by Mark Hebden
‘Where did these 6.35s come from, do you think?’
‘Could be anywhere but–’ Darcy fished among the papers on his desk ‘–a consignment of 6.35s from Fabrique d’Armes Automatiques de St Etienne’s just gone missing on the way to Paris.’ He tossed down a sheet. ‘It came in a week or two ago.’
‘What do Forensic Ballistics say?’
‘They haven’t finished yet. They’ll let us know.’
‘Can Bardolle handle it for the time being?’
‘Yes. I’ve got the boys out there searching the place still. Until they’ve finished there’s not much we can do.’
‘Right. So for the moment let’s go and see the De Mougy staff. We can’t leave that too long in case whoever was involved gets busy working out an alibi.’
There seemed an incredible number of people at the château at Mirebeau to look after a family of two. The Baronne had done her duty and provided the Baron with a son who was away at school so that the château was occupied – when they weren’t living in their apartment in Dijon or the chalet in Switzerland or the house they owned on the Promenade des Anglais in Nice – only by the Baron and his wife. But it wasn’t a big château – nothing like Bussy-Rabutin or Ancyle-Franc or the châteaux of the Loire – and there had been no question of it being allowed to decay.
The Baron’s butler let them in. He obviously didn’t approve of them. Police tramping round the château could get the place a bad reputation. Pel returned his icy look with a glare. Pel wasn’t very big or very prepossessing and, with his eccentricities, could well be considered a subject for being locked away somewhere quiet, but he was never one to be put on. Especially by a butler. Or for that matter a baron either. He wasn’t a Socialist who objected to people with wealth or even to people like butlers living on the outgoings from wealth. He wasn’t politically inclined at all, in fact, and considered all politicians – if they weren’t crooks – to be half-witted. But he didn’t like self-importance and he made it clear to the butler that he was in danger of being charged under the Penal Code of obstructing the police in the performance of their duties. After that the butler became more helpful and produced a full list of the staff, together with their ages and length of service and a résumé of their backgrounds.
Pel studied it carefully. ‘You’ve missed one,’ he pointed out.
The butler studied the list. ‘I don’t think so, Monsieur,’ he said coldly.
‘Yes,’ Pel insisted. ‘You. What’s your name?’
The butler sniffed. ‘Algieri,’ he said. ‘Hubert Algieri.’
Pel’s head jerked up. ‘That’s not a local name.’
‘No, sir. My family comes from Marseilles.’
Pel added the name to the list. ‘Age?’
‘Fifty-one.’
‘Length of service?’
‘I came here as a young footman. I was nineteen at the time.’
Only three of the staff had not been with the Baron for most of their lives – one of the under-gardeners, a scullery maid and Josso, the chauffeur. The scullery maid, who was seventeen, was a country girl who was terrified of being put in prison. But you could never tell these days, Pel thought bitterly. She might well be the mistress of Maurice Tagliatti or Pépé le Cornet’s kid sister. After all, everybody watched television and, since these things were possible in the minds of script writers, people went out of their way to make them possible in reality. The under-gardener, a thin man with a face like a ferret, looked so evil that it would have been easy to charge him on the spot with conspiracy, but it was never as simple as that. He was probably as honest as the day was long because appearances were nothing to go by and one of the biggest con men Pel had ever come across had had a face so innocent he was in the habit of posing as a priest.
It looked like being a long haul.
Stomping through the hall, Pel gestured. ‘I’d like somewhere we can talk to the staff,’ he announced curtly.
Algieri’s eyebrows raised. ‘Talk to the staff?’ he said.
‘It’s usual when there’s been a robbery.’
‘I don’t think you’ll find any member of this staff involved in it, sir.’
‘I’ll be the judge of that,’ Pel snapped.
Algieri sketched what was nearly a shrug. ‘You’d better use my sitting room,’ he said. ‘I can occupy myself for a while.’
‘After we’ve talked to you.’
‘Me, Monsieur?’
‘You can be first.’
They worked through the staff carefully, concentrating, after Algieri, on those who hadn’t been long at the château.
