Pel and the Promised Land

by Mark Hebden

  ‘They’ll not trouble us again,’ Charlie said with satisfaction. ‘They’ve wiped off their propellers. They’ve probably even holed the boat.’

  The sudden silence as she pulled back the throttles was like the easing of strained nerves. Brochard swung her towards him, feeling her small and damp in his arms as they kissed each other in delighted triumph.

  ‘Where did you learn to handle a boat like that?’ Brochard asked.

  ‘On the lake. Jean-Jacques showed me.’

  ‘Jean-Jacques?’ He was caught by a dreadful suspicion. ‘When? At night?’

  ‘Occasionally.’

  For a second Brochard gaped at her, then he turned and peered across the lake. ‘Perhaps we ought to look for him,’ he said.

  She didn’t answer and, opening the throttles a little she swung the boat towards the middle of the lake in a wide arc. The water was purple-black and for a while they circled, cut off from the world by the misty rain that shrouded the surface of the lake. Charlie put her hands on the throttles and pulled them back. They were under the shadow of the hills now, the dark water poppling against the chine.

  ‘The boys will be all right,’ she said. ‘They know the lake like the back of their hands. I expect Jean-Jacques will row to Anthy. Maybe even to Nyon on the Swiss side.’

  ‘What about the police?’

  ‘They’ll be clever if they pick up Jean-Jacques.’

  ‘It’s a long row.’

  ‘Jean-Jacques is strong. And Gabriel will have found a car by now. They’ll be all right.’

  The lake was silent except for the soft murmur of the rain and the lapping of the water round the motionless boat. Ashore they could see lights grouped round the spot where they had left the wrecked launch, and more lights as late cars headed home. They heard the wavering note of a siren again.

  ‘The police,’ Brochard said. ‘They’ll be picking up our friends.’

  Charlie switched off the engines and turned off all the lights. ‘Let’s just sit around for a moment and think,’ she suggested.

  Brochard looked warily at her. ‘What are you up to?’

  ‘It’s a pity to waste such a dark night,’ she said. ‘I sometimes think Jean-Jacques and Gabriel are too rigid in their views. We’re not likely to be interrupted here. With the rain no one can see us. And there’s a cabin below and my clothes are wet. I ought to take them off.’

  Brochard stared thoughtfully at her as she began to unzip her dress.

  ‘I think,’ he said slowly, ‘that I ought to take you home and report to the police.’

  She shrugged, struggling to peel off the wet dress. ‘Someone’s bound to ask questions,’ she observed. ‘If we arrive too soon, they’ll probably pick up Jean-Jacques and Gabriel. It’s all the police want: to find them out on the lake at night without a good excuse.’

  Brochard studied her. He’d always respected her wishes when they’d got into clinches because of what he felt was that shining honesty all the Swiss had. It was powerful enough at times to start a guilt complex among foreigners along the lake. Now he wasn’t so sure. He wasn’t even certain she was as Swiss as she claimed. At the moment, she seemed more Italian than anything else – even probably pure Sicilian.

  ‘They smuggle watches, don’t they?’ he said.

  ‘Just the works. How did you guess?’

  It wasn’t difficult, Brochard thought. No wonder they’d never wanted him around. He wondered even if they’d found out he was a cop.

  ‘All right,’ he said reluctantly. ‘We’ll hang on a while.’

  ‘But I can’t stay in wet clothes, can I?’

  Brochard eyed her as she kicked aside the dress and straightened up in front of him, slim and cool-looking, all the wicks turned up.

  ‘What are we waiting for?’ she said.

  Thirteen

  The rain had stopped and dawn was visible when they reached Evian. Charlie gave Brochard a knowing look as they stepped ashore.

  ‘Jean-Jacques was always wrong about it being a fate worse than death,’ she said. ‘I told him so more than once.’

  Brochard started to head for the town and she gave him a startled look. ‘Where are you going?’ she asked.

  ‘I’ve got a job to do,’ Brochard said crisply.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘The police station. I’m a cop.’

