Pel And The Paris Mob

by Mark Hebden

  Pel picked up the microphone of the radio. ‘Lagé. Nick’s on his way towards his car. Let him get round the corner then pick him up.’

  ‘Right, Patron.’

  As Nick vanished they heard the little Renault’s engine start and saw the lights come on, then it moved slowly away.

  ‘Warn everyone.’

  As Aimedieu began to call up on the car radio band, Pel reached for his own radio. Within seconds he was speaking to Darcy.

  ‘They’re on their way!’

  As the little Renault that Lafarge was driving moved out of the Rue Dolour, it was picked up by a Mercedes waiting on the main road. Finding a place two cars behind, the Merc followed the Renault out of the city.

  The radio crackled. ‘Patron, I think he’s suspicious. He keeps slowing down.’

  ‘When does Bardolle take over?’

  ‘Outside the city.’

  ‘Right. Stick with them. They’ll lose interest when they see your lights disappear.’

  As the red Renault left the city, it began to head towards Lissy-sur-Ille. As it put the city outskirts behind it, the Mercedes dropped behind and a big Citroën took over.

  After a couple of dozen kilometres, the radio squawked worriedly. Bardolle’s voice came. ‘He’s stopped, Patron. In the lay-by at Rolandpont.’

  ‘Any other car there?’

  ‘No, Patron. Just a lorry. It’s a big lay-by. Made out of the old road when they straightened the corner.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Other end. We coasted in without lights. He probably hasn’t seen us.’

  ‘Any contact with the lorry?’

  ‘No, Patron. I can see him quite plainly. He hasn’t left the car.’

  ‘Make a note of the lay-by and the lorry’s number. Keep him in sight.’

  ‘He’s got out, Patron. He’s pretending to take a leak. But his eyes are all over the place, I’ll bet. He’s making sure nobody’s following.’

  Three times on the way to Lissy the red Renault stopped. But every time the car that pulled into the lay-by behind it was a different one. After the second time, the driver of the Renault didn’t bother to get out.

  By this time the voice was Lacocq’s. ‘I think he’s satisfied he’s not being followed, Patron. He’s not worried any more. We’re close to Lissy and I think he feels he’s safe.’

  ‘Keep following. He’ll be picked up outside Lissy.’

  After a while the red Renault moved off again. The Peugeot 604 which was tailing it now crept quietly out of the lay-by where Lafarge had stopped, keeping its lights out until two or three cars had passed, then it switched its lights on and took up a position two cars behind, keeping the Renault in sight all the time.

  At the outskirts of Lissy, a fawn-coloured British Rover with white lights and carrying a GB plate took over. It was driven by a policeman from Lissy and the car was one which had been stolen and recovered. The policeman considered it a brainwave to use a foreign car without the yellow French lights.

  The red Renault moved slowly into Lissy, heading through the narrow streets towards the square. As it entered the square a heavy lorry without lights edged forward and parked across the entrance just out of sight. A policeman climbed out of the back with a red lantern, ready to halt approaching cars. At the same time, the other entrances to the square were sealed by other cars, all out of sight. The man in the red Renault suspected nothing and coasted to a stop alongside a large Citroën which was parked in front of the church. Inside it, two men were smoking but, as the Renault stopped close alongside, the driver stubbed out his cigarette and began to wind down his window. Lafarge in the red Renault wound his window down, too, and the canvas hold-all was handed across the intervening space. The window was wound up again, the Citroën’s engine started and the two cars were just about to leave when a car which had been parked outside a bar opposite came to life, jerked forward, narrowly missed an old man who was heading for the bar, roared across the square, and came to a stop immediately behind the Citroën and the Renault, blocking their exit.

  Three heads turned and three white faces were caught in the glow of headlights. Then three doors opened and the occupants of the cars leapt out. Immediately a search light was switched on in a window above the street, pinpointing them like butterflies pinned to a board.

  ‘Hold it! Police! Don’t move!’

  The iron voice of a loud-hailer rang out in the narrow square. The old man on the way to the bar stopped dead and turned, wondering what was happening, as men emerged from doorways and parked cars. They were all armed. Windows opened and lights were switched on in bedrooms.

