by Mark Hebden
‘He thought I was a waster.’ Darcq grinned. ‘He was right, of course. I am. I always have been. He was always fighting with my sister because she kept slipping me money. He said it was throwing good money after bad.’ Darcq grinned once more. ‘Once again, he was dead right. It was. I either lost it on the horses or peed it against the wall.’
‘You were pretty drunk when we first found you?’
‘Yes.’
‘I thought you were broke. What did you pay for it all with?’
Darcq frowned as if the question was unexpected and difficult. ‘I expect someone lent me some,’ he said. ‘Or perhaps she did.’
‘Your sister?’
‘Yes.’
‘I was in here last night. They said you had a fat roll of notes. The night she was murdered.’
Darcq looked at Pel from the corner of his eye and didn’t reply.
‘They thought there must have been around 3,000 frs. You laid them out on the zinc and counted them.’
‘Someone must have been generous.’
‘Who?’
‘God knows. I can never remember. That’s why I never manage to pay them back.’
‘3,000 frs is a generous loan to someone like you. You’d better come clean.’
Darcq frowned again. ‘Hang on,’ he said. ‘I have it. I remember. I put some money on a horse and it came up.’
‘How much?’
‘Can’t remember now. My mind doesn’t go back that far.’
‘It must have been a good sum. Where did you get it?’
‘Merde! How do I know?’
‘Where did you put the money on?’
‘With Crona. I met one of his runners in a bar in the city.’
‘Which one?’
‘How do I know? They’re in all the bars and so am I.’
‘What was the horse?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t keep a list.’
‘You mean you’ve no idea of the name of the horse that won you 3,000 frs? What about the man who took the money? What was his name?’
‘I can’t remember that either.’
‘Was it one horse? Or a combination of horses?’
‘One. I was lucky.’
‘But you can’t remember its name?’
‘No.’
‘I would.’ Pel spoke with the deep feeling of someone who never won on a horse. ‘Especially if I’d won that much.’
Because of his visit to the bar, Pel was in his office early. He was thinking about Darcq. He knew he had enough on him to bring him in, but he preferred for the time being to leave him free. He thrust his thoughts aside and decided to take the opportunity to do some work. In fact, he overdid it and when Darcy arrived he was in a bad temper. He had spent hours checking railway timetables, and as they were like gibberish to him, he hadn’t enjoyed it. But, since Darcy and Nosjean – even Lagé, Krauss and Misset – hadn’t arrived, he had to do the job himself.
He was just about to hurl the timetable across the room in disgust when Darcy appeared. He sat down and lit a cigarette. ‘I’ve been checking the carpark in the Rue Charles-Briffaut, Patron,’ he said. ‘They know Chenandier and they insist his car was there all the time he was in Paris.’
‘All the time?’
‘That’s what the attendant said. He knows the car well – a grey Merc like Laye’s next door. Côte d’Or number – 9704– QT–21. He’s quite prepared to swear.’ Darcy glanced pointedly at the timetables. ‘What’s in your mind, Patron? That he came from Paris on the train, drove out to Aigunay, murdered his wife, returned his car to the carpark, then took the train back to Paris?’
‘Yes.’ Pel frowned. ‘But there must have been enough blood splashed round that room to drown a cat. Yet there’s none in his car and no one has it on their clothes.’
‘Could it have been a tramp, Patron? We’re still checking.’
Pel shook his head. ‘I think it was somebody cleverer than that. There were no fingerprints and Leguyader thinks whoever did it wore gloves.’
‘That’s not the way tramps behave,’ Darcy said. ‘Somebody went prepared.’
As Darcy disappeared, Pel returned to his thankless task of trying to work out alternative routes to and from Paris. In the end, accepting the inevitable, he admitted to himself that it was something he’d never manage to do efficiently and, calling Nosjean, tossed it into his lap instead.
Nosjean backed away like a startled foal, the whites of his eyes showing. ‘I don’t understand those things, Chief,’ he bleated.
‘I sympathise with you,’ Pel said dryly. ‘Neither do I. But somebody’s got to do it.’
Nosjean looked gloomy. He felt he was being put on. ‘What are we trying to find out?’ he asked warily.
