by Mark Hebden
It had been found by the man emptying the cart, who had decided it was just what he was wanting for use at home. He had helped himself to it and was reluctant to give it up. It revealed nothing except traces of blood on the head which matched the Baron’s. It had been well wiped and there were no fingerprints.
‘People know what to do these days,’ Pel said gloomily. ‘They get their tips twice nightly from television whodunits. There’s something about all this that smells less of inheritance than of speculation.’
‘Would people murder for that?’ Darcy asked.
‘They seem to be prepared to set places on fire. We have four people in custody. Then there are those two hundred bags of cement Jaunay ordered. That’s a lot of cement to reorganise a stables into a gymnasium. Could Jaunay have been accepting bribes? Suppose Gilliam offered more than that three thousand francs to Bronwen. Suppose he was in deeper than he said. Suppose things had gone wrong and he stood to lose a lot of money. He has a temper. That we know because we saw his wife with a black eye.’
When they talked to Jaunay he looked uncomfortable.
‘Well, there was a plan,’ he admitted.
‘And it fell through,’ Pel said. ‘Why?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Were any sweeteners offered? There must have been people who were willing to push this thing through.’
‘I suppose there were.’
‘They accepted bribes?’
‘I expect so.’
‘Who were they?’
‘I don’t know. The Baroness didn’t tell me anything.’
‘Could it have been you who offered them?’
Jaunay looked alarmed. ‘I haven’t got that sort of money.’
‘But you were prepared to take advantage of them?’
‘I’m a builder. I need to build – and the bigger the project and the longer it lasts, the better it is for me and my people.’
It seemed a good idea to look once more at the papers Brochard had rescued from the Espagne kitchen stove. Some of them clearly didn’t concern Evian but someone was obviously eager to do some building. It seemed important to identify the locations.
They took over the lecture room at the Hôtel de Police and spread the papers on tables to study them. In addition, there was a large map of Burgundy and its neighbouring areas and the appropriate Michelin maps. Claudie, who’d been watching everything, was running the show.
They started with a check on all the places where recent developments had been suggested. Concentrating on country areas, they found there were more than they had expected.
‘There are agencies all over England,’ Claudie said. ‘They deal in anything from châteaux to small businesses. They’re even building high-rise apartment blocks and giving them English names like “Oxford” and “Pall Mall”. They’re everywhere. Le Touquet. Boulogne. La Baule. Brittany. Anywhere there’s a bit of water.’
‘They’re surely for the rich,’ the Chief said.
‘No,’ Claudie insisted. ‘There’s something for everybody. It’s an invasion as big as D-Day. Northern France welcomes them. They’ve been going through a bad patch up there so anything that brings employment is welcomed. When someone applies to buy land for planning the first question they’re asked is “How many local people will be employed?” If it’s more than five they get permission straight away.’
‘I think we have to find who’s interested in these places marked on Brochard’s map,’ the Chief said. ‘Council records will show if there have been applications.’
‘I think we’d do better to check places where land’s been destroyed,’ Pel advised. ‘And find who built on them.’ He gestured at Brochard’s sheets. ‘There are plenty to go on. There’s one here for a complete holiday village. A hotel with split-level dwellings and apartments. And water. That’s surely water indicated in blue.’
As Pel returned to his office Lagé appeared. Slow as he was, he was very thorough and when he got his teeth into something he never let go. He’d been taken off his fraud enquiry and had been examining records from the level of local mairies up to the level of the Conseil Général to find where the holiday village was planned.
‘Patron,’ he said, ‘that blue on the drawing Brochard found: it has to be a lake or something. And these split-level buildings seemed to indicate lakes with steep sides. But France’s full of lakes. There’s the Lac de Serre-Ponçon, the Lac d’Allos, the Lac de la Forêt d’Orient, the Lac de St Cassien, the Lac de Ste-Croix, the Lac des Carces—’
‘Never mind how many,’ Pel said irritably. ‘What about lakes in this area?’
