Pel Is Puzzled

by Mark Hebden

  Jacqmin frowned. ‘Who’s he? What’s he do?’

  ‘He does nothing,’ Pel said. ‘Not any more. He was murdered. In a particularly brutal way.’

  Jacqmin looked surprised. ‘You think I did it?’

  ‘No.’ Pel gestured at Nosjean who produced the half-sheet of drawing paper bearing Cormon’s scratchings on one side and the part-drawing of Sacré Coeur on the other. ‘On the other hand, I don’t believe you when you say you don’t know him. This was found among his papers. I think you drew the picture on the back.’

  Jacqmin turned the paper over, his face expressionless. ‘It looks like mine,’ he said.

  ‘The signature? Could that be Jean Casse-le-Papillon?’

  ‘It could.’

  ‘And wasn’t that the way you used to sign yourself?’

  ‘Yes. Not any more. People who want bottles of lemonade drawing don’t go in for fancy signatures. In fact, they don’t want signatures at all. Just bottles of lemonade.’

  ‘Do you make a point of writing on the backs of old drawings?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Morlieu said you did,’ Nosjean said.

  ‘Who’s Morlieu?’

  ‘Kept the Café Le Sporting at Royan. You did the murals.’ Jacqmin beat his forehead with the heel of his hand. ‘Got him,’ he said. ‘Fat guy.’

  ‘That’s him,’

  ‘He said that?’

  ‘Yes. He said you were on your beam ends and were having to paint on the backs of old paintings. Two for the price of one, he said.’

  ‘Well—’

  Pel indicated the pile of old drawings along the wall. ‘Those yours?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Pel picked one up. On one side was a pencil sketch of the cathedral at Royan, all concrete spires and angular pillars. ‘That your work?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Pel turned the drawing over. On the other side was the drawing of a typewriter.

  Jacqmin shrugged. ‘I was just going to say, sometimes I do.’

  Pel indicated the drawing Darcy had found of Sacré Coeur. ‘Did you draw that?’

  ‘I must have.’

  ‘Then how did it get into Cormon’s papers?’

  Jacqmin lit a cigarette, slowly, as if he were taking time to think.

  ‘I knew Cormon,’ he admitted.

  ‘Ah!’ Pel looked pleased. ‘In what way?’

  ‘Business. He brought me something to draw. I expect I made some notes of dates, prices, addresses – that sort of thing – and gave it to him. I do that. He must have used it for his figures.’

  ‘How did he find you in the first place?’

  ‘I met him at Royan last year. I was painting that bar at the time. Morlieu’s Café Le Sporting. It was just at the beginning of the season and he was on holiday there. With his sister, he said. She was a tart old bird, it seemed, and he’d slipped out for a few drinks on his own to get away from her. I got the impression he was bored stiff. We got talking. He came again and we got on to what we did. He was an instrument maker, I think. Something like that. Later, after I’d moved here, he turned up on the doorstep. Said he had something for me to draw.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I don’t know what it was and he never told me. It was a black plastic thing about as big as a tape cassette. But it had bits of metal attached to it and a piece that slid up and down.’

  ‘Did he bring you other work?’

  ‘No. I never saw him again. He said it was secret and because of that he hadn’t wanted to go to a studio. He’d remembered me and got my address from the old boy I worked for at the Café Le Sporting and traced me here.’

  ‘Did he give you no idea at all what this thing was you drew?’

  ‘None at all.’

  ‘Have you any copies of the drawings you did?’ Jacqmin looked indignant. ‘It was six months ago!’ he said. ‘Take a look round. I can’t even find things I drew yesterday.’

  ‘Did he say who this thing, whatever it was, belonged to?’

  ‘I assumed it belonged to him. But I knew he didn’t have his own firm, so I asked about it. He said it was a gadget he was developing on his own at home. He said he hoped to make money from it.’

  ‘Did it look home-made?’

  Jacqmin thought for a moment. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Since you mention it, it looked too good for that. The pieces of metal looked as though they’d been stamped out and the plastic was moulded, not cut. It wasn’t home-made.’

  Pel paused, rubbing his nose. ‘Ever meet a type called Rambot?’

  ‘Rambot?’

