by Mark Hebden
It hadn’t been the best of days for Misset. His mother-in-law had seen him at the station with Ada Vocci and he had had to offer a long story about having to chase a pickpocket. Neither his mother-in-law nor his wife had believed him and things had been tense ever since. In addition, the children were whining and he was short of cash. However, after a couple of drinks he was in a more mellow mood and changed into his best suit slowly and with pleasure.
‘Where are you off to?’ his wife demanded as he appeared in the kitchen.
‘On the job,’ he said. ‘Shadowing.’
‘In those clothes?’
‘It’s an inside job. Hôtel Centrale. Got to be decently dressed.’
Misset avoided her eyes. Annette Misset was a good-looking woman, if on the large side. There were times when Misset looked at his wedding photograph and saw them both, slim and handsome, and wondered where they’d gone to. Things were closing in on him, he felt. He needed elbow room. In Misset’s world, it was always the firm upstanding man who made the running while the women were always small dark-eyed houris with the submissiveness of geisha girls; and the life they inhabited was always one without kicks in strong male teeth or a wife with a face as wooden as the trees of Lorraine to ask questions about where they were going.
At the Hôtel de Police he managed to borrow money from Lagé. Lagé was approaching retirement and was easy-going enough even to help other people with their work, something Misset never hesitated to take advantage of.
‘I’ll see you get it back,’ he pointed out earnestly.
Lagé nodded expressionlessly. He’d lent money to Misset before.
Misset’s car was still at the garage so he took a bus. It seemed slow and old and he was in a bad temper by the time he arrived, but the smile with which Ada Vocci rose to meet him made him feel better at once.
They ate at a small restaurant near the church of Notre Dame and, though the bill took Misset’s breath away, she was holding his hand as they left.
‘We’ll walk, shall we?’ Misset was still reeling from the cost of the meal.
‘When we’re dancing,’ she smiled, ‘why arrive tired?’
Misset’s smile was a little forced but the taxi arrived almost before the door closed behind them. Ada indicated it with her handbag. ‘Almost as though they were expecting us,’ she said.
Misset gave the name of the night club and they roared out of the Place Notre Dame into the Place de la Libération at top speed and manoeuvred for a right turn.
‘He’s shifting a bit,’ Misset observed. His voice grew louder. ‘And, name of God, he’s taking us the long way round!’ Alert at once, the man of the world, he thought how much it was going to cost.
The taxi was swinging in a wide circle, its tyres whining as it roared dangerously across the stream of traffic, and Misset reached forward to air his protest. But, as he half rose, he was thrown off-balance as the taxi swerved violently with screaming brakes to avoid a big Mercedes which shot across their path. The crunch as the wings of the two vehicles touched flung him to the floor and, as their speed caused them to swing, he rolled over on to his back. By the time he’d regained his seat, an argument had started between the taxi driver and the owner of the Mercedes. Misset was just about to climb out and arrest everyone in sight when Ada spoke.
‘Let’s try another one,’ she said coolly.
It was typical of her that, as she stepped from the taxi, another one happened to be passing and they climbed into it at once. Immediately, the driver of the original taxi broke off his argument in alarm, but his arm was grabbed by the driver of the Mercedes. Misset saw him break free and run across the Place de la Libération towards a telephone box.
They danced for a while in the semi-darkness. Ada was clinging to Misset as if she’d fall down without him and, although the invitation to take the last lingering drink in her room at the Centrale was not uttered, it was as real as if it had been printed on a piece of pasteboard and decorated with RSVP. Misset’s breathing had become slightly constricted. The whispers in his ear and the silk dress, cut low at the top, were almost too much for him and his dark glasses persisted in steaming up.
He was on the point of swinging her out through the front door and into a taxi before she could change her mind, when he saw the man in the gold-threaded suit, sitting by the bar and talking into the telephone. Misset’s pleasurable anticipation changed to a chilly alarm and then to annoyance, as he decided he was a private detective put on his tail by his wife. She was a good Catholic with firm ideas about morality and liked to keep a sharp eye on Misset, so that he could only suppose she had finally decided to make the shadowing professional.
