Pel And The Paris Mob

by Mark Hebden

  Misset nodded, trying to look as if it had all been due to his intelligence and daring.

  ‘You can forget your spy nonsense, now,’ Pel said. ‘She wasn’t the one. I’m sure Inspector Darcy can find something for you to do.’

  So Misset was back to answering the telephone, with little else but the memories of Ada Vocci.

  ‘What about the urn?’ he asked, feeling somehow that somebody should surely put poor old Serafino away safely with a modicum of decorum.

  ‘He stays where he is,’ Pel said firmly. ‘In the safe. Until the thing’s properly cleared up. Paris will probably want him in the end. They might even empty him down the sink and use the pot to put a geranium in.’

  Seventeen

  The Paris panic was over. Briand was chasing up and down the frontier posts between Switzerland, Italy, Belgium and Holland. Somewhere, presumably, Heinz Horstmann in his gold-threaded suit was trying to get the suitcase of counterfeit notes to safety. Chaput had disappeared back to Paris, disillusioned and despairing. The great spy chase was finished. As Pel had suspected, it had all been for nothing.

  The story was round the office in no time. Briand’s praise for Misset’s brilliance came over loud and clear. Everybody gathered round Misset, clapping him on the back and demanding once more to look at the photographs of Ada Vocci.

  ‘No wonder you never let her out of your sight,’ Brochard said enviously. ‘I bet you enjoyed that case. Did you–’ he paused ‘–you know?’

  Misset put on his James Bond look. ‘I’ve never been known to argue,’ he said with what was supposed to be a modest smile.

  Pel was watching Misset. There’d be no getting rid of him this time. It was the way things went, though. While everybody else used their brains and worked their guts out, Misset, who probably didn’t have a brain at all – just a hole inside his head – and who never lifted a finger if he could avoid it, had cracked the counterfeit money racket – even if only by accident. There’d be no holding him now. He’d be putting in a request to be considered for an inspectorship at any moment.

  All the same, Pel thought, now that they’d got rid of Chaput and were about to get rid of Briand they might be allowed to get on with their work, clean up their own patch, and get back to normality. That was, of course, the normality allowed by two murders and a pretty hefty robbery, because, like the enquiry at Quigny and the enquiry at Montenay, the enquiry into the shooting of Richard Selva at Pouilly had come to a dead stop.

  Not finally, though. Nosjean didn’t believe that for a moment. After all, they’d only just started. As the politicians liked to say, he’d explored every avenue, but there were still a few side roads that could be opened if he tried. He decided to try Georges Ballentou again. It was just possible he might have heard what Selva had been up to. Because he’d clearly been up to something. Even crooks didn’t get themselves shot for doing nothing.

  Ballentou wasn’t at home, but a girl was. She was fair and young and blue-eyed and Nosjean’s heart, which was never very stable where attractive girls were concerned, lurched sideways a little. She didn’t look like Charlotte Rampling which, as far as Nosjean was concerned, was a bit of a disadvantage, but she did look a little like Catherine Deneuve, which more than made up for it. Moreover, she had a smile of the sort that could lift hearts and bring the sun out, and she was friendly and forthcoming and invited Nosjean in at once.

  ‘Coffee?’ she asked.

  ‘Coffee would be fine,’ Nosjean said.

  She left him for the kitchen and he stared around as he waited. Ballentou’s house was spotless. It was shabby – after all, Ballentou had spent a long time in prison and he wasn’t earning much – but someone had worked hard on it.

  ‘Me.’ The voice came from the door and his head jerked round to see the girl standing there with the coffee. ‘I know what you’re thinking. How come it’s so clean? I did it. When his daughter died, he didn’t seem to care what happened. I’m her cousin, Imogen Wathus. I came from Epinal and when I got a job here, he said I could have Michelle’s room. In return, I look after him. He’s a good man.’

  Nosjean didn’t argue.

  They talked for a long time over the coffee. The girl worked as a computer operator at one of the city offices but she managed to make it sound exciting and funny and Nosjean was enchanted by her. He’d just been heavily involved with a girl at the library but she’d decided being a policeman’s wife, with a husband always on duty, wasn’t a good investment and had married a bank clerk instead, so that Nosjean was particularly susceptible at that moment to a pretty face and a welcoming smile.

