by Mark Hebden
‘What game?’
‘The game women always get on to when they need money badly. Some go on to it to feed their kids. Some because they can’t get a job. Some simply because they enjoy luxury.’
Angélique paused. ‘I never thought of her that way.’
‘I should start,’ Darcy said.
There was a long silence then Darcy spoke again. ‘This flat of yours. What about the people downstairs?’
She giggled. ‘They’ll be in bed by this time. They go early. They watch television in the bedroom.’
Darcy paused. ‘What are we going to do in your room?’ he asked.
She stared back at him, her eyes expressionless. ‘What did you expect?’
Darcy grinned. ‘It’s far too easy to die a virgin,’ he said. He switched on the engine as she began to push her hair straight and pull her dress down. ‘Actually,’ she said thoughtfully, ‘I think it’s a good idea being engaged. It keeps men at arm’s length.’
Darcy’s head turned. ‘Don’t you ever cheat a bit?’
‘No, never.’ She paused, then giggled again. ‘But I’ll not fight you off if you do.’
Fifteen
As Darcy put his head round Pel’s door the following morning, Pel stared at him and frowned.
‘You look like something the cat dragged in,’ he said severely. ‘Une gueule de bois, Patron.’ Darcy shrugged. ‘But I recover quickly.’
‘You’ll end up with no hair and a worn-out prostate. You’re on the downhill slope already.’
Darcy grinned. ‘I know. Heading like mad for the abyss. But what a way to go, Patron! And what’s the point of a halo? – just something else to polish.’ He paused, still smiling. ‘We’ve picked up Tagliacci.’
Pel sat up with a jerk. ‘What!’
‘Uniformed branch brought him in. He was buying wine near Beaune. Will you see him?’
‘Of course.’
‘Here?’
‘No. Downstairs in the interview room. I’m not laying out the red carpet for anybody dealing in what he deals in.’
Tagliacci was a young man in his early thirties, dark, Italianate and immaculately dressed in a way that made Pel feel like the man who’d come about the drains.
‘Why have I been brought here?’ he wanted to know.
‘We’re interested in what you’re doing in this area,’ Pel growled.
Tagliacci was not put out. ‘Minding my own business,’ he said.
‘Out with it. What is it?’
Tagliacci’s eyes flashed. ‘I’m buying wine,’ he snapped. ‘And that’s all.’
‘Where are you staying?’
‘I have a house at Dorsay-la-Rivière. It’s a small place. Somewhere to get cool when it’s too hot in the south. It’s high up.’
‘And lonely?’
Tagliacci smiled. ‘And lonely. Do you have a place like that, Inspector?’
Pel glared. He couldn’t afford a chicken house, on top of the mortgage he was paying for the house in the Rue Martin de Noinville. And doubtless, while he ran his old Peugeot, this crook had a Cadillac or a Merc – maybe even a gold-plated Rolls Royce.
The interview was an unsatisfactory one. Tagliacci was more than a match for them and they had nothing on him whatsoever. To all intents and purposes he was buying wine. He had the bills and the invoices and they were able to obtain by telephone proof from the vineyards – most of them small – who had sold it. There was no reason to imagine he’d done the buying himself, of course. He had henchmen to provide that sort of proof while he attended to the darker side of his business, but in fact he had put in an appearance at most of the places where he said he’d been.
They had to let him go in the end, frustrated at being able to do no more. As he went, he laid a couple of cigars on the desk for Pel and Darcy.
‘Just to show there’s no ill feeling,’ he said smoothly. ‘We all have our jobs to do and without our excellent police the country would descend into anarchy. And I’d vote Communist any time rather than have that.’
Pel glared at the closed door, his eyes almost red with his rage. ‘Get hold of the Chief!’ he snapped.
‘We can’t ban the man,’ the Chief pointed out sharply. ‘I understand your concern, Pel, but as far as we’re concerned he’s committing no offence buying wine.’
‘The Cornet gang’s moved in, too!’
‘We don’t know that. Not yet. We’ve only heard that they’ve left Paris. They may even be in Marseilles trying to take over Tagliacci’s beat while he’s away.’
‘They might be here, too,’ Pel said.
