by Mark Hebden
They arrived at the Hôtel de Police late, to find Nosjean had returned from leave. Pel felt better at once. Slim, dark, looking like Napoleon on the bridge at Lodi, Nosjean was one of his best men.
‘When’s he come on duty?’ he asked.
‘Tomorrow, Patron,’ Darcy said. ‘How about a beer at the Bar Transvaal to celebrate?’
They were on the way out when the telephone went on the desk of the man who handled the front office. He spoke into it then turned and yelled.
‘Chief Inspector! It’s Cadet Martin. Hang on. He’s coming down.’
As they waited by the door, Martin came down the stairs in a hurry.
‘Patron, there’s been a shooting!’
‘Damn it, I know. What do you think we’ve been doing at Montenay?’
‘Not that one, Patron. Another.’
‘Another?’ Pel’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Where? Same place?’
‘No, Patron. This time it’s at the other side of the city. Pouilly. A couple of youngsters doing a bit of courting stumbled on a stiff. They telephoned in on Emergency. A car’s gone from the local sub-station to pick them up. I thought you’d want to know.’
Pel and Darcy were exchanging glances.
‘You’d better stick with the one at Montenay, Daniel,’ Pel said. ‘I’ll take this new one. You’ve got Bardolle. I’ll take Nosjean. He’ll come in, I know. We’ll exchange details later. They may be connected.’ He swung to Cadet Martin. ‘Get in touch with Sergeant Nosjean and send him after me. Warn the Procureur, then get everybody out there. Photography. Forensic. Doc Minet. Inspector Pomereu of Traffic’s going to be needed with barriers. And warn Inspector Nadauld, of Uniformed Branch. We’ll need extra men.’
The dead man at Pouilly lay in the undergrowth at the side of a small ride leading off the road. It was a dark place under the trees, which was doubtless why the two youngsters had been there, and the body lay among the young bracken and undergrowth, its head hidden by foliage.
‘Any idea who it is?’ Pel asked the police brigadier who met him.
‘No idea, sir. We’ve touched nothing.’
‘Had a look at him?’
‘Yes, sir. But only to make sure he’s dead.’
‘And there’s no doubt?’
‘None at all, sir. I think he’s been shot in the head. Twice. I didn’t stay close in case I disturbed anything.’
‘Very sensible. Right. First things first. I’ll look at him in a moment. By that time Forensic and the others should be here. In the meantime I’ll talk to the people who found him. Got their names?’
‘Yes, sir. Yves-Pol Letour and Marie-Anne Roumiou. Both aged seventeen.’
The two youngsters were sitting in the back seat of the police car, holding hands and looking scared stiff. The girl was wearing a flowered dress and the boy jeans with his shirt tail hanging out. As Pel opened the door, they sat upright, almost at attention.
‘Relax,’ he said. ‘Take it easy. I gather you found him?’
The boy answered nervously. ‘We were walking – that’s all, walking – ’
‘I’m not disputing it.’
‘We were just talking.’
‘Is that all?’
‘Well, I had my arm round Marie-Anne.’
In fact they had been embracing as if the end of the world had been about to occur and the girl made no bones about it. ‘He was kissing me,’ she said bluntly.
The boy managed a feeble smile. ‘Well, yes, I was.’
‘Any reason why you shouldn’t be kissing her?’
They stared at each other for a second. ‘Well, no, sir. Not really. We’ve been going together for a long time.’
‘Parents know you were here?’
There was a moment’s silence as they glanced at each other. Marie-Anne’s father considered that Yves-Pol’s shirt wasn’t the only thing he couldn’t keep in his trousers and he’d heard a few stories about other girls. He didn’t trust Yves-Pol and, since he’d been a bit of a goer in his youth, he had good reason to suspect others might be the same. By the same token, Yves-Pol Letour’s mother didn’t trust Marie-Anne Roumiou.
Yves-Pol was stretching a point. ‘Well – not here,’ he said. ‘But they knew we were together. We’re always together. I told my parents I was going to see Marie-Anne and then I went to pick her up.’
‘So there’s no need to be worried,’ Pel pointed out. ‘You were doing nothing wrong.’
