by Mark Hebden
‘If you were in a hurry, though, and a bit scared of being found with it you’d probably just toss it in the canal, wouldn’t you? Because it’s easiest.’ Pel turned to Darcy. ‘Let’s have it searched, Daniel. Get hold of someone with a frogman’s suit and see what he brings up.’
As Darcy reached for the telephone, Pel frowned. ‘And what’s the connection?’ he asked. ‘Richard Selva. Nick the Greek. Pat Boum. They’ve all worked at one time or another for Pépé le Cornet. Let’s have photographs of them all. Have them printed and handed round. To Uniform. To Traffic. Everybody. Somebody might have noticed them together at some time.’
As Darcy made a note on a slip of paper, Nosjean joined in. ‘I hear Nick has a girlfriend, Patron,’ he said.
‘It’s more than likely,’ Pel agreed. ‘Do we know who she is?’
‘I’ll try to find out, Patron.’
‘He likes the good life, too,’ Pel added. ‘He latches on to women with money. The Hôtel Centrale’s the sort of place he frequents. Have a word with Misset. He’s watching it. He might have noticed him around. He’s hard to miss. You could also ask Ballentou again. He might have heard which hole in the woodwork he’s disappeared into.’
They decided to try Montenay again. When they arrived, there was a small crowd on the patch of land outside the little factory. At first they thought there’d been another shooting but, in fact, they were watching a dog trying to mount a bitch. Pel stared at them with cold eyes. People, he thought, were stupider than you could believe. A crowd would gather for anything. If a man discovered his car had a puncture and stopped to stare at it, within minutes there’d be a dozen round him all doing the same thing. As a small boy he’d once stood in the village street at Vieilly and pointed at the sky. Within seconds there had been a dozen people round him all staring at the same empty spot in the heavens.
He approached the factory yard warily, ready to defend life and limb against the dog. But there was no sound and the chain lay coiled across the yard without the dog. The policeman on duty explained.
‘They got rid of it,’ he said.
‘Who did?’
‘Huppert, sir. Well, actually, I gather it was old Connie. She never liked it much. She made him get rid of it.’
Pel’s eyebrows rose. ‘She has that much influence?’
The policeman shrugged. ‘She’s been here a long time.’
As they stood by the kitchen door staring at the yard, Bardolle appeared from the forge. He seemed baffled. ‘It beats me, Patron,’ he said. ‘We’ve turned nothing up. I can’t imagine what he was after. Pay-day wasn’t until the following day so there’s no point in chasing that angle?’
‘Could someone have thought it was pay-day?’
‘Not if he lived in Montenay. Everybody here knows when pay-day is.’
Huppert appeared. He seemed to be using his arm normally again and Pel indicated it with a gesture. Huppert flexed it. ‘Coming along,’ he said. ‘But I’ve had to get Connie to drive me.’
Pel tried the idea of someone using Huppert’s premises as a drop. ‘They get up to a few tricks, you know,’ he said.
Huppert didn’t think it possible. He was also in no doubt that there was only one intruder.
‘And you’ve no idea what he could have been after?’
‘None at all. Unless…unless it’s some employee we sacked in the past who’s trying to do for me.’
‘Got any names?’
Huppert fished in his pocket and produced a piece of paper. ‘Yes, I have,’ he said. ‘It set me thinking and I wrote them down. I can only think of four since I took the place over.’
‘When was that?’
‘Eighteen years ago. Mostly we were on good terms with everybody. A few left of their own accord but these four left in bad odour. They thought I had no right to sack them.’
‘Etienne Douaud. Michel Redaudineau. Yvon Muller. Robert Carruolo.’ Pel read the names aloud. ‘All French?’
Huppert shrugged. ‘Two of them live here in Montenay. Douaud and Muller. Redaudineau came from the south. Lyons, I think. I think Carruolo was a Portuguese, but I’m not sure.’
‘Why did they leave?’
‘Carruolo stole tools. I sacked him.’
‘And the others?’
‘Bad timekeeping. Douaud and Muller just couldn’t get here in the morning. I warned them several times.’
‘And Redeaudineau?’