Algieri himself answered their questions carefully, giving a great deal of thought to them in a way that had Pel on the edge of his chair with impatience.
‘How long had you known the Baron would be going to Deauville?’ he asked.
‘Two months, Monsieur. The Baron always informed me first.’
‘After you, who else did he tell?’
‘Madame Gracy, the housekeeper, of course.’
‘What about the estate manager?’
‘The Baron manages the estate himself.’
‘What about the Baronne’s personal maid?’ Pel glanced at the list he’d acquired. ‘Suzy Vince. She’d be informed, of course, wouldn’t she?’
‘Of course. But not immediately. Her interest would be solely in the clothes the Baronne would be taking with her.’
‘And the jewels?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘The jewels. She’d know about those, too, wouldn’t she?’
‘Ah! Of course.’
‘Where are the jewels kept?’
‘In the safe, monsieur. It’s a very good safe, I can promise you.’
‘Who has the key?’
‘It’s a combination.’
‘Who knows it besides the Baron?’
‘Nobody, Monsieur. The Baron’s a very cautious man. He was a leader of the Resistance during the war and learned to keep secrets. The habit’s remained with him.’
‘Surely the Baronne would know?’ Pel was banking on the idea that the Baronne might have communicated it to her maid.
‘No, Monsieur. The Baronne does not know. She always has to ask the Baron for her jewels and he always fetches them personally for her.’
‘But the maid would know what the Baronne was taking with her, wouldn’t she? She’d wish to know, because of the clothes that would be worn with them.’
‘The other way round, I think, Monsieur. The jewels are worn to match the clothes, not the clothes to match the jewels. The Baronne has great taste and she’s a very beautiful woman.’
‘I know the Baronne,’ Pel snapped.
Well enough, in fact, to wonder if she could have tipped somebody off. If she was devious enough to have an affair with someone, as she had, was she also devious enough to insure the jewels privately under a false name and then arrange to have them stolen and handed back to her? It wasn’t a bad idea. The insurance money and the sale of the jewels afterwards – because she’d have to sell them – could bring in a small fortune.
Algieri insisted on being present when other members of the staff were interviewed. It was in the Baron’s interest, he said. Pel didn’t argue.
Josso, the chauffeur, seemed to have an impeccable background, with a whole array of references. The butler, the housekeeper and Suzy Vince, the personal maid, seemed so loyal it was painful; while the under-gardener with the evil face turned out to be simple-minded; and the scullery maid burst into tears and had to be allowed to go.
When they returned to the Hôtel de Police, De Troquereau was in the yard talking to Prélat, of Fingerprints. In front of them, propped against the wall, was the green bicycle used by the man who had stopped the Baron de Mougy and his wife.
‘How did you get on?’ Pel asked.
De Troq’ looked round. ‘Oh, no problems,’ he said.
‘At the hotel, I mean,’ Pel said maliciously.
De Troq’ frowned. �
�No problems, Patron.’
‘Sleep well?’
‘Excellently.’
It turned out that De Troq’ had reconnoitred the ground better than Pel had. He had noticed the church clock very quickly and had found, instead of the main hotel, an annexe at the bottom of the garden with a room on the far side that looked over the river.
‘Why, Patron?’ he asked, smiling. ‘Did the bells worry you?’
Pel scowled. ‘Let’s get on,’ he said, indicating the bicycle. ‘Any dabs?’
Prélat shrugged. ‘Just the kid’s I told you about, Patron,’ he said.
‘It’s got a name, Intrépide, on the frame,’ De Troq’ added. ‘Some kid who likes to think he’s riding it in the Tour de France, I suppose. We’ve also found a number under the saddle. It’s not very clear but I think it’s 784326. It’s hard to tell. Do we put it out to the press and appeal for the owner?’
Pel frowned. The De Mougy robbery was big-time and the people who’d planned it were equally big. It would pay to tread warily.
‘Not yet,’ he said. ‘It’ll be stolen. They wouldn’t use one that could be traced to them. Let’s wait and see if anyone turns up asking for it. This was a planned job and those boys who stopped De Mougy and his wife knew they had those jewels with them when they left for Deauville. We have to find the connection. Have you tried Georges Ballentou?’
