Pel Is Puzzled

by Mark Hebden

  ‘That’s so.’

  ‘Will he be arrested?’

  ‘Almost certainly. We were on to him within an hour or so of him disappearing.’

  ‘Let’s hope we catch him. What about these drawings I’ve heard about?’

  Pel explained about Cormon’s death and the scratchy drawings and workings that had been found among his papers.

  Fergusson paused to light a pipe and blow out smoke. He did it with a casualness that Pel envied.

  ‘Ever heard of a Capitaine de Corvette Edouard de Fransecky?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes.’ Pel nodded. ‘I wasn’t involved, but he was the man who was accused of selling naval secrets.’

  ‘Exactly. British naval secrets, which had been exchanged with your navy for secrets of your own. Simplified plans for a thing that was popularly known as the Nebelwerfer, and more exactly as the Double-Edged Sword. There were other more technical names in both countries. In fact, it was a device for launching from ships multiple homing missiles for destroying submarines. It was very important. We suspect now that the Russians have it. De Fransecky was involved in that, and we believe that somehow the plans were stolen and were copied – either by photographing or by an artist. Because of their size, we suspect the latter.’

  Pel said nothing, his mind working furiously.

  ‘There was also,’ Fergusson went on slowly, ‘the explosion of a high-speed launch – the Loupet type. What it carried is of no importance here, but let’s just say it was built at the Werf Gusto yard in Schiedam for the Germans, the designs were passed to us and to you, and it was then fitted with prototype devices agreed on by all three navies. It was a good Nato project that also involved your country. It exploded off the coast near Sainte Marguerite as it was leaving the mouth of the Loire from St Nazaire. Divers were sent down to recover the gadgets with which it was filled, but the explosion had mostly destroyed them and the work had to be started all over again.’

  The slow puffing of the pipe stopped and Fergusson looked up. ‘We’d like to see the drawings and workings you found among this man Cormon’s papers. Can you let us have copies?’

  ‘At once,’ Pel said briskly. ‘If I may use a telephone.’

  There was a lot more talk then Pel was led by Goschen to a room where books containing photographs were spread out on a table.

  ‘Take a look at some of these,’ Goschen said. ‘They’re our men. International men. Shadowy people – and God knows there are plenty about these days with terrorism on the increase. Any you’re interested in, make a note of the numbers and we’ll have them copied and sent on to you.’

  Pel spent the rest of the day going through the pictures, looking for one who looked like Darcy. There were several and he marked them.

  Goschen took him to dinner in Soho in the evening and the following day they were joined by a cold-eyed Frenchman called De Frobinius from the Sûreté who had flown over from Paris. He appeared to regard Pel as a mere country bumpkin, and seemed surprised when he was invited to sit in to hear what was going on.

  They saw filmed shots of known terrorists and of the weapons they used, and were informed about the workings of early warning systems and new fail-safe apparatus that were coming into use. Pel found it all rather overwhelming and was awed by the magnitude of the information he was being given. Obviously someone somewhere – probably the Chief – had given a good report on him.

  By the end of the day, even De Frobinius seemed to have accepted him and, drawing him aside as the others were sipping their apéritifs before dinner, he began to pump him a little about Jacqmin.

  ‘You’ll remember the murder of that bar owner who was killed near the naval base at St Nazaire,’ he said. ‘Or, to be more exact, who was found dead in a burned-out boat off Les Rochelets. Type called André Malat. Bit of a drunk. Had a bar at Pomichet, the back of which overlooked the river. He could see everything that went in and out of St Nazaire or Nantes.’

  De Frobinius frowned. ‘I expect they got rid of him because he was becoming dangerous and beginning to talk.’ He paused, sipping at his pernod. ‘There were drawings,’ he went on. ‘Technical drawings. And we found a telescope. He was reporting on the movement of naval vessels. They go in and out of there like buses past the Gare St Lazare. He was only the operative, however, There were others between him and what we can only assume was the Russian Embassy.’

  Pel wondered how it affected him, but De Frobinius didn’t enlighten him and he could only assume it was a quiet suggestion that he keep an open mind on anything he found.

