by Mark Hebden
‘But not the drugs,’ Nosjean said. ‘That’s what we’re looking for.’
They searched all the usual places – all the drawers and cupboards and under the mattresses. They also checked the pillows to make sure there was nothing there and had the tracker dogs in, but they provided no lead.
‘He obviously didn’t keep it here,’ Krauss said.
They turned the carpets back and checked all the floorboards for loose ones or for new nails that would indicate a board had recently been hammered down. They checked the curtains to see if anything lay between the lining. They took out every book in the place and checked there was nothing in it or that the middle had not been cut out to provide a hiding place. They checked every tin in the kitchen and pantry. They checked every item of clothing.
Krauss particularly enjoyed himself going through Madeleine Duc’s underwear. Nosjean stared at him coldly as he made his comments. Nosjean was young, idealistic, and in his way very moral, and it offended him that fat, middle-aged Krauss should hold up pairs of lacy pants and grin at him over the top of them.
Krauss talked a lot too. All the time. ‘When I retire,’ he said, ‘there’ll be no more of this. I’m going to fish. We’ve got plenty of rivers.’
‘Can’t you think of anything better to do?’ Nosjean asked.
‘Who wants anything better to do than sit on a bank in the sun with a bottle of wine, some sausage sandwiches, and a rod.’
‘Why bother with the rod?’ Nosjean asked coldly.
There wasn’t much to find, but in the wastepaper basket there was a crumpled cigarette packet labelled ‘Adler Cigaretten’, with a picture of a double-headed eagle, and in the ashtray several cigarette stubs also marked ‘Adler’. There was a passport, which had recently been stamped in Munich, which was unusual because these days under the European Economic Grouping, passports weren’t often stamped. Together they seemed to add up to the fact that Fran Nincic’s recent absence had been due to a visit he’d made to Munich where he’d bought a packet of cigarettes. Nosjean had recently been to Munich himself and he’d noticed that at the airport duty-free shop it was possible to buy, not only drinks from every country in the world, but also cigarettes and cigars. Nincic seemed to have spent his last weekend alive visiting Germany and, judging by the cigarettes and the passport, had returned quietly to his house just before Pel had put a watch on it.
When they’d finished searching, Nosjean sat down at the kitchen table and began to go through all the letters and papers Krauss kept dumping in front of him. They included bills, paid and unpaid, insurances, business letters concerned with Nincic’s job, circulars from drug manufacturers and pamphlets from antivivisectionist societies.
‘Keep them,’ Nosjean said.
‘What? The lot?’
‘His Highness likes things kept.’
Among the papers was one that puzzled Nosjean. It had been torn into small pieces and Nosjean laboriously sorted them all out and played jigsaws with them until he had it all worked out. Then he slipped out to a shop down the street and bought a tube of glue and began to stick all the pieces down. When he’d finished he had a message.
‘Pick up 27th. Usual distribution.’ It was unsigned and not addressed, though in the wastepaper basket there was an envelope in the same handwriting, addressed to Fran Nincic at the address they were searching. Nincic had clearly not considered it worth tearing up what appeared to be an innocent envelope.
Krauss leaned over. ‘What’s it say?’
‘It could be telling him to pick up a packet of drugs.’
‘You’ve got drugs on the brain.’
So would you have, Nosjean thought, if you’d seen Cortot. He paused, staring at the piece of paper he’d been writing his notes on. He’d taken it from the wastepaper basket, a quarter sheet torn from some sort of pamphlet. Studying it, he held it against the light, then he laid his pencil sideways and began to scribble lightly. What was emerging from the scribbling was an address. The piece of paper he held was yellow and of a soft cheap type which absorbed pressure easily. He turned it over and saw there was printing on the back, but not enough to tell him what it had been announcing. He looked at his scribbles again and carefully moved his pencil backwards and forwards again until the whole address emerged.
It had quite obviously been written on another sheet which had rested on the piece Nosjean held. It had been done with a hard pencil or, more likely, a ball-point pen, and, though the top sheet – which was probably the other half of the pamphlet he held – had gone, the writing had left its imprint on the paper beneath:
Alois Hofer, Nedergasse, 17.
