by Mark Hebden
Misset leapt to his feet in a panic. ‘Pissarro’s?’ he yelped. ‘One of Goriot’s men’s watching it at the moment, Patron! I relieve him.’ He gestured at the paper. ‘Just working out who’ll win the Tour! It’s a close one this year. It looks like Van der Essen now. He’s red-hot in the mountains and that’s what separates the men from the boys! Clam’s nowhere!’
Pel glared at him. Misset was a fool, he decided, and as soon as he could he intended to shift him to someone else’s team.
‘Lagé,’ he snapped. ‘I want to see those photographs you took outside Pissarro’s.’
‘At once, Patron!’ Lagé almost leapt to attention and saluted.
He had been busy and the pile of pictures he had taken was quite considerable.
‘You said not to miss anyone, Patron,’ he pointed out earnestly.
Pel shuffled the photographs like a dissatisfied child trying to play cards. ‘And all these are suspicious types?’ he asked.
‘You never know, Patron,’ Lagé said. ‘They might be.’
‘You’ve cost the department a fortune.’ Pel jabbed a finger at one of the pictures. ‘That one looks so old, he’d be too tired to be a crook. His feet look bad, too. Like mine.’
He thrust the photographs into a pile and drew forward the pictures which Goschen had sent from London. Several of them seemed to match.
Sweeping the matching prints together, he nodded to Darcy. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Let’s go and see that hotel-keeper at Voivres. For all we know Rambot’s one of this lot. I’d like to know which he is.’
The bar at Voivres was full of customers. At one end, two routiers, their great lorries standing outside, were carving at slices of steak and stuffing the meat into their mouths with bread and wine. Inevitably the television was going. Inevitably it was showing the Tour de France.
‘Filou,’ the announcer was saying, ‘has been taken to hospital. He was going well on the slopes of the Col d’Est when he fell three kilometres from the summit. He regained his machine but collapsed a second time further on, and this time he was unconscious and the kiss of life was tried. What heroism he showed! What courage!’
What with the customers and the new angle on the Tour de France, Vandelet, the hotel proprietor, was too busy to attend to them just then, but the day was warm and they felt they could wait. Taking their drinks outside, they sat in the sunshine until they saw the lorries move off, then, going inside, they found Vandelet, his wife and helpers all busy washing up.
As Pel explained what he was after, Vandelet came round the zinc counter. Spreading the photographs on a table, Pel gestured.
‘The type who came in here with Cormon,’ he said. ‘The one he called Rambot? Remember?’
Interrupted from time to time by shrill cries from his wife who kept accusing him of dodging work, Vandelet bent over the photographs.
‘It could be him,’ he said, pointing. ‘On the other hand – ’
There was another accusing yell from the kitchen and he lifted his head and roared. ‘Tais-toi, woman! Can’t you see I’m busy?’ Still muttering angrily about his wife, he jabbed a finger at the photographs. ‘That one,’ he said. ‘That’s the one. I think it’s him. No doubt. Yet – ’
His conversation still punctuated by bitter accusations from the kitchen, he had narrowed his choice down to three when his wife appeared. She was narrow-faced with a sharp aggressive nose and a thin-lipped mouth as tight as a gin trap.
‘It’s the police,’ Vandelet said, spreading his hands in a gesture that included the whole of the hotel.
‘But, of course!’ Her shoulders lifted and her hands flew. ‘They have nothing better to do!’
‘They have problems.’
‘So have I!’
‘Then attend to them, in the name of God!’ Vandelet dismissed his wife with an upward sweep of the hand, as though he were tossing her accusations over his head and out of the window. ‘That one,’ he said at last. ‘That’s the one. I’m certain.’
Pel picked up the picture. The man in the picture was dark, and strong-looking. He compared it with Darcy.
‘He’s not a bit like you really,’ he observed to the sergeant. ‘He’s good-looking.’
It seemed pretty obvious by this time that, despite Pissarro’s protestations, he had been involved in whatever dirty business Cormon had dreamed up and Pel was beginning to wonder how much Robinson’s anti-missile device was involved, too.
‘Get the pictures to Paris,’ he told Darcy. ‘Then we’ll try them on Robinson. He can confirm it or otherwise.’
