by Mark Hebden
With a gasp, she jumped into the ditch and tried to pull the motorbicycle free but it was too heavy for her and she began to scream for help. One of her children appeared in the doorway of the house and she gestured towards the lights of the bar in the village.
‘Go and fetch Pappy,’ she yelled. ‘I need help. There’s been an accident.’
As the child bolted up the street, she turned her attention once more to the man underneath the motorbicycle. There seemed to be a great deal of torn flesh and she noticed that he was bleeding from the nose and ears, something she’d learned over the years to regard as serious. Then she realised she recognised the machine and it dawned on her she also knew the man underneath.
Since Madame Routy had no intention for this evening at least of giving way over the television, as Pel waited for Darcy, he and Didier played Scrabble in the kitchen. Inevitably, Pel lost heavily.
‘You’re not very good,’ Didier said.
‘I’m not very clever really,’ Pel pointed out.
Before they could start another game, Darcy telephoned. ‘We’re not going to see Quermel, Chief,’ he said.
‘Why not?’ Pel’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Something happened to her?’
‘No, Patron. It’s the gardener, Albertini. He’s been found with his motorbike in a ditch near his lodgings at Bazay.’
‘Murdered?’
‘No. Hit and run. It’s just come in. Pomereu, of Traffic, passed it on and the duty dogsbody took it.’
Without a second thought, Pel knew it was connected with the Chenandier case. The coincidence was just too strong to be otherwise.
‘I’ll be down,’ he said. ‘Ring Krauss and Misset. Leave messages that they’re to ring in. We’ll probably need them. And it looks like Nosjean’s going to lose his night off again.’
Darcy gave a tired sigh. ‘He’s lost it, Patron. I’ve already called him in to sit on the telephone. He should be here any time now. He didn’t sound very pleased. He was at his girlfriend’s.’
By the time Pel arrived at headquarters Nosjean had worked himself into a bitter mood. He seemed to have been on duty for ever. He’d been reaping clouds of glory by arresting somebody dangerous but now all he was doing was sitting on the end of the telephone. Somebody had to do it, of course, but nobody enjoyed the duty and it was usually given to the newest recruit – Nosjean.
He sat in the sergeants’ room and didn’t very much like what he saw. It wasn’t even a room. In fact, it was just one corner of the main office and, with its green-painted walls, grey doors, iron staircase and windows that looked out on to the Paris-Lyon railway line, it had the charm and comfort of the inside of a tank. He was laying his reports in front of Darcy as Pel headed for his office. ‘There’s a girl been attacked near the Place Clemenceau and somebody stabbed a lorry driver in a bar just off the N17. Both cases are being handled by the uniformed branch. There’s also a kid who robbed a supermarket at Talant. Lagé’s handling him. He’s just got back.’ Nosjean waved vaguely and Darcy saw the other detective leaning over a dim-looking youngster in a red tracksuit with ‘Toulouse’ in large white letters on the back.
‘That the lot?’ Darcy asked.
Nosjean frowned. ‘Apart from an English tourist who says he’s been robbed. Krauss’ got him.’
‘Where was it?’ Darcy asked.
‘The Paradiso. That’s that brothel near the Ateliers SNCF. What was he doing there?’
Darcy grinned tiredly. ‘What do you think he was doing? Or haven’t you got around to that yet?’
Nosjean blushed. ‘I meant what was an Englishman doing there.’
‘Same as the Frenchmen, I expect.’
‘No, no!’ Nosjean was growing angry. ‘I mean it’s not the sort of place to find an Englishman.’
‘Why not, for God’s sake? They’re made the same as us.’
‘I mean it’s down in the industrial zone. How did he get there?’
In fact, it hadn’t been difficult. The Englishman had met a Frenchman in a bar who’d encouraged him to go along with him. The Englishman had been hoping for a bit of fun – after all, that’s what the French got up to all the time, wasn’t it? – but, not understanding the language very well, he’d found himself instead in a third-rate brothel and had promptly been relieved of his wallet containing his French money, his English money, his traveller’s cheques, his passport, his bank card, the photo of his mother, his library ticket, his driving licence, his AA card and a letter from a travel agency indicating a booking for a hotel in Nice.
