Pel and the Promised Land

by Mark Hebden

  ‘Daniel,’ Pel said, ‘let’s go and see Charrieri again.’

  Seventeen

  The sun in Lyons was hot and reflected from the windows of Charrieri’s office as if they were mirrors. Outside, lordly among the meaner vehicles of his staff scattered about the huge car-park, Charrieri’s Mercedes stood, like a thoroughbred among common or garden creatures, the sun picking up the metallic silver of the paint. Inside, the stairs were still barred and the lift still out of order, the little shops empty.

  Claude Dumanoir, the draughtsman, rose from his drawing board as they entered. ‘He won’t be long,’ he said. ‘He’s just getting rid of a client. People get nervous when they see the cost of what they’re intending to do. Or else it goes to their head and they start wanting additions they later discover they can’t afford.’

  ‘What’s your job?’ Darcy asked. ‘Exactly.’

  Dumanoir grinned again. ‘I’m the one who makes His Highness’s ideas look pretty and alters all the plans. The great man does the originals. Alterations are done by serfs. I also make the coffee and run errands. But not for much longer. I’ve got a job on Le Bien Public.’

  ‘Drawing faces?’

  ‘Caricatures. That sort of thing. You never know. I might decide not to be a second Renoir and become a Caran d’Ache instead.’ Dumanoir had been scribbling in a sketch pad as he talked and he now pushed it forward. ‘That’s what I want to do.’

  Darcy found himself looking at a quick sketch of Pel. It was easily recognisable.

  ‘Mind if I look?’ Darcy asked, picking up the pad.

  ‘Help yourself. If you want your wife, your children, your best girl produced as a portrait, remember me.’

  Darcy turned the leaves of the sketch pad over idly. Then he stopped. In front of him was a sharp pencil portrait of Auguste Raby-Labassat.

  ‘That’s Auguste Raby-Labassat,’ he said.

  ‘Is it? I wouldn’t know. I just draw them. I don’t always know the names.’

  ‘Did he come here?’ Pel asked.

  ‘If he’s in there, he must have done. I don’t go out of the office. I practise on people when they come in. While they’re waiting. Sitting where you’re sitting. The light’s very good there.’ Dumanoir smiled. ‘I once actually sold one. It was shockingly flattering. I suppose that’s why.’

  ‘Why didn’t you show us this before?’

  ‘I didn’t know you were interested.’

  ‘What did Auguste Raby-Labassat come to see Charrieri about?’

  ‘You’ll have to ask His Highness. He doesn’t take me into his confidence.’

  Darcy turned more leaves and showed the sketchbook again to Pel. ‘That’s Jaunay,’ he said. He turned to Dumanoir. ‘What did he want?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Did the Baroness ever come with him?’

  ‘Baroness who? I don’t know any baronesses. There was certainly a woman who came once or twice.’ The boy turned a few more pages of the book. ‘That’s her. Is she this baroness who was murdered?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did His Highness murder her?’ Dumanoir looked as though the idea intrigued and delighted him. ‘On the other hand, I think she’d have been more likely to murder him.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘The last time she came she left in a bad temper.’

  When they were shown into Charrieri’s office by the pneumatic secretary, he was presiding at his drawing board as though he were planning a campaign. There were two other architects, his assistants, standing by his side, and, as Dumanoir warned, there was an aide taking notes.

  The secretary tried to persuade Pel to be brief but he wasn’t having any. Charrieri watched her efforts with an amused smile, then he gestured at her to desist and finally waved away his staff.

  Pel produced the charred maps and the few pages of plans Brochard had rescued from the stove at Evian. ‘Seen these before?’ he asked.

  Charrieri studied the torn, blackened and stained papers. ‘Should I have?’ he asked. ‘They look as though the mice have been at them.’

  ‘They were burned,’ Pel said coldly. He decided he didn’t like Charrieri much.

  Charrieri shrugged. ‘I’m sorry, Chief Inspector, but I’ve never seen them before.’

  Pel fingered a plan which was spread out on Charrieri’s desk, held down by glass paperweights at the corners. ‘They seem to be on the same sort of paper as this,’ he commented.

