by Mark Hebden
‘And she saw Philippe Lafarge take your bike?’
‘She thinks so.’
‘Have you seen this Philippe Lafarge since you lost your bicycle?’
‘Yes.’
‘With the bicycle?’
‘No.’
‘Have you accused him of taking it?’
‘Yes. He invited me to look round the garden shed. It wasn’t there.’
‘But you still think he took it?’
‘Yes.’
‘But you didn’t insist?’
The boy’s eyes flickered and he gave a little grin. ‘He’s bigger than me,’ he said.
‘A very good reason not to,’ Darcy said. ‘How about your father? Wouldn’t he ask?’
‘He’s dead. He was killed in a car crash on the N7.’
There was a slight pause then Pel went on. ‘Does this Philippe Lafarge bully you?’
‘A bit.’
Pel could understand. People had bullied him at school. But not for long. ‘I think we’d better see this Madame Bonhomme,’ he said. He gestured at Darcy. ‘I think also you’d better take Monsieur Petitbois’ name and address down, Daniel,’ he said. ‘So we can let him have his machine back when we find it.’ He tapped the boy’s shoulder. ‘And don’t go buying a new one,’ he advised. ‘Because I’m sure we shall.’
Madame Bonhomme was a widow but quite different from what they’d been expecting. They’d been expecting a thin-faced, vinegary-looking woman with a keen interest in everybody else’s business and a sharp dislike for boys. Instead they found a round-faced, grey-haired cheerful woman of ample proportions with swollen legs.
The estate at Rosière de Bourgogne was an area of cheap-looking dwellings with small gardens front and back and her house was in the Rue Gresset which joined the Rue Moulins and formed a T with the Rue Dolour where Lafarge lived, so that sitting in her front room she was able to see down the whole length of it.
‘I sit in the window a lot,’ she explained. ‘I don’t walk very well these days. I don’t get out much, but I don’t like to miss everything that goes on.’
‘Such as people helping themselves to other people’s bicycles?’ Darcy said.
She laughed. ‘Tiens, you’ve heard of that, have you?’ She produced bottles of beer. ‘I expect you could do with one, couldn’t you? My grandfather was a policeman and I have the impression that a beer here and there helps keep you alert.’
‘It wets the whistle,’ Darcy smiled.
Madame Bonhomme gestured. ‘I expect you’ve come about what young Petitbois said. He’s a nice lad. He thinks I don’t like him, but I do.’ She gestured at the window. ‘I pass on information to parents. Some of them think I’m a nosey-parker but most of them realise I’m trying to help. I am,’ she added seriously. ‘Somebody tipped me off about my son when he was seventeen. They saw him with someone who was part of a crowd who were stealing cars. Getting to know about it in good time saved him going wrong. I don’t want to harm young Petitbois. He’s well-behaved. Not like some I know.’
‘By name Lafarge?’
‘That’s it.’
‘This bicycle that was stolen. Did you see what happened?’
‘Oh, yes. I was sitting in the window as usual and saw him go to it. He had something in his hand.’
‘Pliers?’
‘It might have been.’
‘See him ride it away?’
‘No. The telephone went just then and I had to leave the window. When I came back the bike was gone.’
‘Did you tell young Petitbois?’
‘Not really. Just hinted. After all, you can’t accuse, can you? He knows I see most of what goes on because he’s been in trouble once or twice over it himself. But only things like broken windows. He’s an honest boy.’
‘Did the Lafarge boy know you’d seen him?’
‘They don’t know me at all. They’ve only recently come to live here. From Vichy, they say.’
‘La Rochelle, in fact. What’s he look like, the Lafarge boy?’
‘Big.’
‘What about the father?’
‘Just the opposite. Small. Slight. A moustache.’
Pel glanced at Darcy.
‘Had any trouble with him?’
Madame Bonhomme shrugged. ‘Not really. The boy throws things at my cat – well – you wouldn’t expect fathers to do anything like that, would you?’
‘Lost anything lately?’
‘Lost anything?’
‘Anything you left outside that’s disappeared?’
