Pel And The Paris Mob

by Mark Hebden

  ‘My people know their job,’ Pomereu said in a huff. ‘They were all searched. There was nothing in the car except two briefcases with what appeared to be genuine business documents. No jewels. No money. No extra clothing. Somebody had thought this thing through.’

  ‘Pépé le Cornet,’ Pel murmured. ‘He worries a lot about details.’

  ‘We didn’t know about Nick the Greek or Pat the Bang at that time.’ Even now, Pomereu was still faintly defensive. ‘And my men didn’t know them from Adam, anyway. They must have got rid of the stuff before they reached Pontailly. The whole area’s covered with woods. Somebody could easily have gone across country with the loot. Even buried it and appeared at the other side of the forest as an ordinary farm worker. It’s been done before.’

  ‘That means,’ Pel said, ‘that there must have been some big organisation behind it. Only a big organisation could supply papers as fast as these were supplied. And that,’ he ended, ‘brings us back to where we were before. It was a gang job with a tip-off from inside.’

  It was Leguyader’s turn next. His boys had searched for dust to get an idea where the car had been but had found nothing helpful.

  ‘How about Pouilly?’ Pel asked, thinking of the dead man they’d found in the bracken. ‘It’s peaty soil there. Find any of that?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Leguyader said. ‘A few scraps of gravel in the treads of the tyres, but nothing we could use to connect it to anything else we’re involved with. Fingerprints are still working on it.’

  ‘What about De Mougy?’ Pel asked. ‘Was he insured anywhere else apart from the firms we know of?’

  Lagé sat up. He was growing slow as he approached retirement but, though he was never in the habit of coming up with brilliant deductions, he could be relied on to work carefully. He made no mistakes.

  ‘I checked, Patron,’ he said. ‘I was at it all yesterday. I worked through every known insurance company in the country. And I made them go back to their head offices just in case. Apart from the ones we know, no extra insurances have been taken out in the name of either of the De Mougys. There may be a few small ones I’ve missed but I’m still checking and so far I’ve found no insurances on the jewellery beyond the one we know about. It doesn’t mean there weren’t any, of course. They may have used a false name or gone abroad. Belgium, for instance. Or Holland. It’s easy to get there and they have big insurance companies, some of them connected with English companies. It may have been hidden. I’ll keep checking.’

  Nosjean appeared. He’d been called to the telephone and he slipped into his seat quietly. Pel glanced at him. Nosjean had become the expert on stolen jewellery and silver. He’d got to know all the antique dealers during a recent case and in addition had a girlfriend in the antique trade who was never against giving a little help.

  ‘Nothing, Patron,’ he reported. ‘I’ve asked. Nothing’s appeared.’

  ‘What about the footprint that was found?’

  ‘Nothing unusual, Patron,’ Nosjean said. ‘Except that it was small.’

  ‘As if made by a small man?’

  ‘It wasn’t deep so he wasn’t heavy.’

  ‘Which again could mean our friend, Lafarge.’ Pel swung to Darcy. ‘What about him, Daniel? Are we watching him?’

  ‘Aimedieu’s there now,’ Darcy said. ‘He’s got the use of a telephone to call in with if he sees anything odd.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  Darcy smiled. ‘Madame Bonhomme’s letting him use her front bedroom. I think she’s thoroughly enjoying herself.’

  ‘Have we dug up anything more about Lafarge?’

  Darcy gestured. ‘Ballentou’s come up with something interesting, Patron. Lafarge was in jail at the same time as he was, and he was friendly with Nick the Greek.’

  ‘So it could be a Paris mob job.’

  ‘It very well could. With Lafarge as the stooge.’

  ‘I wonder how they got to know about it? Who’s the contact who gave them the tip-off?’

  ‘I can only think of the chauffeur, Patron.’

  ‘I’d rather look for a woman,’ Pel said. ‘Nick’s good-looking.’

  As they were moving on to the next case, Prélat from Fingerprints arrived. His department had just finished working on the car found at Besançon and he couldn’t wait to tell them his news.

  ‘Clean, Patron,’ he reported ‘Somebody had been over it. Every inch. Professional job. Someone who knew what they were doing.’

