by Mark Hebden
Even Madame Pel had not been able to help. She had heard nothing of any shady deals which involved the Baronne de Mougy, but she had heard that the Baron was not the only man in her life.
‘Who is?’ Pel asked.
‘The one she had before,’ Madame said. ‘Paul-Edouard Piot. The man who has that estate at Butte-Avelan.’
‘Did she go back to him?’
‘She probably never left him.’
‘I hope to God the Baron doesn’t find out or we’ll have another murder on our hands.’ Pel looked at his wife affectionately. ‘How do you find out these things?’
She smiled a secretive smile. ‘It’s amazing what women talk about under the dryers.’
‘Even about their lovers?’
‘Not their own as a rule. Usually other people’s. Someone hears a rumour. Someone’s given a confidence.’ Madame smiled. ‘And, having been given a confidence and told not to repeat it, she immediately has to find someone to repeat it to. We usually get the rumours third or fourth hand, heard as they’re passed on to friends under the next dryer by people who’ve been begged not to say anything.’
As they talked, the telephone went. It was Darcy. He sounded excited.
‘I’ve just heard they’ve found something in the canal by the bridge,’ he said. ‘I’m going there now!’
When Pel arrived, he found to his surprise that the frogmen, who’d arrived from the Navy at St Nazaire, had come up with not one 6.35 but two. In addition, they had produced a revolver, very rusty, old and useless, and what appeared to be a dagger, also very old and rusty. But the two 6.35s were undamaged by the immersion, the film of oil on them still giving them protection. And they had consecutive numbers, which matched the numbers in the stolen consignment from St Etienne.
Darcy had them lying on a sheet of plastic in the boot of his car.
‘There’s something a bit odd about one of them, Patron,’ he said as he opened it. ‘Somebody’s sawn the trigger guard off.’
The cut was still clear, the metal still bright despite the immersion in the canal.
‘That seems a damn silly thing to do,’ Darcy said. ‘Especially with the Apex. It doesn’t have the solid block trigger, just the curved spindle type and without the guard, you could catch it in your pocket lining and shoot yourself in the balls. Why would anyone want to do that?’
‘I expect,’ Pel said, ‘that there was a very good reason and when we find out why, we’ll probably know why Madame Huppert was shot. Or vice versa. Our friend who did the shooting at Montenay tossed them away together. Anybody see anything?’
‘We’re asking,’ Darcy said. ‘But I don’t suppose we’ll find anybody. He could just toss them through the window of his car. Simplest thing in the world.’
‘Not always,’ Pel said. ‘There was that case of the type who killed that farmer near Le Havre and tossed the gun over the parapet as he was crossing the Pont de Tancarville. Unfortunately, it hit one of the uprights and bounced back into the road and was spotted by a police car ten minutes later. It even had his name on it. He could never understand how it was fished out of the water so quickly.’
It didn’t take the press long to learn of the police activity at the canal and they were round in no time, like vultures after a carcass.
Pel shrugged. ‘Give them their ration of excitement for tomorrow’s readers, Daniel,’ he advised.
‘How much do we tell them, Patron? They’re on to both the shootings.’
‘What about Misset’s case?’
Darcy grinned. ‘They’ve not heard of that.’
‘Misset will be disappointed. Right. Give them the bare details. No more. We’ve been looking for a gun. That’s all. Don’t tell them we’ve found one.’
‘And the De Mougy business? They’ll want the latest on that.’
‘As much as you like on that. And if you can make De Mougy look an ass,’ Pel added maliciously, ‘so much the better. But nothing about Nick the Greek or Pat the Bang. And nothing about Lafarge. I want Lafarge in particular kept quiet. I don’t want him to know we’re interested in case he leads us to whoever was in it with him.’
Ballistics were quick with their report on the guns fished from the canal. One of them was the gun that had killed Madame Huppert. The other was the one that had wounded her husband. The striations coincided with the bullets they’d found. There was more news, too, from Inspector Pomereu of Traffic, who met them when they returned to the office.