‘Sounds German,’ Krauss said.
‘It’s written on French paper,’ Nosjean said.
‘How do you know?’
‘Because I’ve seen it before. Stick at it. I’ve got to see Leguyader.’
Seventeen
It took some doing to persuade Leguyader.
‘Look, mon petit,’ he said, warily examining the scrap of yellow paper as if it might bite him. ‘I’m a busy man.’
‘Yes, I know you are,’ Nosjean said, as humbly as he could manage. ‘But this is important.’
‘Why can’t it wait until tomorrow?’ Leguyader demanded. ‘I’m supposed to have finished for the day. My wife’s at home waiting for me with my children. Two boys and two girls. They’re doubtless standing at the door at this moment with my slippers in their hands and the newspaper resting alongside my chair, with a long cold pernod and a small piece of mild cheese – I like mild cheese with pernod. They’re waiting to go into the ritual of the evening homage to Pappy, who has just returned home from a hard day at work, having earned a little more towards the meagre pittance the Government allows him. They don’t expect much, as he doesn’t. Just a smile and to be left alone.’
Leguyader liked to wax sarcastic. He was good at it, too, but for once it left Nosjean quite unmoved.
‘It’ll take you about five minutes,’ he said earnestly. ‘I’ve got it here. And I’ve also got a sample I want you to compare it with.’
Leguyader scowled. ‘You’re an irritating and opinionated young man,’ he said. ‘I expect you learn it all from that narrow-minded bigot you work with, Pel.’
Nosjean said nothing. He was half-way there, he knew. He laid on the table alongside Leguyader another piece of yellow paper that he’d lifted from Pel’s files.
‘This is it,’ he said. ‘I just want to know if they’re the same.’
When Pel and Darcy returned from Avallon, Nosjean was waiting for them. He was quivering like a terrier at a rathole.
Waiting for Pel had meant giving up his night off and since Odile Chenandier had suggested that he might like to go round to her apartment for a meal, it had taken a lot of willpower.
‘Please,’ he had begged into the telephone. ‘Not tonight.’
‘But I’ve got it all prepared,’ she had said, obviously close to tears.
‘Can you save it? Something’s come up. It’s important. I’ve got to be here when the Old Man gets back.’
There was a long silence then a very tiny ‘Very well.’
It sounded so miserable Nosjean hastened to explain. ‘Look,’ he said. ‘It’s not another girl I’m going to see. I promise.’
She was well aware of Nosjean’s tendency to fall in love and she sounded much happier. ‘It isn’t? Not that nurse you met? The one who looked like Catherine Deneuve.’
‘No. And it isn’t my great Aunt Francine or my Uncle Edouard either. I’m not going to anybody’s funeral or anybody’s party. I’ve just got to stay here. In this office. If you’re not sure, ring back in an hour. In two hours. Every hour if you like. I’ll answer the telephone.’
There was a silence for a while then her voice came back, firmly.
‘I’ll not do that. I believe you, of course. I’ll save it until tomorrow.’
Nosjean felt constrained to warn her. ‘It’s only fair to say,’ he pointed out. ‘I might not
make it tomorrow either. This is important. It’s something I’ve found. It might keep me busy.’
When Pel arrived he was in a bad temper and tired. The car had been hot and the road dusty. His shirt was sticking to his back and his underwear seemed to be wedged in a solid ball between his legs. There was a message waiting for him, telling him to see the Chief. The Chief was almost apoplectic.
‘What in the name of God’s happening?’ he demanded. ‘Has your department lost its wits? Or is it just behaving in its usual incompetent manner?’
He tossed a newspaper across the desk. France Soir was not merely hysterical. It had become accusatory. ‘NUMERO 3,’ it announced. ‘OU SONT LES FLICS?’ It set Pel’s indigestion on fire.
‘We’re being pilloried,’ the Chief said.
‘Something will break,’ Pel insisted.
‘It had better. Would you prefer me to divide the enquiry into three and put a different man on each?’
