by Mark Hebden
‘I don’t mind walking the rest of the way,’ she said.
‘No trouble,’ Pel said. ‘It’s on my route. I’ve got a call to make before going to headquarters.’
The girl said nothing and Pel drove in silence for a while.
‘Father usually give you a lift into town?’ he asked.
She gestured with her shoulders. ‘He’s always too busy.’
‘Doing what?’
‘Business. Going to work. Coming from work.’
Pel drove in silence for a while before he spoke again. ‘Don’t you get on with your father?’ he asked. ‘Some children don’t.’
She shifted uneasily alongside him. ‘No, I don’t.’ Her voice was thin and defiant.
Pel nodded. ‘I thought not,’ he said. ‘When I was talking to you all the other day, you got up and went out of the room. Abruptly. Any special reason for that?’
She kept her eyes down. ‘No.’
‘I’d just asked your parents if they knew Madame Chenandier. Your mother said no. Then your father said he’d hardly ever exchanged a single word.’
‘He would.’
‘Then you got up and walked out. Why?’
‘Because I felt like it.’
‘I thought for a moment it might be because you didn’t agree with what your father said.’
‘I don’t.’
Pel let her brood in silence for a while before he went on. ‘Were you at home the night Madame Chenandier was murdered?’ he asked.
‘No. I was at a party.’
‘And your brother?’
‘At the same party.’
‘Were you there all the time?’
‘Yes. So I couldn’t have done it, could I?’
‘No, you couldn’t,’ Pel agreed. ‘Did your brother stay there all the time, too?’
‘Yes. So he couldn’t either, could he?’
‘How about your mother?’
‘Out playing bridge. She’s always playing bridge. All day and all night.’
‘Where?’
‘In Dijon. Someone with an apartment opposite the palace. She goes there a lot. They’re obsessed with it.’
There had been a traffic accident on the corner of the Rue de Mirande and the Boulevard Jeanne-d’Arc and the two car owners were in the centre of the road exchanging addresses and insults, while a traffic policeman, his képi on the back of his head, was glaring through his dark spectacles, blowing shrill symphonies on his whistle and gesturing at the traffic to keep moving. They had to wait until the congestion cleared, and Pel glanced at the girl who was sitting silently alongside him without saying a word. With a final glare and a last peremptory swing of his white baton, the policeman got the cars moving again and Pel began to edge forward. Conscious of the girl’s hostility, he came back gently to his questioning.
‘How did you get to this party you went to?’ he asked.
‘We got a lift with friends,’ she said. ‘We walked to the Rue Clément-Rémy and they picked us up there.’
‘Did you notice anything unusual in the Chemin-de Champ-Loups when you left? Any strangers? That sort of thing.’
‘There was a car in the lane.’
‘Yes, I know. It was your father’s.’
‘No, not that one. I knew that was there. This was another. One I’d never seen before.’
Pel looked quickly at her. ‘You sure about that?’
‘Of course. There are only three houses in the lane and I know all the cars that belong to them or visit them.’
‘What sort of car was it?’
‘I don’t know. A good-sized car, that’s all I know.’
‘Colour?’
‘Black or dark blue.’
‘Where was it?’
‘Down the lane. Well down.’
His mind on what she was saying, Pel swung the car into the Boulevard Gabriel, found himself face to face with a Nicolas lorry that came from nowhere, avoided it with difficulty and settled back in his seat, convinced his nerves were shattered. It was quite a while before he went on.
‘Where was your father that evening?’ he asked.
Anne-Marie Laye shrugged. ‘He wasn’t in when I left. He probably didn’t come in until late. He often didn’t when my mother played bridge.’
‘Did he know she was playing bridge?’
‘She told him when he came home for lunch. He said he’d eat in the city.’
‘Did he?’
‘I shouldn’t think so.’
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘What he got up to when my mother was playing bridge is anybody’s guess.’
Pel swung the car towards the Faculté de Lettres and stopped. ‘What did he get up to?’ he asked.