As they headed for the entrance, he saw without surprise the telephone slammed down but, as the little man in the gold-thread suit swallowed his drink and dived out ahead of them, Misset swung Ada round abruptly and led her to the side door. A taxi was waiting across the road and he pushed her into it quickly.
‘Aren’t you coming?’
‘Later,’ Misset said, doing his James Bond act. ‘You go along and keep things warm. There’s a little chap here I ought to see. Police business,’ he added portentously. ‘I’ll be there in a few minutes.’
There were only a few late-night taxis about as he slipped round the corner to the front entrance of the club. Moving quietly under the trees, he found the little man in the gold-thread suit waiting by the bus shelter across the road from the front door, trying to see what was going on inside. Misset took off his glasses and slipped them into his pocket.
The little man was lighting a cigarette but at the last moment he heard Misset approaching and swung round just as Misset’s hand shot out and grabbed him by the collar.
‘Police officer,’ Misset said. ‘Did Annette Misset put you up to this?’
The little man was choking on the smoke he’d swallowed. ‘Who’s Annette Misset?’
He tried to wriggle free and Misset slammed him back against a tree but then, from across the road, he heard running feet and whirled in alarm. Misset wasn’t half as tough as he liked to think.
As he turned to see what was coming up behind him, he felt the glowing end of the cigarette pressed against his hand. He yelled and let go, only to receive a violent and very professional clout at the side of the head that made his eyes feel loose. The little man slipped between his fingers. Stumbling to his knees, half-dazed, Misset saw him join another man and together they vanished between the trees.
As Misset rose to his feet, an elderly Peugeot pulled up alongside him.
‘They’ve gone.’ The voice came from the dark interior. ‘Jump in.’
Misset remembered Ada Vocci waiting for him, but a hand reached out and dragged him into the car, which started immediately with a speed which made Misset think he was being kidnapped or that his wife had planned some sort of beating-up to pay him back for all his wrongdoings.
They drove for a while away from the Hôtel Centrale then, as they rounded the corner, the man in the driver’s seat, a short thickset military-looking man with spectacles, turned and smiled.
‘We’ll not catch them,’ he said. ‘So you might as well relax.’
Misset stared. ‘Are you in on this as well?’
‘I was watching you.’
‘Why?’
‘I need to talk to you.’
Misset’s anger was coming back, now that the danger had passed, and he was beginning to remember Ada Vocci’s low whispers and the vast bed at the Hôtel Central. ‘What about?’
‘I’ve got your name. Detective-Sergeant Misset, isn’t it?’
‘Who put you on to this?’
‘Chief-Inspector Pel. I also talked to an Inspector Darcy. They agreed.’
‘Agreed what?’
‘That I could pick you up.’
‘Are you a cop, too?’
‘Well, sort of. Name of Chaput. Major Chaput. Service de Sûreté de la République.’
Misset gave up. ‘Who sent you?’
‘Never mind who sent me.’ Chaput stopped the car and offered a cigarette.
Misset was convinced now that Pel and Darcy were after him for neglecting his duty, for corruption – he’d accepted one or two small bribes in the past – or for dispensing to the press information he picked up at the Hôtel de Police.
Chaput lit a Gauloise that made the car stink like a Paris taxi. ‘Josephe Misset, isn’t it?’
‘Look,’ Misset said. ‘What is this? I’ve never met you before, have I?’
‘No.’ Chaput gestured. ‘But your activities have recently crossed the operations on the periphery of a search area I’m concerned with.’
Misset dragged smoke down into his lungs. Somewhere, he had always felt there was a golden future for Josephe Misset and perhaps this man, Chaput, who was obviously someone important, held the key to it.
‘Don’t tell me you’re going to offer me a million francs to become a spy or something,’ he said.
‘Not exactly,’ Chaput said. ‘On the other hand, I think you ought to know what’s going on.’
‘You’ll be telling me you’re a spy next.’
