Pel Is Puzzled

by Mark Hebden

  ‘You’ve heard of the robbery at the Manoire de Marennes?’

  ‘I have indeed.’ She beamed. ‘There was nothing much there of any real value, of course. Mostly fakes. But there were a few things of which, I might add, the owners were totally unaware, and–’ she gave a loud laugh ‘—now they’re gone!’

  Pel decided she’d been celebrating a good sale or something, because she seemed slightly drunk and was noisy enough for Pel to be embarrassed.

  ‘These things that have been stolen,’ he said. ‘Can you describe them?’

  She leaned close to him and he got a whiff of perfume. ‘I can even send you photographs. Not of the originals, you understand, but of fakes which look exactly like them. We’ve had dozens through our hands. I know them well. I’m always on the trot, looking for them. I never go out in the car without calling in churches or manors or châteaux to have a look round. I note what’s genuine and what isn’t. In case it comes my way. And you’d be surprised—’ another loud laugh ‘—how much is claimed to be genuine that’s just a lot of rubbish. They can’t fool me.’

  Her voice seemed to be growing louder and he could smell brandy on her breath. ‘A thief with a bit of erudition and a few resources,’ she said, ‘is well placed to make a fortune, Inspector, believe me.’ She leaned closer and Pel found himself looking down the front of her dress. ‘You’re a man of intelligence. It’s easy to see that. Good-looking with it, too, I might add. Take careful note of what I say. Are you married?’

  ‘No.’ Pel was startled at the question.

  ‘Such a pity. My brother was married recently. It makes one so envious. Since my husband died, I’ve been so alone. We had the whole district at the celebration. Of the marriage, of course, not his death. We roasted a whole lamb. I know it’s against the law to roast lambs in this fashion, but we were in love. It was a question of pure passion.’

  Pel studied her gravely, wondering just what pure passion did to you. His eyes on the front of Madame de Saint-Bruie’s dress, he felt it was something he wouldn’t mind experiencing.

  ‘I’d never do it that way again,’ she said. ‘It was chaos. Some said it was too cold. Others said the fire was throwing off smuts. Others said the lamb was undercooked, others that it was charred. In the end they simply disappeared. Some played cards. Some watched television. Some even went fishing. It was a disaster. Probably that’s why the marriage never came to much.’ She leaned forward. ‘Marriage is so important, don’t you think?’

  Pel was about to say he totally agreed with her when she switched back to antiques and he hurriedly had to readjust his mind to keep up with her.

  ‘Once upon a time,’ she said, ‘your châteaux thieves were nothing more than – well, thieves. Nowadays they’ve realised that there’s not much to be made from stealing indifferent objects or fakes and they’ve gone into the business thoroughly. They study the illustrated magazines and go to the libraries and take out the books. Some of them contain enough information to make their owners a fortune if they only bothered to read them.’ She was almost leaning on Pel now, overpowering him with her perfume. Her red hair kept brushing his face and he was in danger of having his eye poked out by the wing of her spectacles.

  ‘You’re looking for someone who knows something of the Haute Epoque, Inspector,’ she went on loudly. ‘The French like their antiques with a high gloss so that it’s sometimes hard to see the work for the dazzle, but your expert knows exactly what’s under the gloss and isn’t impressed. And that’s rare today. Most people are satisfied by Style du Métro, Between-the-Wars Gothic, that sort of metal furniture that looks as though it’s come from a railway waiting room, and the appalling Victoriana which has caught on with the young. That old woman who sat on the throne of Britain in the last century didn’t know what a crime she was perpetrating. But then, perhaps it wasn’t her but that ghastly Prince Albert she married. Everybody knows what the Germans were like. They’re bad enough now but then they were hardly down out of the trees.’

  Pel had eaten by this time but had barely noticed what he’d absorbed.

  ‘Come and see me again, Inspector,’ she advised. ‘You. Not your sergeant. He’s a nice boy and well suited to dear Mijo, but I like a grown man – a man of the world.’ Pel preened, barely recognising himself. ‘Let us arrange to dine together again. I’ve enjoyed this so much. Such sparkling conversation.’

  Pel wondered whom she was talking about because he could barely recall saying a word.