Krauss was questioning him in the corner away from the traffic, and he’d obviously decided that the Englishman was a fool. The city didn’t boast much in the way of brothels – it wasn’t Paris or Marseilles – but it had one or two unofficial ones and anybody who went poking his nose into them when he couldn’t even speak the language properly had to be a fool.
‘J’ai perdé – perdi – perdu–’ Krauss waited for him to make up his mind ‘ – mon bourse.’
‘Bourse?’
‘Yes. I mean, oui. Bourse. Purse. Wallet. Wall-it.’
Nosjean sighed and looked hopefully at Darcy. ‘When will I get a relief?’ he asked.
‘Not tonight, old son. There’s nobody to spare.’
‘What about Misset?’
‘His wife’s just had her baby. I expect he’s holding her hand and looking at it like a mare with glanders. You’ll just have to hang on.’
As Pel reappeared from his office, his pockets jammed with notebooks, pens, pencils – and spare cigarettes in case he went mad and smoked the two packets he’d been carrying when he’d arrived – he stopped and listened to Krauss questioning the boy in the red tracksuit who had robbed the supermarket.
‘I got the stuff into the Deux Chevaux through the back door,’ the boy was saying.
‘Through the back door,’ Krauss repeated.
‘I thought I could sell it at a profit.’
‘Well, since you hadn’t paid for it,’ Pel observed dryly, ‘it would be a profit, wouldn’t it?’
As the boy looked up at him, he gestured at the tracksuit. ‘Do you play for Toulouse?’
‘No. But I’m a keen supporter.’
Pel studied the tracksuit thoughtfully, then he nodded and vanished. As he passed Nosjean, the young detective gave him a bitter look. Darcy patted Nosjean’s shoulder sympathetically and followed him out. At the door he turned and indicated the telephone. ‘Don’t let it get away, mon brave,’ he said.
When they reached Bazay, Traffic was already handling the case and the village seemed to be full of dark blue vans. An ambulance was just disappearing towards the city.
Pel stared at the bent motobicyclette at the side of the road, the broken glass and the small patch of blood on the grass.
‘Dead?’ he asked.
‘No.’ Inspector Pomereu of Traffic gestured. ‘But I expect he will be soon. Either way, he’s going to be in hospital for a long time. He’s got a fractured skull and multiple injuries. I doubt if he’ll ever properly recover.’
‘No idea how it happened?’
‘None. Our chap in the village was on the spot within minutes. There was no sign of the car. The woman opposite –’ the inspector gestured at Madame Chornay standing in the middle of a group of policemen across the road, watched by her neighbours ‘ – she heard the crash. She was cooking at the time and she wiped her hands and ran out. It took her only a matter of seconds. He was lying in the ditch with the bike on top of him.’
‘Did you take photographs?’
Inspector Pomereu was a thin sallow man with a sharp alert expression. He had a reputation for missing nothing and he answered Pel tartly.
‘Of course.’
‘I shall want copies,’ Pel said.
Pomereu’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Of a traffic case?’
‘Yes.’
‘It might have been a genuine accident.’
‘And it might not.’
Pomereu studied Pel. ‘D
o you know him?’
‘Unfortunately, yes.’
‘Suspect in something you’re handling?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, you’ll not get much out of him for some time – if ever.’
Pel shrugged. ‘We’d better have somebody by his bed just in case,’ he said. ‘What about the car? No indication what it was?’
‘None. Nobody saw it. And apart from the bang, nobody heard it. There was no sign of it and there were no tyre marks.’
‘No signs of sudden braking?’
‘No.’
‘As if he simply saw him, and hit him without slowing down?’
‘It was dark.’
Pel nodded. ‘I wasn’t thinking of that,’ he said.
Sixteen
When Pel arrived at headquarters the next day, it was late. There was a note to say that Albertini had died during the night and there were copies of Inspector Pomereu’s pictures from the photographic department awaiting him. Pel read the note that accompanied them, then took the packet of pictures, opened it, studied the contents, sighed and lit a cigarette.