‘There’s really only the Lac de la Liez and the Reservoir de la Mouche near Langres. South, there are more. Near Pontarlier there’s the Lac de St-Point and the Lac de Joux. Near Annécy there’s the Lac d’Annécy, and there are one or two south of Bourg-en-Bresse, together with a whole lot of smaller ones further west. All big enough to make a pleasant outlook for someone wanting to develop an estate on the shore. But nothing round here.’
Pel said nothing and Lagé went on. ‘I’ve also been checking all the areas where woods were burned down. I came across five more dubious ones. Planning permission was applied for in three cases. For development. One was granted because it’s now five years since the fire. In the case of one that was not granted, the speculators – a Paris outfit – said they’d apply again. The other three – all recent – have not been applied for, but I was told applications might well arrive eventually. Rumours have been floating about. Judging by what I could find out, the application that was granted, at Larin-et-Musset, and the one that wasn’t, at Mont Gathier, both came from the same source, but the names of the companies – Financements Générals Bourgignons and Commandites de Dijon – were different. Both are Anglo-French.’
Sixteen
It seemed to be time to contact Superintendent Goschen at Scotland Yard again.
Pel lit a cigarette and did a lot of throat clearing. Then he asked Claudie for coffee and, to give himself courage before he picked up the telephone, had a brandy with it. In the end it turned out to be easier than he had expected. He and Goschen seemed to be developing a rapport that was of advantage to both of them.
‘We’ve checked on all places recently developed by speculators,’ Pel pointed out. ‘We found the builders were honest; though, of course, they were all expecting large profits. But the money behind them seems to be coming from Anglo-French consortiums who’re developing properties in France. Have you anybody that fits?’
‘There’s our friend, the Dutchman I mentioned,’ Goschen said. ‘Cornelius. We’ve found he’s in contact with a man over here.’
‘Your English speculator?’
‘Welsh, actually. Name of David Lloyd Jones. And there’s another – a Frenchman.’
‘Got any names?’
‘No. None.’
‘What about Carmen Vlaxi? Does he ring a bell?’
‘Not with this one. This seems to be a small group.’
Pel sat back, scowling. They had absolutely no proof, but Carmen Vlaxi was the only man he could think of. Despite the mutual bloody-mindedness of ‘interview and questioning’, Orega still hadn’t talked. He had finally admitted that the security van had been part of the hold-up but insisted the idea was his and his alone. Still nobody believed him. But though his raid had achieved nothing, it had brought up the name of the fifth man, Gérard, and it was he who had provided a link with Vlaxi.
Vlaxi’s headquarters were in Paris and Pel hated Paris. Though to others it was known as the City of Light, the City of Kings and Emperors, to Pel it was just crowded.
Contacting the Quai des Orfèvres, the Paris police headquarters, he learned that Vlaxi was, in fact, spending a weekend at his country estate at St-Symphorien-le-Grand near by.
‘Manoir de Ste-Euphrasie,’ Darcy said immediately. ‘I looked it up a long time ago.’
‘In the yellow pages?’ Pal asked sarcastically. ‘Under “Gangster”? I th
ink we ought to pay him a call.’
The house was big, not big enough to be called a château but roomy and very rustic, surrounded by gardens and trees and not overlooked, Pel noticed, from any direction. It was ideal for a man of Vlaxi’s interests and habits.
Vlaxi himself was a small man with large horn-rimmed spectacles and an innocent intellectual expression. He looked, in fact, like a professor of physics. He was a handsome little devil, too, with a fine nose, grey eyes and brown hair immaculately cut, and the figure of a torero. His clothes made Pel feel like a third-rate plumber called in to attend to the drains. He was surrounded by a group of men he claimed were his advisers and accountants, there for a business meeting, but they all looked remarkably like bouncers from a night club. There was also a girl. There was always a girl. Like all the others, this one looked as though she had strayed off a film set. Where, Pel wondered, did they find them? And why did girls of such breathtaking beauty, who could have picked up a financier without changing gear, go for a man with a background like Vlaxi’s?