‘Nick the Greek, Patron,’ he said.
‘What about him?’
‘He’s been spotted. Near Montenay. He was in a car.’
‘On his own?’
‘He had a girl with him.’
‘He would have.’ Pel had been hoping, maybe, for Pépé le Cornet. ‘What was the car?’
‘Citroën. A big one.’
‘His own?’
‘Of course.’
Pel frowned and looked at Darcy. ‘Where in God’s name do they get the money?’ he asked. ‘He’s only been out of jail a month, yet he already has a car and money in his pocket. What was he doing in Montenay?’
Pomereu shrugged. ‘He seemed to be trying to look as if he was just passing through.’
‘And was he?’
‘At the speed he was going, I doubt it.’
‘Perhaps that’s where his girl lives. Did you get the number of the car?’
Pomereu looked smug. ‘We did.’
‘Right, check the records, find where he’s living and bring him in.’
Arion Nicopopoulos was a handsome young man, tall, grey-eyed and dark-haired, with a splendid profile which he knew how to use to advantage.
He smiled at Pel. ‘Can’t you leave a guy alone?’ he asked. ‘I’ve only just got out. I haven’t had time to get up to anything yet, even if I wanted to, which I don’t. Not again. I’ve had enough of that place. I’m not going back.’
‘That’s what they all say,’ Pel said dryly.
‘I mean it.’
‘You did last time.’ Pel smiled silkily. ‘You’re living in the Rue Clochemarc, Nick. It’s a nice area. Are you on your own?’
Nick’s handsome face twisted in a sneer. It was obvious that he thought that, while there were women in the world, living alone was for fools.
‘What’s her name?’
‘Loïs Dubois.’
‘Does she know about you?’
‘No.’
‘Not told her?’
‘Would you?’
‘Who’re your friends these days, Nick?’
‘Come again?’
‘You used to be friendly with Dick Selva. He was in the nick with you. Still friendly?’
‘No. We – well, we – er – had a disagreement.’
‘Go for him, did you?’
‘Not me.’
‘Someone else? Who?’
‘It happens all the time.’ Nick’s handsome teeth showed as he smiled.
‘What about the Paris mob, Nick?’
‘What’s the Paris mob?’
‘Pépé le Cornet’s lot.’
‘Never heard of them.’
‘Come off it. You were mixed up with them more than once. You used to work for Pépé.’
‘Oh, him!’ A great light seemed to dawn, then Nick shook his head. ‘Not heard of him for years.’
‘Pépé used to be keen on jewels,’ Darcy put in.
‘He likes to flash them around,’ Nick agreed.
‘He likes to get his mitts on them, too. Especially other people’s. Did he have anything to do with the De Mougy robbery?’
‘What’s the De Mougy robbery?’
‘You won’t have heard, of course?’
‘Not a word.’
‘Someone held up the Baron de Mougy and removed his wallet and his wife’s jewels. On the 30th of last month. Three types. Stocking masks. Guns. The lot. Know anything about it?’
‘I don’t go in for that sort of thing.’
‘You did last time
.’
Nick looked pained.
‘Where were you on the 30th?’
‘I was in Dole.’
‘See anybody who’d verify it?’
Nick scowled. ‘Do I have to have people to verify where I’ve been?’ he said. ‘I’ve come out. I’ve done my lot. I’m free. Even from the flics.’
They got very little from him and they had to let him go. From the window they watched him stroll out of the Hôtel de Police. The big Citroën was waiting for him, a girl in the driving seat. As he appeared, she moved over and Nick took the wheel.
‘He’s in with the Paris mob again,’ Pel said. ‘That’s where that car came from. I dare bet Pépé provided it. On terms, of course.’
‘Such as “I’ve got a little job I’d like you to look at.”’
‘Exactly. Keep an eye on him, Daniel. And on the girl. She might not be as innocent as he pretends.’
‘Do I talk to her, Patron?’