They exchanged glances again. It was only due to what they had found that they hadn’t been doing something wrong. They’d already reached the heavy breathing stage, as Pel had long since guessed. Young boys and girls didn’t make a habit of going into chest-high undergrowth in the dusk just to look at the flowers.
‘No,’ Letour agreed. ‘Nothing wrong. We were just walking. Well, sort of. Me with my arm round her. I was just kissing her when I tripped.’
‘Over him?’
‘Yes. His foot. I nearly fell. We both nearly fell.’
‘And then?’
‘Well, it was pretty dark. I thought it was a branch or something, then I realised it was a foot.’
They were interrupted by cars arriving, the sound of their engines rising and falling as they progressed down the uneven lane. It was Prélat, of Fingerprints, together with the men from the Forensic Laboratory. Pel watched them stop, then turned again to the two youngsters.
‘Go on,’ he encouraged. ‘About the foot.’
‘Well, we thought–’ in the weak light of the interior light Letour was wriggling ‘–we thought there were two of them. A man and a woman. You know – well–’
He gave a sickly grin and the girl giggled. Pel waved him on. ‘Understandable,’ he said. ‘So what did you do?’
‘We didn’t know what to do. We walked on a bit, thinking that if they were – well, you know – that they wouldn’t want us around. Then Marie-Anne said she thought something was wrong or they’d have jumped up. Embarrassed. That sort of thing. But nobody had moved, even when I’d fallen over the foot. So we went back and I called out. “Are you all right?” Something like that. And when he didn’t answer, well – I thought he might have had a heart attack. My grandfather dropped dead with one six months ago, so naturally–’
‘What made you call the police?’
‘I struck a match. Then I saw his face. Or – well, what there was of it. Then I knew he was dead. So we went to the telephone in the bar back there and called the police. They told us to stay where we were and they’d join us. We were a bit scared. We thought that whoever had done it might still be around somewhere.’
‘Did you see anyone?’
‘No.’
‘Hear anyone?’
‘No.’
‘Shots? Or a car moving off in a hurry? Anything like that?’
‘No. It was dark and quiet. Nothing.’
Another car was arriving now and Pel guessed it was Doc Minet. Lights were being set up behind him and he saw the flash of a camera going. He turned again to the two youngsters.
‘Come up here often?’
‘Yes. It’s quiet here.’
‘Ever seen anyone hanging about up here? Anyone strange?’
Letour wriggled again. ‘We don’t come up here much in the daylight,’ he admitted. ‘It’s usually after dark – because – well–’
‘Ever been up here in the daylight?’
‘Once or twice.’
‘When was the last time?’
They glanced at each other. ‘About a month ago.’
‘See anyone?’
‘It was a Sunday. There were a few people. But chiefly people with kids. Or dogs. Going for a walk.’
‘Anybody strange? I don’t suppose you knew everyone you saw, but was there anyone who looked odd? Anyone who made you look twice at them?’
They stared at each other for a moment, then they shook their heads together.
‘And tonight? Nobody passed you? Nothing like that?’ The answer, as before, was no.
Doc
Minet was bending over the body when Pel crossed to him. He looked up as he approached.
‘Any idea when?’
‘Two days ago. Hard to say. I’ll tell you better later when I’ve had a chance to examine.’
‘What did it?’
Leguyader, of the Lab, interrupted. ‘It was a gun,’ he said. ‘6.35. We have a cartridge case.’ He held out his hand and in the light of the car headlights Pel saw the small brass cylinder.
‘How many?’
‘Two,’ Doc Minet said. ‘There are two entrance wounds. One exit wound. There’s a bullet still inside his head somewhere. There must be another cartridge case around as well.’
‘We’ll find it,’ Leguyader said cheerfully. He liked murders. They gave him the chance not only to air his skill – which was extensive because he knew his job – but also to air his knowledge, something he never hesitated about.
‘How was it done?’
‘Close range,’ Doc Minet said. ‘There are powder burns on his cheek.’
