by Mark Hebden
Pel’s eyebrows shot up at the information.
‘Evian, patron,’ Nosjean said. ‘You know Evian.’
‘Yes,’ Pel agreed. ‘I know Evian. You go down the N6 to Macon, take the motorway to Bourg and Nantua, then the road runs alongside the Swiss frontier to the lake.’
Nosjean had not only produced names, he had answered a question that had puzzled Pel for a long time. What was Bronwen Raby-Labassat’s interest in Lac Léman? Now they had it. She must have met Dugusse at the Defays’ house at Evian and since Dugusse was connected with Vlaxi, doubtless that was where she had met Vlaxi, and Cornelius and Lloyd Jones as well. They’d been working things out and that was doubtless how Gérard Espagne had come to be in possession of those maps and plans Brochard had rescued from the family stove. He’d been there, too, to get his orders.
A lot of things were suddenly becoming clear. Gérard Espagne hadn’t been in the Parc de la Columbière with Orega and the hold-up boys to receive orders about what to do with the loot. He was there to give orders. He’d been involved at St-Etois and Tar-le-Petit and Orega’s elaborately staged hold-up had been a diversion to keep the cops busy. They had been growing too interested and he had been set up – and still didn’t realise it! If he’d got away with it, fine; his reward would have been in the loot. But he hadn’t and his refusal to split on what he thought were his friends had delayed matters just enough to take the heat off until things could be adjusted.
They were all part of the same outfit.
Twenty
It still required a few telephone calls. One of them to Goschen in London. About people Pel was interested in. ‘I want their background,’ he said. ‘Their financial standing.’
He had an answer the following day.
‘He’s considered good,’ Goschen reported. ‘But he makes very little really. He’d do better if he were in England but he can’t return. His wife’s family are after him.’
‘Why?’
‘Money. He used some of theirs. Quite a lot, in fact. Without permission.’
‘Are you wanting him?’
‘The family refuse to lay charges. But they’d like their money back. I gather they were prepared to start proceedings but he’s told them he can produce the money with interest if they’ll just wait a while.’
‘And will they?’
‘They’ve agreed to.’
Putting the telephone down, Pel sat staring at it for a while in silence, his mind working. That afternoon he called Darcy into his office.
‘That car that appeared at Faux-Villecerf,’ he said. ‘Renault 304, black or some dark colour that could look black—’
‘There’ve been a few distractions, patron. Claudie’s on it now.’
‘Good. Take a look at this.’
On Pel’s desk was a large sheet made up of xeroxed copies of plans and parts of plans pasted together. They showed what appeared to be a great house. Taking a piece of rolled-up tracing paper on which Darcy could see sharp lines drawn with a felt pen, Pel opened it and placed it on top of the xeroxed copies. As he moved it about, eventually, apart from one or two areas and places that were missing, it fitted exactly over one half of the pasted plans.
As Darcy watched, Pel produced another sheet of tracing paper. Again, except in one or two places, it fitted the other half of the xeroxed copies.
‘It’s the Château de Faux-Villecerf,’ Pel said. ‘Claudie put it together. The tracing’s from the city archives. It was built in 1813 by Ardèche Raby-Labassat. He’d just been made up to General by Napoleon and wanted something to go with the rank. His descendants added to it from time to time to make it go with their own distinctions. The plans found their way into the archives about 1900. The xeroxes underneath are from the plans Brochard found.’
He shifted the tracings a fraction. ‘There were scraps referring to building plans for Evian and other places,’ he went on. ‘And it was a bit confusing. Then it suddenly dawned on me that two of them looked familiar in spite of being set up on different scales. When I fitted them together they became Faux-Villecerf. They were presented to the Planning Department as two separate ventures on different dates with different titles.
‘Claudie got them photographed to the exact size of the original plans and did the tracing. Apart from this bit here–’ Pel’s hand moved, ‘and another bit here, both of which don’t exist any more because they were pulled down at the beginning of the century to make way for those big stone steps outside, they’re the same place. There’s another piece missing which was pulled down at the end of last century. The walls that are common to both plans are the outside and retaining walls. The ones that have disappeared are unimportant inner walls supporting nothing.’