‘No,’ Pel insisted. ‘They’re all connected.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Everything indicates it.’
‘Well, you’d better do something about it soon or I shall have to. And ring Judge Polverari. He wants to know what progress is being made.’
Judge Polverari, an old friend of Pel’s, was just as worried but a little kinder.
‘There are a lot of insinuations flying about, Pel,’ he explained. ‘Judge Brisard made some comment.’
‘He would,’ Pel said. He had been conducting a running battle with Judge Brisard as long as he could remember. Once Brisard had been young and inexperienced and Pel had always got the better of him, but he was beginning to learn now and finding out how to hit back. Mostly below the belt.
Putting the telephone down, Pel sighed and stretched his legs. He needed a long cool beer, a bath, perhaps an aperitif and then a long leisurely meal, preferably with a beautiful woman. Since the last, which would have made it perfect, was most unlikely for the moment, when Nosjean appeared and asked if he had a minute, he had to listen.
As he gestured to him to go ahead, Nosjean laid a small strip of yellow paper on the desk. Darcy joined them and peered at it.
‘This address,’ Nosjean pointed out. ‘I realised I was getting an imprint, so I scribbled it over and that’s what I got: “Alois Hofer, Nedergasse, 17.”’
‘The German connection,’ Darcy said. ‘Here it is again.’
‘But not unexpectedly,’ Nosjean said. ‘We found the jacket the button belonged to. And these.’ He laid the cigarette stubs and the cigarette packet and the passport he’d found in front of them. ‘That weekend Nincic was away,’ he said. ‘He went to Germany. His passport’s marked Munich and I happen to know you can buy these cigarettes at Munich airport.’
Pel was listening quietly, ferreting about down the back of his collar with his handkerchief to wipe away the sweat.
‘That’s not all,’ Nosjean went on. ‘Notice the colour of the paper?’
‘I have done,’ Pel said. ‘I’ve noticed it well. I’ve seen it before.’
‘So have I, Chief. I took it along to Leguyader. He wasn’t keen.’
‘Of course not,’ Pel said. ‘Leguyader’s a narrow-minded opinionated bigot who wouldn’t do anything for anyone.’
Nosjean pushed the paper nearer. ‘It took some doing,’ he said, ‘but I finally got him to put it under the microscope. Together with a yellow pamphlet you brought in. He said they were the same paper.’
Archavanne was sitting with his feet up, watching the television. It stood on a small trolley, flanked by two repulsive-looking chairs which had probably cost a fortune. His wife showed them in then returned to the kitchen from which they could smell tomatoes and garlic cooking.
‘Sit down, sit down,’ Archavanne said cheerfully without bothering to get to his feet. He had to shout to make himself heard and Pel suspected that most conversations in that house were conducted against the fire-firing of the television. ‘Have a drink?’
‘Not just now,’ Pel said.
Archavanne gestured. ‘What’s it all about?’ he said. ‘You still checking up on that case?’
Pel said nothing but fished in his brief-case and placed on the table first of all the yellow piece of paper Nosjean had found, still bearing Nosjean’s scribbles and the faint imprint of the name and address of Alois Hofer, whoever he was. Then, still without speaking, he took out the yellow pamphlet Archavanne had given him when they’d last seen him, the pamphlet he claimed he sent out to customers.
‘Same paper,’ Pel said.
Archavanne’s smile had died abruptly.
‘Where did you get it?’ he asked.
‘That one,’ Pel said, jabbing with his finger. ‘From you. The last time I saw you. That one–’ he jabbed again ‘ – from the home of a man who was found murdered early this morning. A man by the name of Fran Nincic.’
Darcy moved across to the television and switched it off, Archavanne made no comment.
‘Fran Nincic,’ Pel said, ‘seems to have been involved in smuggling drugs over the border. Probably from Germany. Did you know him?’
‘No.’
‘Never heard of him?’
‘No.’
‘He was found shot near St Miriam. I have reason to believe he was pushing drugs at the University. According to Professor Foussier and his committee, there’s a growing problem there. Nincic worked in the research lab in Biological Studies. He knew many of the students who were on drugs. We think he helped to supply them. Why would he have a pamphlet of yours in his possession?’