  It was quite clear Imogen Wathus was interested in Nosjean, too. He was good-looking and educated and intelligent, and the two of them seemed to hit it off immediately.

  She eventually brought the subject back to Ballentou.

  ‘He’s gone to Paris,’ she said. ‘Something to do with ex-Prisoners’ Aid, he told me. He’s hoping to get some money, I think. He’s been before. He’ll be back tonight.

  ‘He’s gone straight, you know,’ she went on. ‘No nonsense. He stays in at night. Except perhaps to walk to the bar for a beer. Nothing else. He’s never out long. Except to go to work. He tries to grow things in the garden. He’s not very good at it, mind you, and he doesn’t know that when he’s not here I do a lot of it for him. But it encourages him. He’s cheerful–’ she paused ‘–at least he was.’

  Nosjean didn’t miss the change of feeling.

  ‘Isn’t he now?’

  She seemed to think she’d said too much. ‘He’s just worried,’ she insisted. ‘That’s all. It’s nothing.’

  ‘It might be important,’ Nosjean argued. ‘Somebody might be trying to put pressure on him. One of his old prison associates. They do, you know,’ he added earnestly.

  The girl frowned and Nosjean pressed on. As he’d half expected, something had come up and he didn’t intend to let go.

  ‘If we know what it is,’ he said, ‘perhaps we can help. A lot of these types who’ve been inside can’t get away from their past because their old friends won’t let them. “We’ve got a little job for you, Georges.” “There’s something come up, Georges, where we could use your skill.” That sort of thing.’

  ‘He didn’t have any skill. He always got caught.’

  Nosjean had to admit the truth of that. ‘He might know something,’ he said.

  She looked at him pleadingly. ‘You really want to help?’

  ‘Our job’s not only to arrest criminals. It’s to prevent crime. What’s bothering him?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I think it’s what you say – people he used to know.’ She paused, debating whether to tell him, then she smiled, like many other girls before her, trusting Nosjean’s open honest face. ‘He’s scared,’ she said.

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘He looks under his car every time he goes out.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘He says he thinks his exhaust’s dropping off. But he also looks inside the engine. I suddenly wondered if he was looking for a bomb.’

  This, Nosjean thought, was one for the book! Bombs! ‘When did this start?’ he asked.

  ‘A few days ago. I’m not sure exactly.’

  ‘Can you fix it by anything?’

  She thought for a moment. ‘Some time after the police questioned him, I think.’

  ‘Why? Because he’s been seen talking to us?’

  ‘Would someone try to blow him up because of that?’

  Well, they might, Nosjean had to admit. Not under normal circumstances but Ballentou had been in prison and he was known to the people who operated with Pépé le Cornet. Had he stumbled across their sphere of operations? Did he know something they preferred him not to know?

  ‘I’ll see we have this place watched,’ he said.

  She looked grateful and smiled. Then her worry returned. ‘He won’t want that,’ she pointed out. ‘He likes to think that sort of thing’s behind him.’

/>   ‘We can do it without him knowing. Don’t discuss it with him.’

  ‘I don’t think he’d want me to.’

  She couldn’t offer anything in the way of help on Selva but Nosjean spent a pleasant hour listening to her talk before he took his leave. He even managed to arrange to meet her for a meal.

  He had Selva’s address from the prison authorities and the welfare department. It was in the old part of the city but it was a good area, better than most policemen could afford, so he could only assume that Selva had done well with drugs in the past.

  On his way he called in at the Hôtel de Police. Pel was staring at reports – firmly believing as he always did, that the clues were there if he could only find them – and trying to will a hunch to come into his head. He was a great believer in hunches. They didn’t provide the details but they often helped the case along.

  ‘Ballentou’s scared, Patron,’ Nosjean said.

  Pel looked up. ‘Who says?’

  ‘That girl who’s looking after him. His niece. He seems to be afraid of a bomb in his car. She thinks perhaps he’s being leaned on.’

  ‘Who by?’