‘He always went out for his lunch and he could never get back on time. I think he had a drink problem.’
‘Better check on them, Bardolle,’ Pel said, passing the list across. He turned back to Huppert. ‘Nobody else who’d want to see you dead?’
‘None that I know of. What do you think he was after?’
‘Apart from you, I don’t yet know.’
They were moving now through the forge. It was empty of workpeople and Pel moved round the benches and past the cold furnace. Eventually, he came to the chalk marks on the bench and the dirty floor. They looked fainter – as though someone had tried to clean them off.
‘Those marks,’ Pel said. ‘Remembered what they were for?’
Huppert stared at the marks. ‘No. We make all sorts here. They could be for anything. They’ve been there a long time. I’ve asked but nobody can remember.’
‘Somebody’s tried to erase them.’
‘Me,’ Huppert admitted. He gestured. ‘The place looked scruffy.’
Pel paused. ‘When you came out looking for the intruder,’ he said, ‘you didn’t turn the light on?’
‘No.’
‘Wasn’t that dangerous? And you might have seen who it was.’
‘He might have seen me, too.’ Huppert shrugged. ‘I just didn’t think, I suppose. And I had a torch, of course. As I went into the forge I heard a door opening and closing, then the bullet hit me in the left arm and I dropped the torch. I decided it was too dangerous, so I bolted for the house to see if my wife had got hold of the police. It was then I found her.’
As they continued to study the forge, Huppert drifted away. Pel was frowning heavily, lost in thought. Bardolle nudged him back to the present.
‘The chap next door’s returned from Paris, Patron,’ he said. ‘I gather he’s off again soon. Don’t you think we ought to see him?’
The next door house abutted on to Huppert’s property but it was impossible to see on to Huppert’s land except from one window upstairs. The owner of the house was the man called Alexandre Démy. He worked for Electroniques Bourguignonnes and he was a strong-jawed, sour-visaged, hard-voiced man, who clearly didn’t like the Hupperts much.
‘The noise that comes from that place is damnable,’ he said. ‘I’ve been trying to have it stopped.’
‘How?’ Pel asked. ‘Through the Mairie?’
‘No.’ Démy frowned. ‘I couldn’t get any joy at all through them. So I tried to get signatures from as many people as would sign so I could get some action. With that, they’d have had to do something.’
‘How many did you get?’
‘About four.’
‘Is that all?’
‘People round here have no civic feeling,’ Démy snorted. ‘You’d think they’d be concerned about what was happening in their village.’
‘What is happening? Inform me.’
‘The damn place’s becoming industrialised. Montenay’s a village, not an industrial estate. Forges belong on industrial estates. Not in the middle of a rural area.’
‘How long have you lived here, Monsieur Démy?’
‘Eight years.’
‘But the forge’s been here three times that length of time. Monsieur Huppert himself has been running it for eighteen years.’
‘It should never have been allowed in the first place.’
‘But, since it was, when you were looking for a house wouldn’t you have been wiser to choose one somewhere else?’
‘I try to keep France as she should be.’
Démy obviously considered e
verybody out of step but himself. Pel forced himself to divorce himself from what he realised was a growing dislike for a man he’d decided was a self-centred bully.
‘Where did you come from, Monsieur?’ he asked.
‘Paris. And let me tell you, in Paris, they make sure you behave properly to your neighbours. No noise, no burning of garden rubbish until evening, no–’
‘This isn’t Paris, Monsieur!’ Pel pointed out sharply. ‘It’s Montenay. In the country. In Burgundy. People have more land here than they normally do in Paris, and garden rubbish here isn’t measured in kilos or barrowloads. Things are different. Have you not also noticed the birds–?’
‘I’ve noticed the cockerels. And that damned dog the Hupperts have. It’s always barking.’
‘It won’t any more. It’s gone.’
Démy looked surprised. ‘Gone? Where?’
‘They’ve got rid of it.’
‘Who has?’
‘Madame Gruye, I understand.’
Démy smiled. ‘Throwing her weight about, I suppose, as usual. You want to watch her, you know. She’s after Huppert.’