‘No,’ Pel said. ‘Leave her for the moment. Leave Nick, too. Let him think we’ve lost interest. He might get over-confident. He was in the De Mougy business. I know it. It’s typical Pépé le Cornet style to get someone small and not connected to the mob like Lafarge for the dirty work, with Nick as the go-between. That way Pépé’s not involved.’ He picked up the telephone and dialled Madame Bonhomme’s number. Madame Bonhomme answered.
‘Have you found out anything yet?’ she asked.
‘Not yet, Madame. But we will.’
When Aimedieu came to the telephone, Pel asked if he’d seen anything.
‘Nothing, Patron,’ Aimedieu said. ‘It’s as quiet as the grave. And about as exciting.’
‘Nobody visiting Lafarge?’
‘Just a woman and a boy, who go in and out. Madame Bonhomme says they’re his wife and son. I’ve seen Lafarge in the doorway but he never moves outside.’
‘You couldn’t miss him?’
‘Not possible, Patron. When I’m not watching, Madame Bonhomme is.’
‘And when she’s watching, what are you doing?’
‘Making the coffee. Cutting the bread. Cooking the lunch.’
‘And doubtless vacuuming the sitting room and making the beds?’
Aimedieu chuckled. ‘Not exactly, Patron. But I help a bit. And you’ve no need to worry. Madame Bonhomme’s better at it than I am. She knows everybody who ever visits these houses. And she’s probably got more patience. She’s been sitting in the window for so long because of her legs it’s become second nature. What’s more, she doesn’t have to hide. Everybody’s used to seeing her.’
‘I want to know at once if anybody unusual calls.’
‘It’s as good as done, Patron.’
‘I think Aimedieu’s enjoying himself too much,’ Pel said as he replaced the telephone. ‘I think we’ll have to relieve him before long, or give him someone to share it with. For the meantime, let’s keep a low profile. It might worry them if we make no move.’
Darcy nodded. ‘What about Pat the Bang?’ he asked. ‘I’d bet my wages he was the third guy – the one who brought the car up. He’s done the driving on jobs before.’
‘Have we picked up anything on him?’
‘Not a thing.’
‘Nothing from Ballentou?’
‘Nothing at all. He seems to have sunk without trace.’
‘Not sunk,’ Pel said. ‘Just submerged for the time being.’
Fourteen
Sergeant Misset was worried. He’d been worried ever since he’d heard the dark man asking for Ada Vocci at the Hôtel Centrale. She’d been out then and Misset wondered if she’d returned, and what she’d been up to in Switzerland.
Inspector Briand, of Counterfeit Currency, had vanished from Misset’s mind. It wasn’t a mind that you could fill with facts and expect to draw on at any time like a computer, and with the arrival of Ada Vocci and now Major Chaput’s ominous rumblings about spies, it had completely lost Briand among the junk. Briand had never reappeared since his first interview and Misset had long since decided that, his quest having proved fruitless, he had disappeared back to Paris. Misset’s mind was never very elastic.
Chiefly he was wondering if Ada were ever coming back and whether, in fact, being what Chaput said she was, she was at that moment somewhere negotiating the sale of the file Chaput said she possessed. Had Misset missed a chance to capture an international spy? Had he missed the chance he’d been longing for, for years?
He decided to check.
Reaching the Hôtel Centrale, he didn’t bother with the desk but headed straight for the stairs as if he were staying there. No one stopped him as he made his way to Ada Vocci’s room. The key had been missing from the hook above the reception desk, he’d noticed, and when he arrived, the chambermaid was there, turning down the bed.
‘I’ll wait inside,’ he said. ‘Mademoiselle’s on her way up. She’s just changing some money at the desk.’
A ten-franc note clinched the deal, and for some time he sat on the settee. The heavy box he’d rescued from the railway track stood in a corner of the room. Alongside it was a valise and the two white suitcases. For a while he gazed at the wooden box. The hole in the lock seemed to stare back at him with malignant intensity. Everything Chaput had said came back into his mind as it held his eyes, and reluctantly he crossed the room towards it.