  Her face fell. ‘Name of God! Are you going to report Jean-Jacques and Gabriel?’

  ‘No. But I’ve got things to report. They don’t concern you or your brothers but you’d better tell them to pack it in – and fast. We’re on to them. Not only us, but the cops in Evian and in Switzerland, too.’

  She stared at him, her face suddenly blank. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘For nothing.’

  Brochard shrugged. It had been nice while it lasted but there had clearly not been much future in it.

  She left him outside the police station without a word and he went inside to find the men called Lulu and Denot there already, together with the man who had been waiting on the boat. They all wore soaked clothes and were being studied by a gloomy Inspector Bassuet. Only Espagne was missing.

  ‘I know where you can find him,’ Brochard said. ‘But we’d better get moving. He won’t be hanging around long. But before we do that you’d better get in touch with the fire brigade. You’ve got a hillside near St-Avold saturated with petrol. The rain will have helped but it’s still possible that if anybody tries to light a cigarette there’ll be a hell of a bang.’

  With the Sapeurs Pompiers alerted, Brochard climbed into the police car. They found Espagne at home but obviously already on his way. He was burning papers in the kitchen stove, watched by his mother, a wicked-looking old witch who stood with her hands in a bowl of water doing the washing up.

  She gave a shriek like a factory siren as Brochard snatched up the bowl and dumped its contents in the stove. The stove gave a roar like a railway engine coming into a station and filled the kitchen with steam and black smuts, then Brochard was dragging out half-burned papers.

  He had no idea what was on them but he was cop enough to guess that if Espagne was trying to burn them they were worth saving.

  Caught by surprise, Espagne took a swing at him but stepped into the fist of one of the other cops who had followed Brochard inside. As he went down, Brochard swept cups and plates from the table with a crash and slapped the charred, steaming papers down and began to pat out the red from the glowing edges.

  Pel was staring at his blotter. For the life of him he couldn’t see anyone else guilty of the Baroness Raby-Labassat’s death but the Baron. If it had been the Baron who was dead, he might have suggested one of the children or the Baroness, because they would all have profited by his death. But the only one who could profit by the Baroness’ death, as far as he could see, would be the Baron. The Baroness had become a nuisance; she was badgering him to sell his home. And, though he didn’t appear particularly to want to live in it, he still regarded it as family property to be held in trust for his descendants, in particular his eldest son, Auguste.

  He was still worrying it like a terrier with a rat when Brochard’s telephone call arrived.

  ‘Patron,’ he announced. ‘We’ve picked up Gérard Espagne.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Espagne. The last of those types who were being briefed by Orega.’

  ‘You said “We’ve picked him up.” Who’s “we”?’

  ‘Me and the Evian cops.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Attempted arson. That offer he made to Corvo was just a little job on the side. He didn’t want to waste his talents. I happened to spot him trying to set fire to a hillside full of trees.’

  ‘Nobody happens to do anything. What were you doing there? Following him?’

  Brochard decided a small lie would do no harm. ‘Yes, patron,’ he said. ‘I was with that girl I told you about. I was using her as a cover.’

  ‘She’d be pleased to know that.’

  ‘She wasn�
�t very. He had petrol and kerosene. There were three others.’

  Pel was silent for a moment or two and Brochard’s voice came again, anxiously. ‘Patron, when we picked him up, he was trying to burn papers. Some of them seem to be bits of maps and some of them plans. One of them showed the area where I spotted him. It had been ringed in red. I think he was burning to a deliberate plan. It’s been pretty dry lately and I bet they were thinking they could blame it all on the drought.’

  ‘Has he talked?’

  ‘No, patron.’

  ‘Well, it’s Evian’s case. But I want a report. Got their names?’

  ‘All of them. You’ll be interested. Gérard Espagne; Lucien Feray; Denis Clos; Pierre-André Rougeaud – he’s just a hired local boatman. They’ve all got form.’

  ‘I’ll come down there.’

  Heading for Darcy’s office, Pel found his deputy at his desk.