Darcy frowned and tapped Brochard’s fragments. ‘But these seem to show a restaurant, a swimming pool.’
‘A hotel, in fact. Lagé worked it out. Slow but sure. He doesn’t miss much. One of them was handed in at Ville d’Erf. They’re all foreigners up there. It’s close to the British complex at Garnier and a hotel at Faux-Villecerf would be a great attraction. I suspect someone got his palms greased.’
Darcy still looked puzzled and Pel explained. ‘It was being organised by a group led by that banker, Coubertin, and included Lorrière, Journay and Gilliam and a few others from this area, plus Tussot and Dugusse and Michel. They wanted to make the château into a hotel and were all set to go. The plan was put in months ago. They had it all organised – cement, bricks, tiles, timber, all old stuff from Arles so they could do it on the cheap, with plans drawn in Michel’s office in Lyons. The Baron had even already obligingly moved out and Bronwen was in with them. All they had to do was tear the inside out, leaving all the bits that give it grace. Exactly as Charrieri suggested.’
‘They’d never get away with it.’
‘They almost got away with it.’
‘But it shows a road here, patron. There isn’t a road.’
‘There will be. The plans are with the Highways Department at this moment. The idea’s to build a loop to it so that visitors won’t have to go through a grubby little village street with its regular hold-ups outside the bakery when they’re loading. Village streets are to be admired, photographed with the family in the foreground, but not to be used. They have cattle dung on them. They bring flies.’
Pel paused. ‘But then,’ he went on, ‘along comes another group. With more money and bigger hand-outs. Their plan was better because they had more imagination and were more ruthless. Ruthless enough to set fire to places they wanted.’ He laid another set of plans down. They were dated later than the first set. ‘Same thing,’ he said. ‘But much grander. Guaranteed to kill the first plan dead in the eyes of forward-looking planners.’
‘Where did you get this one?’
‘The planning office.’ Pel’s mouth twisted in a grim smile. ‘I persuaded them to let me have a copy.’
Darcy stared, his mouth open. ‘This shows dwellings – chalets, split-level chalets. Designed for steep slopes.’
‘The Raby-Labassat land is steep.’
‘But this blue? It shows water.’
‘There’ll be water. The river south of Calotte-Montrachel is to be re-routed. It was planned years ago but was abandoned. It’s been resurrected. There’s a dam going up at Calotte.’
‘What!’
‘It’s a government scheme. It’s been agreed in Paris.’
Darcy was silent for a moment. ‘It would require a lot of money, patron. Millions of francs.’
‘I think it would be available.’
‘Where from?’
‘Type called David Lloyd Jones. Welsh, like Bronwen. He seems to have contacts. Another called Cornelius. Also Welsh. Carmen Vlaxi – though I expect we’ll never find out about him. There’ll be plenty of people and several finance corporations in front of him. Bronwen suddenly found herself being wooed by a much more powerful group offering much greater rewards.’
Darcy stared at the plan again. ‘It shows apa
rtments—’
‘In the stables, the pump house, the outhouses. A gymnasium. Bronwen was already working that one out. Swimming pool. Chalets in the grounds. The main house would be a hotel. With small shops in the hall. It’s wide enough. That huge kitchen would be a bar and restaurant. There was to be a lake with sailboarding and swimming. With the dam, the River Ouronne would widen and flood all those water meadows below Faux-Villecerf. But nothing was to be built on the cheap. This group knew the international market and they decided to go in on a big scale. It’s a brand new holiday village, in fact, with everything tourists need, right alongside the existing one. But safe within the boundary walls of the château.’
Darcy looked awed.
‘There was just one snag,’ Pel continued. ‘The dam will take three years. But they felt they could afford to wait for the second half of the plan – the water half. They had other projects. Bronwen had to be paid, of course – those sums of 10,000 francs. She happily abandoned the first scheme for the second and was going to present the Baron with dreams of wealth beyond imagination.’