‘Is that so? Why do you say that?’
‘It’s obvious. Frustrated widow. She’s after everyone. Any man she can get hold of.’
Pel eyed him sideways. ‘Was she after you, too?’
‘Of course she was. They all were.’
‘All of them?’
‘This village is full of women like that.’
Pel said nothing for a while. He glanced at Bardolle who was staring at the ceiling as if he’d found something tremendously interesting up there.
‘You’d better tell me about it,’ Pel said.
Démy was only too willing and in the end Pel had to hold up his hand. He was becoming involved in the antics of a self-important and not very pleasant man. ‘Let’s talk about what happened next door the other night,’ he said. ‘Did you see anything?’
‘I looked.’
‘You did?’
‘With binoculars. They’re good ones, too. Powerful.’
‘Do you usually examine your neighbours’ behaviour with powerful binoculars?’
‘Why not? I expect people examine me.’
‘Have you seen them?’
‘Well, no. But I suppose they do.’
Pel studied Démy with narrowed eyes. This one, he thought, is a funny one.
‘Let’s go on,’ he said. ‘Did you hear anything?’
‘No.’
‘Not even the dog?’
Démy stopped, and considered. ‘I must have been asleep,’ he said. ‘The first I heard was that lunatic next door shouting. Then all the shooting. Or perhaps it was the other way round. Then people opening windows. That sort of thing. Then I noticed the dog. It seemed to be going mad. All the yelling, I suppose. It did it last time.’
‘Last time?’
‘When he said he was shot at before. About a month ago.’
‘Are you familiar with firearms, Monsieur?’
‘Of course. Dead shot. I did my time in the army.’
‘Automatic pistols?’
‘Of course. I–’ Démy stopped dead. ‘Here, you’re not thinking–’
‘I’m not thinking anything,’ Pel said. It was a lie because Pel was thinking a lot. ‘Do you meet Monsieur Huppert much?’ he asked.
‘Not if I can help it.’
‘What about Madame Gruye?’
‘She’s jealous as hell.’
‘Of whom?’
‘Madame Huppert.’
‘How do you know? Did you get on all right with Madame Huppert?’
‘No reason not to.’
‘But you don’t meet Huppert himself?’
Démy made a sweeping gesture. ‘He hates me.’
Pel’s eyebrows lifted, and Démy hurried on. ‘He tried to kill me, you know?’
‘He did? When?’
‘Last year.’
‘Why?’
Démy gestured. ‘Because he’s unbalanced. Full of obsessions. Full of funny ideas. He thought all the women in the village were after him.’
Bardolle’s study of the ceiling became more intense.
‘Why did Huppert hate you?’ Pel asked.
‘Because his wife had fallen for me?’
‘She had? How do you know?’
‘The way she looked at me when I offered to lend her my gun. She was scared of being alone. So I offered it. I have one. These days you don’t know who your neighbours are.’
‘What is this gun of yours?’
‘6.35.’
‘Type?’
‘FAS Apex.’
Pel glanced at Bardolle.
‘They’re cheap,’ Démy said.
‘And you lent it to her?’
‘No. She said she’d got one. Huppert’s. She showed it to me. He kept it in the safe in the office.’
‘I think I’d like to see this pistol of yours. And the licence.’
Démy produced the licence and the pistol.
Pel showed it to Bardolle. ‘6.35,’ he said. ‘Just as he said. Let’s have it down to Ballistics.’
‘Look here–’ Démy began to protest but Pel interrupted. ‘You’ll get it back,’ he said. ‘In the meantime, there are a few more questions. The night of the shooting – the second shooting when Madame Huppert was killed – did you see clearly what happened with those binoculars of yours?’
‘No. I’d gone to bed early. I’d had a long day driving and I had another one the next day. I heard the shouting. I told you. Then I got up.’
‘And went to the window? With the binoculars?’
‘Yes.’
‘What did you see?’
‘I saw Huppert with the gun in his hand. He was yelling.’
‘What was he yelling?’
‘“Come down. Somebody wants you.”’
‘Not “Come down. Ring the Police”?’
