Pel Is Puzzled

by Mark Hebden

  There were few cars about as dusk came: A green Peugeot brake with two young men in it, both wearing red and white scarves and hats, as if they were returning from a sports event, a big Merc with a fat man in it with a young girl, who looked as if they might be heading for a big seduction scene, a few battered cars that belonged to farmers. As darkness came, the cars seemed to consist entirely of young men and girls out courting.

  Still they watched. There was no sign of a yellow Passat. Later in the evening, the farmer’s wife appeared with coffee and brandy because, despite the warmth of the day, under the shadow of the hills it was surprisingly chilly. Still no Passat. Pork sandwiches appeared, brought out by the farmer’s daughter. She was about twenty and attractive, and Nosjean looked at her with interest before thrusting her out of his mind – he seemed too occupied with girls already – and instead sat in Quiriton’s car listening to a portable radio which he kept turned down as low as possible so that he would miss nothing that came over Quiriton’s police band. The news seemed to consist entirely of the unexpected death of Aurélien Filou and the courage of his team in deciding to continue.

  At midnight, Nosjean decided he’d made a bad guess and that Sous-Brigadier Quiriton’s report of a yellow Passat had concerned merely a couple of tourists. Whose it was, he didn’t know, because, as he’d long since discovered, neither Pierrot-le-Pourri nor his friend, Poupon, possessed anything other than expensive Citroëns.

  ‘Let’s have a prowl round,’ he suggested to Quiriton. ‘Warn your men we’re coming.

  There was a brief talk on the radio before they set off.

  ‘They’ve not been seen round the château,’ Quiriton said.

  ‘All the same—’ Nosjean shrugged ‘—let’s go. But no lights. Let’s not warn them if they’re around. Besides, we’ll see better in the dark.’

  For some time, they drove around. Against the pale summer sky they could see the heavy bulk of the château, its square shape, its turrets and chimneys. There was no sound. All the cars they’d seen earlier seemed to have vanished. Once they heard the shrill yelp of a fox and a hullabaloo from a hen-house as though it had got in there. Dogs started barking, one after the other, picking up the signal as it was passed from farm to farm. But no cars.

  They were moving slowly, the engine almost silent, and Nosjean sighed.

  ‘I think we’ve missed them,’ he said. ‘Or else they haven’t come.’

  ‘We saw the Passat,’ Quiriton insisted. ‘Just as we’d been told to look for.’

  ‘Let’s prowl round the back of the château,’ Nosjean suggested.

  Quiriton started the engine and, lights out, engine very quiet, they got into motion again. Passing another of Quiriton’s cars, they were informed that no one had seen any yellow Passat.

  ‘They haven’t come,’ Nosjean said bitterly.

  ‘Perhaps they caught on or got a tip-off we were waiting.’

  Nosjean frowned. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘if they haven’t come, at least nothing’s been stolen.’

  They were just moving slowly under a belt of trees, both of them yawning, when they heard a motor car engine start. Immediately they sat up, alert at once, to see a green Peugeot brake shoot out from a ride in the woods. It swung on to the road, rocking wildly, its lights out, and came towards them, its engine racing. Quiriton swung the wheel furiously, cursing at the top of his voice.

  ‘Les bougres! Ils ont foutré la bazar,’ he yelled as the other car caught their front wing, bounced off, swung across the road and disappeared into a ditch. Cursing, Quiriton fought with the steering, dropped a wheel into the ditch at the other side of the road and disappeared beneath Nosjean as the car flipped over on to its side.

  Without waiting to find out whether Quiriton was alive or not, Nosjean thrust open the door of the car with an effort, scrambled out, his feet all over Quiriton, and started to run. A man wearing a red and white woollen hat was scrambling from the green brake but, hearing Nosjean, he dived into the trees. As he crashed off into the distance, a second man, also wearing a red and white hat, scrambled clear and had just started to run when Nosjean took a flying dive at him, grabbed him round the legs and disappeared with him into a ditch smelling of wet earth and leaf mould. For a moment, there was a frantic scrambling to get on top, then Nosjean wrenched himself free, grabbed the man’s wrist and wrenched it up behind his back. The man yelped with pain and, flinging him on to his face, Nosjean slipped the handcuffs on his wrists. Only then did he think about Quiriton.

  Dragging the man with him, he found Quiriton, a cut on his forehead dripping blood into his eye, climbing out of his car.

  ‘We’ve got one,’ Nosjean said. ‘You hurt?’

  ‘Not enough to worry,’ Quiriton said. ‘Let’s have a look at him.’

  He switched on a torch and in the beam they saw a young man little more than twenty with a beard and a pale frightened face.

  ‘He’s not from round here,’ Quiriton said. ‘Is he one of yours?’

  Summoned by Quiriton’s radio, the other cars came into action at once and the second man was caught with the first light of the following day at the other side of the woods.

  In the meantime, Nosjean had taken a look at the green Peugeot brake lying with its nose in the ditch. Its rear seat was down and into the space it made were jammed two chairs. It didn’t take Nosjean long, with the knowledge he’d acquired, to identify them as Boulards.