While Darcy was having copies made, Pel bearded the Chief in his office. He listened quietly as Pel indicated the need for a watch to be placed on Robinson’s place.
‘Is it necessary?’ he asked.
‘I think it’s very necessary,’ Pel insisted.
‘Will he accept it?’
‘No. But it’s still necessary.’
‘We can’t intrude.’
‘I think we should try. If necessary, we should bring Paris into this. It’s big and I think he needs protection. If not him, then at least what he’s doing.’
By the time Darcy appeared with the pictures, the Chief had contacted Robinson and had his request that a watch should be placed on him turned down flat. He was busy now trying to contact De Frobinius in Paris.
‘Don’t worry,’ he said to Pel as he headed for the door. ‘I’ll bring pressure to bear. We can get the Ministry of Defence in on it if necessary.’
As Pel and Darcy headed for Robinson’s home again, Pel suggested they tried his works first.
‘It’s Wednesday,’ he said. ‘And Wednesday’s the day he’s supposed to go there. If he isn’t there, it’ll delay the meeting a little and give him time to get over the Chief’s call. He doesn’t strike me as the sort of man to bear malice but you never know and it’s always easier to talk to someone who’s calmed down. If he is there, it’ll save us a journey. Besides—’ his eyes glinted ‘—that young gasbag, Rivard, might have something to add. He seems to know more than is good for him. He might even know Rambot.’
Robinson was not at the works. Elodie Guillemin, who was eating a sandwich at her desk, suggested he might have been too busy.
‘He doesn’t always come,’ she said. ‘Only usually.’
‘What about Rivard?’ Darcy asked.
‘Oh, he’s here.’ She produced a big smile and indicated the works. ‘They’re at lunch now, though, but I expect it’s all right to go through.’
When they reached the workshop, however, they found the place empty except for one angry-looking middle-aged woman.
‘Where is everybody?’ Pel asked.
She indicated the photographic processing department. ‘They’re all in there,’ she said.
‘Eating their lunch?’
‘That’s what they say.’
Darcy glanced at his watch. ‘They take a long time, Patron,’ he observed. ‘And they choose a funny place to eat. What the hell are they up to?’ He looked at the woman. ‘Are there women in there, too?’
‘They call themselves women,’ she snapped. ‘They try to get me to go in, but I won’t.’
‘Why? What are they up to? Sex orgies?’
As Darcy spoke, there was a burst of laughter from the closed door of the processing laboratory. It was followed almost immediately by a shout of glee.
Darcy looked at Pel. ‘This,’ he said, ‘I find intriguing. Think it’s a new kind of union meeting?’
The laughter came again and Pel looked at the woman sitting alone at her bench, eating a sandwich.
‘Do they do this every lunch break?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘Once a week.’
‘What have they got in there? A strip tease show?’
She flushed. ‘You’d better ask them.’
Darcy and Pel studied each other, then quietly walked to the bench alongside the door of the processing room and sat down to wait. After another ten minutes, there was a great
yell of laughter and a burst of clapping. Then, where there had been silence, they heard the noise of chattering voices and shouts of ‘Bis’ and ‘Bravo.’ A moment later the door opened and two flushed-faced girls appeared. A man followed, grinning, and pinched one of the girls’ behind. As she shrieked, Pel and Darcy watched with interest. As the man saw them sitting on the bench, he turned quickly.
‘Jean-Pierre!’ he shouted. ‘The flics!’
There was immediate silence. The chattering and giggling died at once and half a dozen girls and several men filed out silently, all looking sheepish, and headed for their benches. Putting his head round the door, Pel saw Jean-Pierre Rivard standing by a projector. Opposite there was a white-painted wall devoid of shelves.
‘Having a show?’ Darcy asked.
‘Yes.’ Rivard indicated the wall. ‘On there. They enjoy them. Makes the dinner hour pass more quickly.’
‘They want lunch time to pass quickly?’ Darcy asked in surprise. ‘What were you showing them?’
Rivard was fiddling with his lunch box on a table alongside the projector. He turned abruptly, reached out, picked up a spool of film, glanced at it and held it out.
‘This.’
Darcy studied it. ‘“Horses in the Camargue,”’ he said. ‘They found that funny?’
‘No. Just interesting.’
‘They did a lot of laughing.’