She assumed an expression of deep thought. ‘I lost a rake. It was in the garden.’
‘Anybody else lost anything?’
‘Well, there was young Petitbois’ bicycle. And I heard the Legers lost their lawn mower. There’ve been a few things.’
‘Anybody had any idea where they went?’
She looked shrewdly at them and laughed. ‘I know what you’re after? You think Lafarge took them.’
Outside, Darcy paused by the car. ‘Do we bring him in, Patron?’
Pel considered. Plain clothes work wasn’t just detection. Some of it involved strategy and tactics. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Don’t bring him in. Georges Ballentou lives in this area, doesn’t he? Rue Louis-Levecque. Let’s see if he’s heard anything. In the meantime, let’s just keep an eye on our friend Lafarge. Watch where he goes and whom he meets. He doesn’t sound as if he’s the brains behind the De Mougy heist but he might just lead us to who is.’ He looked about him. ‘Besides, it’s a quiet street and you never know who might take advantage of it to turn up. It might even be Pépé le Cornet or his right-hand man.’
Eleven
Misset’s new job suited him down to the ground. He glanced at his watch and smiled as he saw that it was about time for Pel to hold his conference. Because he wasn’t concerned with any of the cases involving Pel’s team, he was spared the conference. Which was splendid. Since he’d always found work a bore, he also found the conferences a bore. They went on too long. Too many people said too much. And most of the time Misset had nothing to add. He was there merely to receive orders and he didn’t consider it fitted the virile getup-and-go image he felt he presented to the world.
He was feeling pleased with himself and was enjoying his independence. He was terrified of Pel and liked to keep as far away from him as possible, but he was still a little dubious about Major Chaput’s story and suspected that somehow he was being used. He had no delusions about why Pel had placed him at Chaput’s disposal. He even at times suspected Chaput was a fraud. But then he thought about the taxi that had picked him up with Ada Vocci from the restaurant where they’d dined. It was now in the yard at the Hôtel de Police with a bent wing to show where it had collided with the Mercedes, and its owner was not the man who had driven them away from the restaurant. Misset hadn’t dreamed it. The taxi had been stolen, and he remembered uneasily how it had appeared, to pick them up the minute they had emerged. He had no doubt now that the driver was the man who’d come to the aid of Gold-thread as Misset was grabbing him. The taxi had been waiting for him. Or for Ada Vocci. Either way, he didn’t like the look of it.
Stopping at the station buffet for a beer, he was accosted by the porter who had hoisted Ada Vocci’s luggage on to his trolley. He was sitting on his barrow, smoking a cigarette, and he followed Misset into the bar like a harbinger of doom.
‘Some guy was asking for you,’ he pointed out. ‘He was asking for that taxi driver who drove you and the dame to the hotel.’
Misset immediately thought of Chaput. ‘Big type with a moustache?’
‘No. Little type with a suit with a gold thread in it.’
Assailed by worry, Misset swallowed his beer hurriedly. Who in the name of the Great Lord God of Stresses and Strains was this type in the gold-threaded suit? He was always popping up and, as he’d already shown, he could be unpleasantly aggressive.
‘What did he want?’ he asked.
‘He was asking about the oth
er day,’ the porter said. ‘When the train came in. He wanted to know where you both went. I didn’t know, so he tried to find the taxi that took you. But the driver’s gone to Dole. His mother’s ill.’
Preoccupied, Misset tossed enough money to the counter to pay for a small beer. ‘Buy yourself a drink,’ he said.
The porter eyed the coins. ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘I’ll try not to get too drunk.’
Misset hurried away from the station. He didn’t fancy having his throat slit. Near the Porte Guillaume, he saw Chaput sitting outside one of the bars in the spring sunshine. Chaput moved the chair next to his own in invitation and called a waiter. Misset studied him. In daylight, he looked like anything but a nutter. He seemed, in fact, to be exactly what he claimed.
‘You thought I was mad that night I picked you up, didn’t you?’ Chaput said.
‘Yes I did,’ Misset admitted. ‘But I’ve checked since. I still find it hard to believe, though.’