‘Did he kill her because of it?’
‘He never looked like a killer to me.’
Pel sat down and lit a cigarette. ‘Lloyd Jones, Cornelius, and probably Tussot and Dugusse as well, because they were in with Vlaxi, also transferred their allegiance. The rest, the small men, saw all their plans going wrong and all the money they’d invested in bribes and materials – and they must have invested quite a bit – vanishing with no hope of recouping. They weren’t going to be allowed to join the new group. The big boys could manage on their own, thank you. It involved a lot of scheming and a lot of companies to create a fog.’ He managed a smile. ‘But you can find your way through fogs,’ he ended, ‘if you try hard enough.’
Twenty-one
His arms full of papers, Pel went to see Judge Castéou. A long talk convinced her of his views and they went together to the Chief’s office. Some of the names they had were important and required careful handling.
‘Was the family in it, too?’ the Chief asked.
‘I doubt if two of them were – except for giving their approval to getting rid of the house and trying to persuade the Baron to sell. But they hadn’t the money to invest and probably never heard of Bronwen’s schemes. But, of course, when the Baron died, any increase in his fortune would profit them.’
‘What about the other?’
‘Auguste? He’s a very different kettle of fish.’
‘And the officials?’
‘They’re guilty as hell. I shouldn’t be surprised if one or two have taken hand-outs from both groups. From the first, to get their plan to the starting post. From the second, to switch loyalties and push the new plan. There’s not much doubt who’d have won in the end.’
‘So why was Bronwen murdered?’
‘Because she changed her mind. She was heard quarrelling in the car that night in the grounds of the château, remember? That’s what she was talking about when she said she preferred it with water. She didn’t mean whisky. She meant the new scheme. And the pretty part of it was that the people in the original scheme daren’t harass her openly because they were guilty of fiddles that would come out if they had.’
The Chief was listening intently.
‘They were bewildered, little fish in a pond that had suddenly grown too big for them. One of them tried to persuade her. He drove her to Vieilles Etuves to talk. But she still refused and he decided the Baron was a much better bet, more easily persuaded, and he killed her.’
Pel paused. ‘I think that when Bronwen disappeared, Vlaxi, Lloyd Jones and Cornelius grew alarmed and withdrew from the scheme in a hurry. It was becoming too dangerous. That’s when Lloyd Jones disappeared to the States. Cornelius seems to have transferred his interest to Tar. Vlaxi’s sank out of sight. But the other lot hadn’t their experience and were still hoping somehow to salvage something from the mess. Whoever did for Bronwen persuaded them that her death was a fortunate accident and that the Baron would give his consent. But the old boy was more stubborn than expected. Tempers were lost and the old man disappeared down the cellar steps. No wonder nerves began to show and they all started throwing suspicion on one another. They were prepared to go in for fraud, but they weren’t prepared to go in for murder.’
The Procureur, the Public Prosecutor, was brought in with two of his men and they argued over the disclosures for a long time. The names were checked and it was decided their owners should be picked up simultaneously.
‘When do you want to pick them up?’
‘As soon as it can be set up.’
The Chief nodded. ‘It’ll take a little time. You’ll need every man we can raise. It’s going to hit the headlines with a bang.’
Charges were prepared. The arrangements were left to Darcy and were laid on for early in the morning. It was decided it had been going on for too long and they couldn’t afford to wait.
‘Somebody might take it into his head to bolt,’ Pel said.
Every man who was available, plain clothes and uniform, was gathered in the gymnasium at the Hôtel de Police to receive his orders. Other places were involved, too, and many cops who had been expecting a comfortable evening at home learned that instead they could expect a boring night of waiting and smoking while transport was assembled and link-ups were organised. The following morning would find them grey-faced, with mouths like the bottom of a parrot’s cage.