She made no attempt to get out. ‘What do most men get up to?’ she said.
‘Well, tell me. What?’
‘I think he had a bit of fluff.’
‘Who was she?’
‘I don’t know. I can guess, though.’
‘Would you like to guess for me?’
‘No.’
‘Someone you know. Someone close to home?’
The girl stared at him then she shook her head. ‘I don’t know,’ she said.
‘Or don’t want to tell me?’
Her eyes sparkled with tears and Pel decided it was a sad world, with devious, dishonest parents making devious, dishonest children. How many other children were there in the world who failed to get on with their parents? Or was it a case of parents failing to get on with their children? Perhaps it was the dishonesty of the age. Perhaps if he’d had children of his own –
He stopped dead as his thoughts began to run away with him. He was nobody to criticise. He’d never even had the courage to marry.
‘I could make you tell me, you know,’ he said gently. ‘But I won’t. Did your mother know what your father got up to?’
The girl’s shoulders sagged. ‘There was talk of a divorce once. But it all died down.’
‘Why?’
‘It seemed to come right again. For a while, anyway. Then it started again.’
Pel paused. ‘Was he friendly with Madame Chenandier?’
There was a sudden stony silence then the girl answered in a sharp breathless voice. ‘That’s a mild word for what they did.’ She spoke with all the harsh disillusionment of adolescence, as if she’d suddenly discovered that all the romance she’d imagined existed had changed to harsh crudity, as if the fairy stories she’d believed in as a child had given place to cynical reality.
‘How do you know all this?’
‘I saw them. More than once.’
‘How?’
‘From my bedroom. I don’t think they ever knew I could see from the corner of my window.’
Her bitterness was sharp, even shocking, and Pel paused to let her recover a little. ‘Do you think he was there the night Madame Chenandier was murdered?’ he asked eventually.
The girl hesitated then opened the car door and climbed out as if she intended to ignore him. Then she changed her mind. ‘You’d better ask him, hadn’t you?’ she said.
‘Yes,’ Pel agreed. ‘Perhaps I had.’
Laye’s office was behind the Palace near the pedestrian precinct. A grey Mercedes that Pel recognised as Laye’s was parked outside. He studied it cautiously, almost as if it might spit in his eye. There was a briefcase on the seat, a set of maps, a few folders for Laye’s firm and one, he noticed, for Luxe Hire Cars, Paris, half-covered by a navy-blue anorak with a zip front and zips on the pockets.
Deep in thought, he lit a cigarette, unaware of what he was doing, realised as the match burned his fingers what he’d done and took the cigarette from his mouth in disgust. He was about to throw it away when he remembered how much they cost, so, sadly, he smoked it halfway down then tossed it aside, trying to believe that for once he’d fought the craving. Climbing a set of stairs, he found himself facing a door marked ‘Laye et Cie’.
‘Monsieur Laye?’ he said, pushing insid
e.
The girl behind the counter pulled a face. ‘Not possible,’ she said shortly. ‘He’s busy.’
‘Not too busy to see me.’
‘I think he is.’
Pel produced his identification card and her expression changed. ‘I’ll tell him you’re here.’
Laye’s desk was as full of gadgets, panels, buttons and lights as the dashboard of a Boeing 747 and he was answering two telephones at once when Pel appeared in his office. Without stopping talking, he gestured with his head to a chair. As Pel sat down, he brought the conversation to a close like a maestro bringing a symphony orchestra safely through the climax of a major work, and slammed the two telephones down together.
‘Pretty busy, Inspector,’ he said. ‘Hope it won’t take long.’
‘Shouldn’t,’ Pel said.
The telephone went and Laye was just reaching for it when Pel put his hand on it. ‘That is, if we’re not interrupted,’ he said.
‘I have my business to attend to.’
‘So have I.’
Laye shrugged and, switching on an intercom, spoke to the girl outside. ‘I’m in to no one, Geneviève,’ he said. ‘Not until I tell you.’