There seemed far too much sunshine for the murky underside of international activities to be credible and too much colour about the square from the girls in their spring dresses to be able to believe in it. ‘Why did you pick me?’ he asked.
‘Because,’ Chaput said simply. ‘Chief Inspector Pel suggested you.’
‘I’ll bet he did.’
‘He said you knew the woman I’m interested in.’
Misset preened himself a little. ‘Elle a du chien,’ he said. ‘She’s sexy, that one. Are you still wanting to know if she’s got that file or not?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why can’t you go in and get it?’
‘Don’t want to make a mistake.’
‘So you let me do your dirty work?’
‘We’ve got to do it right. It’s got to be quick when it’s done. No publicity. I don’t want my face smeared across the front pages. Somebody might turn nasty.’
Misset didn’t think much of the idea. After all, if somebody might turn nasty with Chaput they might well turn nasty with Misset. ‘What about the other side?’ he asked. ‘Will they have a go too?’
Chaput shrugged. ‘Expect so. They’ve got sources, the same as we have. We know what they’re doing, the same as they know what we’re doing. They’re watching us as much as we’re watching them. Half the time we only know when something’s happening because one of the other side moves from A to B. When that happens we know that what we’re after’s also moved from A to B. In this game, when Father says “Turn”, we all turn.’
‘Don’t you ever get in each other’s way?’
‘It’s not exactly a crowded profession.’ Chaput finished his beer. ‘I’ll be here most days about this time. If you want me, this is where you’ll find me. If I want you, I’ll contact your headquarters.’
Misset stared after him as he left. The interview seemed to have the mad overtones of a spy send-up. But Chaput seemed real enough, and there was a suggestion of evil beneath the farce.
Misset finished his beer hurriedly. Somehow, after listening to Chaput, he felt very conspicuous. Then he remembered Ada Vocci and felt a little better.
At the Hôtel Centrale he was about to march up to the reception desk to ask for her, determined this time to find out the truth, but someone else was there before him, a tall dark, good-looking man – younger, Misset had to admit, than he was, with better features and less of a belly.
‘Mademoiselle Vocci?’ the receptionist was saying.
‘She’s registered here,’ the man said. ‘I looked at your book while you were on the telephone.’
Misset’s ears had pricked and, instead of remaining by the reception desk, he moved to the stairs, as if waiting for the lift, and began to examine the menu which was exhibited on a stand.
The receptionist was annoyed. ‘You had no right to examine the register, Monsieur,’ she was saying. ‘That’s for the use of the hotel and for our residents.’
The man seemed irritated by the comment and waved it aside. ‘When will she be back?’
‘She didn’t tell me, Monsieur. People don’t.’
‘Did she say where she was going?’
‘She didn’t tell me that, either. But as it happens, I think it was into the Jura and perhaps into Switzerland. She hired a car and was asking for the road to Pontarlier and the border.’
‘Pontarlier? Switzerland?’ The man seemed suddenly worried. ‘Did she say where in Switzerland?’
‘No, Monsieur. Would you like to leave a message for her?’
‘No.’ The man hesitated.
‘Are you sure you’ve got the right name, Monsieur?’
‘No.’ The man seemed suddenly doubtful. ‘Where did she come from?’
‘I’ve no idea, Monsieur.’
‘What was she like? Small? Fair hair? Blue eyes?’
The receptionist smiled. ‘That’s not Mademoiselle Vocci, Monsieur. She’s tall, with red hair and green eyes. Think of Sophia Loren and you’ve got Mademoiselle Vocci. I wish I’d got her looks.’
‘You’re sure she’s not here?’
‘Absolutely sure.’
‘I’d better go to her room to make certain.’
‘That’s impossible, Monsieur.’
The man frowned. ‘I’m a policeman,’ he said, and Misset’s eyebrows lifted because he’d never seen him before.
The receptionist was still uncertain. ‘That makes it different, of course,’ she admitted. ‘But don’t you need a warrant? Perhaps I could see your identity card? That would do.’