Démy shrugged. ‘Well, I don’t think so but it might have been.’
‘Can you describe what you saw?’
‘What I told you. Huppert. He had a towel over his shoulders.’
‘Round his neck?’
‘Yes, but the ends were dangling. He was shouting. I saw him fire several times. Then he went into the forge – the one where all the noise comes from. There were more shots.’
‘How many?’
‘I didn’t count. One or two, I think.’
‘Was it one or two?’
‘I’m not sure. Then I heard him yell and he came out with the towel round his arm. There seemed to be blood on it.’
‘What did you do?’
‘Well, when he went inside, it seemed to be all over, so I went back to bed.’
Pel’s eyes widened. ‘You went back to bed?’
‘Well, it was none of my business, was it?’
‘And you went away the next day?’
‘Why not?’
‘A woman had been shot. She was dying.’
‘Well, I didn’t know that, did I? All I knew was that there’d been the usual row I’d always been complaining about, so I thanked God it had stopped. I don’t take much notice of what goes on in the village. I don’t get on with the people here.’
‘Do they get on with you?’
‘They don’t try.’
‘No,’ Pel said. ‘I suppose not.’
Thirteen
The trouble with criminals, Pel decided, was that they were selfish, impatient and in too big a hurry. Never for one moment did they think of waiting their turn. If only one lot could manage to wait for the police to clear up the misdemeanours of the lot before them, life would have been so much easier. But it never worked out that way and someone always started jumping the queue and getting up to his tricks before they’d cleared up the mess left by his predecessor. Here they were, with the De Mougy robbery on their hands when someone had had the indelicacy to start letting off a gun at Montenay; and they’d no sooner got that investigation under way when someone had shot Rich
ard Selva at Pouilly. Selva’s death didn’t worry Pel overmuch. He was another drug pusher who wouldn’t be missed. But his murder had to be cleared up. In the meantime, there were all the other things that plagued the Brigade Criminelle – the muggings, the burglaries, the indecent assaults, the thefts, the swindles, the frauds – so that the police were always stretched to the limit. Especially when you also included demonstrations by lorry drivers insisting on free entry to Switzerland and Italy, and wine growers who liked occasionally to blow up with plastic explosive the vats of imported wine which they considered was ruining their businesses.
Nosjean was handling the shooting at Pouilly; De Troq’ the De Mougy theft; and Bardolle, with the backing of Darcy, the shooting at Montenay. Pel was presiding over the lot – with the exception, thank the good Lord God, of Misset who was watching Briand’s counterfeit notes and Chaput’s supposed spy, in whom Pel just couldn’t bring himself to believe. Aimedieu was still growing fat on Madame Bonhomme’s cakes as he watched Lafarge’s house from her front bedroom; and they were still awaiting a report on Pépé le Cornet from Paris because the events they were involved in seemed also to touch on their diocese. Pel didn’t expect much from the report. He’d been involved with the Paris mob before and he knew there were always too many people between the event and Pépé le Cornet himself, who nowadays cultivated the image of a successful entrepreneur with no interest in crime. Every policeman in the country knew he wasn’t a businessman but it was a different matter proving the fact, and Pépé went on living a life of luxury with houses as big as the Elysée Palace, expensive foreign cars and dancing attendance on him little dolly girls blessed with the sort of beauty that reduced strong men to tears. Life, Pel sometimes thought, was decidedly unfair. God was doubtless all-powerful but He seemed at times to have overlooked the details, and it was strange that the good often went to the wall while the wicked survived in luxury.
Now, to complete the picture, the Baron de Mougy had talked to a friend of his and someone had pulled strings and a detective was due from Paris to look into the theft of his valuables. The place was becoming knee-deep in people from Paris, none of whom seemed to know what was going on or where to search, so that they were constantly in the local boys’ hair. Since all their information came from the local people, anyway, they might just as well have all stayed where they were and left it to them, because it was a well-known fact that so long as the local boys were intelligent they always had the best chance, for the simple reason that they knew their locality and the people in it. And Pel’s people were intelligent. With the exception, he had to concede, of Misset, who was probably a congenital idiot.