  ‘Which also encourages the belief that it was a gang.’

  Pel frowned and Prélat grinned. ‘On the other hand, Patron,’ he said, ‘we do have some good news. The guy at Pouilly. We’ve got an identification. His dabs are in the file. It’s Richard Selva. You’ll know him.’

  Pel rubbed his nose thoughtfully. ‘Richard Selva? Is it now? Well, we won’t be wearing black armbands for him.’

  ‘He’s only just out of jail,’ Darcy put in. ‘He didn’t last long, did he? I suppose there’s no doubt?’

  ‘No doubt at all.’

  Pel frowned. ‘When exactly did he come out of jail?’

  ‘Just over three weeks ago,’ Darcy said. ‘Drugs. He belongs to the Paris mob. One of Pépé le Cornet’s men. Handles that side of the business for him.’

  ‘There’s another thing, Patron,’ Nosjean added. ‘Although his pockets had been emptied, on the lining of the right jacket pocket there were traces of heroin. He was obviously back in the game.’

  ‘It doesn’t take them long, does it? And the gun that killed him?’

  The man from Ballistics came to life. ‘As we thought. Another 6.35.’

  ‘And when did it happen?’

  Doc Minet looked up. ‘When I thought,’ he said. ‘He’d been dead about forty-eight hours. The post mortem made it quite clear.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘As sure as I can be.’

  Pel frowned. ‘That puts it just about the time Madame Huppert was shot. Is it some type who’s going round shooting people with a 6.35 for some reason?’

  ‘And what’s the connection between Selva and the Huppert shooting?’ Darcy asked. ‘Have the Paris mob been falling out or something?’

  ‘Perhaps he was killed for cash,’ Nosjean suggested. ‘Perhaps the killer was looking for heroin, but Selva had just got rid of it, in which case his wallet was full of cash and the killer took that instead.’

  ‘Has his wallet been found?’

  ‘No, Patron. Not yet. We’ve made a search where the body was found, and along the verges of the bridle path and the road. If the type who killed him examined the wallet there, he didn’t throw it away there. There were also no footprints where he was found. Tyre marks, but nothing very clear. I think it was just as Forensics say. Selva was in a car with the type who had the 6.35. They stopped, and the type with the gun opened the door, shoved the gun against Selva’s head and pulled the trigger, so that he was literally blown out of the car. The door was slammed and the car was driven away. He must have got the wallet or the drugs off him before he shot him.’

  ‘If the Paris mob did it,’ Pel said slowly, ‘then why? Was Selva double-crossing them? And Huppert – could Selva have been using Huppert’s place as a drop for something? Drugs, for example. Without Huppert’s knowledge, even. That would explain the first intruder. Perhaps he was trying to pick up what was hidden there. He couldn’t find it the first time and had to go back.’

  ‘If it was drugs,’ Darcy put in, ‘it would explain the shooting. Those boys don’t take chances. They’ve a lot to gain and a lot to lose.’

  ‘It wasn’t drugs, Patron,’ Bardolle interrupted. ‘I thought of that and I had the sniffer dogs in. They found no trace.’

  ‘So what was it? There must be some connection between Madame Huppert and Selva.’

  ‘Not just Madame Huppert and Selva,’ the man from Ballistics said. ‘All of them.’

  Pel’s head jerked round. ‘All of them?’

  ‘All of them, Patron. Selva, Mada
me Huppert, Huppert, the man who fired at Huppert. He was shot with a 6.35 too. We’re dealing with four guns. All 6.35’s.’

  There was a long silence before anyone spoke.

  ‘Four?’ Pel said. ‘In the name of God, has the man an armoury?’

  The Ballistics man shifted uncomfortably in his seat but he didn’t change his opinion. ‘There were four guns, Patron. The one that killed Selva at Pouilly. Huppert’s, which we’ve got and identified. And two others, one of which killed Madame Huppert.’

  ‘Two others? At Montenay?’

  ‘Yes, Patron.’

  ‘So there were two intruders?’

