Pel And The Paris Mob

by Mark Hebden

  ‘Could one of the other staff have overheard you saying something?’

  Vince sniffed. ‘I never discuss the Baronne’s affairs near the other servants.’

  Pel studied her. Like the rest of the female staff, she wore a formal grey dress with a white linen collar, something that wasn’t uniform but was clearly designed to show she wasn’t a De Mougy.

  ‘Do you wear that when you go out?’ he asked.

  ‘Of course not, I have other clothes.’

  ‘Do you buy all of them yourself?’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Perhaps the Baronne–’

  ‘Ah!’ she smiled. ‘The Baronne passes many of her dresses on to me. We have the same build exactly. I’ve stood in at the dressmaker’s for her. I’ve even bought dresses for her.’

  ‘You must have impeccable taste.’

  ‘I always intended to have.’

  ‘Intended to?’

  ‘I came from a poor family,’ Suzy Vince said. ‘I always swore I wouldn’t end up like my parents. Or like my sisters. One’s married to a shopkeeper and is fat and lives most of her life in an apron. The second one’s married to a man who works on the railway and spends her time washing greasy overalls. The third’s married to a layabout and has to work as a daily help. I was the youngest and I had their example before me to make sure I didn’t go the same way.’

  ‘You enjoy being here?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Even as a servant?’

  ‘A servant in magnificent surroundings, Monsieur. And I am a personal maid. I don’t help with the cleaning or in the kitchen. My job’s caring for the Baronne’s clothes. That’s something I enjoy.’ Vince smiled and moved her fingers. ‘I enjoy the feel of pure silk. Of fine wool. Of mohair and chiffon. The Baronne wears only the best.’

  ‘Why didn’t she ever have the jewels photographed?’ Pel asked. ‘It’s usual with anything valuable.’

  Vince shrugged. ‘She thought they were safe. She was like that. Arrogant about things.’

  ‘Did you like her?’

  Vince’s mouth moved. ‘I admired her taste but not her personally. She had a man, did you know? Not the Baron, another one.’

  ‘So I heard.’

  ‘He couldn’t trust her and I didn’t like her for that.’ There seemed to be an element of spite and resentment behind the statement, as if Vince’s attitude to the Baronne veiled her dislike.

  ‘But you liked what she stood for?’

  She smiled. ‘I liked her clothes. What woman wouldn’t? And her jewels, I suppose. If I had jewels like that I could live for years in comfort.’

  ‘If you could sell them,’ Darcy said.

  Her eyebrows moved. ‘Would it be difficult?’ she asked.

  Nineteen

  Pel opened his conference the following morning with a feeling of frustration. Darcy had checked on the butler, Algieri. All his family seemed to be in service and a lot of them still were, but there was no connection with Maurice Tagliatti or Pépé le Cornet.

  Frowning heavily, he listened to what Nosjean had to say. He’d had a break at last. Selva’s car had been found and he was hoping it might lead somewhere.

  ‘In the car park at the supermarket at Bornay,’ he said. ‘It had been there some time. Nobody knows exactly how long but I suppose it arrived there some time shortly after Selva was shot.’

  ‘Who put you on to it?’

  ‘There’s a type who keeps an eye on the car park. But it’s a big one and that place’s open seven days a week so he didn’t spot it at first. He walks round occasionally and eventually he noticed it had been there some time. It’s a red Citroën. The small model. Cars are often left there, of course, but this had been there longer than most. He decided it ought to be examined. It was locked so he informed the local cops. They opened it and did a bit of checking with the number. It turned out to be Selva’s.’

  ‘Find anything?’

  Nosjean shrugged. ‘Not much, Patron. We found photographs under the seat; one of an old woman, one of a house. It turns out that the woman’s his mother and the house is where she lives. We’ve found Selva’s sister and she’s identified them. There was also a bill which appears to be from a restaurant where he ate. Two people. Plain fried steak and pommes frites, with a salad and wine. The name of the restaurant isn’t clear but he obviously ate there with someone, and I guessed it was that girl he was living with. It was. She said they’d been in a hurry and settled for the bar-restaurant at St Antoine.’

  ‘Why were they in a hurry? Going somewhere special?’

