by Mark Hebden
‘But we’ve got them all, Patron.’
‘I wonder if we have.’
‘Don’t you think we have?’
‘There’s one thing we haven’t found out yet. And that’s why?’
‘Why?’
‘I thought,’ Madame Pel said, ‘that the taxi-driver was killed because he’d learned that those three were responsible for killing the six men in Marseilles and the doctor because he’d guessed.’
‘Yes,’ Pel agreed. ‘That’s true, but nobody’s found out yet why those three killed the six in Nice. We’ve got a pretty shrewd idea, mind. Smuggling. And, after all, you don’t kill six men for a smuggled typewriter, a radio or a bicycle. For that matter, nor do you kill for wool, wood, or wheat, watches or scientific or optical instruments. These days drugs are the biggest thing there is. The profits are enormous and to some people well worth taking a risk for. Marseilles has always been a good inlet into France. We also,’ he pointed out, ‘haven’t yet found out who told Riccio he’d been seen and who was the third man in the boat. It’s my guess they’re the same persons.’
With some reluctance, Pel faced the paper work again. A new brigadier and a new constable were due to arrive in two days time and the rest of the policemen on the island, having seen what had happened to Beauregard, were very much on their toes and eager to help. Doubtless, Pel suspected, they too had taken bribes in their time – it was hard not to, when the man at the top was doing it – but he had a suspicion that they’d received a nasty jolt and wouldn’t do it again.
By the afternoon, however, he had been reduced to a foul temper by the number of forms he’d had to fill in, and was just staring at the desk and wondering sourly if he dared light another cigarette because he’d already, he felt sure, smoked half a million since breakfast, when De Troq’ put his head round the door.
‘Someone to see you,’ he said.
‘I’m too busy to see anyone.’
‘I think you’d better see this type.’
It turned out to be Lesage.
‘Well?’ Pel snapped.
It was ungracious of him, he knew, but he wasn’t feeling in a particularly gracious mood.
‘I’ve got something to show you,’ Lesage said.
‘Such as what?’
‘You’d better come and see. I left it where it was because I thought that’s what you’d want.’
Pel glanced at De Troq’ then back at Lesage. ‘Where is it?’ he asked.
‘At that cottage belonging to the Vésins. We’ve just found it.’
Pel glanced again at De Troq’ and rose to his feet. ‘Let’s go,’ he said.
Lesage drove them in his battered car up the slope from the town. The smoke had stopped by this time and a lonely fireman, whom Pel recognised as Desplanques, was poking about among the cooling remains of the cottage.
‘There wasn’t much that could be saved from inside,’ Lesage said. ‘It’s all charred wood and fabric. The garage just contained a few scorched tools, a rusty lawn mower and something else. You’d better have a look.’
He led them round the back of the house and kicked open the scorched door of the garage. Inside among the fallen timbers, they immediately realised why he’d considered what he’d found was important. Lying in a corner where it had been hidden by boxes which had been yanked aside by the firemen was a Rapido Miniature coffee machine, blackened by smoke, its red paint blistered by the heat. Lesage moved several boxes to produce two more.
‘Coffee-making machines?’ Pel said. ‘Three of them? Why three? Why would an elderly couple from Nice want three coffee-making machines? And why hide them? Contact them, De Troq’. Let’s hear what they have to say.’
By means of the radio, they learned that the Vésins knew nothing of any coffee-making machines. They didn’t possess even one, let alone three.
‘Were they Oudry’s, Patron?’ De Troq’ asked. ‘He had a key. The Vésins admit he did. Is that what he was looking for?’
‘Why not?’ Pel said. ‘I suspect we know now who passed on to Riccio the information that he’d been seen by Caceolari. Who was with Riccio that night? Maquin and one other. The Robles woman knew Caceolari had seen guns because he told her so. Caceolari’s wife also knew he’d seen something because he told her. But Madame Caceolari didn’t know it was guns. And she and the Robles woman weren’t in contact with each other. So the only other person who could know anything would be Caceolari’s sister, Madame Oudry. Madame Caceolari went to see her more than once a week.’