  She took his hand in hers. It was warm and her grip was encouraging. ‘London, Paris and New York,’ she said, ‘contain not only the finest connoisseurs of art in the world, but also the most shameless swindlers in a trade where today it pays to specialise in swindling. We must talk more about them. What a pity you have to go back. I could take you and show you a house full of treasures that would take your breath away.’

  He found himself outside at last, a little dazed and, he noticed, holding the bill. She had even insisted on kissing him goodbye and Pel was the sort who never made a point of kissing women. Apart from his mother, it was a habit he hadn’t got into.

  Glancing back into the restaurant, he decided she was crazy. But she was exhilarating, too, and Chagnay wasn’t a bad place either, when you thought about it. He would have to come again. At least, unlike Madame Faivre-Perret, Madame de Saint-Bruie was outgoing, extrovert, larger than life – and available. For Pel, who thought – quite wrongly – that he was considerably smaller than life, it had been a dazzling experience. His eyes were sparkling, partly with wine and partly with the excitement of meeting Madame de Saint-Bruie.

  He took a last peep at her. The restaurant seemed to have emptied by this time, but she was still there, still knocking back brandy. It must, he decided, be her birthday and she had just decided to be thirty-one again.

  Eleven

  When Pel reached the Hôtel de Police the following morning there was another discussion going on about the Tour de France. Misset – inevitably – was leading it and seemed to have transferred his support from Jo Clam to Aurélien Filou.

  ‘He’s just lying back,’ he was saying. ‘Letting the others do the pacemaking. He doesn’t like cobbles but he’s in a perfect position now for the kill. In two years time he’ll be one of the “untouchables.”’

  No sooner had Pel entered his office than the telephone rang. Picking it up, he almost jumped out of his skin as Madame de Saint-Bruie leapt out at him. Not physically, but certainly she was there in the room with him, with her bush of red hair and her brilliant green eyes.

  ‘I had to ring you,’ she screamed. ‘To let you know I have sent on the pictures I promised. Have you found your criminals yet?’

  ‘Not yet, Madame,’ Pel said.

  ‘No clues?’

  ‘Not one.’ Even Nosjean’s Paris enquiry had come to nothing. His two suspects had perfect alibis. They had been at a night club with a couple of girls and the night club verified their story, while nobody had ever seen them driving a yellow Passat estate.

  ‘I’m sure you’ll find them,’ Madame de Saint-Bruie encouraged. ‘When are you coming to see me again? I have so many things to tell you.’

  Pel went hot under the collar. Nobody ever seemed to want to see Pel twice. There had been a time even when he’d imagined he had BO.

  ‘Perhaps I could get down,’ he said.

  ‘You must. Evariste, you must.’

  Pel stared at the telephone as though she might poke her head out of the hole. Evariste! In the name of God, Evariste! After months of trying, he hadn’t got past ‘Inspector’ with Madame Faivre-Perret. His sad heart was warmed by the interest.

  ‘I’ll do my best, Madame,’ he said. ‘Have no fear. I’ll do my best.’

  ‘Do that, Evariste. You are frantic to see me, I can tell. I can hear it beneath the phlegm.’

  He decided again she was mad, but at least she was excitingly mad. He even wondered if he might get some advice from Darcy. In a roundabout way, of
course, that Darcy wouldn’t notice.

  As it happened, he didn’t get that far. Darcy appeared in the doorway, carrying a small sheaf of papers. He had a look of permanence about him, as if he’d been on duty all night.

  ‘Late last night, Patron,’ he explained, ‘I had an idea.’

  ‘You’ve been here all night?’

  Darcy grinned. ‘Not likely, I have better things to do with the hours between midnight and seven a.m.

  Pel could imagine what. He lit a cigarette and handed one to Darcy. ‘Go on,’ he said.

  Darcy lifted the papers he was carrying. ‘I remembered these papers. Scratchings by Cormon. Nothing important, they said. Nothing that isn’t new. It occurred to me, however, that if we took them to Robinson, he might be able to identify them. He might even recognise something of his own and that might lead to an explanation of what Cormon was up to.’

  Pel moved round the desk alongside him and studied the scratchings, small sets of neat figures – mostly in centimetres and millimetres – the indicates of algebra and square roots, as if Cormon had been busy working out some problem. He turned one of them over. It was the sheet that contained the drawing on the reverse side.

  He studied it for a moment, noticing that the paper, instead of being ruled like the others, was stiff drawing paper.

  ‘Did Cormon do this?’ he asked.