‘On the other hand,’ Polverari pointed out, ‘I do agree that, in view of all the rubbish the newspapers have been printing, they’ve probably spotted an opportunity here and are about to move in to take advantage of it.’
It was Pel’s feeling that the gangs had already moved in. In view of what had happened to Miollis and Treguy, they even seemed to be well established.
The Chief sighed. ‘Do you need extra men, Pel?’ he asked. ‘We can always let you have more help. We can beg, borrow or steal a few from other places.’
Pel drew a deep breath. ‘Not yet,’ he said. ‘If we can’t ban the man, let’s have a directive to everybody to keep on their toes. Even the men on traffic duty. Let’s keep track of them, for God’s sake.’
The Chief nodded and made a note on a pad. ‘What’s been done about Foussier?’ he asked.
‘We’ve got him guarded,’ Pel said, warily because the question sounded vaguely like an accusation. ‘I have no men to spare, but Inspector Goriot’s agreed to lend us three of his to watch his house. They’ll go with him wherever he goes.’ He drew a deep breath, feeling a protest was necessary.
The Chief listened carefully to him then he sighed. ‘The world can’t stop because Marseilles and Paris have decided to move in on us,’ he said. ‘Foussier’s every right to go on behaving normally.’ He looked at Pel’s narrow intense face. ‘I suspect, you’ve already made it more than clear what the risks are.’
Pel became silent and the Chief frowned. ‘There’s nothing we can do more than we have done,’ he said. ‘It seems to me that the best way to protect Foussier is to clear the matter up, and the best way to start doing that is to find this man, Nincic.’
And that was that. A rejection, a calming down of ruffled tempers, and a ticking-off all in the same breath. Pel was seething enough when he went back to his own office to take it out of Darcy, who responded by snapping at Misset, who promptly turned on Krauss.
‘What did I do?’ Krauss asked.
In fact, news of Fran Nincic was nearer than they realised. As Pel reached his office, the telephone in the sergeants’ room went. Darcy snatched it up and Pel heard his voice rise.
‘When?’ he said, and there was sufficient urgency in his tone for Pel to start reaching for spare cigarettes, notebooks and pencils. He knew the signs. He had just risen to his feet when Darcy appeared in the doorway.
‘Nincic’s been seen, Chief. The police in Auxonne have come up with somebody who saw him leave his house.’
‘When?’
‘Fourteen days ago. About that.’
‘Fourteen days ago! Name of God, why not last year? Who is it?’
‘An old dear who delivers church literature. She’s only just mentioned it. She didn’t know we wanted him, of course. He left carrying letters and papers, got into his car and drove off.’
When they reached Auxonne, there was no sign of Nincic and while they were sitting in Darcy’s car looking at the house, a man leaning against a wall folded up the newspaper he was reading and strolled across to them. Reaching into the car window, he pushed forward a cigarette. ‘Got a light?’ he asked.
As Darcy offered him a box of matches, he spoke quietly.
‘Merouac,’ he said. ‘Detective sergeant. You’re Inspector Pel, aren’t you?’
‘Yes. Are you watching this place?’
‘That’s right. For Nincic. It’s a slow
job. I’m growing sick of it.’
‘Do you know him?’ Pel asked.
‘I know of him. I know his car. I wish I could afford one like it.’
‘Has he been back?’
‘No sign of him. Not while I’ve been on the job. I heard he turned up some time ago though. An old dear said so.’
Pel and Darcy exchanged glances and, leaving the Auxonne man to watch, they drove into the town to see the old woman who had seen Nincic leave. She could add nothing to what they already knew. She had seen him leave. And that was all. Full stop. He had looked quite normal. She didn’t know him, though he had accepted the pamphlet she had been about to push through his door, and had left in his car, after exchanging no more than a ‘Good morning.’
During the afternoon, they relieved Merouac to get something to eat and waited in the hope that Nincic would come back. By late evening they were bored and frustrated and had drunk so many beers and smoked so many cigarettes Pel was wondering if police pensions covered stomachs ruined in the line of duty. He had long since come to the conclusion that Nincic had given them the slip.
‘Think he knew he was being watched?’ he asked. ‘Perhaps that girl of his has been in touch with him.’ He looked at Merouac. ‘Has she been here?’