‘Let’s say I’m an agent – of sorts.’
Chaput had an ominous stillness that was vaguely perturbing. He didn’t move much and he spoke in a low voice as though he had denied himself instinctive reaction – as though years of caution had kept his eyes and hands and mouth expressionless under any emotion.
‘Some of us play small but important rôles,’ he said. ‘At the moment I’m wanting to enlist your help. I should have thought being like James Bond would appeal to a man like you.’
Misset wasn’t so sure. He remembered the film where Bond was strapped to a table with a circular saw coming up between his legs.
‘There’s nothing very dangerous in what I want you to do,’ Chaput went on. ‘You’re acquainted with a lady at the Hôtel Centrale, I believe?’
Ada Vocci swung abruptly back into Misset’s memory, all warm arms, low-cut dress and bedroom eyes.
‘You’re not telling me–’
‘A Russian agent has just crossed into France via Poland, Germany and Belgium. Name of Spolianski. Haven’t got the details yet. Just the name.’
‘Sounds like a violinist in a symphony orchestra.’
‘Isn’t. Assure you.’ The comments were rapped out like coins dropping from a slot machine. ‘File on Soviet network crossed at the same time.’
‘I read about it. In the paper.’
‘Been traced to France. We think this agent’s the lady you’ve been spending your time with.’
‘Ada Vocci?’ Misset wanted to laugh.
‘Spolianski,’ Chaput corrected him. ‘The route’s the same. Poland, Germany and Holland. Dates are the same, too.’
‘What about the Patron? Where does he come into this?’
‘He knows about it. I talked to him this evening. Not very long before I picked you up.’
‘What did he say?’
‘He said they were fully extended but he was agreeable to me using you.’
I’ll bet he was, Misset thought. Misset was under no delusions about how he was regarded by Pel.
‘He said you were already making enquiries in the area I’m interested in. Is that so?’
Misset remembered Inspector Briand. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I suppose so.’
‘And those two gentlemen you were having trouble with just now were part of it, I suppose? Right, then. Apart from those enquiries, you’re answerable only to my department. Chief Inspector Pel will want to know what you’re up to, of course, but you’ll take your orders from me.’
Misset still wasn’t convinced. ‘You’re not kidding me, are you?’ he asked.
‘Why not ring Chief-Inspector Pel and find out? There’s a phone in the bar over there.’
Misset shook his head. The one thing he wasn’t prepared to do was ring Pel at home. He could just imagine the blast he’d receive.
‘Then try headquarters. They know about it.’
Misset headed for a nearby bar and used the telephone. Darcy happened to be still in his office and he confirmed what Chaput said.
‘He says I’m to take orders only from him,’ Misset said.
‘That’s right,’ Darcy agreed. ‘You’re nothing to do with us while he’s here.’
Misset was annoyed to hear the relief in Darcy’s voice but he was reassured nevertheless. He returned to Chaput’s car and climbed in. ‘What am I supposed to do?’ he asked.
‘What do you know about her?’
‘Nothing except what she’s told me. She went to Poland to fetch her husband out. He’s a Milan businessman. Serafino Vocci. He died there.’
‘You sure?’
‘I saw him. At least, I saw what’s left of him.’
‘It’s a good story,’ Chaput said after Misset had explained. ‘Do you believe it?’
Misset considered. He was always one to give credit for a thumping good lie. ‘I must admit it sounds a bit steep,’ he admitted.
Chaput gestured with his cigarette. ‘What better place to bring out a bulky file than in a coffin? Border guards are human and inclined to be moved by the sight of grief.’
‘There wasn’t a coffin. Just this little urn.’
‘Nothing else?’
‘Only suitcases and the box she brought the urn in.’ Misset gestured with his hands. ‘About this size. She says it’s full of marble chippings.’
‘And under the marble chippings? Couldn’t she have a false bottom?’
Misset grinned. ‘There’s nothing false about her bottom.’
Chaput cleared his throat. ‘Stay friendly with her. But don’t get involved. I want to know where the file is. It’s a pretty bulky package, I gather.’