  Darcy shrugged. ‘His sister said he couldn’t draw anything but plans. It’s obviously a piece of scrap paper he picked up somewhere.’

  Pel studied the paper again, turning it backwards and forwards, looking first at the figures and then at the drawing. ‘It’s a church,’ he said

  ‘Even I can see that, Patron,’ Darcy said dryly.

  ‘What’s more,’ Pel said, ‘it looks like part of Sacré Coeur in Paris.’

  Darcy took the sheet and studied it. ‘That’s right, Patron,’ he agreed. ‘The south corner. There where it’s been torn off looks like the dome.

  Pel studied the drawing again. ‘It looks like those things they turn out in hundreds in the Place du Tertre,’ he observed. ‘They stand back-to-back in rows with barely room to breathe, painting the same picture over and over again for the tourists. Dogs lifting their legs against trees – because it’s naughty and French. Children with big eyes and tears – real tears, sometimes, made of glass let into the wood. Sacré Coeur ad nauseam. Sunsets. Ships. Anything that’s rubbish and will sell to people who don’t know their backside from their elbow when it comes to art.’

  Darcy was looking at a few scribbled letters in the corner. ‘This bit where it’s torn looks like some sort of instruction,’ he said. ‘Je – Ca – le – Papi –. “Je cacherai les papiers. I’ll hide the papers.” Think it’s something like that?’

  ‘It might also be a signature,’ Pel said. ‘Jean-Casimir le Papinot.’ He looked at Darcy, suddenly alert. ‘It’s Nosjean’s belief that some of these châteaux robberies were done by a gang who were briefed by an expert and carried drawings of the most valuable articles so they could be identified.’

  ‘Do you think that’s what Cormon was up to?’

  ‘Let’s see. Get Nosjean.’

  While they waited, Lagé appeared. He had a sheaf of photographs for them to look at. He’d been unable to throw off his obsession with light and shade but his pictures were clear. They were all of smart-looking, well-dressed men, walking away from cars or just getting into them.

  ‘Know any of ’em?’ Pel asked.

  ‘No, Patron.’ Lagé ventured a complaint. ‘I didn’t enjoy it. I felt a fool. It made my feet ache.’

  ‘My feet always ache,’ Pel said unfeelingly. He gestured at the photographs. ‘Try them on a few of the firms round here. Ask ’em if they recognise anyone. Try the chamber of Commerce and the Rotary Clubs and outfits of that nature. Then get back and take some more.’

  Lagé gave a sad smile but he didn’t argue.

  Nosjean looked weary when he arrived. Pel pushed the drawing at him at once.

  ‘Any of your suspects got a name anything like Jean-Casimir le Papi-something?’ he asked.

  ‘No, Chief. None of them.’

  ‘Does that indicate anything to you?’

  Nosjean studied the drawing. ‘Nothing, Patron. It looks a bit like one end of Sacré Coeur. That’s all.’

  Pel and Darcy exchanged glances. ‘That’s what we thought,’ Pel said. ‘It was found among Cormon’s papers. He was using the back of it to do a few calculations. We wondered if he was one of your château gang. You said you thought an artist was involved.’

  ‘That’s right!’ Nosjean came alert at once and tapped the paper. ‘But this doesn’t seem to indicate a drawing of anything valuable.’

  ‘No,’ Pel conceded. ‘But it might be worth finding out who this Je-Ca-le-Papi might be – if it is someone. Slip up to Paris and ask around. Try the Place du Tertre. Someone there might recognise the name.’

  ‘If they do, Patron,’ Nosjean said, ‘we ought to be able to find out where he is. Madame de Saint-Bruie–’

  ‘Whom God preserve,’ Pel said fervently.

  Nosjean allowed a small smile to slip across his face. ‘She says artists can recognise each other’s work even when it’s not signed. Even when it’s disguised, even when—’ Nosjean had learned a lot about art recently ‘—even when it’s as bad as this. We might identify who did it and that might be a lead.’

  ‘Get up there, mon brave,’ Pel said. ‘Try the art schools. See what they say.’

  It seemed a good idea to Nosjean to haul De Troquereau into the affair again. They might well have another sniff round the Rue de Charonne and the Rue Vanoy and see if they could pick anything up. His suspects, Poupon and Pierrot-le-Pourri, knew him too well by now and it might be good sense to have a new face on the job.