  Finishing work on Sunday, he decided to spend Monday looking round London. Watching the changing of the Guard, he was struck dumb as a large black limousine containing a figure in pale blue came through the gates of Buckingham Palace. It was only when he heard cheers and realised the flag on the bonnet of the car was the Royal Standard that it dawned on him that he was looking at a Queen, and he removed his hat and stiffened to attention. As a good Republican, he was a splendid Royalist.

  In the evening, he took Goschen and his wife out to dinner – on expenses, of course. Setting off for home the following day, he was still faintly awed by what he’d learned and humbly pleased that he’d found some new friends.

  ‘Come and see us if you’re ever in London,’ Goschen said.

  Pel wished he could offer the same sort of invitation, but Madame Routy would have mutinied had guests turned up at the house in the Rue Martin-de-Noinville.

  He flew back via Paris because De Frobinius wished him to meet his chief. By this time, Pel was beginning to feel important. They called at Interpol headquarters at 37, Rue Paul-Valéry where Pel studied more photographs, then he was fed at government expense in one of the best restaurants in Paris, before being put on the train south.

  As soon as he had reached home and dumped his bag, he rang Darcy to find out what had happened in his absence.

  ‘How was it, Patron?’ Darcy asked. ‘How did the Grand Quartier Général stuff go?’

  ‘Everybody was helpful,’ Pel said modestly. ‘I’m a bit exhausted with talking rosbif, of course, but then, if one visits the land of Rosbifs, I suppose one has to accept that. What about Jacqmin? Have we picked him up yet?’

  ‘Yes, Patron. Couple of hours ago, as a matter of fact. It’s just come in. He’s on his way here now. We picked up the knife he had, too. Nosjean’s alerted the lab about it.’

  ‘Where was he?’

  ‘Lons-le-Saunier. He said he was going on holiday. But that doesn’t seem to tie in with what this girl he lives with says. I think he was bolting to Switzerland to lie low for a bit.’

  ‘We’ll see him in the morning,’ Pel said. ‘Inform Nosjean. In the meantime get Châlon to enquire into his finances. The girl ought to know.’

  Fifteen

  When Jacqmin appeared in Pel’s office, Nosjean, Darcy and Pel were waiting for him like a tribunal. He looked nervous and a little dishevelled and tired.

  Pel produced copies of the drawings of Ford which Fergusson had given him.

  ‘Did you do these?’ he asked.

  Jacqmin looked at the drawing. ‘They’re my style,’ he said.

  ‘Did you do them?’

  ‘How do I know? I do so much. I can’t remember everything.’

  ‘Why were you in Lons-le-Saunier?’

  ‘I was taking a short holiday.’

  ‘Without your girlfriend?’

  ‘Occasionally I take off on my own.’

  ‘That’s not what she says,’ Darcy pointed out.

  ‘Well, she’s new to the game, isn’t she? She’s only been with me a short time. I don’t like getting too tied down.’

  ‘Were you heading for Switzerland?’

  ‘I like Switzerland. All those mountains.’

  ‘You were bolting,’ Pel accused. ‘Where were you heading?’

  Jacqmin looked lost. ‘Switzerland. I haven’t enough money to bolt any farther.’

  ‘You’ve had money, though, haven’t you?�
� Nosjean asked. ‘Châlon police have discovered that at times you’ve been quite a big spender. And how did you manage to buy that house? Morlieu said you were on your beam-ends when you left Royan.’

  Pel pushed forward the pictures of Ford again. Alongside them he placed the picture Jacqmin had drawn of Rambot, the one that looked like Darcy.

  ‘We’ve had these studied,’ he pointed out. ‘They’re by the same artist. The Director of the Galéries Richelieu swears to it. Do you still say you didn’t draw these pictures of Ford?’

  Jacqmin drew a deep breath and seemed to collapse like a punctured balloon. ‘I drew them,’ he said.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I was asked to.’

  ‘Who asked you?’

  ‘Some guy Rambot brought along. He said he had a job for me. A well-paid one. I was to go to Orly with them and stand in a crowd of airport loaders. It was when the British Defence Minister came a month or two back. Whoever fixed it knew they weren’t going anywhere near the VIP lounges and there were high vehicles all round where the aircraft stopped. Somebody must have paid the foreman of the loaders to have me included, because nothing was said.’