  ‘Drop the bag!’

  The driver of the Citroën dropped the hold-all. Darcy appeared and smiled at the Citroën’s passenger.

  ‘Pat Boum,’ he said. ‘We wondered where you’d got to. Right, you lot, faces to the wall. Hands flat against it.’

  The three men turned, leaning on their hands. Darcy, his gun in his hand, approached them cautiously, backed up by half a dozen other men. De Troq’ kicked the feet of the three men wider apart so that they couldn’t move without an effort. Hands patted their bodies. A Luger appeared from a shoulder holster under the Citroën driver’s arm. Pat the Bang’s pocket produced another. Lafarge was unarmed. Darcy picked up the canvas hold-all and, taking it to the front of the car, opened it in front of the headlights. Immediately he caught the glitter of jewellery.

  ‘All right, boys. I think we’ve got them.’

  Pel was waiting by the radio at Madame Bonhomme’s. Across the road, a police car stood outside Lafarge’s house, where the door stood wide open. The lights were all on. Nosjean and Duval and two policemen were going through the place carefully, watched by a handcuffed and sullen Nick the Greek.

  As the radio squawked, Pel snatched up the microphone. Darcy’s voice came. ‘We have them, Patron.’

  ‘And the jewels?’

  ‘Those, too. It’s over, Patron. We’ve picked up Pat the Bang. Ballentou was wrong when he said he and Nick wouldn’t work together. They were doing. He was the type who met Lafarge – Charles Arnemor, you’ll be pleased to know. Pépé le Cornet’s sidekick. He was to take the sparklers back to Paris just as Nick said. We’ve got the connection to Pépé.’

  ‘But not Pépé,’ Pel said. ‘He’ll swear it had nothing to do with him and he’ll have an alibi to prove it.’

  Darcy sounded cheerful, nevertheless. ‘All the same, Patron, we can give him a bad time. He’ll probably decide to keep out of our diocese after this. After all, Arnemor’s his right hand man. He won’t enjoy seeing him go to jail.’

  ‘Neither,’ Pel said dryly, ‘will Arnemor.’

  As he replaced the microphone, Nosjean arrived.

  ‘I’ve searched Nick’s place, Patron,’ he said.

  ‘Find anything?’

  ‘Yes. Explosives. Two kilos.’

  ‘Enough to blow a car inside-out. Who’s he after?’

  ‘Ballentou’s the one who’s been scared.’

  ‘What about De Mougy’s money?’

  ‘No sign of it, Patron. I expect that’s been dispersed long since.’

  Pel shrugged. ‘De Mougy can afford to lose it. And he’ll be happy enough to get his heirlooms back.’

  As Pel turned away, he saw Madame Bonhomme watching him.

  ‘Is it over?’ she asked.

  Pel nodded. ‘It’s over, Madame. You can have your house back.’

  She beamed and produced a bottle of wine. ‘I think, Chief Inspector, that we ought to have a drink. You, Pierre Aimedieu–’ Pierre, Pel noticed, not just Aimedieu ‘–and all the other gentlemen.’

  ‘There are a lot of them, Madame,’ Pel pointed out gravely. ‘And policemen are inclined to drink a lot.’

  ‘Never mind. There’s more where this came from. And I’ve become very attached to them. Especially to Pierre Aimedieu. He’s promised to visit me and, to an old woman living alone and unable to go out much, you can’t imagine what that m
eans.’

  Pel took the glass she offered him. ‘We owe you a considerable debt, Madame,’ he said. ‘How can we repay you?’

  She smiled. ‘Well, when it comes up before the magistrates, I’d appreciate a seat in the public gallery.’

  ‘I think we can do better than that,’ Pel said. ‘You’ll be called as a witness to the theft of the bicycle that set the whole thing off and the magistrates will be able to compliment you personally from the bench.’ She beamed with pleasure and Pel went on. ‘But that isn’t very much, Madame. What else might we do?’

  ‘I’d like to have a look round Police Headquarters and see how things work. And I’d like a ride in a police car.’