‘And inside a car,’ Leguyader pointed out. ‘We have wheel marks. The killer drove down the ride with him, pulled a gun on him, opened the door, and shot him so that he was flung out – or knocked out – or blown out – whatever you wish to call it. He fell there and whoever did it just drove away and left him. There’s been no attempt to cover him up and nothing to indicate anybody else got out of the car.’
Nosjean had arrived by this time and, as Minet and the photographers indicated they had finished, he bent over the dead man.
‘Any indication who he is?’ Pel asked.
‘Not so far, Patron. I think somebody’s deliberately emptied his pockets. Or more likely forced him to empty them before he was shot. It wouldn’t be easy in a car to search a man, I suppose, and they didn’t get out. It’s a funny one, Patron. Look at this. His pockets have all been turned inside out. Every one.’
Bending down, Pel saw that every pocket lining had been pulled out and was hanging loose.
‘It wasn’t done after he was killed. There’s no indication that anybody examined the body. It was done before. Why?’
‘Something he had? Something the man who shot him wanted? Have you looked around?’
‘There’s nothing, Patron. Nothing at all. Everything he had has been taken away.’
When Pel returned to the two youngsters in the car, they looked at him worriedly.
‘I’m going to have you taken home,’ he told them. ‘But I don’t want you to talk about what happened.’
‘My parents will want to know,’ the girl said. ‘We’re late.’
‘The policeman who drives you will explain to them. In cases like this it’s best that as few people as possible know what’s happened. Then sometimes the person who did it gets worried because if nothing appears in the papers he doesn’t know how much the police know. And then perhaps he’ll make a mistake. Do you see?’
They nodded together.
‘Do you know who did it?’ Letour asked.
Pel paused. Most killers were easy. You usually found them two streets away covered with blood and scared stiff. But any killer who had the nerve to remove a dead man’s wallet wouldn’t be like that. This one was going to be difficult.
‘No,’ he admitted. ‘I don’t.’
He just hoped Darcy’s would be easier.
Ten
Darcy had nothing new to report. He and Bardolle had talked with all the Huppert employees.
‘Particularly Garcia and Tehendu,’ he said. ‘Those two who might have been doubtful. No problem, Patron. Garcia was in a bar in Talant, with about twenty people to swear to it. And Tehendu was in the bosom of his family at Orles. He’d gone home for the night and they were all there.’
‘Could they be covering for him?’
‘They could. But not the neighbours. Several of them turned up to say “hello”. It’s that sort of village. Up in the hills. When someone goes home from the great big world outside it’s as if he’d been in outer space. They all want to see if he’s grown two heads. He’s off drugs, too. He’s taken to jogging instead. He’s on to the health kick.’
Pel scowled. ‘They always have to be on something, don’t they? Drugs. Religion. Health. Good works. Why can’t people just live? What did you make of him?’
‘A bit of an odd-ball. But clever with his hands.’
‘What’s his relationship with Huppert?’
‘They had him in the office to complain about his work. But that was in the early days. Nothing since.’
‘Is he the type to bear a grudge?’
‘How can you tell, Patron? He swears he’s not on drugs now but you never really know, do you? I saw no sign.’
‘Has he a gun?’
‘He says not. I took him home and searched his apartment. I didn’t find one. But that doesn’t mean a thing. He might have chucked it in the Orche while he was out jogging.’
‘What about the others?’
‘Nothing, Patron. What about yours?’
‘Shot through the head. He’s not been identified. His pockets had been emptied.’
‘Robbery?’
‘Probably. Probably not. He was killed with a 6.35.’
‘Another?’ Darcy’s eyes widened. ‘Think we’ve got a lunatic going round?’
‘We’ll know better when Forensic comes up with their report.’
While they were talking, Misset entered, mysterious behind his dark glasses.
‘Kid here called Jean-Pierre Petitbois,’ he said. ‘Says he’s come about his bike. The front desk said you’d given instructions you wanted to see any kid who’d lost one.’
The boy, a square-shouldered dark youngster with a frank expression, was sitting in the sergeants’ room. He stood up as Pel and Darcy appeared with Misset.
‘Jean-Pierre Petitbois,’ he said briskly. ‘17, Rue Moulins. That’s on the new estate at Rosière de Bourgogne.’