  ‘We don’t know his first name.’

  ‘What’s this all about?’

  ‘Never mind what it’s all about. A man’s been murdered and we’re trying to find out what he was mixed up in, because that way we’ll find out who did it.’

  Jacqmin tossed his cigarette towards the fireplace. ‘Rambot? Rambot? Yes—’ he snapped his fingers ‘—a type called Rambot did come here. About six months ago. He said Cormon had recommended me.’

  ‘Could you describe him?’

  Jacqmin paused then, reaching for a piece of paper and a pencil, produced a quick sketch. Once or twice he rubbed out and drew again, then he handed it to Pel.

  ‘I imagine that’s better than a description,’ he said.

  Pel nodded. ‘Is it like him?’

  ‘As far as I can remember. I may be wrong here and there but that’s the impression I had of him.’

  Pel showed it to Nosjean. It looked remarkably like Darcy.

  ‘Any objection to us using this?’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘For the newspapers? We’d like to find him.’

  Jacqmin thought for a moment. ‘Do I get paid for it?’

  ‘If necessary,’ Pel said grudgingly.

  ‘Then I suppose it’s all right. I’d rather you didn’t mention my name, though.’

  ‘Why not?’

  Jacqmin gestured. ‘Is this type a gangster? I mean, did he kill Cormon?’

  ‘He might have done.’

  ‘Well—’

  Pel nodded. ‘Your name will be kept out of the newspapers,’ he said. ‘As far as anyone will know, this was drawn by a police artist. What did this Rambot type want of you?’

  ‘He brought some gadgets.’

  ‘What sort of gadgets?’

  ‘Well, I got the impression he was in the casino business and that he wasn’t any too honest.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, there were playing cards, which he wanted drawing, arranged in a sort of fan shape. There was a roulette wheel. He also wanted a rough sketch of a gaming table with people round it. He said it was advertising. There were also a few small gadgets. One was a largish square thing, shining, with grooves on it, and a sort of hook thing at the side that moved backwards and forwards. Another was larger. It looked a bit like the fuel pump off my car but it was bigger and more complicated. He wanted them both drawn from two or three angles.’

  ‘Did he say what they were?’

  ‘No. But I got the impression that one of them had some-thing to do with fiddling a roulette wheel. One of those big ones you get in casinos.’

  ‘When did you last see him?’

  ‘Three – four months ago.’

  ‘No copies of what you did?’

  ‘No. That was one of the conditions. He took all the drawings, even rough sketches.’

  There was a long silence. The breeze outside kept the overgrown branches of the bushes tapping at the window.

  ‘You ever visited the Manoire de Marennes?’ Pel asked.

  Jacqmin’s eyes flickered. ‘That the one where the robbery took place? The one in the paper?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Once. Last year. It’s not far from here. I took Léonie. That’s my – er well, you know. The girl you saw. She’d been bitten by Hercule. That’s the dog. When we first got him. We have him against intruders. She’d only just arrived and he didn’t know her very well. She was
pretty mad with me, so I took her out for the day. It was warm. We ate out. Sat on the banks of the river watching the fishermen. When we found ourselves near Marennes, we decided to call.’

  ‘Ever been since?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘How about the Château Boncey-Morin, the Manoire Boureleau, Samour-Samourin, and Lamérice?’

  ‘No. Not my line, really. Not very interested in old places. Only went to Marennes to please Léonie.’

  ‘Ever been to St Sauvigny?’

  ‘I’ve been through it.’

  ‘Stop to look in the church?’

  ‘That’s not my line either, really. Léonie goes on Sunday.’ Jacqmin grinned. ‘To pray for my soul. She was well brought up and she still finds it hard to accept that we’re – well – you know.’

  ‘Why do you have the dog?’ Pel asked.

  ‘Why do I have the dog?’ Jacqmin looked puzzled.

  ‘Have you anything here of great value?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then why a watchdog of such ferocity?’ To Nosjean Pel sounded prim and old-fashioned.

  Jacqmin shrugged. ‘Well – you know – ’

  ‘No,’ Pel said. ‘I don’t.’