  ‘No. Just to the cinema. She’s worried she’s going to be involved now and she’s talking. It seems Selva was out all day and arrived home latish and they went for a quick meal. Three days before he was found. So it must have been the night before he was shot. She thought that when he’d paid he just stuck the bill in his pocket and forgot it. There were two cinema ticket stubs in the car, too, so it seems they did go to a film. There was also a man’s handkerchief and a stub of pencil. All, I suppose, belonging to Selva and pulled from his pockets. But no wallet. No bank card. No driving licence. Nothing with his name on them.’

  ‘What does it mean to you, mon brave?’

  ‘To me, Patron, it bears out the idea we had that whoever shot Selva made him turn out his pockets first. In the car. Probably made him throw everything on the floor.’

  ‘Because he wanted something?’

  ‘No, Patron. I don’t think so. After he shot him, I think he drove the car away and before he parked it at the supermarket he went through what had been in Selva’s pockets and took away everything that might identify him or might carry fingerprints. He left these other things – a handkerchief, the photographs and so on – because he didn’t think they would. I don’t think they would have either, if Fingerprints hadn’t identified him first. We wouldn’t have known where to look and there was nothing identifiable on the photographs. I think whoever shot him was just trying to make him disappear. Trying to hide his identity.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘So Pépé le Cornet wouldn’t know he was dead, perhaps? Selva was Pépé’s man. If he’d been murdered, it would be reasonable to expect Pépé to react. Perhaps Pépé would even know who’d done it. Perhaps whoever did it was hoping to prevent him finding out.’

  ‘Nick the Greek?’ Pel asked. ‘Could it have been him? Have they been falling out? Or Pat the Bang? We haven’t turned him up yet. Perhaps he’s scared and lying low.’

  Nosjean wasn’t able to add much more, however. He was moving steadily forward but so far he hadn’t achieved a breakthrough. Neither had Bardolle with the Huppert shooting at Montenay, while the De Mougy theft at Quigny was also still simmering. De Troq’ had his ear to the ground and Pel had heard that the people there were very impressed by the fact that he was a baron like De Mougy. The idea of a policeman who was a baron seemed to appeal to them.

  There was still Inspector Duval, of course, the last of the Paris lot, pursuing his lonely course among Baron de Mougy’s friends, but Pel had no doubt that De Troq’ was skilful enough – or arrogant enough – to ignore him. Or, if he wasn’t, simply to trample him into the ground despite his size. Duval seemed a good-natured enough idiot and probably wouldn’t mind.

  For the conference, Darcy had set up a projector and Photographic had made slides. As everybody became silent, Darcy began to project pictures of Richard Selva and his known acquaintances.

  ‘Any of them,’ Pel said, reading out the names. ‘Any of them might know what he was up to, and could lead us to his killer.’

  There were pictures of Pépé le Cornet, Maurice Tagliatti and their immediate associates, together with those of the members of their gangs who were known to associate with drug pedlars and people who handled guns. Their names had often cropped up before, even if their faces hadn’t.

  Misset sat glumly at the back where he couldn’t be seen. He was back on the team with a vengeance. Pel’s praise ov
er the counterfeit money had been thinly spread and he knew that, even if no one else suspected it, Pel had guessed long since that what Misset had pulled off was sheer luck and not due to any hard work on Misset’s part.

  It was hard to get Ada out of his mind and he was still far from welcome at home. His mother-in-law had reappeared from Metz and she and his wife seemed to be in the process of producing a conspiracy against him with his children. He wondered if he shouldn’t have packed up the police and bolted with Ada. The money she’d got out of Poland made his salary look like a rag picker’s wage. Yet – at the back of his mind he knew it to be true – she hadn’t really been interested in Josephe Misset. She’d been using him as she’d used old Gold-thread, Heinz Horstmann, and Dexter, the American in Warsaw who’d helped her get away. She’d kept him quiet until she was ready to disappear, and she’d had no more intention of falling for him than she had of flying to the moon.

  There were still a lot of smiles around the Hôtel de Police and a lot of jokes at Misset’s expense. He’d boasted a little to hide his disappointment, letting them know – when Pel wasn’t within earshot – that he hadn’t found Ada Vocci disappointing. But now he was hunched in his chair, a faraway expression on his face. He looked up, uninterested, as the photograph on the screen changed.