Pel was in his office all night. Soon after daylight the reports began to come in. Jaunay was the first to be brought in. Lorrière followed. Then Tussot and Jacqueline Defay, who worked in the surveyor’s office, and her husband, the deputy director of the Highways Department. The Chief put in an appearance soon afterwards, not knowing whether to be pleased or overwhelmed by the numbers.
‘Name of God,’ he said. ‘This is one of the biggest corruption scandals that’s hit the century. It’ll take months to sort out the paperwork.’
Pel looked up. ‘It’s more than just a scandal,’ he reminded quietly. ‘It’s also murder.’
More men appeared: Michel. Dugusse. Coubertin. Rooms were set aside for questioning and lawyers were dragged prematurely from their beds to represent clients and arrange bail. Passports were handed over. One after the other, the people who were involved were gathered in. None of the big names were among them – no Lloyd Jones, no Cornelius, no Vlaxi. But they hadn’t expected them.
Just as Pel was breakfasting off coffee and rolls sent across to the Hôtel de Police from the Bar Transvaal, Cousin Roger phoned. He sounded sober and cheerful. ‘Sorry I’m a bit late,’ he said. ‘Difficulties are easy. Miracles take a bit longer.’
They talked for a long time and Pel had just put the telephone down when Darcy rang.
‘One missing, patron,’ he barked.
‘Where is he?’
‘God knows. He wasn’t at home. Didn’t appear last night. I’ve had a surveillance put on the house and put out an alert to airports.’
As Pel bitterly pushed his breakfast aside, frowning heavily, Claudie appeared in the doorway.
‘That car, patron,’ she said.
Pel sat up as she continued: ‘Renault 304. Black. Number 9235-QX-21. It’s a hire car from Voitures Remizes. Do you want me to go and check it out?’
Before Pel could answer the telephone rang again. It was Auguste Raby-Labassat’s wife.
‘Do you know where my husband is?’ she asked indignantly. ‘He didn’t come home last night. Have you got him there?’
Pel looked at Claudie as he slammed the instrument down. His face was grim. ‘Let’s both go,’ he said sharply, heading for the door at speed. ‘It suddenly seems urgent.’
The clerk at Remizes Hire Cars looked at the dates Claudie gave him. ‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘9235-QX-21. It was collected by a kid. Student, I think.’
He pushed the book at them. The signature was that of someone called Robert de Laney. Pel frowned. They’d not come up with anybody c
alled Robert de Laney.
‘What was he like?’
‘Usual. Long and thin. Spots. Specs. He’s just collected it again. Same kid. Same car.’
‘We need that car,’ Pel said. ‘There may be fingerprints on it.’
‘Was it used in a robbery or something?’
‘More than that. Murder. Where is it now?’
‘Still out. He hired it for a week. He did last time.’ Robert de Laney lived in a flat near the University with six other students in happy and noisy chaos.
‘Sure,’ he said. ‘I hired it.’
‘Why?’
‘It wasn’t for me. I was just paid to collect it. It was all done by letter. I have this little service, you see. Odd driving jobs – private jobs for old ladies who’ve grown nervous of traffic. That sort of thing. I put a small ad in the newspaper. It helps me get through university. I left it to be picked up.’
‘Where?’
‘Place de la Poste. The letter said to tape the keys under the front bumper. I did. It was returned the same way. A letter came telling me to pick it up from where I’d dropped it. The keys were where I’d left them. Taped. Inside the glove pocket was an envelope with three hundred francs for me.’
‘Who picked it up?’
‘I don’t know. I hung around but nobody turned up. But it was gone when I went back the next morning.’
‘What was the signature on the letter?’
‘Haven’t the foggiest. It was illegible, like a lot of signatures.’
‘Have you still got the letter?’
‘No. I threw it away.’
‘You’ve no idea who it was?’
‘No idea. This telephone call came. No name. Just a voice. It said there’d be a letter. There was. Next day. With the fee and a hundred francs extra in it to encourage me. I didn’t argue.’
‘Would you recognise the voice?’
‘If I heard it again.’
As they climbed into Claudie’s car, she turned her head. ‘Where to, patron?’
‘Place de la Poste.’