  De Troquereau was off duty, so Nosjean arranged to pick him up at Auxerre. On the way out of the city, he called in at his own home, promised his mother he’d be careful and keep away from rough criminals, shooed his sisters away from the telephone to do a little ringing round to make sure he wasn’t forgotten by Mijo Lehmann and Charlotte Rampling at the library, and to let Odile Chenandier know not to expect him that evening. Then, driving on to the motorway, he turned off at Auxerre, picked up De Troquereau, and they were in Paris in four hours, chiefly because Nosjean liked to drive like a madman. It seemed no time at all before they were circling Paris by the periphery and parking the car. Deciding that if Pel’s hunch was right, it might be a good idea to sound the Ecole des Arts Décoratifs, they tried that first. They had no luck so they obtained a list of all known art schools and, separating, began to work their way round them. Meeting late in the afternoon, they decided they’d drawn a blank but at almost the last one they visited, the Ecole des Arts et Métiers in the Sixth Arrondissement, they found they had a nibble.

  ‘No one by any name like Jean-Casimir le Papinot,’ they were told by the director. ‘Nothing like that and we have them all for the last thirty years – everybody who’s passed through our hands. I can only suggest that it might be a boy called Maurice Jacqmin who went by the nickname of Jean Casse-le-Papillon. They often acquire nicknames and some of them actually paint under them. After all, El Greco’s real name was Domenico Theotocopuli.’ There was a faint smile. ‘One can understand why he preferred El Greco. With a name like that on the canvas there wouldn’t be much room for his masterpieces, would there?’

  ‘What happened to this Jean Casse-le-Papillon.’

  The director shrugged. ‘Not much, I suspect. He was never very imaginative. An excellent copyist. Magnificent when it came to drawing things exactly, but he never knew what to do with it. You know Van Gogh’s pair of old boots—’ De Troquereau did, but Nosjean certainly didn’t – ‘if that were the whole of art, then Jacqmin would have been a success, but even Van Gogh couldn’t have lived off drawings of old boots for the rest of his life. Neither could Jacqmin. I suspect – indeed I heard – that he turned up in Montmartre drawing for touri
sts. Quick sketch portraits. That sort of thing. Perhaps he ended up painting Sacré Coeur. Most of them do.’

  ‘How old would he be?’

  The official considered. ‘It must be eight years since he was here. Thirty-one or two, I should say. He wasn’t our best pupil but he had a personality, I remember.’

  ‘What sort?’

  ‘Lively. He enjoyed life. I imagine he still does, whatever he made of it, which I imagine would not be much. He probably ended up with some publicity firm drawing motor car engines for advertising. He would be excellent at that. Or huts. Or chocolates. Or fountain pens. Give him a golf ball to draw and he could reproduce it perfectly. He was painstaking but entirely lacking in imagination.’

  ‘What did he look like?’

  ‘Big. Burly. Not an artistic type at all really. In fact, I don’t think he was an artist. Not as we know them here.’

  Outside again, they decided they still had time to reach Montmartre before dark and the artists there disappeared. As they drove up the winding road below the sugar-icing shape of Sacré Coeur and started to park the car, an officious policeman tried to stop them. Nosjean showed his badge and the policeman raised his eyebrows.

  ‘You’re out of your area a bit, my friend,’ he said. ‘On business?’

  ‘You might say that.’

  ‘I don’t know of any murderers, swindlers or rapists round here. Just tourists. They’re bad enough, mind you.’

  The Place du Tertre was still full of painters. They were so crowded, they were almost standing on each other’s heads, and there didn’t seem an original idea among them. Some had dozens of identical pictures of Sacré Coeur stacked up alongside their easles. Others, as Pel had said, specialised in children with huge tearful eyes. Others in sunsets that looked like Vesuvius in eruption. It was all there – everything, Nosjean thought, that was bad in art.

  The artists themselves came in all sizes and all ages, from nineteen years old in jeans and jerseys who tried to look as if they lived in a garret, and preferred earning quick money from tourists to getting down to hard work, to the seventy-year-old poseurs, dressed in flowing cravats, wide-brimmed hats and velvet trousers, whose work over the years had at least acquired a veneer of polish. Nosjean had no idea where to start so they tried a middle-aged man wearing a rugby shirt, jeans and white shoes.