  ‘Make a note of that, Darcy,’ Pel interrupted. ‘If nothing else, somebody’s taking bribes. Pass it on to Paris. They’ll find the time and date and pin him down.’ He looked at Jacqmin. ‘Go on.’

  ‘I was given a clipboard with some loading lists on it. A large one. Underneath the top sheets was drawing paper. There was a man with me who pointed out the man I had to draw. He wasn’t a loader either. At least I never saw him do anything that indicated he was. He just stood alongside me. We were searched for cameras but nobody questioned the loading lists. The people who got out of the aeroplane stood talking for a while. Only a few feet from me. The loaders were all round me. I did the sketches, making it look as if I were ticking off numbers and times – that sort of thing. It wasn’t difficult. He had an easy face.’

  ‘Easy face?’

  ‘Well—’ Jacqmin shrugged ‘—round faces are hard to catch. No outlines. His was lean and thin. All angles. Very simple to get on paper.’ He tried a weak smile. ‘I think they were good likenesses.’

  ‘Too damn good,’ Darcy growled. ‘What happened then?’

  ‘After they’d all gone, we walked back to the loading area and the man who was with me pushed me into a car and we drove off. The drawings were taken from me. I was given a thousand francs and put on the train south with a ticket in my hand. I had no idea what it was all about.’

  ‘Do you think we believe that?’ Pel asked.

  ‘You can do as you please.’ Jacqmin shrugged again. ‘It was an easy thousand to me. I didn’t ask questions. I didn’t know who the guy was I drew. I didn’t know he’d get himself killed.’

  ‘But he did, didn’t he?’

  ‘When I saw his photograph in the paper,’ Jacqmin said, ‘I knew at once who it was and I got scared. I bolted.’

  ‘Was it Rambot who arranged it?’

  ‘I don’t know. He was just somebody I’d worked for. He brought the guy to see me. It wasn’t Rambot who was with me at Orly.’

  ‘Had Cormon anything to do with it?’

  ‘I don’t know. I shouldn’t think so.’

  Remembering what he’d been told, Pel leaned forward. ‘These gadgets Rambot asked you to draw: Why weren’t they simply photographed?’

  ‘Mostly they were black plastic with bits of metal attached. It was clearer to draw them. They’d have photographed badly.’

  ‘Describe one.’

  ‘Well, one I did was black plastic – or bakelite – something like that – and it seemed to have a series of wires and a coil and a small magnet attached to it. At least it stuck to my penknife when I was turning it over.’

  ‘Do you know what it was?’

  ‘Some sort of switch, I think. I’m no expert.’

  ‘Ever copy anything like plans?’

  Jacqmin’s face changed and he looked more wary than ever. ‘I’ve often done that,’ he said. ‘There’s more industrial spying goes on than people realise.’

  ‘This wasn’t industrial spying,’ Pel said. ‘It was more important than that. About eighteen months ago. Did you do anything of that kind about then?’

  Jacqmin frowned. ‘No.’

  ‘It won’t take us long to find out if you’re lying.’

  It was a bluff and Jacqmin fell for it. His face sagged and he nodded.

  ‘All right then,’ he admitted grudgingly. ‘Yes, I did.’

  ‘What was it?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know. It looked like radio. But I’m no expert. There was also a thing that looked like a set of organ pipes.’

  The Nebelwerfer, Pel thought. The Double-Edged Sword.

  ‘I had that for nine days,’ Jacqmin said. ‘I had to work all through every night to get it finished in time. And all the time this type kept telephoning to see if I was through.’

  ‘Which type?’

  ‘The type Rambot brought along. I slept for a week after it was over.’

  ‘What was it, do you think?’

  Jacqmin tried a grin, but it was uncertain. ‘It could have been a new organ for the cathedral at Royan, for all I know,’ he said.

  Nobody smiled and his grin died.

  ‘I don’t argue,’ he went on. ‘I can’t afford to. There’ll be three of us soon and Léonie’s – well, you know how women are. She wants the best for the baby. They paid me thirty thousand francs for it. You don’t sneeze at that sort of money.

  He was trying desperately to excuse himself, but his very protestations proclaimed his guilt. It was clear he’d been well aware that what he’d been working on was dangerous, even if he hadn’t known what it was.

  ‘Who brought the plans to you?’