Archavanne had recovered a little. ‘How do you know it’s a pamphlet of ours?’
‘Same colour,’ Darcy said.
‘That sort of paper and colour’s always used by printers for pamphlets.’
‘True,’ Pel agreed. ‘It may be a coincidence. But it seems to be rather more of a coincidence, don’t you think, that we should find it in the flat of a man suspected of drug-peddling, when we also found your telephone number in the flat in Paris of a man also suspected of drug-peddling – Gilles Miollis, the man who was murdered on the weekend of the 13th. Can you explain the coincidence?’
‘I told you–’ Archavanne sounded desperate suddenly ‘–we place these pamphlets in all our correspondence. Even if it is from one of our pamphlets, it could have come from anywhere.’
‘This man, Nincic, is believed to have just been to Germany. Your lorries go to Germany, don’t they?’
‘Yes, but–’
‘Did your lorries bring back drugs for Nincic?’
‘I’ve never met Nincic.’
‘That’s not what I asked. This sort of thing’s done by remote control, isn’t it?’
‘There’s a note,’ Darcy said. ‘Saying that there’s a parcel to be picked up on the 27th. Did you have a lorry returning from Germany on that date?’
‘No.’ Archavanne sounded triumphant. Too triumphant, and it made Pel immediately suspect he was on the wrong track.
‘Switzerland, then?’ he said.
‘No.’
‘I take it you sign your lorries in and out?’
‘Yes.’
‘You know when they leave and when to expect them back.’
‘Not exactly.’
‘You must keep some sort of record?’ Darcy snapped. ‘Or you wouldn’t be able to do business. How can you hire a lorry to transport goods when you don’t know when it’ll be back?’
‘We always have spare vehicles.’
Pel became brisk. ‘I’d like to see your books,’ he said.
Archavanne’s voice grew harsh. ‘You’ll find nothing in them.’
‘Nevertheless–’
Archavanne’s voice rose. ‘Look, I built this business up from nothing! Do you think I’d risk – ?’
‘How did you build it up?’ Pel asked quietly.
Archavanne stopped dead. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Where did you get the money? A loan from the bank?’
&n
bsp; ‘Yes.’
‘We can check.’
Archavanne had gone red in the face. ‘Well – no, it wasn’t a loan from the bank exactly.’
‘Then why say it was?’
‘Everybody thinks it was.’ Archavanne gestured. ‘People like to think you’re well in with the bank. In fact, I raised it myself.’
‘How?’
‘I sold things. A bit of property.’
‘About two – three years ago?’
‘Yes.’
‘Funny,’ Darcy observed. ‘That was just about the time Nincic started coming into money – just about the time drugs were first noticed at the University here. Where was this property? And what was the date exactly? We’d like to check.’
Archavanne began to gesture again. ‘It wasn’t that sort of property,’ he said, changing direction quickly. ‘It was jewels. Old stuff. Family stuff.’ He smiled as if he’d had a brainwave. ‘Also we ploughed back every bit of profit we made into the business. I did it all myself. My father knew about lorries but he knew nothing about how to run a business.’
‘We’d better have your books,’ Darcy said. ‘And your bank statements. You’d better also let us know where you sold this jewellery. It can’t be all that long ago. They’ll remember. Jewellers do. They keep accounts of everything they buy and sell.’
Archavanne’s jaw hung open. ‘They do?’
‘In case we have occasion to enquire.’ It was a blatant lie, because jewellers were as inefficient as any other businessmen at times, but it sounded good. Pel didn’t comment and it was enough to make Archavanne turn from red to white.
‘I’d like to know where all this is leading?’ he blustered.
‘Probably to prison,’ Darcy observed in a flat voice.
‘You’ve no proof.’
‘We could soon find it. Sniffer dogs round your premises would soon indicate whether the stuff had been here.’
‘They’d never–’ Archavanne stopped dead.
‘Never what?’ Darcy asked. ‘Smell the stuff? Because it comes in sealed plastic packages? How did you know that?’