They all knew Georges Ballentou. Every police force had its Georges Ballentou – someone they were always arresting but someone for whom they managed somehow to maintain a certain amount of respect. Ballentou was – or had been – a criminal, but never a dangerous one, and he was a man who always accepted his punishment without whining, was always polite and never gave trouble, and he was a man moreover who managed to have a sense of humour.
‘Ballentou’s going straight, Patron,’ Darcy pointed out.
‘Do they ever go straight?’ Pel growled. As far as criminals were concerned, Pel was an arch-cynic.
‘Armed robbery’s not the sort of thing he went in for.’
‘He did once.’
‘He was pushed into it by that type he was working with.’
‘He was a busy little burglar in his day, though, wasn’t he? He’s spent a lot of time inside.’
‘Not for two years, Patron. I think his spirit’s broken. His wife died while he was doing his last stretch. Cancer. And now his daughter’s just died, too. Soon after he got out. Effects of drugs. She got on them while he was in jail. They knocked a bit off so he could be with her at the end. He blames himself, because he wasn’t in a position to help her. It’s what made him go straight.’
Pel gestured. ‘Bring him in all the same,’ he said.
Ballentou was a small man with a long face, and sad bloodhound eyes outlined with purple circles. He stood up politely as Pel and Darcy appeared.
‘Why have you brought me in?’ he asked. ‘I’ve done nothing.’
‘Gone out of business, have you?’ Pel asked.
‘For good.’
Pel waved to him to sit down and perched on the edge of the table. ‘Know Quigny, Georges?’ he asked.
‘Of course I know Quigny. My wife came from round there. We lived there for a while. What are you after?’
‘There’s been a bit of trouble there,’ Darcy said.
‘What sort?’
‘Armed hold-up. Baron de Mougy lost the family jewels.’
‘Well, it wasn’t me. It’s not the sort of thing I go in for.’
‘You did once, Georges.’
Ballentou looked sullen. ‘That was the only time and I didn’t pull the trigger. I’ve never used a gun since.’
‘All right, Georges, I’ll take your word for it.’ Pel offered cigarettes and Ballentou took one. ‘I’m sorry about your daughter.’
Ballentou’s eyes flickered, then he shrugged. ‘That’s the way it goes, isn’t it? She got in with a stupid lot who introduced her to drugs. Soft ones, of course. No harm, they said. But that’s how it starts, isn’t it? Soft ones lead to hard ones, and somebody was quick to supply her.’
‘All the same, I’m sorry. You’ve never given us much trouble.’
Ballentou managed a smile. ‘Except for a bit of breaking and entering now and then.’
‘We always knew it was you, Georges.’
‘At least I was tidy. I never wrecked the places I worked over.’
‘Pity you wasted so many years doing something you weren’t very good at.’
Ballentou smiled again. ‘Perhaps if I’d realised a bit earlier,’ he said, ‘I might have tried something else.’
‘You were good with electricity.’
‘I wasn’t thinking of electricity. I was thinking of bank robberies.’ Ballentou’s sad smile came again. ‘Only I never had that much courage and guns scared the living daylights out of me.’ He gestured. ‘All the same, I’m told you can get used to them if you try. You never know, if I’d tried I might have been good at it.’
‘Come off it, Georges,’ Darcy said. ‘It was never your scene.’
‘Perhaps not. So why did you bring me in? Surely not to discuss what I might have been? I might have stood for the district in the House of Representatives if I’d given it my attention. I might even have been President of France.’ Ballentou’s smile came again. It was a frail sort of smile but it was sweet and gentle and genuine.
‘Know where Maurice Tagliatti’s operating these days, Georges?’
‘Is that what you’re after? Information?’
‘It might be. You’re far from stupid – except about being dishonest – and you’ve been inside. People who’ve been inside hear lots of things from other people who’ve been inside with them. A lot of plans are made inside. People inside don’t have much else to do except make plans. What about Maurice? Heard anything of him lately?’