  ‘Just got in,’ Darcy said. ‘I’ve been to see the Raby-Labassat children again. They’re not much to look at, patron, and they’re also not much to talk to. Alain thinks only of his share of what his father owns. Philomène is round the bend with worry. She’s even been to moneylenders. Only Auguste seems to have any pride and even that’s all wrong.’

  Pel explained what had happened and what Brochard had discovered. ‘I’m going down there now,’ he said. ‘I’ll get Debray to drive me. Keep an eye on things till I get back. It’ll take time.’

  Brochard met Pel with bandaged hands.

  ‘It’s not much, patron,’ he said. ‘I did it when I snatched the papers from the stove. The bandages are chiefly because my hands are covered with ointment. They’re not as bad as they look.’

  Pel nodded. Frowning. All the way down he had been remembering the scrap of paper Darcy had found at the Château de Faux-Villecerf. N74 to N6. N6 to Macon. Motorway to Bourg and then to Nantua. Road runs alongside Swiss border to lake. It seemed to indicate as clear as daylight that Bronwen Raby-Labassat had been to Evian, and he wondered why. Surely Espagne and Feray and Clos weren’t included among her boyfriends, too!

  Brochard spread the remains of the maps he had rescued on Bassuet’s desk and they bent over them. They appeared to be blown-up copies of Michelin maps tinted with water-colour to indicate land levels. On several of them buildings were indicated but major names had been painted out. With them were scraps of plans, half-burned and indicating very little.

  ‘Well, that one seems to indicate St-Avold,’ Bassuet said. ‘Right where the uproar last night occurred. The shapes and levels are right. They’d obviously got hopes of building there and they’ve got the right type of house. Look at the comment: “Split levels”. Just the thing for steep slopes. And this – “Tennis court. Restaurant. Bar.”’

  Bassuet and Brochard had been working hard and had identified most of the areas on the copied maps and produced the appropriate Michelin guides. The plans indicated nothing.

  Pel gestured at one of the maps which seemed to show land near Sémur. ‘This one could fit in here,’ he stabbed a finger, ‘–but there’s no name, so we’re guessing. This one–’ He pulled forward another of the charred sheets, ‘–this could be here again. In the Evian area. This blue surely represents water. But they haven’t shown the contours on this one so it might apply to somewhere in the Camargue or the Vendée for all we can tell.’

  He peered at the minute writing in the margin. ‘Complex of apartments and dwelling-houses,’ it said, then the rest was burned away. Later came the words ‘Restaurant and swimming pool’.

  ‘We’d better check up,’ he said. ‘Where might it be, do you think?’

  ‘St-Jean de Mont? Sète?’ Bassuet shrugged. ‘There’s no indication of location. Which seems to indicate someone was acting a bit shiftily.’

  He brought in the prisoners one by one for questioning. None of them was talking, which made Pel more than ever certain that someone with muscle was involved. If not Vlaxi, then some new villain up from Marseilles where they seemed to breed like rabbits.

  He listened to the questions and interposed a few of his own. But they got nowhere and there was little they could do about it because the case belonged to Evian, though Bassuet promised to send on all reports and depositions and keep Pel well in touch. They had to be satisfied with that.

  As they left, Brochard drew Pel on one side. ‘It’s all right, patron,’ he said quietly. ‘I had extra copies and colour photographs made of every one of those papers I found. And, as the arresting officer, I’m keeping them.’

  For Darcy, sitting in Pel’s chair, it had been a long day. There had been another hold-up, this time in the Rue de la Victoire, and a stabbing in the Rue de Rouen area. They had both needed Darcy on the spot because no one had been arrested or even seen. Fortunately, the hold-up merchant had been as dim as Jean-Pierre Orega, and the knife which had carved up a young prostitute carried fingerprints already known to the police.

  Though they’d been easy, they’d been time-consuming and, with all the other things that had cropped up, had made it a long day. Darcy closed the files on the desk with some satisfaction. He was just heading for the door when the telephone rang. He took the call standing up.

  ‘This is Raby-Labassat,’ it said. ‘Honoré Raby-Labassat. Can I come and see you?’