The dark man frowned and for a moment he looked flustered. Then he started patting his pockets. ‘I seem to have left it on my desk,’ he said. ‘Never mind.’ He was snapping his fingers irritatedly. ‘I’ll come back,’ he said. ‘I have to make sure.’
As he turned away, Misset stared after him. Who the hell was this one, he wondered. Because he was certainly no cop. Old ladies shoving their noses round doors had learned not to admit strange men into their houses – not even when they said they were cops – and any cop making enquiries would as soon go out without his trousers as without the card that established what he was.
Misset frowned. First Gold-thread. Then Briand. Then Chaput. Now this type. The damned place was filling up with mysterious strangers, all of whom seemed interested in Ada Vocci. It made what Chaput said more believable.
He became aware of the receptionist staring at him. ‘Monsieur?’
Misset was still in a daze, his mind busy. Had Ada bolted? He jumped as the clerk spoke.
‘Nothing,’ he said hurriedly. ‘Nothing. I was waiting for someone but they don’t seem to be here.’
As he disappeared, the receptionist turned to the hall porter. ‘The place seems to be full today of people looking for people who aren’t here,’ she said.
There was plenty to discuss at the conference Misset was fortunate to miss, because the car used in the hold-up at Quigny had turned up at Besançon. It was a blue Renault 9 – Number 424 HC 75 – and since the number was on the list of those cars stopped and examined near the scene of the incident, the fact that it had been abandoned had immediately led to suspicions.
Because they were handling three cases at once, it was decided to take them in the order in which they’d occurred, and the details of the car were subjected to a close scrutiny. There had been no identifiable fingerprints on it, but there were other things to interest them.
‘It was one of those that passed the road block at Pontailly,’ Inspector Pomereu, of Traffic, admitted. ‘We have a note of its number and make. The men in it were accepted as bona fide travellers. They were dressed in suits and said they represented the firm of Constructions Gine-Romero, of Paris, and produced folders and so on to prove it. But we’ve checked and, though the firm’s genuine, it knows nothing of the names we were given: Etienne Gambrionne, of Issy; Jean-Paul Dupont, of Viroflay; Georges Thomas, of Belleville. Their papers were false. We didn’t know that, though, and there was no reason to suspect them.’
Pomereu seemed to
be on the defensive. ‘The car was reported missing three days before,’ he went on. ‘In Paris. We checked. It belongs to an industrial chemist by the name of Jacques Barnardi. Unblemished character, no record. He’s identified it as his from scratches on the body and a tear in the rear seat caused by one of his dogs. We have it on the list of stolen cars but we didn’t identify it at Pontailly because the number plates on it aren’t Barnardi’s. They’d been changed and the men in it had what appeared to be sound documentation for it. I think, after being stolen it was taken to a garage and the new plates and documentation provided.’
‘In three days?’ Pel said.
Pomereu nodded, accepting that he wasn’t being blamed. ‘And after all there are dozens of blue Renaults of this model about. There was no reason to stop it, any more than there was for the other cars that passed through.’ He paused. ‘Besides, the clothing the men in it were wearing doesn’t match the description the De Mougys gave.’
‘Perhaps there was another car waiting on the road at the other side of the forest,’ Darcy suggested. ‘And the loot was taken through the trees to it and disappeared with it before the road block was set up.’
‘Did your men get a good look at the men in the car?’ Pel asked. ‘Could they have been Pat the Bang or Nick the Greek?’
‘I suppose so.’ Again Pomereu was on the defensive, as if he felt he was being accused of letting the side down. ‘But there was no reason for my people to take more than the normal notice of them. They seemed to be what they claimed to be.’
‘They could easily have had decent jackets in the car. They could have changed out of them as soon as they were out of sight of the De Mougys and thrown away the windcheaters they were wearing for the hold-up. Let’s have a search made, Daniel. Anything else?’
‘It was noticed that two of the men were dark and the other was fair.’
‘It could have been Nick the Greek, our friend Lafarge and one other,’ Pel said gently, so that Pomereu was finally satisfied no blame was being attached to him. Pel could be tough with carelessness but he didn’t attach blame where circumstances didn’t call for it. ‘I wonder who the other one was. Was the car searched?’