He moved slowly round it, staring at it, the dark glasses down his nose, then he prodded the valise with his toe. It was empty. Almost as if his actions were governed by some will other than his own, he tried to open the suitcases but they were locked.
Casually, he began to examine the brass-bound box. It was unlocked and the marble chippings where the urn had rested were still inside. Curious, he glanced round and noticed that the urn had gone from beside the bed where he’d last seen it and he wondered if Ada Vocci carried it round with her for safety. The brass-bound box caught his attention again, obsessive and compulsive, and he tapped it. Then, remembering a long-handled umbrella he’d seen in the wardrobe, he fished it out, and pushed it down through the marble chippings until he felt it strike against the bottom of the box. He tapped it once or twice more, then, making a note of where the upper edge of the box lay against the umbrella, he took it out again and measured it against the outside. There was a difference of around ten centimetres.
He put the umbrella down and stared at the box. No box of that size would have a base ten centimetres thick. It didn’t make sense.
For a long time, he sat on the bed, staring at it, then, on a sudden impulse he fished a couple of newspapers from the wastepaper basket and tipped the marble chippings on to them and stirred them up. There was nothing ominous about them. They were simply marble chippings and nothing else.
He measured the inside of the box against the outside and tapped the base. It sounded hollow. Replacing the chippings, he stared at it, frowning. Chaput had been right. It had a false bottom.
He was still kneeling by the box, wondering how to find the secret compartment, when the door clicked and he whirled to find himself face to face with Ada Vocci herself. She was wearing a bronze-coloured dress and on her arm was a large straw bag in which he could see magazines and the top of the urn.
Her gaze flew at once to the box, then to the umbrella lying alongside, and finally to Misset’s face. Her eyes seemed cool pinpoints of jade.
For a moment there was silence as they stared at each other then she sat down abruptly on the bed, her mouth taut, her eyes hard.
‘You’ve found out,’ she said. ‘You’ve found out about me.’
For some time, Misset said nothing. He wasn’t sure whether to be afraid or put on a show of masterful dignity, or even, if she pulled a gun, to duck.
‘Well,’ he said at last, ‘I’ve found out something but I’m not sure what.’
She dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief but he knew she wasn’t crying. Underneath that highly desirable exterior, he suspected she was as tough as Old Nick’s nag nails and nothing about her had
ever led him to believe she was the type to sob out her troubles on a stern male breast. When he didn’t rush to her assistance, she stopped abruptly and, fishing into the bag she’d been carrying, she dug out the urn and placed it on the table beside the bed.
Misset stared at it fascinated. ‘What is in that thing?’ he asked.
She looked up, calm again and with no sign of tears. ‘Serafino,’ she said sharply. ‘I told you.’
‘You told me a lot of things but I’m not sure they were all true. Is it really Serafino?’
She nodded silently and he rubbed his nose, bewildered, wondering how much she knew about Chaput.
‘Then why did you put him in a box with a false bottom?’ he asked. ‘Don’t tell me that was part of the undertaker’s plan, like the marble chippings and the perfumed crystals.’
She said nothing for a moment then she looked up at him. ‘Why did you expect a false bottom?’ she asked.
‘The size of it.’ He decided not to tell her about Chaput. ‘After all – to bring out a little urn you could carry in your bag. It is a false bottom, isn’t it?’
She nodded.
‘What was in it? What were you trying to get out of Poland? You must have been trying to get something out.’
She sniffed. ‘You think I’m a spy? You think I’m this agent who’s escaped with a list of other spies?’ Briefly the cold look appeared in her eyes then it was gone again. ‘Where did you get that idea?’
Suddenly Misset felt a fool and once more that he was being used.
‘You know how it is,’ he said lamely. ‘All this story about Serafino. And then finding the box had a false bottom. After all, why didn’t you bring the old boy out in your bag? You had him there today.’
‘I like to have him safe.’
‘Because you loved him?’
She made a noise that came remarkably close to spitting. ‘Pchah! Of course not! But with the ashes and the documents from the crematorium I have proof that he’s dead and that all he owned is mine.’