  ‘Well,’ he said triumphantly, ‘we’ve got two of them.’

  ‘Complete with loot.’ Quiriton grinned. ‘What’s more, there’s a crowbar in the car, to say nothing of a complete housebreaker’s kit, which includes a screwdriver and a 30-millimetre drill.’

  ‘Which was doubtless used to bore holes at Boncey-Morin, Marennes, and a few other places.’

  Two hours later, sitting in Quiriton’s office, with the two young men securely under lock and key, Nosjean swallowed a mug of coffee and a celebratory brandy which Quiriton produced.

  ‘You deserve a commendation for this,’ Nosjean grinned. ‘The guy in the yellow Passat must have been the one who cased the joint and these two turned up later to collect the goods.’

  ‘Name of Jean-Jacques Raméai and Henri Prez. From the Belleville district of Paris. Are they connected with your pal, Pierrot-le-Pourri?’

  Nosjean had already been on the telephone and it was a point he had been careful to question.

  ‘They swear they don’t know them,’ he said. ‘But I’m not sure I believe them. It’s my view these two were on the way to get rid of the goods in the Rue Vanoy. Two days from now you’d never have recognised those chairs.’

  He borrowed the telephone again to ring Auxerre and inform Sergeant de Troquereau, whose chief emotion seemed to be one of sadness at missing the pick-up.

  ‘Pity the top boy wasn’t with them,’ he said. ‘The one who supplied them with information.’

  Nevertheless, Nosjean was more than satisfied with the night’s work. The two chairs, magnificent to Nosjean, stood in the sub-station at St Denis, their backs medallion-shaped, their arms rose-decorated, their seats tapestry-covered. For the benefit of Quiriton he turned one of them over and indicated the estampille of the craftsman.

  ‘Boulard,’ he said. ‘That’s his signature.’

  Quiriton lit a cigarette and pulled a face. ‘Can’t see what they see in them,’ he observed.

  ‘Kings of France probably sat on those chairs at one time or other,’ Nosjean pointed out indignantly.

  Quiriton ran a hand over the tapestry that covered the hard wide seats. ‘Must have had good sitting bones,’ he said.

  Breakfasting at Quiriton’s house, Nosjean decided it might be a good idea to inform the owners of the château of their good fortune. They might be pleased enough, he thought cheerfully, to offer him anything he wanted – their lands, their castle, the hand in marriage of their favourite daughter.

  They were breakfasting when he arrived, having risen somewhat later than he had. The
owner turned out to be the fat man they had seen in the Merc the night before and the girl turned out to be his wife. Somehow, they both failed to bear the look of the old nobility.

  ‘I didn’t know they’d gone,’ the man said.

  ‘It wouldn’t have mattered, anyway,’ the girl commented casually. ‘We could easily have afforded some more.’

  Disgusted and annoyed, Nosjean headed back to Quiriton’s sub-station. Perhaps what Madame de Saint-Bruie had said was right. The owners of some of this beautiful furniture he’d been expending so much energy on defending didn’t deserve to have it.

  It might be a good idea to go and tell her so, he decided. She’d be pleased to know she was right. Besides, he might make his number with Mijo Lehmann, too, which would be even pleasanter. In the meantime, he’d better let Pel know what he’d been up to.

  As he waited for his call to come through, Quiriton appeared. ‘Something’s come up,’ he said. ‘It might be interesting. On the other hand, it might not. I had my men go over the ground where the Peugeot had been parked. In case of footprints.’ He held out a piece of stained paper. ‘They found this. It obviously doesn’t come from round here and I wondered if the address rang a bell.’

  Nosjean took the paper. It was the sort of paper that was wrapped round food and was delivered in vast rolls that were attached to the side of a shop counter. It was greaseproof, and printed across it every few inches, so there’d be no mistaking where it came from, was the address – Charcuterie Espinasse, Rue Vanoy, Paris, 7ème.

  ‘Charcuterie Espinasse,’ Nosjean said slowly. ‘I remember buying a sandwich there once. It’s just down the road from Pierrot-le-Pourri’s.’

  His heart thumping, he rang the Quai des Orfèvres in Paris at once and arranged for them to pick up Poupon and Pierrot-le-Pourri, who were going to have some explaining to do, then set about ringing Pel. He could just imagine the delight, could just imagine himself being welcomed back, the hero of the hour.

  There seemed a great deal of difficulty getting through to the Hôtel de Police, however, and when he finally did so the man on the exchange sounded flustered.

  ‘What the hell’s going on?’ Nosjean asked.

  ‘Something’s come up,’ he was told. ‘Hang on, I’ll put you through.’

  Getting through to Pel’s office, Nosjean was thankful at last to hear Darcy’s voice. It didn’t offer any congratulations, however. It didn’t even stop to find out.

  ‘Where in the name of God have you been?’ Darcy demanded furiously.

  ‘I’ve been down here in St Denis. I’ve been—’

  Darcy wasn’t interested in what Nosjean had been up to. ‘For the love of God,’ he said. ‘Get back here! Fast! You’re needed. Doctor Robinson’s been murdered.’