  ‘Nick the Greek,’ Darcy was saying. ‘His associates will follow.’

  Misset’s face went red. ‘I know him!’ he said.

  Every eye in the room swung round to him.

  ‘I saw him at the Hôtel Centrale,’ Misset said. ‘When I was – er – well, working for Major Chaput.’

  Pel glared. ‘Why in God’s name didn’t you say so before?’

  Misset floundered, caught off-balance. ‘Because this is the first time I’ve seen his picture,’ he said.

  Pel had to admit the fact. Misset had been involved with other things and had missed the photographs that had been handed round.

  ‘What was he doing?’ he demanded.

  ‘Asking about Ada Vocci. He was good and mad, too.’

  ‘What in God’s name had he got to do with her?’

  ‘I don’t think he had anything, Patron.’ Misset suddenly began to feel important again. ‘He was looking for a dame, and he’d looked at the register and thought she might have registered as Ada Vocci. He said he was a cop.’

  ‘What happened to him?’

  ‘I don’t know, Patron. He said he’d come back but I didn’t see him.’

  ‘Get round there,’ Pel rapped. ‘Find out if he did.’

  The conference broke up soon afterwards and Pel and Darcy met in Pel’s office.

  ‘Was Ada Vocci his contact?’ Darcy said. ‘Was she waiting for him to hand over the jewels? She arrived at the Centrale soon after they were stolen. It’s possible.’

  ‘As well as carrying counterfeit notes?’ Pel asked. ‘It doesn’t sound likely.’

  It didn’t either. Passers of counterfeit money wouldn’t get involved in a jewel theft any more than jewel thieves would get mixed up with counterfeit money. And it seemed to Pel that whoever had stolen the De Mougy jewels would have more than enough on his plate getting rid of them and wouldn’t want to draw attention to himself by getting involved with someone working another racket. By the same token, it didn’t seem possible that someone who had pulled off as big a coup as Ada Vocci had would wish to be involved with a thief who had set the district by its ears over a jewel robbery.

  ‘Do you still think he’ll turn up at Lafarge’s, Patron?’ Darcy asked.

  ‘Lafarge’s the only one of our suspects who thinks he’s totally in the clear. Besides, it’s a quiet road where he lives. Just the sort of place to arrange a drop. Has Aimedieu seen anything yet?’

  Aimedieu hadn’t.

  ‘No visitors?’

  ‘Just his wife and son, Patron.’

  ‘They couldn’t be running errands, could they? Taking messages.’

  ‘Doubt it, Patron. The woman seems to be going round the corner to do the shopping, that’s all. The boy goes to school and returns at the usual time. They don’t appear to have friends.’

  ‘No visitors?’

  ‘No, Patron. No callers, either.’

  Misset was back within the hour. He was panting. ‘He did come back,’ he said. ‘And it definitely wasn’t Ada Vocci he was after.’

  ‘What happened?’

  Misset drew a deep breath.

  He’d gone to the girl at the desk and asked, ‘Has that good-looking type been back?’ and she’d replied, ‘The only good-looking type I’ve noticed is you.’

  It had pleased Misset but, with Pel on his neck, he’d forced himself to keep his eye on the ball and demanded details.

  ‘He came back,’ the girl at the desk had said. ‘He sat in the chair over there and asked me to tip him the wink when Mademoiselle Vocci appeared. When she came down I did. He stood up, stared at her, then shook his head and turned round and just walked out.’

  ‘Did he speak to her?’ Pel asked.

  ‘No. He just walked out. That’s all. As if he was no longer interested, she said.’

  ‘So, it wasn’t Ada Vocci he was hoping to see.’

  ‘It couldn’t have been, Patron. When I saw him he was making a hell of a lot of song and dance. If it had been her, surely he’d have followed her.’

  Pel frowned. ‘So if it wasn’t Ada Vocci,’ he said, ‘then it must have been some other woman.’

  ‘His girl?’ Darcy suggested. ‘Is she double-crossing him?’

  ‘Find out, Daniel!’

  Viviane Simoneau, Nick the Greek’s girl, was as bewildered as Selva’s girl had been. She was sharp-featured but attractive and had created a tidy little home. Nick, it seemed, gave her plenty of money.