  ‘This type Rambot brought along.’

  ‘Was Rambot there?’

  ‘No. But I think he had something to do with it. There was another type, too. Looked like an officer. Cold, didn’t say much. Kept in the background, but I noticed when this type Rambot sent was explaining what he wanted, he kept saying things that sounded pretty technical to me. Things like “We have to have the return springs clearly shown” and “The loading carriage hasn’t been made clear.” I don’t know what he meant but he seemed to know all about the plans. I think he was an officer.’

  ‘So do I,’ Pel said. ‘And that his name was De Fransecky. He’s now doing time for selling naval secrets.’

  Jacqmin pulled a face. ‘He involved me in that?’

  ‘Didn’t you know?’

  ‘No.’

  Pel didn’t believe him. Jacqmin’s conscience was the sort that could always be swept aside when he was in need of money.

  ‘Were any names mentioned?’

  ‘No. Well – they were whispering as I started work. I heard them talking as if other people were involved.’

  ‘But no names?’

  ‘No. Perhaps Rambot’s was one of them.’

  As Jacqmin stopped there was a long silence, then Pel gestured. ‘You’ll be staying here for a while,’ he said. ‘Someone will doubtless come down from Paris to talk to you. I might even say “grill” you. So you’d better be prepared to tell the truth. And when he’s finished there’ll probably be someone else, well and truly backed by the Surete’, who’ll come from London. He’ll want to talk to you, too.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘For the love of God,’ Darcy snapped. ‘A man’s been shot! A big boy, too. I think you got yourself into something bigger than you expected, my friend, and those drawings of yours make you an accessory after the fact. We’ll need to find out a bit more about you.’

  Jacqmin looked uneasy. ‘I tell you I didn’t know what it was for,’ he insisted.

  Pel frowned. ‘It’ll come out in the wash,’ he said. ‘If there’s nothing known about you, you’ll probably be allowed out and eventually get a suspended sentence. Avec sursis. Conditional on not appearing again. If it turns out
differently, it could be a “fermé”, which means you’ll end up at 72, Rue d’Auxonne, for a while.’ He gestured to Darcy. ‘Take him away,’ he said. ‘Identité Judiciaire would like to have him to passer au piano.’

  Jacqmin looked scared. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Have your fingerprints taken.’

  As Jacqmin vanished, Pel sat staring at his blotter. After a while, he took out a cigarette, lit it, decided he was being weak again, pinched it out and was about to put it away for later when he decided he was wasting good money and life was too short, anyway, to shorten it further by worrying.

  Lighting up again, he sat drawing in the smoke, relaxed, his eyes bright, his mind racing.

  Spying was something new for him. But was it just spying? That seemed to be over and done with, with the arrest of Capitaine de Corvette de Fransecky. The continued involvement of Jacqmin, however, the drawings he’d been doing, seemed to indicate the affair wasn’t finished yet. At the same time, neither De Frobinius nor Fergusson in London had mentioned other secrets that had gone missing. Was it something else? Was he involved with terrorists? Were there to be more assassinations?

  He sat frowning for a long time. Terrorism and assassinations weren’t quite the normal run of the mill in his area, any more than involvement with spying was. There weren’t even any important national figures around who could be hated enough for anyone to wish to kill them. Only income tax inspectors, he remembered, and they were liable to assassination any time and anywhere. Yet neither London nor Paris had been forthcoming about where the terror gangs they had referred to were coming from and he had to suppose there were many things for which they had to keep their lips buttoned up.

  Yet terrorism couldn’t be ruled out. Men like John Ford still occasionally got themselves killed and bombs still went off – the latest, he remembered, in Lyons, which wasn’t all that far from his own backyard.

  Finding links with terrorism on your own doorstep was always faintly disturbing. Like drugs, they normally belonged in capital cities, where there were ugly suburbs and emotions ran higher, where personalities tended to be more twisted, where psychoses were more involved, and above all where important people came and went. It left him with an uneasy feeling of groping into cotton wool, seeking something yet not quite sure what it was. There seemed little else to do but pursue the enquiries he was already engaged on and hope they produced something that might be of use not only to Fergusson and De Frobinius but also in discovering who had forced Cormon off the road at Destres and thrust the knife in his brain as he struggled to escape.