In the sergeants’ room, Nosjean was back on the telephone. Misset had just arrived and Nosjean was clearly buttering him up in the hope of being able to hand over the duty.
‘How’s the baby?’ he was asking.
Misset beamed. ‘Fine,’ he said.
‘And the wife?’
‘Also fine.’
‘You on duty?’
‘No.’
‘Oh!’ Nosjean’s bright friendly expression vanished and Misset grinned.
‘Why?’ he asked. ‘Were you expecting me to relieve you?’
‘I thought someone might,’ Nosjean said bitterly.
As Pel crept past to his office, he saw that the English tourist was back complaining that he hadn’t yet had his wallet returned.
‘It contained my French money, my English money, my traveller’s cheques, my passport, my driving licence–’
Krauss was looking hopefully around for someone who could speak English better than he could.
‘Yes, Monsieur,’ he said. ‘We have all that.’
‘I must say, I don’t think much of your city. I get talking to a perfectly respectable Frenchman and get myself robbed.’
‘You went with him of your own accord, Monsieur.’
The Englishman avoided the point. ‘Ever since I got here I’ve had people trying to put one across me. There was even this damn man in the carpark trying to get into my car.’
‘Which man?’
‘I don’t know. Tall chap. Looked like an Italian.’
Pel stopped. ‘You say he was trying to get into your car, Monsieur?’ he asked in English.
The Englishman brightened. Obviously at last someone with some intelligence and authority was taking notice.
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘He had the door open?’
‘No. But he was prowling round, examining it – looking for a chance to get it open, I expect.’
Pel fished in the packet he was carrying and laid a photograph on the desk. ‘Would that be the man, Monsieur?’
The Englishman looked up, startled by Pel’s sudden interest. Then he gazed at the photograph. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It would. But he looks different in this.’
‘But, of course,’ Pel said. ‘He’s dead.’
The Englishman’s jaw dropped. ‘Oh! What happened?’
‘An accident. Did you speak to him?’
‘Yes. I asked him what he was after.’
‘And what did he say?’
‘Just that he was interested in my car. He asked me if I was from Paris. When I said I wasn’t he asked if the car parked next to me was from Paris.’
‘Is that all he asked?’
‘Yes.’
Pel looked at Darcy then back at the salesman. ‘What exactly was he examining on your car? The engine? The tyres? The contents? The bodywork?’
‘No.’ The Englishman looked puzzled. ‘The number plate.’
Reaching his office, Pel sat down in a thoughtful mood. Finishing the reports and the duty lists, he saw Sergeant Krauss and Sergeant Misset and fended off the indignant Nosjean who was determined to put in a complaint, then he reached for the telephone. The operator answered and Pel pulled forward his notebook.
‘Keep this line clear,’ he said. ‘I have several long-distance calls to make.’
When Darcy arrived, Pel had finished his telephoning and was sitting quietly behind his desk, browsing through Nosjean’s report on Barbièry.
‘The lad said you wanted to see me, Chief.’
‘That’s right. I want you along with me. We’re going to the Chenandier house.’
‘To see Quermel?’
Pel didn’t answer and Darcy didn’t press him. They had both been up into the early hours of the morning and were both tired. They walked silently through the outer office and down the steps to the carpark. Neither of them spoke on the drive out to Aigunay and, stopping the car in the Chemin de Champ-Loups, they climbed out in silence and walked up the drive. They could see Odile Chenandier in the kitchen talking to Madame Quermel but, to Darcy’s surprise, instead of heading for the door, Pel walked past the house and headed for the garden. Watched by the two women through the kitchen window, they moved across the lawn to the ivy-covered sheds by the stream. Followed by the puzzled Darcy, Pel pushed inside the one where the gardener had made a habit of eating his meal and began to peer at Albertini’s wall scribblings. They had been added to over a long time and many of them had been written at an angle over earlier ones. There were a lot of crossings out and several were smudged by muddy fingermarks.