Pel waved the boy down again and sat opposite him. ‘You’ve lost your bicycle?’ he asked.
The boy stood up again as he was addressed and Pel was pleased to see that he knew his manners. ‘I came to see if you’d found it,’ he said.
‘Can you describe it?’
‘Sure. Racing saddle but not racing handlebars. They’re not really a help. Dark green frame with a silver line running down it. Word, Intrépide, on the bar down from the front fork. Straps on pedals.’ The boy looked up. ‘So your foot doesn’t slip. Bad chip on the paint on the crossbar where I fell off it. About half-way along. Number stamped on frame just below saddle. 784326.’
Pel and Darcy exchanged glances, and Darcy grinned. ‘You’re very efficient,’ he said. ‘You ought to be a cop.’
The boy looked pleased. ‘It’s only second-hand but I saved up for it and it took a lot of doing. I want it back if I can get it.’
‘We’ll do our best,’ Darcy said. ‘Were you riding it two days ago anywhere near Quigny-par-la-Butte, by the way?’
‘I don’t even know where Quigny-par-la Butte is.’
‘Were you riding it at all on that day?’
‘No, I wasn’t. I’d already lost it. And I think I know where it went.’
‘Oh!’ Darcy’s eyes met Pel’s. ‘Where?’
‘I think Philippe Lafarge pinched it.’
‘Why do you think that?’
‘Because it’s the sort of thing Philippe Lafarge would do!’
‘Is it now? You’d better tell us more about this Philippe Lafarge. Does he live near you?’
‘He does now. Two streets away. Rue Dolour. He sits near me at school.’
‘Which school’s that?’
‘The lycée. He was always on about my bike. I think he fancies it.’
‘Hasn’t he a bike of his own?’
‘He’s never had the money to buy one.’
‘Father’s poor, is he?’
‘I don’t know. They say he’s been in prison.’
Darcy’s eyes met Pel’s again. ‘Know his name?’
‘André Lafarge. He’s a plumber. At least he’s supposed to be, but he never seems to do any work.’
‘What was he in prison for?’
‘Stealing, they say.’
‘Who says?’
‘Everybody says. My mother says. I’ve heard her.’
Pel turned. ‘Misset, look up André Lafarge. See what we have on him.’
As Misset vanished, he turned to the boy. ‘What’s he supposed to have stolen, this André Lafarge?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know. They came here from La Rochelle. They say it was there he went to prison.’
‘Same people say?’
‘Yes. Everybody. He’s well known.’
‘It seems he’s not too well known to us.’
Misset reappeared. ‘André Lafarge, Patron,’ he said. ‘12, Rue Dolour. Found on enclosed premises. Got thirty days.’
‘Any other form?’
‘Plenty, Patron. Fiddling welfare payments. Pretending to be in need of help when he was in employment. Stealing lead from a builder’s yard where he worked. Helping himself to a car. Breaking and entering. One assault.’
‘Quite a boy, eh? Where was all this? La Rochelle?’
‘Mostly, Patron. Couple of offences in Niort. One in Limoges, one in Vichy, one in Le Creusot.’
‘He seems to have been working his way across the country and now he’s arrived here. He’ll need watching. And now he lives in the Rue Dolour, eh? I wonder if–’ Pel stopped and looked at the boy. ‘Where was this bicycle of yours when it disappeared?’
‘Outside the house.’
‘Locked?’
‘I always leave it locked. But it’s a quiet road. Nobody comes there and it’s only a light chain. A pair of pliers would cut through it easily.’
‘That’s the worst of things these days,’ Darcy said seriously. ‘They’re not made as they used to be. Why else do you suspect Philippe Lafarge? Apart, that is, from the fact that “they” say his father’s been to jail.’
‘Madame Bonhomme opposite said she saw him.’
‘Did she now? Who’s Madame Bonhomme?’
‘She’s old. About seventy. She spends all her time sitting in the window nosey-parkering. I’ve been in trouble more than once with my mother from things she’s told her. All the same–’ Petitbois gestured, as if prepared to forgive a lot under the circumstance ‘–there isn’t much she misses.’