‘If it’s possible some way to get here from Paris and back again in one night. It’s not possible direct, but it might be possible via Langres or Châtillon. Check with the railway enquiry office if necessary.’
‘Why not try the chap who found that railwayman who was shot?’ Nosjean said. ‘Barbièry – he’s supposed to be an expert, isn’t he? He works in the enquiry office, and he also does it for fun.’
Pel looked up. ‘You know, Nosjean,’ he said, ‘sometimes I think you must be a lot brighter than you look.’
Nosjean wasn’t being bright. He had a date with his girlfriend that evening and he knew that if he had to hang round the railway enquiry office it might take all day and make him late.
‘It’s nothing, Patron,’ he said with disarming modesty.
Pel decided grudgingly that perhaps some credit should be given for effort. ‘Might be worth a try,’ he agreed. ‘He seemed a reasonable chap. Bit excitable and wanders a bit when he’s talking but he knows what he’s about when he’s dealing with railway timetables. You might also ask him about Giulle while you’re at it. They lived next door to each other and he found the body. Kill two birds with one stone.’
Nosjean was looking much happier as he turned away. ‘Right, Patron.’
‘Just one more thing–’ Nosjean stopped ‘ – before you do that, just get on the telephone and try a few jewellers for me. Get that list of the stuff stolen from the Chenandiers’ from Darcy and try it on them.’
Nosjean wasn’t looking half as happy as he had been. ‘It’ll take a bit of time, Patron,’ he said, seeing his ideas of arriving on time at his girlfriend’s whistling down the wind. ‘It’s supposed to be my night off, too.’
Pel shrugged. ‘There’s a murder enquiry on,’ he pointed out coldly. ‘It shouldn’t take you long.’
No, Nosjean thought bitterly. Until about midnight, that’s all.
Unlike Nosjean, Sergeant Darcy was an opportunist. As he was fond of saying, being careful not to miss an opportunity sometimes caused other opportunities to arise – especially with girls. It was important to take everything seriously.
‘Nobody takes me seriously,’ Nosjean complained.
‘Nobody ever takes a detective your age seriously,’ Darcy admitted. ‘But rest assured, mon brave, one day they will. Not Pel perhaps. Not God himself. But somebody. Maybe if you have a son, he will. Maybe, anyway.’
Making sure he never let slip a chance was a rule Darcy followed religiously. Which was why his love life was entirely satisfactory. Nothing was wasted, and now, seeing an opportunity in front of his nose, he followed his own rules and snatched at it. In view of Pel’s interest in the possibilities of getting to Paris and back by train, he had been involved in timing the distance between the station and Aigunay, and he was just on his way back into the city when, as he called in the garage in the village for petrol, he saw Laye’s big Mercedes pull in ahead of him and decided it might be a chance to watch him in action.
Sitting in his car, his face buried in a map, he watched Laye carefully, noticing that he filled his car himself. The proprietor’s wife was working the pumps and she waved and called ‘Good morning’, but it was Laye who started the pump and put the nozzle into the neck of the petrol tank. Th
en, Darcy noticed, instead of fishing in his wallet for money, he went into the small glass-walled office where the telephone was and signed a chit in a small metal dispenser that held carbon paper for copies. There was what appeared to be a short interchange of jokes, delivered with Laye’s face close to the proprietor’s wife’s, then Laye climbed back into his Mercedes and drove away.
For a moment longer, Darcy watched. The proprietor’s wife was young and, despite her apron, she was attractive with a good figure, and it set Darcy thinking. His own car filled, he went into the office to pay and the proprietor’s wife counted out his change and left to attend to another motorist while Darcy slowly stuffed the notes away. Leaning over the counter, he examined the chit Laye had signed. It carried the date, his name, the number of litres he’d had, the price, and his signature. He noticed it was in green ink.
As the proprietor’s wife came back for more change for her new customer, Darcy produced his badge and gestured at the slip.
‘I’m interested in that,’ he said.
The woman shrugged. ‘Monsieur Laye. He has an account.’
‘Does he always serve himself?’