Pel was silent for a while. ‘Oudry was a drinking friend of Riccio’s and if Madame Caceolari mentioned to her sister-in-law something about Riccio being seen with two other men that night they came back from the mainland, it’s not unreasonable to imagine that Madame Oudry would mention it sooner or later in all innocence to her husband. And, if Oudry were the third man, then he’d immediately pass it on to Riccio and Maquin because it was obviously essential that Caceolari’s tongue had to be stopped. And, if you remember, when Riccio’s boat came back that night, it dropped the guns then went off north. Of course it did. It went to Biz to drop Oudry. It begins to look as if Riccio and his friends were not only prepared for a small sum to bump off the people who were cheating Tagliatti but that they were prepared to cheat him a little themselves – free. I suppose it’s what’s known as honour among thieves. Bring him in. He paused. ‘And while we’re at it,’ he ended, ‘we might as well do the job properly. Just nip along and bring in our friend, Billy the Burner. You know who I mean.’
With Oudry in a cell in the police station and Pel once more filling in the necessary papers. De Troq’ waited in Hell’s Half-Acre with a drink in front of him. Eventually he saw a figure on a blue two-stroke motor cycle coming along the harbour from the garage. He rose and waved a hand and the blue motor cycle stopped. On the rear pillion was strapped a tightly-fastened can.
‘What’s in that?’ he asked.
The rider smiled. ‘Paraffin,’ he said.
‘What for?’
‘Madame Ferre. She lives at the back of the Port.’
‘Why can’t she fetch it herself?’
‘She fell and broke her ankle. I help Lesage in my spare time. My round only takes me to the middle of the afternoon. Then I help him. Everybody does two jobs here.’
‘You’ve done several, though, haven’t you?’ De Troq’ said.
‘Several what?’
‘Several jobs. Since we arrived, that is, and God knows how many before. It was you who set that cottage on fire last night, wasn’t it?’
‘Me? No.’
De Troq’ smiled. ‘Apart from the estate agent who handles the lets and the owners themselves,’ he said, ‘I can’t think of anyone who would know better than the postman when the cottages are empty. You’ve been going at it a bit too enthusiastically just lately, my friend. Whose house was it to be tonight?’
Twenty-one
Pel was in a thoughtful mood as he walked to the booking office for the ferry to Calvi.
The ship was already in, and already crowded with the islanders who were clambering on board carrying suitcases, cartons, baskets, bags, even the inevitable crate of chickens. Gnarled brown hands pushed screwed-up bundles of notes through the hatch at the booking clerk and he was already in a bad temper as he tried to peel them apart.
‘Is this how you always carry your money around?’ he growled at one boy.
‘Yes,’ the boy answered cheerfully. ‘The tighter you screw them up, the less room they take in your pocket.’
Pel waited until the queue had disappeared before approaching to ask what time the boat left.
‘Ten o’clock,’ the clerk said. ‘Arrives four o’clock.’
‘Every day?’
‘Every single one.’
‘And return?’
‘They cross. The Calvi ferry arrives here seven-thirty in the evening. Leaves Calvi at one-thirty.’
‘Eat on board?’
‘Drink, too. I don�
�t recommend the meals, mind. Judging by the taste, they’re prepared by a type who probably has one arm, no sense of smell and cross eyes. The wine tastes like a paperhanger’s adhesive. If I have to go I take a sandwich and a bottle of beer.’
The clerk was obviously a cynic.
Returning to the Dupont house, Pel found Madame in the kitchen preparing dinner in a state of bemused delight.
‘The Duponts came,’ she said. ‘They’d heard about the arrests and wanted to know when we’d be leaving. I told them not yet. They seemed a bit down in the mouth.’
Pel smiled. ‘We’re going to Calvi tomorrow,’ he said.
‘By boat?’
‘Of course.’
Remembering how little he’d enjoyed the last boat trip, Madame was, to say the least, suspicious but she was getting to know her Evariste Clovis Désiré, so she said nothing and quietly made her preparations.
Seeing De Troq’ off to the mainland with Oudry, Babin and a large carton containing the three coffee machines they’d found, they caught the ferry the following morning. By the grace of God, the sun was out but though the sea was like a millpond Pel still managed to feel queasy.