  The Ballistics man looked puzzled. ‘Don’t ask me, Patron. I just supply the details, not the guesswork. But there were four altogether and they were all the same calibre and we think the same type of gun. All FAS Apex 6.35s. Eight-shot single-magazine guns like Huppert’s. Made by Fabrique d’Armes Automatiques de St Etienne. They’re cheap and not difficult to get hold of and people buy them for self-protection. But they’re small and not much use at long distance. They’re not a hit-man’s weapon.’

  ‘Go on,’ Pel said.

  The Ballistics man looked at his notes. ‘Two shots were fired at Pouilly. From a 6.35. Ten shots were fired at Montenay. Six in the yard, from two different guns but both 6.35s. Three from Huppert’s gun which we’ve got and identified, because we’ve found both bullets and cartridge cases. The 6.35 has magazine-fed cartridges and the spent cases are ejected automatically. At the same time a fresh round’s pushed into the breech and the weapon’s recocked. We fired shots from Huppert’s gun with his ammunition. We identified the bullets he fired without difficulty.’

  ‘And the others?’

  ‘As I said, six shots in the yard, three from Huppert’s gun. Madame Huppert was shot by a different 6.35, which also fired three shots in the yard, one of which hit her. The other two hit the wall. In the forge two shots were fired by Huppert. We found them embedded in the plaster in the wall opposite the door where he says he was standing. Two other shots were fired in there, too – presumably at him by the intruder because one was in the wall by the door and one was in the beam alongside. They were also 6.35s. But those were fired by a different gun.’

  ‘Different from what?’

  ‘Different from the gun that was fired in the yard and killed Madame Huppert. In my opinion it was an FAS Apex, like the others, but a different gun all the same. Three guns in all – one at Pouilly, two at Montenay – four, if you count Huppert’s. And all, I’d say, from the same batch, except Huppert’s which was older.’

  They all looked puzzled.

  ‘Let’s get this straight,’ Pel said. ‘Ten shots were fired at Montenay, but none of them by the gun that did the shooting at Pouilly, even though it was the same type.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘And six of those shots were fired in the yard, three at Huppert, one of them killing Madame Huppert, and three by Huppert’s gun at the intruder.’

  ‘That’s correct.’

  ‘Then, as Huppert went into the forge, he fired two shots with his own gun, and two shots were fired back at him – one of them wounding him – but with a different gun from the one that was fired in the yard and hit Madame Huppert.’

  The Ballistics man shrugged. ‘That’s how we work it out, Patron.’

  They looked even more bewildered.

  ‘So there were two intruders.’ Pel said. ‘This is the first we’ve heard about a second burglar. Huppert thought there was only one.’

  ‘I think there was only one too, Patron,’ Bardolle added.

  ‘In that case, he had two guns. One intruder with two guns.’ Pel’s frown deepened. ‘But if one intruder, why two guns? Why carry two? And why fire with a different one. He’d only fired three shots in the yard from an eight-shot weapon so he had five shots left. So why change weapons? There must have been two intruders.’

  ‘He might have been an amateur,’ the Ballistics man said. ‘We’ve found that some people who don’t know much about guns think that only the ammunition supplied with the weapon will fit it properly. Or perhaps he was short of ammunition and the gun fired in the yard wasn’t fully loaded, so he had to change weapons.’

  They discussed it back and forth for some time without coming to any satisfactory conclusions, before passing on to the shooting at Pouilly.

  ‘What about the gun that shot Selva?’ Darcy asked. ‘That was an FAS Apex 6.35, too?’

  The Ballistics man agreed. ‘Without doubt. But a different gun again. Same calibre, same type, but definitely a different weapon. That’s clear from the markings on the bullets and the spent cartridges we examined. We know Huppert’s gun was an Apex and I’d bet my pension all the other three were, too.’

  Twelve

  Pel stood in the shower, cursing as he failed to adjust the water temperature to his satisfaction.

  He liked two taps and a single pipe to the shower and in his new house he had a device like the wheel of a drainage system, dreamed up by some bright little man to make showering as difficult as possible. Pel hated bright little men. They invariably complicated the simple procedures of what was already the difficult business of being alive. The industrial world, he felt, was full of bright little men all busily thinking up ways of making it more burdensome. His latest hate was for the man who put new toothbrushes in plastic-covered cases for which you needed a hammer and chisel to get them out.