‘I’ve seen no one at all.’
Pel made up his mind. ‘All right, Darcy. We’ll put out a general request. We want him finding.’
They returned in gloomy silence. Had Nincic got wind of what they were up to? And, if so, how? Who could have tipped him off? And who was behind him?
It was late when they reached the city and they turned off near the Cimitière de Pejoces to eat in a small restaurant Darcy knew, that was frequented by the men who worked in the abbatoirs. The meal was indifferent. The wine tasted as if it were suffering from metal fatigue, the knives were blunt and the steaks bullet-proof. Outside the window, a dog lifted its leg against a lamp-post. It seemed to symbolise their lack of success.
They had half-expected Nincic to turn up and even let something drop that would give them a lead, something that would tell them where the investigations into the deaths of Miollis and Treguy might lead. At least he’d have been someone to arrest so the newspapers and the Chief would quieten down for a while.
‘I reckon he’s skipped over the border,’ Darcy said. ‘I doubt if we’ll ever find him now.’
Pel said nothing, and Darcy went on, enthusiastic as ever, full of energy and new ideas, always willing to give a little more than the job demanded. It made him a good policeman and an excellent second-in-command. It also sometimes made him a pain in the neck. Especially when Pel was in the mood he was in at that moment.
‘We could get a search warrant and go over his place, Patron,’ he was suggesting.
They were still discussing the possibilities, when Krauss came in for a beer on his way home. He looked his usual placid, indifferent self, eyes blank, brain in neutral.
‘There was a telephone call for you, Patron,’ he said cheerfully.
Pel lifted his head. ‘Who from?’ he asked. ‘The Chief?’
‘No. She didn’t give her name.’
Pel’s heart started to skate about under his shirt like aspic on a hot plate. ‘Any message?’
‘She asked if you’d ring. She left her number.’
‘I know her number,’ Pel said coldly.
Krauss grinned. ‘She said you wouldn’t know this one, Patron. This is her home.’
‘Where is it?’
‘I left it on your desk.’
‘Can’t you remember it?’
‘Patron, for a brain I don’t have a computer.’
Pel’s gaze pierced him like an assegai. ‘For your brain,’ he snapped, ‘you have a block of concrete. Go and ring the office and get someone to go upstairs and find it.’
Krauss looked indignant. ‘I was just going home, Patron.’
‘You could always go back to the Hôtel de Police instead,’ Pel snarled. ‘I’m an inspector and entitled to exquisite courtesies such as this.’
Krauss stared at him, wondering, in view of his impending retirement, whether to be defiant. He decided in the end that Pel looked so hot under the collar he could well end up with a nasty comment in his file that wouldn’t help him get a job when he finally decided to look round for one. He sighed, asked for a jeton, and disappeared round the corner to the telephone. When he returned to lay a slip of paper bearing the number on the table, Pel was stuffing his food away so fast he was almost choking. He was also maliciously contemplating ordering Krauss to run him round to the Hôtel de Police where he’d left his car, but Darcy grinned and took pity on the older man.
‘I’ll run you to the office, Patron,’ he said. ‘It’s on my way.’
‘On your way where?’ Pel snapped.
‘On my way to where I’m going, Patron.’ It took a lot to put Darcy off his stride.
At the Hôtel de Police, Pel was halfway inside when he decided to make the call from home. Ten to one, he thought, the man on the switchboard would try to listen in. In any case, his office, spartan, utilitarian and about as comfortable as the inside of a tank, was no place to talk to Madame Faivre-Perret.
He drove home as if the hounds of hell were after him. Madame Routy was watching the television as usual and the house was shuddering under the sound.
‘Turn that thing off,’ Pel yelled. Madame Routy took no notice, and Pel stalked across the room and pressed the switch. Madame Routy half-started to her feet, loud indignation on her lips at the invasion, then she saw Pel’s face, thought better of it and instead sat in a seething fury as he picked up the telephone and dialled his number.
He stumbled over his apologies. ‘I’m sorry I’m so late, Madame. I’ve been in Auxonne all day on a case. I’ve just this minute reached home. You must have been thinking of going to bed.’ In Pel’s mind were visions of filmy lace and soft lights. It almost gave him heart failure.