  ‘Why not see the boss, Chief Inspector Pel?’

  ‘Very well, tomorrow?’

  ‘Why not now? If it’s important, he’ll come out to see you when he gets back. Of if you prefer it, I’ll come myself.’

  The voice sounded agitated and uncertain suddenly. ‘No. It’s probably not that important. I think I’ll come down in the morning.’

  As the telephone clicked the experienced Darcy stared at it, frowning. There was something in the wind, he decided. It seemed, in fact, as if it might be a good idea to drive out to Faux-Villecerf there and then and discover what it was.

  Pel and Brochard arrived back late and only Claudie Darel was still around. Brochard’s hands were beginning to be painful by this time and he looked tired because he had had no sleep the night before. He was about to start sorting out the papers they had brought back when Pel pushed him gently aside.

  ‘Leave them,’ he said. ‘Put them on my desk and go home. We’ll get Lagé to look into where they might fit. He can check all applications that have been put in or granted, even plans that have simply been discussed. The planning office usually knows what might be coming up. You can help later. It’ll give your hands time to heal.’

  As Brochard began to head for the stairs, Pel sat in his chair and lit a cigarette. Just a last one, he thought, so he could then chew a fresh breath capsule and arrive in front of his wife smelling of roses instead of like an old exhaust pipe.

  He was beginning to unwind a little when the internal telephone went. It was Claudie. ‘I thought you’d gone, patron’, she said. ‘Aimedieu rang. He’s at Faux-Villecerf. With Inspector Darcy. There’s been another one.’

  ‘Another one what?’

  ‘Death. I’m just organising Doc Cham and Doc Minet. I’ve informed Forensic and all the others.’

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘The Baron, patron. He’s been found in the cellar.’

  Fourteen

  Auguste Raby-Labassat was already at the château. With him, sitting in a chair in the huge kitchen, her face blank as if she were shocked, was Marie-Hélène. Darcy was prowling about the room.

  ‘It’s hit her hard,’ Auguste said. ‘They’d just moved into the house from the cottage. I think my father fancied the house really. He just couldn’t stand being in the same place as Bronwen. He seems to have gone down to the cellar to fetch wine for tomorrow. Marie-Hélène says he was intending to celebrate with a little party for me and my wife. She persuaded him we should drink something a little better than his own wine.’ Auguste sighed. ‘It wasn’t really very good.’

  ‘Who found him?’

  ‘Marie-Hélène,’ Darcy said. ‘She’d been to the cottage. She couldn’t find him
when she returned and eventually she found him at the bottom of the steps. There were two broken bottles.’

  ‘It must have happened soon after he telephoned me,’ he went on. ‘I came straight out. Whoever did it probably even heard him talking to me, saw Marie-Hélène leave, and followed him to the cellar.’

  The cellar was a big place with stone-flagged floors and an arched ceiling, and a surprising number of bottles for a family that was supposed to be poor. But then Pel glanced at the labels and saw that most of them were the Baron’s own wine and that none of the rest was of particularly good quality.

  The body lay at the bottom of the stone steps that led down from the kitchen and a chalk line had already been drawn round it. About it was spilled wine, shattered glass and the necks of two bottles, both still corked. The police photographer was busy with his camera, photographing the body from every possible angle.

  ‘Did he fall?’ Pel murmured. ‘Or was he pushed?’

  Doc Minet looked up. ‘If he fell,’ he said, ‘as he appears to have done, he must have come down those steps at a hell of a speed. Which seems to indicate he might well have been pushed. He appears to have hit his head on the stone pillar there at the bottom.’

  Doc Cham looked up from his position beside the older man. ‘Except,’ he said, ‘that’s not what happened.’

  There was obviously more to come. ‘Go on,’ Pel said.

  ‘There’s blood on the pillar there,’ Cham pointed out. ‘But no sign of hair or tissue. The back of his head’s knocked in. But not, I suspect, by collision with a stone pillar. It looks to me as if he was hit by a heavy blunt instrument, the natural successor to the club, man’s first tool of aggression and the most common of murder weapons.’