  Pel was surprised. He’d expected something much more sophisticated. A tour round the Hôtel de Police and a ride in a police car, followed by a testimonial from the Chief and a meal in the police canteen had been what they’d intended for young Petitbois, whose bicycle, retained for so long, had provided the first clue. Nevertheless…

  His serious face cracked in a smile. ‘Would you object to a companion, Madame?’ he asked.

  Twenty-Two

  With Lafarge, Nick the Greek, Pat Boum and Charles Arnemor behind bars at 72, Rue d’Auxonne, there was time to draw breath. Duval had written his report under Pel’s direction so that some credit – but not much! – was given to Duval himself. The insurance investigator, Briand, and Major Chaput had headed back to Paris. Once more there was elbow room in Burgundy to turn round and examine the outstanding cases of murder.

  They had made no progress with the shootings, however. Occupied with the murder of Selva, Nosjean had been thinking. Like Pel, he was inclined to brood a lot and, also like Pel, he was good at sitting still and letting his mind work.

  Nosjean’s mind had worked a great deal as he recalled everything that had been said to him. Someone had shot Richard Selva. That was clear. But who? The same man who had shot Madame Huppert? Nosjean found it hard to believe. For one thing, Madame Huppert had been shot at roughly the same time as Selva and it didn’t seem possible, unless he were Superman, that the murderer could have got across the city in time. But both bullets were 6.35s. Which was a large coincidence. And could the murderer somehow have got across the city? Could Doc Minet have got his times wrong? An hour wrong, even half an hour, and the murderer could have made it. But, if he had, why had he? Why shoot two people as unlike each other as Madame Huppert and Richard Selva? One a perfectly normal housewife and businesswoman, the other known to be on the fringe of the Paris mob, part of Pépé le Cornet’s set-up, a man who dealt with drugs. It didn’t make sense.

  While Nosjean brooded on Selva and Pel brooded on Madame Huppert, everybody else was congratulating themselves on what had happened on the De Mougy case, so that there was a lot of noise in the sergeants’ room and a lot of cheerful backslapping. Misset came in for more teasing. Now that the counterfeit money business had been cleared up, photographs of Ada Vocci were again being passed round and Misset was making the most of it.

  ‘She’s a bit of all right,’ Brochard said. ‘How did you get the information out of her, Misset?’

  Misset made modest movements. ‘How do you think I got it?’ he said.

  ‘I know how you get most things. In bed.’

  ‘Well,’ Misset said, ‘if it’s there you grab it, don’t you?’

  Pel listened with a blank face to the exchanges, part of the celebrations without being in them. Returning to his office, he found someone had placed Didier’s application to join the police on his desk. Attached to it was a note from the Chief. ‘You know this boy, I believe. Comments?’

  Pel studied the application. Following their talk, Didier had tidied the application up a little, but not much, and Pel remembered his comment. ‘Why make a fuss when you know everything’s all right? When you’re aiming for something and can reach it easily, just go straight for it.’ It was exactly what Didier had done. He’d got it all down but there wasn’t a lot extra. For a moment, Pel studied the form, wondering if it could be improved, but then he realised that there was little that could be added. Didier had it all in – without elaboration and all quite clear – and in the end Pel simply added a note. ‘I know this boy. He has all the right attributes. Of good steady character.’ Finally, he drew attention to the application itself. ‘He appears to be a boy with a great deal of calm confidence, who knows exactly what he’s after, knows he can get it, and sets out his stall without fuss. He could be a very good policeman.’

  If that didn’t get Didier into uniform, he thought, nothing would.

  At breakfast next day Pel brooded a little, thinking about the Huppert business. It troubled him because there still seemed so much to clear up despite Bardolle’s discovery about Tehendu having once worked for the firm that had produced the 6.35s.