He flipped the switch and sat back in his chair. ‘Very well, Inspector,’ he said. ‘What do you want? I hope it won’t take long. With an office, a car accessory factory, a welding firm at Bazay, a garage, and five car hire firms, I’m pretty busy.’
‘So am I,’ Pel pointed out.
Laye sighed and made an effort to sound interested. ‘Have you found out anything yet?’
‘Not much,’ Pel admitted. ‘I’m still sniffing around.’
‘And me? Why do you want me?’
‘Someone was in the lane outside the Chenandier house the night of the murder,’ Pel said. ‘I wonder if you saw him.’
‘Him?’
‘It was a man. The gardener saw him.’
Laye’s eyes flickered. ‘Why would I see him?’
‘You were probably at home.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Your car was in the lane. The gardener saw it. Drawn up under the trees near your house.’
‘Doesn’t mean I was there.’
‘You entered your house at roughly the time the murder was taking place.’
‘Who says?’
‘Never mind who says.’
Laye’s face darkened. ‘Are you suggesting – ?’
‘I’m suggesting nothing,’ Pel said. ‘I asked if you saw anyone.’
‘I saw no one because I wasn’t there.’
‘Where were you?’
‘I think I walked down the lane a little. I seem to remember having a headache. It had been a tough day. We get them occasionally. You must have them yourself.’
To Pel, all days were tough days. When Madame Routy was difficult about the late film, sometimes the nights were tough as well.
He nodded. ‘Any proof of this walk?’
‘No. I’d be alone, of course.’
‘Do you often take walks when you get home?’
‘After a bad day, it helps me to settle myself before I go in. Then I don’t take it out of my wife.’
‘Your wife was playing bridge that day.’
‘Was she?’
‘Yes. She’d told you. You came home for lunch and she told you then.’
‘Then perhaps I thought she was in and wanted to be in a good mood.’
‘Do you always try to please your wife?’
‘Of course.’
‘Does she suspect that you have girlfriends?’
Laye’s head jerked up. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I think you know.’
‘Who told you that? My daughter, I suppose.’
‘I asked her.’
‘Why?’
‘As a check. I got it from another source – two, as a matter of fact. If you don’t want your affairs to be found out, you shouldn’t write notes. It isn’t hard to check handwriting. Madame Chenandier was one, wasn’t she?’
Laye looked angrily at his hands then he shrugged. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘She was.’
‘Mistress?’
‘No. just – well – she was a highly-sexed woman, and after twenty years of marriage marital sex becomes – well–’ Laye shrugged and became silent.
‘When did you go and see her? When your wife was out playing bridge and Chenandier was in Paris?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘It was unfortunate for you that your wife was playing bridge and Chenandier was in Paris when his wife was killed.’
‘Look,’ Laye said, suddenly agitated, ‘I didn’t do it.’
‘Can you prove it?’
‘No. Except that–’ Laye stopped. ‘I suppose it was the gardener who saw me. I knew Chenandier was in Paris and I’d slipped her that note. I’d been going to see her when I saw the gardener appear carrying his damned fork. I hid in the trees. I thought he hadn’t spotted me. I waited for a long time then I went for a walk down the lane and came back and tried again. But there was someone already there.’
‘What time was this?’
‘About 11.00 p.m. by this time.’
‘Did you see a car in the lane? A car that you didn’t recognise.’
‘Yes, I did.’
‘What sort was it?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Colour?’
‘I don’t know that either. Just a car. Dark-coloured.’
‘You have a Mercedes. That’s the sort of car a keen motorist would have. Are you one?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘I’d have thought a keen motorist would have noticed the make of a strange car he saw near his house.’
‘Well, I didn’t.’ Laye frowned, irritated by the questioning. ‘It was too far away. Right at the end of the lane where it narrows into a footpath. Parked under the trees. I was never near enough to see what sort of car it was in the dark.’
‘I thought you went down there. For a walk. Before going in to your wife.’