  ‘Not surprised.’ The shrug came again. ‘All architects use it. It’s common to all planning offices. Are there fingerprints on it?’

  Pel didn’t answer because he knew there weren’t. The rough handling the papers had had, the soaking and the burning, had removed all traces.

  ‘Could they have been done in this office?’

  ‘Not without my knowledge. You could ask Dumanoir. He touts around for odd jobs.’

  ‘This doesn’t look to me like an odd job,’ Pel said. ‘Do you ever work from home?’

  ‘Never. When I go home all I want to do is relax.’

  ‘Many architects put their thoughts on paper at home.’

  ‘Not this one. Ask my wife.’

  Pel paused, staring at the floor. ‘Why did Baroness Raby-Labassat come to see you?’

  ‘About the gymnasium. I told you.’

  ‘Then why did she leave the last time in a bad temper?’ Charrieri tried to explain. ‘She wasn’t satisfied with the plans I’d drawn up.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I don’t know. I said they’d still have to be paid for and if she wanted more she’d have to pay for those, too. I was growing bored with her.’

  ‘Why did Jaunay come to see you?’

  ‘He was often in here. We did plans for him once or twice. Nothing big. He wasn’t that kind of builder. He’d have liked to be but he didn’t have that sort of capital.’

  ‘And Auguste Raby-Labassat? Why did he come to see you?’

  Charrieri gave a high-pitched laugh. ‘Mon Dieu, Chief Inspector, you know what I do every minute of the day.’

  ‘I’m interested in why Auguste came to see you.’

  Charrieri sat at his desk, his hands together in the form of a steeple. He thought for a moment, then looked at Pel. ‘He wanted to know something about costing,’ he said.

  ‘Costing what?’

  ‘The château.’

  ‘What was he thinking of doing?’

  ‘He was hoping, he said, to put in central heating. But he wanted to do it in a way that wouldn’t harm the interior.’

  ‘What would it cost?’

  Charrieri laughed again. It put Pel off. He didn’t like people who laughed too much. ‘A fortune. It was just wild dreams. I knew he hadn’t enough funds. And, though he was in here for an hour arguing, I didn’t send him a bill for wasting my time. Normally I’d charge for such a consultation. But because of the Baroness’s death I didn’t. He’d already had a shock when I told him the cost. He’d have had another if he’d seen the sort of bill I would normally have sent him. My fees are pretty high – even for a consultation.’

  ‘What did he decide?’

  ‘Nothing. I told him central heating in that place would destroy it. It’s had no heating since it was built at the beginning of the last century. Nothing would fit after one winter of heat. It would finish it off,’ Charrieri shrugged, ‘–if it isn’t already finished. They should have done something about it fifty – eighty – years ago. Central heating wasn’t unknown then. It’s too late now. All they can do now is let it fall down. And it will, in its own good time. The only thing they could do is tear all the inside out except the stone staircase and start again. The retaining walls are sound.’

  ‘Did the Baroness ever come with a man called Gilliam?’

  Charrieri gave the matter some thought. ‘Yes, she did. He was an artist, she said. He was a friend of hers. I suspected at the time he was a bit more than that.’

  As they climbed into the car, Darcy looked at Pel.
<
br />   ‘Gilliam,’ Pel said thoughtfully. ‘Let’s call and see him.’

  They heard loud voices coming from Gilliam’s house as they arrived and Darcy discreetly parked the car a few yards away along the street. Gilliam’s wife appeared. She was clearly still very angry. She climbed into her car and shot off down the hill in the direction of the city.

  ‘She seems to do that a lot,’ Pel observed.

  ‘No wonder he paints,’ Darcy said.

  Gilliam was busy over a watercolour of a field of sunflowers with a deep blue sky and green hills in the background, with a church steeple and a group of houses in the foreground framed by a pair of eucalyptus trees. He seemed unmoved by his wife’s departure.

  ‘Nice picture,’ Pel commented.

  Gilliam smiled. ‘Straightforward pictorial,’ he said. ‘Not very imaginative. But very popular. I can do them with my eyes shut. I had a lot of practice. I used to paint pretty watercolours for estate agents’ windows.’