Most of the time he sat deep in thought. Madame didn’t interrupt him but sat happily alongside him, knitting and humming to herself.
‘Rosalie. Elle est partie
En chemise de nuit
Dans un taxi–’
The banality of the words suddenly penetrated Pel’s thoughts. ‘Where did you learn that?’ he demanded.
She gave him a wide contented smile. ‘I don’t know. I pick them up.’
He disappeared behind his face again as his thoughts took over once more. Madame held up the knitting.
‘Do you like it?’ she asked. ‘It’s a sweater for you to wear in the evening when you’ve finished work.’
He tried to sound enthusiastic but he knew he’d never wear it. Whatever the time of day, Pel always remained properly dressed, usually in a suit. Normally it looked as though it had been slept in, though now he was married, he thought, his clothes would be pressed and he’d become the pride and joy of the Police Judiciaire. Perhaps, even, the Tailors’ and Cutters’ Association would give him a prize as the best-dressed policeman in France.
‘It’ll help you to relax,’ Madame added. ‘In Monaco and St Trop’ men even have play clothes.’
Pel nodded. He was already learning to listen with one half of his brain and think with the other. ‘My play clothes,’ he observed, ‘are when I take my jacket off.’
The sun was hot as the ferry came alongside at Calvi and the first thing that seemed to be necessary was a drink. They took it in a bar overlooking the sea and, to Madame’s surprise, Pel settled for a coffee.
‘Not a beer?’ she asked.
‘I fancy a coffee,’ he said.
She didn’t argue, especially when she noticed that the coffee came from one of the Rapido Mini machines. The barman placed it on the table and allowed them to help themselves.
‘Barmen seem to be growing incredibly lazy these days,’ Madame complained. ‘Everybody seems to have these things.’
It didn’t escape her notice that Pel became heavily involved in a conversation with the barman and very quickly discovered which of the neighbouring houses was the Vicomte’s. It was a wide verandahed place with frescoed walls surrounded by pines and cypresses and it had its own small jetty running out into the bay.
‘Very useful for getting ashore quickly,’ Pel commented.
It also didn’t take him long to find out the name of the local agents for the coffee machines.
‘Guardaluccis’,’ the barman said. ‘Just up the road. The name’s on the door. They’ll sell you one. Knock a bit off, too, if you ask nicely.’
Madame followed Pel up the dusty road. She felt a bit like the wife in the Jacques Tati film, Monsieur Hulot’s Holiday, but she didn’t complain. She suspected that her Pel was up to no good and she was intrigued to find out what it was.
They were met at the door of Guardaluccis’ by a bright young man in horn-rimmed glasses who agreed to show them round. There were several benches and on all of them girls were assembling the red machines. Along the benches were red-painted panels, nuts, screws, wires, heating elements and tubes.
‘It’s the same principle exactly as the big machines,’ the bright young man said.
‘These days I notice remarkably few big ones,’ Madame Pel said tartly. ‘Especially in restaurants. They all seem to be little ones like these that you have to operate yourself.’
The young man smiled. ‘Well, they have rather caught on,’ he admitted. ‘It’s the thing these days to let people help themselves. It makes them think they’re getting more for their money and does away with the extra help that’s needed.’
‘Where are they made?’ Pel asked.
‘Sicily. Place called Ferno, close to Catania. Do you know Sicily, Monsieur?’
Pel didn’t and he was too interested in other things to enquire about it. ‘How do they get here then?’ he asked. ‘Through Genoa?’
‘They come up the length of Italy and pass across the Tyrrhenian from Piombino to Portoferraio in Elba and from there to Bastia. And from there to the mainland of Europe. Switzerland and France chiefly, though we’re selling them now in the north – Holland, Belgium, even a few in Scandinavia.’
‘So why are they here?’
‘For Southern France, Monsieur. They come over the mountains to us by ordinary tourist bus. Just cartons of parts placed among the tourists’ luggage. It’s cheap. They’re not big or heavy and they travel for practically nothing. We assemble them here and send them to Monaco, Cannes, Toulon, and other places.’