‘They get a lot of fun.’
‘They must do.’ Darcy pushed into the room and, as he did so, contrived to let his arm catch against Rivard’s lunch box. As it fell to the floor, it burst open. A half-eaten sandwich, an apple, an empty beer bottle and a circular black container rolled out. Rivard made a dive for the container but Darcy got there first. As he picked it up, Rivard tried to snatch it back, blushing furiously. Darcy held him off, studied the container then passed it to Pel.
‘“Kleinekino,”’ Pel read. ‘“8mm movies in standard-8 and super-8 colour. The Black Stockings.”’ He looked at Rivard and continued to read from the end of the box. ‘“Dirte is bought a set of black underwear by her boyfriend, Karl. But Karl insists on putting them on for her – and then emotion takes a hand.”’ He turned the box over. ‘“A light-hearted look at sex.” Well, well.’ He studied the back of the box. ‘“Cartoons. Comedies. Titillation.” German, too.’ He looked up at Rivard. ‘They’re great ones in Germany for this sort of thing.’ He turned to Darcy. ‘You can get space films, science-fiction, and a large selection of explicit amorous adventures,’ he explained. He looked again at Rivard, then out into the workshop. ‘No wonder Doctor Robinson considered he had a happy work force here,’ he said. ‘How long has this been going on?’
Rivard gave him a sullen look. ‘A while,’ he growled.
Pel’s manner grew more harsh. ‘How long?’ he snapped.
‘About a year.’
Darcy smiled. ‘Smuggled in, in lunch boxes, with the apples and ham sandwiches, eh? Where do you get them?’
‘Denmark. Sweden. Germany. I get them through a catalogue. They don’t come here direct.’
‘Where do they come to?’
‘Charles Rudeau’s. He’s one of the packers. We use his place as an accommodation address. We’ve had one or two packages seized.’
‘I’ll bet you have. Doctor Robinson didn’t approve, of course.’
‘He didn’t know.’
‘I imagine not.’ Pel looked at Rivard. ‘I came here today thinking you might be able to help me. But I don’t think you’re the man, after all. Perhaps we’d better see Robinson himself.’ He studied the box in his hand again, then looked up at Rivard once more. ‘While this sort of thing was going on, who looked after the shop?’
Rivard frowned. ‘No one.’
‘You were supposed to, weren’t you? Suppose someone had walked in and helped himself to something?’
‘We had nothing worth stealing.’
‘You had gadgets.’
‘Nobody knew what they were.’
‘Cormon did. Did he go in there with you?’
Rivard flushed. ‘Since you mention it, no.’
Pel did his snake-about-to-strike act. ‘Cormon, my friend, is under suspicion of, at the very least, industrial espionage, probably a great deal more. And what he stole probably came from here.’ He tossed the container to Darcy who slipped it into his pocket.
Rivard’s eyes followed it. ‘You going to keep it?’ he asked.
‘I think we’d better, mon brave,’ Darcy said. ‘I’ve no doubt it came through Customs described as something else entirely. It might be a good idea to pass the information on.’
Rivard flushed. ‘It was only a girlie show,’ he said. ‘Everybody enjoyed it. Even the women. It was a bit of fun, that’s all. Nobody worries about a little bit of pornography these days.’
‘No, my friend,’ Darcy smiled. ‘But for public shows you still need a licence.’
‘You going to do anything about it, Patron?’ Darcy asked as they drove away.
‘Shouldn’t think so,’ Pel said. ‘It’s none of our business, unless it led to a lack of security. If Cormon did use lunch-hour breaks of that sort to lift things, then it’ll all come out in the wash. Let’s go and see Robinson. We’ve got to face him some time and if he’s not here, he’ll probably be at Rambillard.’
As they talked, they had the car radio on because it was giving warnings of where the Tour de France was expected at certain times of the day – something of importance to any traveller – and suddenly the announcements were interrupted by a flash message.
‘Doctors,’ the commentator said, ‘have pronounced Aurélien Filou dead and have refused permission for interment.’
Darcy glanced at Pel who reached forward to turn up the volume control.
‘They considered it abnormal,’ the announcer went on in awed tones, ‘that a young and physically well-prepared athlete should die in the course of a competition for which he had trained.’