‘What are we looking for, Patron?’ Darcy said.
‘A number.’
‘Telephone number?’
‘No.’
Pel was in his secretive mood so Darcy didn’t press the point. Eventually Pel wrote something in his notebook, peered at the wall again, checked what he saw among the mass of scribblings with what he’d written, then backed out of the shed.
‘What now, Patron?’ Darcy said ‘Quermel?’
‘No,’ Pel said. ‘I have other things to do.’
‘Shall I see her for you?’
Pel shook his head. ‘Leave her for the time being,’ he said.
‘We’ll talk to her tonight. Late. In the meantime, have that lot photographed.’
‘Which lot, Chief?’
Pel gestured at the scribblings. ‘That lot,’ he said. ‘All of it. And make sure they make a good job of it. It’s evidence.’
Darcy stared at the wall. ‘What of, Chief?’
‘A tidy mind,’ Pel said.
Still puzzled, Darcy drove Pel back to the city. At headquarters, Pel disappeared into his own office and closed the door. Recognising his wish to be alone, Darcy headed for the sergeants’ room. Nosjean’s dulcet obbligato was still filling the air with his woes.
‘I was here half the night,’ he was complaining. ‘I feel dead.’
‘You look it,’ Darcy said unsympathetically.
‘My girl’s threatened to chuck me. We were just in a clinch when you phoned.’
‘Horrible.’ Darcy shuddered. ‘Shatters your nerves, that sort of thing. Like stopping taking opium.’
Nosjean scowled. ‘You’re pulling my leg,’ he said.
‘I know.’ Darcy grinned. ‘I hope some swine knocks me over the head with a blackjack so you’ll be able to tell everybody what a rat I am.’ He glanced towards Pel’s office. ‘Wonder what the old bastard’s up to now.’
The ‘old bastard’ was on the telephone to Inspector Pomereu of Traffic. His eyes were glittering and he kept nodding as if at the back of his mind the tumblers of a combination lock were falling into place.
‘That hit and run last night,’ he was saying. ‘I think I know where you can find the car.’
Pomereu sounded startled. ‘Somebody you know?’ he asked.
‘I think so.’
‘The
n we’d better go and see the owner, hadn’t we? Quick.’
‘No,’ Pel said. ‘Don’t go near the owner. Just check the car, that’s all, and report back to me.’
‘What are we looking for?’
‘Red paint. There ought to be some on it from the motorbike the Italian rode. Just quietly sniff round it and ring me back. I think you’ll find it in the carpark at this address–’
Pomereu’s reply hadn’t come when Pel left the office and he had to leave a message for it to be put through to his home. But nothing had arrived by dinnertime so, taking a glass of wine into the garden, he tried to relax and even fell into a doze. Unfortunately Madame Routy elected to do the ironing on the terrasse, assisted by Didier, two neighbours and their children, and as it dawned on her where Pel was, she shrieked a warning in a piercing whisper. ‘Be quiet,’ she yelled. ‘He’s asleep!’ It was enough to wake the dead.
By the late evening, Pel was fretful and fidgety and when eventually Inspector Pomereu was put through he snatched at the telephone as though he were expecting the news of an invasion from outer space.
‘Where the devil have you been?’
The voice at the other end was calm and unperturbed. ‘Looking for the car.’
‘I gave you the exact place!’
A faint hint of superiority came down the line. ‘Indeed you did. But it wasn’t there.’
‘It wasn’t?’ Pel felt his heart thud into the pit of his stomach. ‘Where’s it got to then?’
‘Don’t get alarmed.’ Pomereu’s self-satisfaction literally oozed from the telephone. ‘We found it. The chap who keeps an eye on the cars told us. It was in a little garage on the Lyon road. It’s been used before and the carpark attendant once delivered it there for the owner. A couple of brothers called Orbeaux run it. It’s part of the Laye outfit. They’re not particular how they get their money, and they admitted accepting 5,000 frs to do the job and say nothing.’
‘What was the job?’
‘What you expected. Broken headlight glass, scratch marks on the right wing and fender. There was a lot of red paint.’