimedieu regarded him with amusement. ‘What about?’

  Didier told him. Aimedieu listened carefully then he sat back. ‘Told the Old Man?’ he asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘You should. It’s your job.’

  ‘My job lately’s being a clerk.’

  Aimedieu leaned forward, his elbows on the table. ‘Your job’s learning to be a good cop,’ he said. ‘And the Old Man, funny as he is, is the best man there is to learn from.’

  Didier looked at him. ‘Think he’ll want to know?’

  Aimedieu grinned. ‘Well, I’ll probably get my backside kicked for interfering,’ he said. ‘But I’d rather he kicked it for being too helpful than not helpful enough. Why don’t we both go and see him?’

  That night Pel’s wife telephoned to say she was returning home. Madame Routy almost swooned with pleasure, and Pel appeared at the Hôtel de Police the following morning glowing with good humour.

  About the time he reached the Hôtel de Police, Didier was calling in at the Lab. Leguyader greeted him unenthusiastically, gave him the plastic envelope containing the ransom note and a file containing two copies of his report on it.

  ‘Inform your Chief’, he said, ‘that, thanks to his insistence on an immediate report, I was late picking up my family and taking them to the t
heatre last night.’

  Didier couldn’t imagine Leguyader at the theatre. He felt sure he would interrupt the play from time to time to put the players right on matters concerning acting, diction, the meaning of words, and the career of the author, all culled from Encyclopaedia Larousse the night before.

  Leguyader gestured at the plastic envelope. ‘The letters were cut from Le Bien Public,’ he said. ‘Local rag. Same paper. Same type. At least it shows somebody reads it. Can’t think why. Stuck on with Gu, which is a product from Korea containing plastic. Very effective. I use it myself. There were no fingerprints. The sheet was torn from a notebook which was doubtless bought at the Nouvelles Galeries. Cheap. Easily obtained. Shops sell dozens a day – especially now, when the schools are due to reopen and the pupils are gathering their books, paper and pencils. Assure your Chief that it contains nothing that could possibly be of any use to him.’

  ‘What about the footprint?’ Didier asked. ‘Doesn’t that tell us anything?’

  ‘Only that somebody put his large foot on it. Large shoe. Impossible to tell exactly what size. In fact, it was a sneaker. The sort of thing the young are wearing all the time these days, so it will be impossible to identify. Scruffy things. In my day it was black shoes, smart shirt, tie and hat. Take it to Chief Inspector Pel, give him my compliments and tell him I hope it chokes him.’

  When Didier reached the office, Darcy was frowning at a list of names which had finally arrived from the Lycée at Vonnas. It wasn’t complete and only included the names of those pupils who had attended the Lycée for the first three years of the period they wanted checking. There seemed to be hundreds and they were all written out in longhand.

  ‘No wonder they took so long,’ Darcy was complaining. ‘All common or garden names and, at first glance, there doesn’t seem to be anything significant about any of them.’

  As Didier laid Leguyader’s report on his desk, Pel bent to examine it. Didier coughed. Pel bent closer. Didier coughed again.

  ‘Something stuck in your gullet, mon brave?’ Pel asked. ‘A bone, perhaps? It can happen. Didn’t they have to rush the Queen Mother of England to hospital a year or so ago? Fish bone in her throat. Bolting her food, I suppose.’