Half an hour later there was another flash. The pockets of Filou’s racing jersey had been found to contain two medical containers, one empty and labelled tonedrin, the other half-full of anonymous tablets about the size of aspirin, and among his baggage a box had been found which contained various tablets and medicines, among them tubes of tonedrin and stenamina, both drugs in the methyl-amphetamine group.
The awed tones of the commentator were understandable. Cycling under the influence wasn’t something to be encouraged, not even if the rider won, because the sponsors liked to be able to say that success came from the use of their cycles rather than the use of drugs.
‘It’s not unknown, though,’ Darcy said. ‘There was that case a year or two ago of someone trying to cheat the urine test they have to take by giving a sample from a rubber bulb in his racing shorts. Even doctors and race officials have been implicated.’ He smiled. ‘If I were trying to pedal up the Col d’Est, I’d need everything I could get.’
Pel considered that he wouldn’t even get beyond the nursery slopes, not even with jet aid. An idea occurred to him.
‘Think Pissarro’s involved?’ he asked. ‘He’s a damned sight too interested in the result.’
Darcy shrugged. ‘If everybody interested in the result of the Tour were involved in things like this, Patron, then half the manufacturers in Europe would be in gaol: Raleigh. Gitane. Coca-Cola. Peugeot. Besides, it’s not heroin. It’s only amphetamine-based drugs.’
Pel frowned. ‘Well, Robinson’s already had trouble with Pissarro,’ he said. ‘He might have something to say. At the very least, he’ll be interested.’
But when they reached Rambillard, they found Robinson wasn’t interested in anything any more. There were police cars outside the house and a doctor just emerging.
‘What in the name of God’s happening?’ Pel asked.
The doctor shrugged. ‘You might well ask,’ he said.
Twenty
With the aid of Sous-Brigadier Quiriton, Nosjean felt he had every road in the district covered. A
ll round the Château de Lebuchon-Roy police cars waited out of sight behind high hedges, deep in woods, and tucked into the yards of friendly farmers. Nosjean had scouted the area thoroughly and, because he was anxious that his suspects shouldn’t be aware of his presence, he had taken care not to have the cars placed anywhere on a direct route to the château. If anybody was coming, he didn’t want them put off. He wanted them to arrive, collect their spoils, then catch them red-handed.
It was hardly what could be called prevention of crime, which was what the police were supposed to exist for, but sometimes cure was better than prevention. A man put away for a year or two was often more effectively stopped for the future than a man who was merely frightened off. The do-gooders might have had it other ways, but Nosjean was a policeman and didn’t believe in feather-bedding criminals. Sous-Brigadier Quiriton’s men had been warned not to stop a yellow Passat estate if it appeared, merely to watch where it went and report by radio to Nosjean, who had taken station with Quiriton in a yard belonging to a farmer friend of Quiriton’s, with Quiriton’s car tucked away out of sight behind a haystack.
It was Bastille Night and Quiriton’s men were a little sullen that they were missing it. Bastille Night didn’t normally have a great deal of effect on St Denis beyond a few drunks and a few flung fireworks, but this year the village was en fête. A platform had been set up for a disco where music was already thumping out, a bar had been erected, and on the slope above the village a snake of coloured lights was beginning to appear as schoolchildren carrying lanterns prepared to head for the square. Quite apart from the fact that the older of Quiriton’s men had been hoping to see their children in fancy dress, they had also been hoping – in addition to preserving the face of republican dignity among the misrule – for a few free beers behind the canvas at the back of the bar. Instead of which, they were sitting in their cars among the shadowed lanes waiting for a gang of thieves they firmly believed would not appear.
As the summer evening changed to dusk and the trees in the distance changed from blue to purple, Nosjean sat quietly on the shafts of an old cart, trying to work out the relative qualities of all the girls he knew. He wasn’t thinking too much about the job in hand as he waited, but policemen are much the same as other men and have the same distractions. Charlotte Rampling at the library had disappeared into the limbo of lost loves and it was now a toss-up between Odile Chenandier and Mijo Lehmann. At that moment Mijo Lehmann was leading the field. She was better-looking and more chic, but he had a feeling that Odile Chenandier might well prove the more faithful. Unfortunately, however, faithfulness could sometimes turn into possessiveness and Nosjean was nervous about that.