  ‘As an architect?’

  ‘Not really. I was very young. I wanted to learn to draw buildings and I considered that a year or two in an architect’s office would help. My family wouldn’t be seen dead drawing plans for other people – except for city halls, cathedrals and that sort of thing.’

  ‘Did you draw plans?’

  ‘Copied. Copying plans was part of the job. I didn’t stay long. I went into the army. My eldest brother was running the estate. My other brother went into politics. I decided on the army. They used me to draw plans for new barrack plumbing.’

  Eighteen

  Misset was all smiles when he appeared in Pel’s office.

  Pel regarded him coldly. He had just arrived from Gilliam’s and he was puzzled. He felt he had the solution to all their mysteries hovering at the back of his mind but somehow it just didn’t fit.

  ‘Well?’ he snapped.

  Misset’s smile grew wider. He had been conducting an enquiry as ordered but he had kept it low-key and leisurely. It hadn’t even been hard to find what he wanted. Tar-le-Petit wasn’t a very big place and, like most villages, its inhabitants talked – usually too much and usually about other people’s business. He had found that Clos had been living in one of the barns of the devastated farm.

  ‘He was camping out, patron,’ he said.

  ‘And Feray?’

  ‘I think he meets his wife somewhere. I’ve been trying to find out where. I’m still looking.’

  Pel glared. ‘You stupid idiot,’ he snorted. ‘Clos and Feray have been in custody for days!’

  Misset’s jaw fell. ‘I hadn’t heard, patron. Here?’

  ‘Evian. Same charge they’d have faced for Tar. Vandalism and a few others. Attempted murder, for instance. Theft of a boat. Assaulting a police officer. That’s all we can make it at the moment. Surely to God you read the reports?’

  Misset searched his mind for something that might redeem him. ‘I heard that Feray had been back at Tar,’ he said.

  ‘Not lately, he hasn’t.’

  ‘No, patron. Not lately. A few weeks ago. I showed that picture around that we had of that type, Espagne. I thought he might have been involved there. Two people recognised him. I think he’s in with Clos and Feray.’

  ‘I know he is! Sometimes you show a glimmering of sense. It’s usually a mistake but it happens.’

  ‘Did they do the job, patron?’

  ‘I’m sure they did. It’s well within the boundaries of their capabilities. Burn it or bash it. It’s all the same. What else?’

  ‘Well, I once saw Feray in the city here. I remember now.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘It was just before we started looking for him. I knew him. I once pulled him in for assault, you’ll remember. I was in the Palais des Ducs paying some bill or other. He was with this guy in the hall – talking.’

  ‘An official?’

  ‘I think he is, patron. I think he works for the Conseil Général. Highways Department or something. There was another type with them.’

  ‘Who?’

  Misset had a feeling he’d failed again. ‘I didn’t see that one exactly,’ he said. ‘He had his back to me. But I’m sure I knew him.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘By his voice.’

  ‘By his voice? With his back to you?’ Pel snorted. ‘That would stand up well in court.’

  As Misset left, Lagé appeared, his arms full of papers.

  ‘There’s a company here, patron,’ he said worriedly. ‘It’s called Barbi Enterprises. It’s supposed to be a construction promotion company. I gather it opened an office in Evian and promptly closed it again a month later. I think it was a sort of clearing house.’

  ‘There seem to be a lot of strange firms mushrooming up lately,’ Pel growled. ‘I’ve already come across around five. Did the owners of the office know who operated it?’

  ‘No. It was rented through an estate agent. I gather it was a group who were putting up money for building and needed a headquarters. I was told they were interested in land at Tar.’

  ‘Recently?’

  ‘Some time ago. It sounds fishy to me.’

  ‘It does to me, too. Go on. There’s more?’

  ‘Yes. The names they gave all seemed to be phoney but one of them was heard to mention a telephone number in Lyons. The estate agent was a bit suspicious and made enquiries. It was a firm of solicitors.’

  ‘Name?’

  ‘Paillat, Hégrion and Michel. I gather they’re noted for looking after shady characters.’