‘What do I do when I find out? Report to you?’
‘Through your office. Just be careful.’
‘Why? Is anybody else interested in this file?’
Chaput managed a smile. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘the people who lost it will be, won’t they?’
As Chaput’s car vanished, Misset stood on the pavement for a long time, staring after it. To his surprise, his knees felt as if they’d come unhooked and he had to pull himself together with a jerk.
The zest had gone out of the evening. Chaput’s talk and the men who had attacked him had left a nasty taste in his mouth, so that the lust had drained out of him. It was a long walk to the Hôtel Centrale and by now, he decided, Ada Vocci would be asleep. The frustration almost choked him.
On the other hand – he paused, a half-smile on his face – this really was one for the book. Trailing a foreign agent! If he found out where that file was, Pel couldn’t refuse him the promotion to inspector he’d been chasing for years.
Misset smiled to himself. Josephe Misset, he thought proudly. The well-known spy. It was one in the eye for Pel. He was free to move where he liked. Turn up at the Hôtel de Police when he liked. Leave when he liked. Doubtless there’d be expenses too. The Paris set-up was never afraid to cough up. A bit different from the penny-pinching methods of local forces. Misset straightened his shoulders. Tomorrow was another day and Ada Vocci would still be around.
He thrust his shoulders back. What was more, he thought, it ought to shut his wife up, too. There could be no comeback from her because for once, weird as his story would seem, it was true and she could prove it by contacting the Hôtel de Police.
Eight
When Pel appeared next morning, his wife was drinking her coffee in the morning room. A morning room! Sometimes Pel was staggered at the advance in his fortunes. Where once he had eaten in the kitchen, he now had the choice of two rooms, neither of them the kitchen.
As he sat down, Madame Routy appeared with fresh coffee and croissants. The coffee tasted like real coffee and the croissants were that morning’s.
‘The Baronne de Mougy,’ Pel said.
His wife smiled. ‘Friend of yours?’ she asked.
Pel frowned. ‘Geneviève de mon co
eur,’ he said. ‘There is only one woman in my life.’
She leaned over to kiss him. ‘What about the Baronne de Mougy?’
‘Is she up to anything these days?’
‘Up to anything?’
‘A man? Something like that.’
Madame smiled. ‘Nadine de Mougy is always up to something. Any woman married to that old stringbean would inevitably be up to something.’
‘Her jewels are worth around half a million francs.’
Madame’s eyebrows lifted. ‘And you think she might have sold them and claimed to have been robbed?’
Once more, Pel noticed how quickly she caught on. ‘The Baron was with her when it happened,’ he said. ‘It’s possible, however, that one of them’s working a fast one with the insurance companies. De Mougy’s pretty mean.’ Pel was mean, too, but he preferred to think of himself as careful. ‘That’s how people become wealthy, of course. And it’s also been known for women to arrange to be robbed. To spite their husbands. To get money. Because they’ve overspent. Because they’re being blackmailed. There are a lot of reasons.’
‘And you wish me to keep my ears open?’
‘You did once before. You discovered she had a lover.’
‘That was when we first got to know each other.’
Pel’s stern face dissolved in a smile of pleasure. It wasn’t used to such extravagances and it made him look bilious.
‘I’m wondering if she has another,’ he said. ‘I imagine cuddling the Baron would be about as exciting as cuddling a desk lamp. Perhaps you could keep your ear to the ground.’
Madame Routy had just appeared to clear away and was listening avidly.
‘Paul Morey on television,’ she pointed out, ‘says that most police cases are solved from the gossip of passers-by.’
Pel glared. ‘The world of the media,’ he observed acidly, ‘is full of people who can’t do things commenting on the work of people who can.’
Madame Routy gave him the benefit of a sneer and disappeared.
Madame Pel laughed. ‘You really shouldn’t torment her like that, Pel,’ she said.
Pel was unrepentant. ‘She shouldn’t offer observations on things that don’t concern her.’