‘Inspector–’ the voice in his ear was chiding ‘ – please don’t worry. I’m happy to be of assistance. I think I’ve found out something for you. I know of one person who contributes to the flat you’re interested in. I know the wife of Charles Rolland. He knows everything and he talks to her.’
‘I’m eternally grateful. Who would it be?’
‘Professor Foussier.’
‘Foussier!’ Recalling Madame Foussier, Pel had assumed that even if Foussier was a pompous ass, shoving his nose in where it wasn’t wanted and poisonous in the extreme, at least he appeared to have a happy married life. Most people – himself included – seemed to exist in a vacuum of dislike, deceit, immorality and disbelief, fostered by his own personal enemy, the television. It came as a blow. Happy homes, it seemed – even those occupied by pompous busybodies – weren’t all they appeared.
‘You sound shocked.’ The voice in his ear was concerned.
‘It takes a lot to shock a policeman, Madame.’ Pel was boasting a little. ‘It’s just that the Professor has a reputation for good work. It doesn’t seem to go with him. What about his wife? Does she know?’
‘Perhaps she isn’t interested. I gather there’s a surgeon in Paris.’
Pel was frowning. The institution of marriage no longer seemed to have much meaning.
‘Do you know her well?’
‘Yes. She comes in here.’ The voice in his ear was helpful. ‘She talks to me a lot. She works for deprived children and so do I.’ Pel was charmed at the thought. It showed kindness, and a loving nature.
‘She has no children of her own, of course. There was even a time when she considered returning to her work as a doctor because of it, but she never did.’ There was a little chuckle. ‘I think perhaps, in spite of everything, she prefers simply to be a wife. Women are like that, Inspector.’
‘They are?’ Pel’s mind was immediately full of thoughts of showing Madame Routy the door. ‘This Marie-Anne Chahu,’ he went on. ‘Her apartment’s a very expensive one. One of the best in the Maison Joliet
. And I gather it’s very expensively furnished. Supposing Professor Foussier were contributing to it, it would still take a great deal of money. Do you think she’s playing false with him?’
There was a slight pause. ‘There may be others, of course.’
‘Does the name, Nincic, mean anything to you?’
‘Nothing at all. I’ve never heard of it.’
She seemed quite happy to go on talking but he suddenly decided that if she appeared in front of her mirror the next morning with bags under her eyes, she’d surely blame it on him for keeping her up too late, and he hastened to terminate the interview.
‘Madame,’ he said, ‘I’m most grateful.’ He wondered what else he could say to show his appreciation, then he thought with a shudder of Madame Routy and the television and wondered if he dared push his luck to arrange an evening out. You didn’t have to mess about, Didier had said. Perhaps he was right. He took the plunge. ‘Perhaps you’ll permit me to repay you for your trouble by asking if you’d – ah! – if you’d dine with me one evening.’
He felt sure she’d find an excuse but to his surprise she laughed. ‘Inspector, how charming! I’d be delighted.’
Pel couldn’t believe his ears. She even sounded enthusiastic. ‘Shall we say the coming Saturday?’ he suggested.
There was a long pause and Pel’s heart sank. Here it comes, he thought – the excuse he’d been expecting. Sorry, I’m already engaged. I’ve got to wash my hair. I shall probably have a headache. Don’t ring me, I’ll ring you.
‘Of course,’ he said lamely, ‘if it’s difficult–’
‘No, no! Not at all!’ His heart thumped again because she clearly didn’t wish to put him off. ‘It’s just a little difficult because that day I have to go to Paris.’
‘Perhaps the following Saturday?’
‘Oh, no! That’s much too far away!’
‘It is?’
‘But, of course! I’ll manage somehow. I must make sure I get back in good time.’
As Pel put the telephone down, Madame Routy waited. For some reason she couldn’t explain she’d let him ride rough-shod over her, something it had always been her proud boast could never happen. She half-expected him, even, to snarl at her again. But instead he took out the bottle of Scotch whisky he kept for special occasions and poured himself a good measure and even one for her. She decided he must have been promoted or something, because normally he considered whisky so expensive it was only kept to be looked at, not drunk, which was why Madame Routy left it carefully alone and went for the brandy instead.