‘But of course. He has a garage, too, so it’s all part of the system. On doit se débrouiller. You have to look after yourself.’
‘Where is his garage?’
‘On the N74. Just beyond Beaune. Orbeaux Brothers. It’s his in spite of the name. He has his work done there and only gets petrol here because it’s handy for his home.’
Darcy nodded, pushed away his wallet and climbed into his car. Glancing at his watch, he decided he still had plenty of time. He might even stop in Beaune and pick up some wine while he was out there. His girlfriend had a liking for good wine.
Orbeaux Brothers was on the right-hand side of the road. It was said that all the conservatives lived on that side, while all the socialists lived on the other; and that the wine they produced went with them – that on the right rich and full-bodied, that on the left thin and meagre. It was a small set-up and Darcy pretended to be an agent for car accessories. With the elder Orbeaux in Beaune collecting spare parts, it was the young brother who greeted him.
‘Accessories?’ he said, grinning. ‘You’ve a hope. We make ’em. We’re part of the Laye group.’
Darcy pretended to be dismayed at his own lack of perception and got talking about Laye himself.
‘It must be all right having your own garage,’ he said. ‘With the price of things these days. Does he have his car serviced here?’
‘Wouldn’t you?’
It turned out that Laye was fussy about his car and Orbeaux, who was only twenty, was inclined to be talkative.
‘There’s always a long list of things he wants doing,’ he said. ‘Even writes it all out.’
‘He does? I don’t believe you! Not with a Merc!’
‘Well, look.’ The boy dug into a cupboard and produced a sheaf of papers held together with a spring clip.
‘Time sheets for the mechanos,’ he said. ‘His list’s clipped on as a check.’
Darcy studied the paper. ‘Oil, tyres, etc,’ the list said. ‘Check exhaust. Rattle in offside door. Doubtful ignition. Reversing light.’ Underneath it was Laye’s name and his office address.
‘Look,’ Darcy said. ‘I’ve got to get in touch with him if I can. I might persuade him to take something. Can I keep this? For the address.’
Orbeaux studied the timesheet the slip had been attached to.
‘I suppose so,’ he said. ‘It’s all on here. That’s only a check.’
‘Thanks. In case I don’t get hold of him, tell him I called. Jean-Pierre Audubert, Accessories Manoury, Rue Charles-Gilbert, Paris.’
As he drove away, Darcy waved cheerfully and looked at his watch. He just had time to do one more check.
When Darcy returned to the Hôtel de Police, Pel had just gone out to his car and was sitting behind the wheel, frowning. One of the civilian clerks was wheeling her bike down the steps. It had a long loaf strapped on the carrier and Pel had just decided that, because of its ubiquitousness, bread ought to be part of the national emblem of France. Crossed baguettes couchant over a bottle of Burgundy.
‘Doing a bit of thinking, Patron?’ Darcy asked.
‘I do from time to time,’ Pel said.
‘So do I. I wondered if perhaps Chenandier used a hire car to get from the station.’
‘And did he?’
‘Not from here. At least, nobody around here hired out anything that day to anybody who could have been Chenandier. In fact–’ Darcy gestured with his big hand ‘even if they had, he’d never have got home in time from the last train – in his own or a hired car – to be there when his wife appears to have been killed. I tried it. I timed it. It couldn’t be done.’
Pel frowned and Darcy went on cheerfully.
‘One other thing–’
‘You’ve been busy!’
‘I’m a glutton for punishment. I checked with the family doctor for you. He didn’t know Chenandier suffered from malaria. At least he’d never treated him for it. But he was at Dien Bien Phu. Everybody knew it, it seems. And, as the doctor said, people who’ve been in the East learn to live with malaria, and those para boys at DBP were a tough lot.’
Pel nodded and reached for the ignition key. Darcy’s hand stopped him.
‘One last thing, Patron,’ he said. ‘That assignment note we found in Madame Chenandier’s handbag. I’ve found out whose writing it is.’
‘Go on. Whose?’
‘Chap next door. Laye.
Pel’s eyebrows lifted. ‘How did you manage that masterpiece?’