‘Chief Inspector Pel,’ Vlaxi said, holding out his hand. ‘We’ve never met but I’ve heard of you.’
Pel ignored the proffered hand. It didn’t seem to perturb Vlaxi. ‘What can I do for you?’ he asked.
‘Probably nothing,’ Pel said coldly. ‘I’m interested in a Baroness Raby-Labassat.’
‘The woman who was found at Vieilles Etuves. Of course. I read about it in the paper.’
‘Did you know her?’
Vlaxi laughed. ‘Me? I’m just a minor figure engaged in finance. Why would I know a baroness?’
‘You might be interested in this one. She needed money, and she claimed to have found some. Did she come to you?’
Vlaxi spread his hands. ‘Why should she come to me? I’d never heard of her until I read of her in Le Bien Public.’
‘Your name’s been mentioned.’
‘Who by?’
By Cousin Roger, to be exact, Pel thought. But he could hardly say so. Cousin Roger’s view wasn’t evidence and mentioning his name might well get him rubbed out. He gestured. ‘The name cropped up.’
Vlaxi shrugged. ‘What was she wanting money for? I’m not against going into things if they’re profitable but I’m not in the market to make small loans. I leave that to the banks.’
‘It was to construct a gymnasium from a stable block.’
Vlaxi laughed again. ‘I play golf,’ he said. ‘At St-Emilien. I don’t see myself leaping round a gymnasium dressed in tights. Was it a big gymnasium?’
‘Big enough. What do you put your money into?’
‘Things that make profits.’
‘Ever gone in for building projects?’
Vlaxi was still smiling. ‘They take too long to mature.’
‘Not all of them.’
The smile didn’t slip. ‘You mean there’s money to be made that I don’t know about?’
They were only fencing and Vlaxi was good at it.
Pel glanced about him. ‘Nice place you have here. Cost a lot, did it?’
Vlaxi smiled. ‘My places always cost a lot. They have to be big. I have a lot of staff.’ Hired gunmen, Pel decided. Bodyguards. Shifty accountants who could fiddle balance sheets. Crooked lawyers who could find ways round the law.
‘What are you into?’
‘Into?’
‘What are you running? Why are you here? What are you doing?’
‘I bought some vineyards round here. A chain of supermarkets. A group of garages.’
Maurice Tagliatti’s old properties, without a doubt, Pel decided. He even had a feeling that he’d seen one of the men standing behind Vlaxi once standing behind Tagliatti.
‘Is that why you came to see me?’ Vlaxi asked. ‘To enquire what my business is here?’
‘No,’ Pel said. ‘Just to make your acquaintance. I’m always interested in newcomers to the district.’
Vlaxi beamed. ‘Then I’m delighted to meet you, Chief Inspector. Can I offer you anything? A drink, perhaps?’
A girl? A motor car? A bribe?
‘No, thanks,’ Pel said. ‘In fact, I’ll be off. I was just passing and thought I’d call.’
It was a warm day so they stopped at the bar in the village for a beer.
The bar was set back from the road and was fronted by a dusty car-park where a group of old men were tossing boules. They were watched by an old woman, two small girls and a dog. There was a whiff of cooking hanging in the air, then someone lit a Gauloise. To Pel it smelled like Heaven and he drew it in as though it were the breath of life.
Darcy broke in on his thoughts. ‘Not much there, patron,’ he said, gesturing towards the house they had just left.
‘I didn’t expect to find much,’ Pel admitted. ‘I just wanted to meet him, to know what he looked like. You can bet your last franc that from now on when anything unlawful happens around here he’ll be involved in it.’
They didn’t seem to have picked anything up but when they arrived back at the Hôtel de Police, Claudie Darel followed them into Pel’s office.
‘That farm at Tar-le-Petit, patron,’ she said. ‘The one the Chief mentioned. The one where the farmer died and it was left vacant and ended up vandalised. I’ve just heard another planning application’s been put in. I thought you’d like to know.’
‘What’s it for this time?’