  It was obvious that whoever had shot the Hupperts had acquired his weapons from the stolen consignment from St Etienne and that could mean Tehendu, because the 6.35 was a small calibre weapon which ruled out a professional gunman who would never be bothered with such a small gun. Was the shooting only intended as a threat, then? Something some lunatic like Démy could have thought up, but which had gone wrong and resulted in Madame Huppert’s death. But why use two different guns – same type, same calibre – on two different people within two minutes and within two or three steps of each other? It didn’t make sense. Had the killer tried to shoot only Huppert, missed and killed his wife by accident and then tried again in the forge, and again failed to do any more than wound Huppert? Which, Pel thought, was possibly all he had intended to do in the first place. To frighten him. But why? And why two guns? Had he felt the first gun was inaccurate and thought his aim would be better with the second? Had he been short of ammunition, as Ballistics had suggested? Why shoot at Huppert, anyway? Why go into the forge where he could easily have been trapped if Huppert had had the sense to slam the door and lock it? If it were Tehendu, he’d know all that. And why hadn’t the dog barked? Why hadn’t it bitten him? That was what it was there for. It had almost bitten Pel and, until Huppert had got rid of it, almost bitten everybody else who’d visited the place.

  Pel’s thoughts were ranging over the whole cast of characters. Tehendu? Madame Gruye? She had an interest in Huppert’s business. Could she have shot Madame Huppert because she disliked her? Had she and Madame Huppert quarrelled? Démy? He was clearly a little unbalanced and he knew about guns. Could he have done the shooting for some strange twisted reason or because he admired Madame Huppert? Had she rejected his advances? Or had he been trying to get rid of Huppert because he wanted Madame Huppert and shot Madame Huppert by mistake? Nick the Greek? He had talked to Huppert. His girlfriend had said so. Could he have had some reason for shooting at Madame Huppert? Or at Huppert and hitting Madame Huppert by mistake?

  What seemed most likely was that the bullet had been directed at Huppert and had hit his wife instead. But it was hard to believe that the shooting had been done by a burglar. There was nothing to steal and no money on the premises. The firm was too insignificant. Was Huppert somehow mixed up with Nick the Greek? Was there something hidden there they didn’t know about? And what was the connection with the shooting at Pouilly and the death of Richard Selva, who’d been shot by a gun that must surely have come from the same stolen consignment as the guns that had done the shooting at Montenay? There was clearly some connection.

  Pel lit a cigarette without even noticing and only woke up to the fact as he crushed it out. It would be nice once in a while, he thought, to have a case that was easy. He didn’t want to be a big shot or famous, or a tycoon who wanted to rule the world. He just wanted to live in peace, stop smoking and have easier cases. One that was so neat, for instance, it became known after him. By his name, Un Pel. A slick neat solution that every policeman in France would know and admire.

  He smiled. It would be nice to be immortalised in that way. Then he frowned. There were other aspects to it, of course. In the last century, a certa
in Monsieur Poubelle had decided that Paris house refuse should be collected instead of thrown in the gutters and had thoughtfully set about providing bins for it. It was certain he hadn’t expected that they would eventually take his name – poubelles, garbage cans.

  Pel wrenched his mind back to the shooting. It had all started just when he was thinking everything was quiet. At Quigny-par-la-Butte, with that damned church that chimed twice. The whole period had been full of unexpected things. Clocks that chimed twice. Jewels that vanished. More guns than made sense. Dogs that didn’t bark and didn’t grab what was in front of them. And Didier – he thought about Didier again and what he’d said when he’d first appeared with his application at Pel’s house. When you’re aiming for something and can reach it easily, just go straight for it. Why hadn’t the dog?

  His wife looked up.

  ‘What’s worrying you?’ she asked.

  He explained. ‘The dog didn’t bark,’ he said. ‘And it didn’t bite anyone.’

  ‘Perhaps the man with the gun wasn’t in the yard,’ Madame suggested.

  Pel frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Perhaps there was nobody to bark at. Perhaps there was only Huppert. It never barked at him, you said.’

  ‘Huppert was there,’ Pel agreed. ‘Of course, he was.’

  ‘But perhaps the man with the gun wasn’t.’

  Pel thought for a moment, remembering Didier again: When you’re aiming for something and can reach it easily, just go straight for it. The words went round in his head. It was roughly what Misset had said, though Misset’s words had been boastful and bombastic: If it’s there, why not grab it?

  If it’s there, why not grab it?

  Pel paused, frowning. ‘If it’s there,’ he murmured out loud, ‘why not grab it?’

  His eyes lit up. ‘Yes, he was,’ he said. ‘The man with the gun was there! He was there all the time.’