  ‘I don’t know. But Pat the Bang’s not been turned up yet.’

  Pel frowned. ‘Why would Ballentou expect Pat the Bang to put a bomb under his car? What does she think?’

  ‘She doesn’t think anything, Patron. She’s got nothing to do with crime. She’s just looking after Ballentou. But she’s certain he’s scared. I think we ought to have the place watched. We wouldn’t want to lose him, would we?’

  Pel agreed. ‘Fix it,’ he said. ‘Have a word with Lacocq. He’s free. He can do it.’

  When Nosjean reached Selva’s place, a girl answered the door. She was pale and unhealthy looking as if she didn’t like fresh air.

  ‘He’s not in,’ she said in answer to Nosjean’s query.

  He wasn’t ever likely to be in again either, Nosjean thought, because he was lying in one of the drawers at the mortuary with a hole in his head.

  ‘Know him well?’ he asked.

  ‘I live with him,’ she answered defiantly.

  She gave him her name – Monica Ormot – but seemed at first unwilling to answer questions. Nosjean produced his identity card with its tricolour strip.

  ‘Police?’ she said. ‘What’s he done?’

  ‘At the moment, we’re not sure,’ Nosjean admitted. ‘But we’ve got a good idea. Can you give us some indication of his movements lately?’

  ‘I don’t see why I should. He’s trying to stay out of prison so it’s none of your business.’

  ‘Sometimes it is. Has he had any visitors lately?’

  ‘No. He prefers to keep himself to himself.’

  ‘Is that what he said?’

  ‘He doesn’t want to get involved again. He wants to stay straight.’

  Remembering the body in the morgue, Nosjean suspected that he hadn’t managed it. ‘Do you mean,’ he asked, ‘that nobody ever called to say they were pleased to see him back in circulation?’

  ‘He had a man come to see him a few days ago. That’s all.’

  ‘Know his name?’

  ‘No. His car had a German registration, though, and he seemed American. I thought perhaps he was an American soldier serving there.’

  ‘Did he say why he’d come?’

  ‘Dick said he was in electronics and wanted to do some export business here when he came out of the service. Dick was in that line himself before – before he went–’ she paused ‘–before he got mixed up with the wrong sort. I think they were planning something. He went to Paris last week to see what the prospects were up there.’

  I’ll bet he did, Nosjean thought. ‘He didn’t mention anybody he saw there, did he?’

  ‘No.’

  Pépé le Cornet, for a fortune, Nosjean thought. He looked at the girl. She was scruffy, but slim with a good figure.

  ‘What do you do?’ he asked. ‘For a living.’

  ‘I work at Intergrade. I look after the students who come in from the university. It’s a student travel bureau. We fix flights abroad for them at cheap rates and put them in touch with student organisations in other countries so that it’s easier and cheaper for them.’

  ‘I expect a lot of them come in.’

  ‘Yes. All students.’ She looked puzzled. ‘Look, what’s all this about? Do you know where Dick is? He went off in the car and hasn’t been home for a few days and I’m a bit worried. I was expecting him but there’s been no message.’

  ‘Don’t you read the papers?’ Nosjean asked.

  ‘I can’t be bothered with them. They’re nothing but politics and strikes and demonstrations. Besides, I’m usually too busy.’

  Nosjean drew a deep breath. The pattern was blindingly clear. Selva hadn’t changed much. He was getting drugs – doubtless through Pépé le Cornet’s organisation – and had a contact with the American army in Germany where there was a ready sale and had been for some time. He was also clearly hoping to make contact with youngsters through this girl, Monica Ormot. What better way than through an organisation that dealt exclusively with students? It opened up a whole field of prospective buyers. Perhaps he was even hoping to use them to bring the stuff back for him from the trips abroad that his girlfriend arranged for them. But someone had found out and murdered him, either for his drugs and the money he’d made from drugs, or because he was muscling in on their territory.

  ‘Well,’ the girl said. ‘Let’s have it! Why do you want to know so much about him?’

  Nosjean’s anger swelled up. ‘I think you’d better sit down,’ he said.