  ‘Well, I don’t like being interrupted. The type who owned this place before me was a friendly type. Belonged to all the clubs. Invited friends he met on holiday to call on him. When I first came here, I found there were always people staring at me through the window, looking for him. That sort of thing. I got Hercule to frighten ’em off. Also, of course, some of the things I get asked to draw are a bit private. Manufacturers are pretty secretive these days. They’re all scared of industrial espionage. You’d be surprised what people get up to.’

  ‘Yes.’ Pel agreed. ‘I probably would.’

  As they left Châlon, Pel looked at Nosjean.

  ‘Well?’ he said. ‘What do you think? Could he be the type to kill Cormon?’

  Nosjean frowned. ‘It was a large knife he was using,’ he pointed out. ‘A German dagger, he said. Just the sort of thing for the wound Doc Minet found. But—’ he paused ‘—he honestly didn’t seem the type, Patron. Big. Shambling. A bit stupid. Besides, those feet of his. And his eyesight. He didn’t seem the sort to go scrambling around a steep hillside in the dark.’

  ‘No,’ Pel agreed. ‘But he still might be. And if he wasn’t involved in that, is he perhaps the type who’s going round these châteaux classes making drawings inside his guide book?’

  ‘That’s different,’ Nosjean agreed. ‘I’d say he wasn’t all that fussy about being honest, and it has to be something like that. They don’t allow cameras any more and the guide books that are being printed these days leave out the pictures. Madame de Saint-Bruie says even the spiels the guides give have become deliberately vague about the objects the rooms contain. Instead of saying “That’s a Boulard chair” they simply say “The room contains many items of exquisite art, including a Boulard chair.” But they don’t say which one, so if it’s in a set, no one can tell which it is.’

  ‘Unless they’re experts?’

  Nosjean nodded.

  Pel considered a moment. ‘Judging by the interior of Jacqmin’s house,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t say he was an expert, would you?’

  Nosjean grinned. ‘The rubbish was good.’

  Pel didn’t laugh. ‘So if he did do the drawings that led our châteaux thieves to their loot, he was accompanied by someone who knew his stuff. How about your two in Paris?’

  ‘I think they’re involved. Whether they actually carry out the robberies or get somebody else to do the break-ins is another matter. They’re also probably being directed by someone a lot more knowledgeable than they are themselves, who tips them off and takes his cut with the best piece, but certainly they know their stuff, Patron. It could be them.’

  ‘We could bring them in and arrange for them to have a suspended sentence – on health grounds or something. If we find they’ve committed some sort of crime, we can let them go, watch them, and keep bringing them back every time we get a bit of new evidence. Put them away and then re-arrest them every time they’re released. The yo-yo method. Gets their nerves on edge. It works quite well.’

  Nosjean wasn’t so keen. He felt that sooner or later they might be able to get the lot at one go and that it was worth waiting.

  ‘I think,’ he said slowly, ‘that our friend, Casse-le-Papillon, is involved. I’d swear he was the one who did the drawings. The sort of work he does is exactly what would be wanted. Immaculate detail. Standing in a room while a guide was talking, he could make a quick sketch of a chair or a secrétaire or a commode – even a vase or a plate. Prompted by an expert, he could have all the relevant details down in ten minutes. Perhaps more than one object. Even the details of the decoration. He could look at a plate and have its design down in no time. He’s been doing it for years.’

  ‘What about the gadget Cormon brought him? That doesn’t seem to be connected with châteaux robberies.’

  ‘Unless it was some means of opening locks. Cormon was a locksmith originally. He did time for expert locksmithing, didn’t he?’

  ‘The châteaux were broken into by a much simpler method than that,’ Pel said dryly. ‘A drilled hole and a screwdriver to lift the latch.’

  Thirteen

  Nosjean requested permission to stop off in Chagnay and Pel took the car on alone.

  When he reached the Hôtel de Police, Darcy was sitting at his desk reading France Soir. Across the front was the story, with blood-curdling pictures, of a shooting in Paris.

  ‘British Official Shot,’ the headlines announced. ‘IRA Men Sought.’

  ‘Anything else?’ Pel asked.

  Darcy looked up. ‘Another rash of letter bombs. This time a bit closer to home. Two turned up in Lyons.’

  ‘Anything on the home field?’