‘Sheer luck. I happened to follow him into the garage at Aigunay for petrol and I saw his name on the chit.’ Darcy pushed a slip of paper through the window. ‘That’s his writing – instructions to Orbeaux Brothers for servicing his car. You’ll see it’s the same as in the note found in the handbag. The paper’s the same too – torn off the same pad, I imagine.’
‘That’s good, Darcy.’
Darcy smiled. ‘I’m sweating on promotion,’ he pointed out.
‘I shouldn’t,’ Pel said. ‘You’re bound to do something stupid tomorrow.’
Eleven
When Pel reached the office the following morning the reporters were waiting outside.
‘Come on, Inspector,’ Sarrazin urged. ‘You haven’t told us a thing yet.’
‘I’ve noticed that.’ Pel waved the newspaper at him. ‘From the fairy stories I’ve been reading.’
He agreed to meet them and gave them a few details – about the murder weapon and the estimated time of death – but little else.
‘It’s not much,’ Sarrazin complained.
‘Knowing you lot,’ Pel said, ‘you’ll be able to write a novel on it.’
He hadn’t escaped yet, however, because Judge Brisard was on the telephone from the Palais de Justice within a minute, as if he’d been lying in ambush. He sounded irritated and for a change came to the point at once.
‘We don’t seem to be making much headway, Pel,’ he said, and Pel didn’t fail to notice the absence of his title.
‘We?’ he said sharply.
Brisard coughed in embarrassment. ‘A figure of speech. You, of course. This thing’s been going on for weeks now.’
‘Days,’ Pel corrected.
‘Either way, I’ve got the Director of Prosecutions on my neck wanting to know when we’re going to arrest someone. When will it be?’
‘When we find someone,’ Pel said.
Brisard’s voice became shrill. ‘Surely you’ve formed an opinion by now?’ he said.
‘I always keep an open mind.’
‘Is that a good idea?’
‘In the interests of justice, yes. And not only in the interests of justice. But also in the interests of the department, which might be embarrassed if I start accusing all the wrong people. Also, come to that, in mine, too, because I’ve no doubt the department wouldn’t allow itself to be made the sc
apegoat if I did get the wrong one.’
Brisard was silent for a moment. ‘We have to make some sort of showing,’ he insisted. ‘Surely there’s someone you can set up for me to question? Perhaps I could bring out something you’ve missed.’
Pel almost laughed. ‘Give me a little longer,’ he said. ‘We mustn’t rush this thing.’
Brisard paused again, intimidated as he always was by Pel’s lack of co-operation. ‘Sometimes, Pel,’ he said bitterly. ‘I think you don’t like me.’
When Darcy came in he seemed full of beans again.
‘Well,’ Pel said. ‘What have you been up to? Apart, that is, from popping in and out of bed with various young women.’
Darcy looked innocent. ‘I’m treading carefully at the moment,’ he said. ‘This one’s a new one and she probably has a husband who’s a weightlifter.’
‘Well, you’ve obviously got that side of your life well buttoned up,’ Pel said sarcastically. ‘How about the side that concerns the department?’
Darcy grinned. ‘Making headway, Chief,’ he said. ‘I’m expecting to pick up something about the daughter today. I’ve arranged to ring her old school. It’s a private one. Expensive. In Switzerland. I noticed she left at the age of fifteen without taking her baccalaureat, and finished her education here. I wondered why. One final thing: the lab report. They found one small bloodstain in the bedroom. Right by that open drawer. Leguyader also noticed two more on the stairs. Tiny marks, as though someone had some blood on their shoe and trod it upstairs.’
‘The girl?’
‘That’s what I wondered.’
Pel nodded, offering no praise. ‘Where’s Nosjean?’ he asked.
‘Doing leg work round the jewellers. Something you set him on, he says.’
‘He should have finished by now.’ Pel waved Darcy away. ‘Go and ring your school,’ he said. ‘I’ve a few people to see.’
The two Laye children were just leaving for the university when Pel pulled up his car alongside them.
‘Give you a lift?’ he asked.
The boy accepted readily, the girl, Anne-Marie, less so. They were at different departments and he dropped the boy first at the Faculté de Médecine. As the door closed, the girl sat quietly alongside Pel, almost warily.