‘I never worked for Maurice Tagliatti. He’s big-time. Casinos chiefly.’
‘Jewels, too, Georges. Where’s he operating these days?’
‘Where he’s always operated, I suppose. Nice. Marseilles. South coast. It’s a long time since he had any interests round here.’
‘He ran a wine business and used to come up here to buy his stocks.’
‘Not lately. He’s acquired a taste for the dolce vita. He stays where it’s comfortable.’
And where the pickings were good, Pel thought. Where the jet-set operated, people with more money than was good for them, people like De Mougy who had enough possessions to be careless about them. Ballentou was right. Maurice Tagliatti, with whom Pel had tangled on more than one occasion, preferred these days to live the velvet life. He was more than likely driving a Cadillac with a bright little thing alongside him swathed in mink and dripping in diamonds.
‘What about Pépé le Cornet?’ he asked.
‘Now you’re talking,’ Ballentou said. ‘It’s more his line.’
‘What about that type who used to work for him? A strong-arm boy. Pépé began trusting him with jobs. Only he wasn’t as clever as Pépé thought and he did a stretch for a bank robbery when he was a bit careless.’
‘Nick the Greek.’
‘That’s the one.’ Why did all Greeks seem to be called Nicou, Nicos, Nicolaou, Nicolaidis or Nicopopoulos, so that they all carried the same nom de guerre? ‘Nicopopoulos. Arion Nicopopoulos. Likes guns. Mixed up in those hold-ups near Rheims. Where’s he? He’s disappeared.’
Ballentou shrugged. ‘He was never picked up for the robberies. I expect he’s in Rheims.’
‘He could be here, too.’ Pel paused. ‘He was never slow to use a gun. Know anyone else who uses a gun? We’ve heard that a consignment from Fabriques d’Armes Automatiques de St Etienne has disappeared in Paris. Heard anything about that?’
‘Not till you just told me.’
‘Who took it?’
‘I can guess, but it would be worth my life to tell you.’
‘Was it Pépé le Cornet’s lot?’
‘You said it, not me. What are you aft
er?’
‘A gun was pointed,’ Darcy said. ‘Some type’s also been pulling triggers round Montenay.’
‘Who’re you thinking of? Apart from Nick the Greek?’
‘I’m thinking of Patrice Trafault. Known as Pat Boum – Pat the Bang. Good with clockwork. Explosives expert. Likes guns and armed robberies. He was in when you were in. Same time as Nick. He came out a fortnight ago. Same time as Richard Selva, who was sent down for handling drugs.’
Ballentou looked up. ‘Is he out?’ he said.
‘Did you know him?’
‘In the same block.’
‘Did they know each other? Selva, Pat the Bang and Nick.’
‘They detested each other. Selva thought Nick had been trying to muscle in on his scene – the drugs game.’
‘Had he?’
‘He might have been.’
‘What about plans? To hold up the Baron de Mougy, say, and relieve him of his valuables? Heard any whispers about that?’
Ballentou shook his head. ‘They weren’t planning together. They didn’t get on well enough. They were all running rackets inside and they didn’t trust each other. Anyway–’ Ballentou shrugged ‘–De Mougy won’t miss what he’s lost. He can afford to replace it. In fact, it’s a pity I didn’t know where he kept them. I might have had a go myself.’
‘You’d have been caught, Georges.’
Ballentou nodded. ‘Yes, I expect I would.’
‘What are you up to now, Georges?’
‘Working as an electrician at Metaux de Dijon. I’m too old now to do much else but go straight. Besides, my wife – and then my – Michelle–’ Ballentou lifted his face, his expression full of sadness. ‘She was a good kid, you know,’ he said.
‘I met her, Georges,’ Darcy said. ‘Last time I picked you up, remember? I had to wait. She gave me coffee. Pretty girl. Who’s looking after you now?’
‘Her cousin. My niece. Kid called Wathus. Imogen Wathus. My sister’s daughter. I always hoped–’ Ballentou stopped and sighed ‘–I ought to have been a better father, but it’s too late now.’
Seven