  He got the temperature right at last and stood deep in thought, enjoying the warmth. Four pistols, he thought. All the same type. All the same calibre. One of them used to kill Richard Selva at Pouilly. Three in the gun battle at Montenay. The old trade of killing was becoming infectious. Still – his wet shoulders moved in a shrug – perhaps it was hardly surprising in a nation whose national anthem constantly urged people to set about each other. Its whole theme was insurrection. ‘Aux armes, citoyens!’ It was there in the Marseillaise for everybody to hear.

  He emerged from the shower pink and shining, and studied his frame in the mirror. Not what you’d call impressive, he decided. Hardly Superman, and with an incipient pot belly, too. Fortunately Madame, thank God, seemed quite satisfied. Dressing in a hurry – he was never one to linger over his clothes or to dally over the choosing of a tie – he appeared downstairs for breakfast.

  ‘Yesterday’s croissants?’ he asked as Madame Routy appeared.

  ‘No,’ she snapped. ‘The day before’s.’

  The usual hostile exchanges sorted out for the day, Pel sat down as Madame Routy disappeared to the kitchen. Both were satisfied. They had lived in the same house so long, snarling at each other, that they had discovered that when they’d stopped for the sake of Madame Pel they were suffering traumas, so they’d started again.

  Madame confined herself to a mild reproof.

  ‘You mustn’t bully her.’

  ‘Why not? I expect she’s been at the whisky again.’

  ‘It’s one of the perks of working here,’ Madame said gently. ‘Everybody has perks. I don’t fool myself that my assistants don’t help themselves to shampoo. In the same way people who work in printers’ shops are never short of paper.’

  It made sense but to Pel it was shocking. Whisky was as expensive as uranium and sometimes as difficult to obtain. In his Rue Martin-de-Noinville days he had often been tempted to draw a pencil line on the label of the bottle so he’d know what Madame Routy had guzzled. However, he bowed to his wife’s greater wisdom. If nothing else, being pleasant made life less crowded with aggressive incident.

  Nevertheless, when he reached the Hôtel de Police, he had once more worked himself up into a state when he was quite ready to have a fight with someone and was almost pleased to learn from Darcy that a search of the woods had been made between where the De Mougys had been held up and the road block at Pontailly, and there had been no sign of the discarded windcheaters they had been half-expecting to find.

  However, there was no need to cry ‘All
is lost’ because the ship hadn’t quite sunk yet. Brochard and Debray, the Heavenly Twins, had been running a check on guns and had been very thorough.

  ‘Huppert had a licence for that gun of his,’ Debray reported. ‘No problem there, Patron. And we’ve checked every other gun in the area we know about. We insisted on seeing them, too, and there was no question of them having been recently fired. They hadn’t even been recently cleaned. Mostly they were full of spiders and cobwebs. They hadn’t been handled for months.’

  ‘So where did these three different 6.35s come from?’

  Brochard had the answer to that, too. ‘That consignment that was stolen en route from St Etienne to Paris,’ he reported. ‘We’ve been in touch with Paris and they gave us the full story. There were various kinds. Nickel-plated for ladies’ handbags. Ordinary gun-metal for men. Just the job for polishing off your neighbour or your lover.’ Brochard liked to think of himself as a humourist. ‘But all FAS Apex 6.35s. And with consecutive numbers, too. They were headed for a gunsmith’s in the Ile de la Cité. Paris thinks Pépé le Cornet’s mob were behind it.’

  ‘I’ll bet they were too,’ Pel said. ‘Have we the numbers?’

  ‘We have, Patron.’ Debray’s pale face was excited. ‘Huppert’s gun wasn’t one. It was older, but the others might well have been.’

  ‘And now they’ve turned up here? Two at Montenay. One at Pouilly. And it’s my bet all three have been got rid of by this time, too. Where?’ Pel looked at Brochard. ‘If you wanted to get rid of a pistol, what would you do with it?’

  ‘Throw it away, Patron.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘In the canal.’

  ‘Where in the canal?’

  ‘From the bridge that goes over it at the Chemin de Chèvre Morte. I could also chuck it in the dustbin, of course, and it would disappear that way. I could find a thicket of undergrowth and throw it down there. I could even bury it. I could do a lot of things with it.’