  ‘Where does he get it from?’ Darcy asked.

  ‘Work, of course. It’s his salary. He’s well paid.’

  ‘For doing what?’

  ‘He’s a salesman. Very high-powered.’

  ‘What’s he sell?’

  ‘Perfume. For a Paris firm. They deal with them all. Diorissimo, Nina Ricci. St Laurent. Chanel. He’s good at it too. Shops and stores always have women buyers for that and with his looks they fall heavily.’

  It made sense. Nick the Greek could have sold hot coals in Hell if the buyers had been women.

  ‘Are you sure that was what he was doing?’

  ‘Why should I disbelieve him?’

  ‘Plenty of reasons,’ Darcy said bluntly. ‘Did you know he’d been in jail?’

  She stared at him, startled, then she looked angry. ‘If that’s all you can say about him–’ she began.

  Darcy halted her. ‘I can say a lot more,’ he pointed out. ‘He’s been involved in armed robbery, housebreaking, holdups, bank jobs, drugs, assault, pimping. Those women fell for him, too. This time it’s jewellery and we think it was part of a gang job.’

  ‘I don’t believe you.’

  Darcy had taken the trouble to bring a photocopy of Nick’s record from the files, together with his mug shot. He offered them without a word. She stared at it disbelievingly. After a while she looked up at Darcy.

  ‘Is this really him?’

  ‘Take a look at the picture.’

  ‘He never gave me a hint.’

  There seemed to be a lot like her around. Richard Selva had had one, too.

  ‘You’re lucky,’ Darcy said. ‘There’ve been a few of Nick’s girlfriends who’ve disappeared rather suddenly. To North Africa or South America, we think. You’d probably have gone too. He was probably planning something for you when he’d finished with you.’

  She sat down, stunned.

  ‘He was seen at Montenay,’ Darcy said. ‘What was he doing there?’

  ‘He took me there. He drove me.’

  ‘Why were you at Montenay?’

  ‘I used to live there. I went to see Monsieur Huppert.’

  ‘Oh?’ Darcy’s eyebrows rose. ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, I knew him. I knew his
wife. I went to say how sorry I was about her being shot and was there anything I could do?’

  ‘Did Huppert know Nick?’

  ‘I don’t suppose so. He only met him once.’

  ‘Just once?’

  ‘As far as I know. He was with me.’

  ‘How did they get on?’

  ‘They talked a bit. You know how people do. They seemed to get on all right. That was all. But only because of me, I think.’

  Darcy paused. ‘Did Nick ever produce any jewels for you?’

  ‘He said he’d find me something. To cement the relationship, he said.’

  ‘Stolen, I expect. Where is he now?’

  ‘He went away two days ago. He said he had to go to the south coast. There’s a lot of money there and he was hoping to pull something big off.’

  ‘I bet he was.’

  Her brow wrinkled. ‘I still can’t believe he’s what you say,’ she insisted. ‘He’s innocent, I’m sure.’

  ‘So where is he?’

  ‘Perhaps he heard you were after him and wanted to hide.’

  Darcy’s eyebrows lifted. ‘Innocent people don’t hide,’ he pointed out.

  Darcy came back looking puzzled. ‘It isn’t her, Patron,’ he said. ‘She didn’t even know Nick was a villain. She thought he was a sales representative.’

  ‘Then who was he looking for?’

  Darcy frowned then slapped the desk. ‘The maid!’ he said. ‘Suzy Vince. Who else?’

  ‘Of course!’ Pel was on his feet at once and reaching for his hat. ‘Perfect for Nick the Greek. Just past youth but still hoping. Likes luxury. Likes money and clothes. Doesn’t like the Baronne. Somehow Nick got in touch with her and she was the one who tipped him off. She’s just the type he likes. Just the sort to fall for his good looks. And she liked jewels. She said so. Especially the Baronne’s. Come on, Daniel, let’s get out there and pick her up.’

  But when they reached the Château Mougy, Suzy Vince had disappeared and the Baron had returned, two metres of angry bone and sinew wanting to know when he was going to get his possessions back.

  Pel was as short with him as he was with Pel.

  ‘When you tell us where Suzy Vince is,’ he snapped.