  Darcy shrugged. ‘Only Misset. Got a wigging in court for bungling the evidence in that break-in at Barreau.’

  ‘How about Lagé?’

  ‘Still walking up and down between Pissarro’s place and the Hôtel Central with his camera. He’s got quite a portrait gallery. Nobody we know, though. Or, rather, nobody we know who’s mixed up in crime. Quite a lot of local businessmen and representatives.’

  ‘Nothing else? Did you get Robinson to check those workings Cormon did?’

  ‘Robinson’s in England,’ Darcy said. ‘I telephoned. Not due back until the weekend.’

  Pel picked up the paper. Philippe le Bozec and his brothel adventure seemed finally to have sunk without trace. On the front was the Tour de France which was now down in the South and beginning to build up tension. One had it with breakfast, lunch and dinner. He noticed that Pissarro’s man, Maryckx, was still well down the list.

  ‘There was a telephone call for you, by the way,’ Darcy said.

  ‘Brisard, I suppose?’

  ‘No. Not Brisard.’

  Pel put the paper down. ‘The Chief?’

  ‘No. It came from Vitteaux.’ Darcy grinned. ‘Very come-to-bed voice, Patron.’

  Pel glared. He was never one to enjoy his private life being bandied round the office.

  ‘What did she want?’

  ‘She asked me to apologise for not being in touch before but she said she was likely to be involved at Vitteaux for some time still. She said she’d written.’

  Pel’s heart leapt. He hadn’t had a letter from a woman for years. It probably said nothing very important but he felt sure he could manage to read a lot into it if he tried.

  Darcy’s smile remained. ‘You’ve been sending her roses, Patron.’

  Pel stiffened. ‘What’s it to you?’ he demanded.

  ‘Nothing. Nothing at all. I’m all in favour. Only a Frenchman knows how to send roses – the exact colour and the exact number. I hope you got it right.’

  ‘I took counsel,’ Pel said with a sniff.

  ‘Well done, Patron.’

  ‘How about here? Nothing at all?’

 
‘A quiet day, Patron. Made a nice change. I rang Robinson’s place at Montbard and had a chat with that guy, Rivard, who runs the place.’

  ‘And doubtless with Mademoiselle Guillemin also.’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ Darcy never hesitated to admit his peccadilloes. ‘Her, too. I’m going over there tonight. Take her out to dinner.’

  ‘What happens about all the others?’ Pel asked in wonderment. ‘Joséphine-Héloïse Aymé. And that one who worked at the University.’

  Darcy smiled. ‘Oh, I manage things,’ he said.

  ‘One of these days one of them will doubtless shoot you.’

  Darcy grinned, clearly untroubled. ‘How about you, Patron? You bring anything back?’

  Pel fished out the drawing Jacqmin had done of Rambot. ‘Only this,’ he said, laying it in front of Darcy.

  ‘It looks like me. Who is it?’

  ‘Very probably the type who killed Cormon.’ Pel smiled sourly. ‘It isn’t you, is it?’

  When Pel reached home Madame Routy was watching the latest on the Tour de France. From the noise, it sounded as if the participants were fighting, not racing.

  ‘Letter for you,’ she shouted above the din.

  As Pel picked up the letter, she hung around, dearly itching to know what was in it. Anyone, Pel thought, would imagine he never received letters.

  As a matter of fact, he didn’t. One occasionally from the sister who was married to a draper in Chatillon and one from the sister who had married a British soldier after the war and lived in the north of England. The rest all seemed to be bills.

  Out of the letter came a formal death notice, a folder on fine paper, printed in grey and black. ‘Monsieur et Madame Jacques Clarot; ses enfants, Monsieur Jean-Jacques Clarot, Monsieur et Madame Georges Matrel; ses petits-enfants… He glanced down the list of names of the family announcing the death of one Madame Michel Olivier – née Louise Picard – and the obsequies in the Church of Notre Dame du Val at Vitteaux, until he found that of Madame Geneviève Faivre-Perret tucked away among the nieces and nephews. She was worried, he decided, that he might not have believed she’d gone to bury her aunt. After all, going to a funeral was an office boy’s excuse when he wanted the afternoon off. It indicated, he decided, that she was concerned for his regard.