Laye gestured. ‘No,’ he admitted. ‘Actually, I just hung about in the lane, waiting for whoever it was to come out.’
‘Who was this person? Do you know?’
‘No. I could just hear voices. Once even a scream. They seemed to be quarrelling. I could hear them above that stereo she plays.’
‘What did you do?’
‘What would you do? I went home. It seemed safer. My wife was out.’
‘When she returned did you tell her that you’d heard quarrelling next door.’
‘No.’
‘Or what you’d been doing?’
Laye eyed him with his calm yellow eyes. ‘Would you?’ he said.
Leaving Laye’s office, Pel went back to headquarters, and was studying the duty lists in the outer office when Nosjean appeared, all bright-eyed and eager.
‘Well, spit it out,’ Pel said. ‘Before you burst.’
‘I checked the train, Patron,’ he said. ‘There isn’t any way at all of getting here from Paris apart from the usual trains.’
‘Who did you ask?’
‘The station. They weren’t very helpful.’
‘They never are. Why didn’t you ask Barbièry? I thought you were going to see him.’
‘He wasn’t on duty.’
‘Well, go and see him now. At home, if necessary.’
‘I’m still checking the jewellers.’ Nosjean’s protest was like the bleating of a shorn lamb.
‘You should have finished that by now,’ Pel said, unmoved.
Nosjean flapped his hands in desperation. ‘They don’t like discussing these things on the telephone, they say. They say crooks try it on occasionally to find out what they’ve got. I’m having to do it all personally.’
‘Well, what in the name of the Great Lord God of Stresses of Strains are you making such a fuss about?’
Nosjean swallowed and managed to control himself. ‘I’m not making a fuss, Chief.’
‘You mean
you can fit it all in?’
Nosjean was a born innocent. ‘Easily, Chief,’ he gritted.
‘Good.’ Pel looked up and smiled his death’s head grin. ‘Misset’s wife’s baby’s arrived and he’s got to have time off. You’d better also take over the search across the stream again for the time being.’
‘Chief – !’ As Nosjean realised what he’d done, his protest came in a cry of anguish.
But Pel wasn’t even listening. ‘You’ve got a couple of men to do the work,’ he pointed out. ‘All you’ve got to do is keep an eye on them.’
Nosjean sighed. It had been his intention to slip away early.
‘Had you something planned?’ Pel asked.
‘Yes, Patron. I was hoping to see my girl.’
‘Darcy says you should never encourage them to be demanding.’
‘She doesn’t get the chance to be demanding,’ Nosjean said bitterly. ‘I never get to see her. She’s beginning to wonder if I’m keen. She says she needs security.’
‘Security’s a habit,’ Pel said. ‘Like insecurity. If you hurry, you ought to get back before bedtime. You could slip round and see her for ten minutes.’
‘I suppose I couldn’t tackle it in the morning, could I, Patron?’
Pel didn’t turn a hair. ‘No,’ he said. ‘You couldn’t.’
Nosjean headed for the door. ‘I thought I couldn’t,’ he admitted.
Darcy appeared with his notebook in his hand. ‘You’ll drive that kid out of the Force,’ he observed.
‘Or make a policeman of him,’ Pel said. ‘I’ve got a job for you.’
Darcy affected a disbelieving look, and Pel scowled.
‘Go and see Laye,’ he said. ‘Arrange to have his clothes checked by the lab. And do it discreetly. I don’t want to start a divorce but I want them all checked. He’ll agree, I think.’
‘Right.’
‘Did you check Darcq’s story of his bet?’
‘Yes. With Crona, the bookmaker. Darcq didn’t put anything on there.’
‘Couldn’t he have put it on anywhere else?’
‘He might. But he picked the wrong day to win 3,000. Crona said there were no big winners. It was all short odds. He’d have had to put on at least l00 frs to end up with 3,000 that night. And I dare bet he hadn’t got anything like that much. It was just before pay day.’