  She took a lot of convincing. She just didn’t believe Nosjean and when he asked if he could search the place she refused. In the end he managed to persuade her with a mixture of powerful arguments and the threat of a search warrant. At the back of the wardrobe, he found a locked tin box. He shook it and held it up.

  ‘I’ll have to take this away,’ he said. ‘I need to know what’s inside.’

  ‘No,’ she said unwillingly. ‘I know where he keeps the key.’

  She produced the key from behind a row of books in the living room and Nosjean opened the box. Inside was a plastic bag containing white powder. Alongside it were other smaller plastic bags, some of them filled with the same powder.

  ‘What did he use to stretch it?’ Nosjean asked.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘That’s heroin,’ Nosjean said.

  ‘I don’t believe you.’

  ‘Have it your own way. Has he been using your flour lately?’

  ‘He asked for some. For snails in the garden, he said.’

  ‘Not for snails,’ Nosjean pointed out. ‘For this stuff. They use flour, milk powder, sleeping pills, strychnine. You’d be surprised. A grain of heroin in the street sometimes contains no more than ten per cent of the original. They use all kinds of things. They’re not fussy.’

  She looked at him, horrified. ‘Dick wouldn’t do that.’

  Nosjean’s face was blank. ‘He’s done it. He went to prison for it.’

  ‘He said that was for stealing cars.’

  She didn’t seem to know whether to be relieved at her escape or shocked at the death of the man she’d been living with. ‘I loved him,’ she explained. ‘I never dreamed. He was so kind, so good.’

  There were a lot like that, Nosjean reflected. It was a pity Selva was dead. They might finally have got something on Pépé le Cornet – that something the police had been seeking for years – and they might even have found out the route the drugs took to the American forces in Germany. As it was, they’d come to a dead end again and could only be thankful that Selva was no longer in business.

  When Nosjean reached Ballentou’s house, Imogen Wathus opened the door wide with a smile. She looked pretty and, after Selva’s Monica Ormot, refreshingly healthy and full of life.

  ‘Saw you coming,’ she said. ‘He’s home. Come in. Can I give you a drink this time? Something strong
er than coffee.’

  He found Imogen Wathus attractive. When his enquiries were finished and he had time, he decided, he would take a real interest in her. Nosjean was an honest young man, intelligent, and not driven by lusts, and his affairs with young women were usually decent and kind. Only work – and plain clothes work could make the uniformed shifts seem like a pensioner’s paradise – got in the way.

  Ballentou rose slowly as Nosjean appeared, and offered a glass of white wine.

  ‘Coup de blanc?’ he said. ‘It’s a good time for a drink.’

  He sat down and Nosjean offered him a cigarette. The girl sat near them, listening.

  ‘Did you get what you were after?’ Nosjean asked.

  Ballentou looked startled. ‘What I was after?’

  ‘Money from the Prisoners’ Aid.’

  Ballentou’s face relaxed into a smile. ‘Oh, yes,’ he said. ‘I got what I wanted. Are you after me?’

  ‘Only for help,’ Nosjean said.

  ‘That’s nice to know. What’s the trouble?’

  ‘Nick the Greek,’ Nosjean said. ‘Pat the Bang. Richard Selva.’

  ‘I heard Selva had been murdered. There was something in the paper about it.’

  ‘Yes,’ Nosjean agreed. ‘He was. He was found near Pouilly. Shot through the head. FAS Apex 6.35. Two other 6.35s have been found, too. They were used at Montenay.’

  ‘What about the one from Pouilly?’

  ‘That’s not turned up.’ Nosjean leaned forward. ‘A consignment of them from St Etienne was stolen near Paris. We think Pépé le Cornet was behind it. Have you heard who did it? Nick the Greek, for instance? He likes guns and he works for Pépé.’

  Ballentou shrugged. ‘If Pépé was in it, you’ll never prove it.’

  Nosjean agreed. ‘No,’ he admitted. ‘I don’t suppose we will. But we’re still looking for Pat the Bang. I thought you might know where he is.’

  Ballentou shook his head. ‘Pity you didn’t get around to asking Selva. He’d have known. He was set up with a girl near the University.’