‘But not to Marseilles or Nice?’
‘No, Monsieur. For Nice and Marseilles they go via the Ile de St Yves. Our agent for that area’s the Vicomte de la Rochemare. He buys other things from this island and was able to get the concession without trouble.’
They spent the night at a hotel recommended by the young man who sold the Rapidos. The menu wasn’t much to write home about and there was nothing to do after dinner except watch the television. It turned out to be Dallas.
‘I’ve seen this one,’ Madame said. ‘What’s on the other programme?’
The waiter grinned. ‘Dallas, Madame,’ he said. ‘We get our programmes from France, Italy, Switzerland, Spain and Austria and they all show Dallas. You can get it almost every night of the week here.’
Madame Routy, Pel decided, would have loved Corsica, and it seemed less wearing to go for a walk by the harbour where, Madame noticed, Pel seemed inordinately interested in the Vicomte’s house.
The next day was spent in a hired car exploring the mountains where the flowers were running riot. It was hot and they found a small farm where they had an excellent lunch with a local wine at what Pel considered a give-away price, walked together under the trees, cooled their feet in a mountain stream, then drove back to Calvi, turned in the hired car and caught the afternoon boat back to the Ile de St Yves.
As they returned in the cool of the evening, the sun like a bronze ball in the sky, Pel was quiet. His wife sat alongside him in the sunshine, saying nothing. She had discovered that when Pel was unnaturally silent it was a good thing for her to be silent too. She didn’t mind. She admired him for his sense of duty and the intensity with which he tackled anything, feeling that if he tackled his marriage with the same intensity it had a good chance of working.
De Troq’ was waiting with the Duponts’ Peugeot and as they drove to Hell’s Half Acre for a drink, he nodded to three holidaymakers with knapsacks, tents and hiking boots who were just preparing to leave the square on hired motor cycles.
‘Ledoyer, Berthelot and Morel,’ he said. ‘It was decided in Nice and Marseilles that we’re on to something. Riccio and his pals still aren’t talking and they’re asking themselves in Nice the same questions we’re asking here. They thought we should have a little hired help.’ He indicated a large
envelope. ‘All in here, Patron,’ he went on. ‘Forensic Lab’s report on those three coffee machines we found. It was just as you thought. They’d been sealed with wax. To stop the smell. There were still traces of it on the joints of the upright column.’
‘Right,’ Pel said. ‘We’ll deal with it tomorrow.’
De Troq’ didn’t argue. He’d returned from the mainland with a bunch of female tourists from England and since he was brisk, arrogant, handsome, and had a title – and looked as if he had – one of them had fallen for him hook, line and sinker.
Most of the following morning was spent telephoning Inspector Maillet in Marseilles. Still nobody was talking but Madeleine Rou had told Maillet that she thought the heroin she’d been trying to hand over had come from the Ile de St Ives. By this time it seemed obvious that this was the case and, driving the Duponts’ car into the mountains, they found the three Marseilles cops sitting outside their tent. Morel was pressing wild flowers in a contraption made of plywood. He explained that he was doing it because his wife used them to make postcards and was making quite a nice line of it for the gift shops, thank you. It cost him nothing and the results helped to buy the baby a new bib. He’d worked with the drugs squad and knew his facts.
‘Heroin comes from opium,’ he said. ‘It’s made into a morphine base and turned into heroin by the buyer. It needs a lot of expertise and no two chemists get the same degree of purity. But wholesalers demand high standards because they like to stretch it for extra profit with milk powder, sleeping pills and strychnine, and a gram of heroin in the street can contain no more than ten per cent of the original pure heroin. And since it’s never known what the buyer’s used to stretch it, too much can mean death. Heroin does nobody any good but the dealer.’
On the return journey to the Vieux Port, they discussed the ramifications of the case.
‘Tagliatti’s in it, that’s for sure,’ De Troq’ said. ‘And he knows Rambert. I dare bet he’s also involved in that murder of Boris de Fé two years ago and De Fé was involved with this guy Hoff over that phoney insurance and the group of petrol stations he got in Paris.