  ‘Anything on them?’

  ‘Nothing, patron. But wasn’t the name, Michel, mentioned in connection with some other affair?’

  It was indeed.

  Pel spent the night worrying.

  When Lagé had gone, he’d spent some time staring at his desk. If Clos and Feray, who’d been at Tar and at Evian, knew people in the offices of the Conseil Général, then there must be others who were in the fiddle, too.

  When he’d reached home, Yves Pasquier from next door was seated at the kitchen table tracing what looked like the plan of a fortress.

  ‘He’s doing his homework,’ Madame Pel explained. ‘They’ve had to go out next door and they asked us to keep an eye on him for an hour.’

  ‘I can keep an eye on myself,’ Yves Pasquier said. ‘I’m old enough.’

  ‘You never know,’ Pel observed. ‘There may be gangsters hiding in the drive waiting to waylay you. Would you like to borrow my gun? What are you doing?’

  Yves looked up and grinned. ‘History. I’m tracing one of Vauban’s fortresses.’

  ‘Sebastian le Prestre de Vauban.’ Pel nodded approvingly. ‘A good Burgundian. Expert at sieges and master-builder of fortifications. Which one is that?’

  ‘Strasbourg. I’ve also got to do Lille. I’m supposed to copy it carefully but if you rub pencil on the back and then go over the lines with a hard pencil it comes out on the paper underneath.’

  Pel inspected the table top. ‘It also comes out on the table top,’ he commented. ‘Indented into the wood.’

  For some reason the incident had stuck in his mind and he lay awake half the night thinking about it.

  In his office the following morning he sat at his desk frowning. His mind returned to Yves Pasquier’s homework.

  He was about to take out a cigarette when he realised he was already smoking one. Disgusted with himself, he thrust the packet away and, taking the cigarette he was smoking from his mouth, pinched out the end. After all, you couldn’t waste good cigarettes. Relax, he told himself. Think of something else. Forget cigarettes. Unfortunately, after two or three minutes of deep thought, he came to the conclusion that the only thing he could think of was the cigarette he so desperately needed. Returning to the one he had pinched out, he stuck it in his mouth and relit it. After the first drag, he sat up. ‘Of course,’ he said out loud. ‘Of course.’

  He was remembering his talk with the Baron de Mougy. It had concerned the Raby-Labassats’ sad lack of judgeme
nt where money was concerned and their vain hope of hiding their investments. ‘They thought the government didn’t know,’ De Mougy had said. ‘But they always find out. There are ways of finding out.’ Indeed there were.

  There was a plan. Jaunay had said there was. And if there were, someone somewhere had seen it. De Mougy was right. It was something they had all overlooked. Planning permission. Bureaucracy’s brevet. Officialdom’s OK. The management’s concordat. It had to be in the records. If it weren’t, something was wrong.

  Leaning across the desk, he searched among the papers spread there for the telephone. He found it by hauling on the cord. As it emerged from under the papers, he lifted the handset. ‘Get me the City Archives,’ he said.

  He was on the telephone a long time. When he’d finished, he rang his wife at her office and suggested lunch. He then replaced the telephone and headed for the office of the regional architect, an old friend of his.

  The regional architect studied the papers Pel laid on his desk and frowned. ‘Where did these come from?’ he asked.

  Pel explained.

  ‘They should never have been passed.’

  ‘I suspect they might have been, all the same.’

  The regional architect stared at the plans again and frowned, then he switched his attention to a large-scale map alongside him. ‘This road here’s supposed to be still secret. It was mooted and abandoned and only came up again six months ago. The plan’s supposed to have been seen only by heads of departments.’

  From the regional architect’s office, Pel headed for the Highways Department. The director was a small fussy man Pel had also known for years. He explained what the regional architect had said.

  ‘Why is the road being moved?’ he asked.

  The director told him.

  ‘Who would know about it?’

  ‘Me. The regional architect and one or two others. We don’t shove this sort of thing around for people to see. People have been known to go in for a bit of speculation.’ From the Highways Department, Pel went to the Water Board. The director looked at him with some suspicion.