‘First they put in for a night club and bar but they’ve changed it to a motel because it’s close to the N6. Large-scale thing. Swimming pool. Two restaurants. They claim it’s just what the area needs.’
‘Where did you get this?’
‘At the offices of the Conseil Général at the Palais des Ducs, patron. It was spotted at the Préfecture. It seems to have got past the Mairie at Tar and the office of the SousPréfecture without comment.’
‘I bet somebody’s palms were greased. Who put it in?’
‘Firm called Paillat, Hégrion and Michel, of Lyons. I’ve talked to them. They say they were instructed by a finance firm called Capitalisation Français. They claim they’re interested only because the land’s there and available and they could make money by financing a project such as this.’
‘Who are Capitalisation Français?’
‘Paris firm. Dozens of stockholders. I got hold of a list. No names we know.’
‘I bet there are a few we’d like to know. Whose is the actual name on the application?’
‘An architect from Lyons.’
‘Not Charrieri?’
‘Definitely not Charrieri, patron. It’s another Michel. Georges-Charles Michel. He’s brother to Michel, the lawyer at Paillat, Hégrion and Michel.’
‘Very interesting.’
‘There’s also a Gilbert Tussot involved. He’s an accountant at St-Frond. He once did work for Maurice Tagliatti. There seems to be a whiff of dead fish about all this. He’s probably now working for Carmen Vlaxi.’
Pel nodded. ‘What’s the drill when somebody wants to build something?’ he asked.
‘You put in plans and an application.’ Darcy said. ‘They go before the Maire and the local committee. If they approve, the papers are passed on to the Sous-Préfecture. If the Sous-Préfecture approves, they go to the Préfecture and then the Conseil Général.’
‘So if it’s controversial there are places where it can fall by the wayside?’
‘Unless sweeteners are offered. It’s not unknown.’
‘What happens next?’
Darcy shrugged. ‘When it reaches the Conseil Général it goes through with dozens of other applications. Developments. Garages. Service stations. Alterations. Swimming pools. Additions to houses. But at that level they can’t possibly know the districts so, if it has local approval, there’s not much of a problem. We go for new property in a big way in France. The Government’s all for it and you can get low-cost loans and tax advantages. Except for foreigners, old houses are out.’
It was suddenly all very interesting and growing more so every day, and tha
t evening it took another step forward when Superintendent Goschen telephoned from London. ‘I’ve got something that might be of interest to you.’
‘Inform me.’
‘Lloyd Jones, our half of the consortium, is, as his name suggests, Welsh. So, as it happens, in spite of his name, is Cornelius. He goes in for property abroad. A lot in Holland. That’s why we thought he was Dutch. They seemed to be involved in a swindle which, if not international, was at least cross-border.
‘He comes from Cardiff,’ Goschen went on. ‘And a few years ago he got into a little trouble while working for a publicity company called Bolt Marketing. Helped himself to funds and did a little time. Any interest to you?’
‘Yes,’ Pel said. Bolt Marketing, he remembered, had been the company which had employed Bronwen Davis in the days when she met Raby-Labassat. ‘A great deal.’
‘There’s something else. Lloyd Jones was expecting to leave for France on the fourteenth of September. Wasn’t that around the time your Baroness disappeared?’
‘Yes, it was. Did he leave?’
‘No. He was telephoned at the last minute not to.’
‘Who by?’
‘We don’t know. He’s in the States at the moment and is likely to be there for a month or two. We’re told it’s some development in Florida. American-British company. Our information came from his secretary. I think he’s lying low.’
‘Who telephoned him?’
‘She didn’t know. A man, she said. She didn’t recognise the voice. He telephoned to tell Lloyd Jones it was all off.’
‘What was all off?’
‘She didn’t know. But the message was that developments that had been planned might have to be altered. Lloyd Jones left the next day for the States.’
Well, it didn’t indicate much but it seemed to suggest once more, as Pel had begun to suspect, that the burning of suitable sites and the murders were somehow connected. It was too much of a coincidence that the Baroness’ death had occurred on or around the day when Lloyd Jones had been warned not to appear in France.