  Twenty-one

  Robinson had been found bludgeoned to death in his workshop.

  His wife was in Paris at the time and it had been his elderly helper, Cortes, who had found him on arrival at work. The door of his little workshop had been forced and the material on the benches had been scattered everywhere.

  There were smudges all over an iron bar which had been found outside and it had been sent to Judiciaire d’Identité to get them matched up. Since they were well and truly daubed everywhere, Pel had a suspicion that whoever had left them had worn gloves and wouldn’t be identified.

  ‘Anything missing?’ he demanded.

  ‘His work’s missing,’ Cortes said.

  ‘What work?’

  ‘He was engaged on some gadget.’

  ‘What was it?’

  ‘A switch.’

  ‘Come on,’ Pel said sharply, pulling the old man aside. ‘He told us a bit about it. He was working on a computor reverser. A device that could throw computors into error. Was that it?’

  Cortes looked worried. ‘Not all of it,’ he said. ‘What he was working on was just the core of the thing.’

  ‘And that’s what’s been stolen?’

  ‘Well, it isn’t here and there was nothing else of any value.’

  ‘What’s it like?’

  ‘Flat. About eleven centimetres by five. A box made of plastic.’ The old man dived into a drawer and produced a small black plastic container. ‘Like that. One of those fitted into the lift mechanism he devised enables a lift to return to the basement without anybody pressing switches. It’s used chiefly in warehouses. Loick Fougeron was interested in it for his yachts. It shifted his sails without any effort from him.’

  ‘And that’s all that’s needed to throw computors haywire?’

  The old man shook his head. ‘Nom de Dieu, no! That’s only part of it. The device it fitted into was—’ he gestured with his hands ‘—about twice the size of a shoe box. What he was working on was only the trigger mechanism.’

  When Pel returned to the Hôtel de Police, his expression was bleak and angry. After their early success, things seemed to have gone badly wrong. Darcy met him with a worried look on his face.

  ‘Pissarro’s disappeared, Patron,’ he said.

  ‘What!’ Pel’s face went red. ‘How in God’s name did he manage that? We were watching him here and at Annonay. Who’s responsible?’

  ‘Misset, Patron.’

  ‘I’ll have him back on Traffic for this!’ Pel stormed. ‘What happened?’

  ‘He was watching the house and Pissarro was safely there when he took over. He’d been followed all the way there in that old Bentley of his by a police car from Annonay. Goriot sent a man out at once. He was relieved by Lagé, who was relieved later by Misset. The Bentley was still there. Misset was short of cigarettes so he went down to the bar to get some. The Tour was on television and he dawdled to listen to the guff about Filou. While he was in there, he heard the Bentley start up – you can imagine what a roar it makes – but when he ran out he was too late. Pissarro had vanished.’

  Pel was pale with fury but there were other things to occupy his mind beyond Misset’s stupidity.

  ‘What about Rambot?’ he asked. ‘What have we learned about him?’

  ‘I sent Nosjean up the motorway to Paris with more photographs,’ Darcy said. ‘He’s just telephoned. He saw De Frobinius. Rambot turns out to be a man by the name of Adrien Ladour. Only he’s not as French as he sounds.’

  ‘Commissar of all the Russias, I suppose?’ Pel said grimly.

  ‘He might well be,’ Darcy said. ‘De Frobinius identified him at once. Name of Haroun Dagieff. Arrived in France some time ago claiming to be a Russian dissident and demanding asylum. There was a bit of to-ing and fro-ing, but the Quai d’Orsay finally agreed to back his request and he was allowed in. He changed his name to Ladour, he said, because he was afraid of retribution. Interior kept their eye on him, because planting an agent in the shape of a refugee’s an old dodge, it seems. They had him watched and they recently discovered he’s been depositing large sums of money with Credit Lyonnais. They did a bit of digging and found the account was in the name of Sardier, but it was our friend, Rambot – Ladour – Dagieff – take your pick – who was depositing the cash. He was interested in aeroplanes, they’ve discovered, about the time that double-agent, Le Mai, disappeared. He was one of the contacts of that English guy, Philby, if you remember. They were never able to pin anything on Le Mai and he was around for years before they decided to pick him up. He went out just in time. Dagieff, it seems, had set up the plane business as a feint, and while they were watching Dagieff and the airport, La Mai went down the Loire by boat from Nantes or St Nazaire to a ship, and went to Turkey and then across Iran.’

  ‘It makes sense,’ Pel growled. ‘In fact, a lot of things begin to make sense. Rambot’s obviously after this thing of Robinson’s.’

  ‘There’s more to come, Patron,’ Darcy said bleakly. ‘Our friend, Rambot – Ladour – Dagieff, was also in that brothel in Paris when they raided it and found the Russian attaché and Philippe le Bozec from the Ministry of Defence.’

  ‘Who was passing secrets, after all?’

 
‘Seems so. He’s been arrested on our say-so.’

  Darcy tossed across a folder giving the details. A great many policemen who had expected to be drinking bocks of beer at their local bars or even romping in bed with wives or girl friends, had found themselves unexpectedly on duty, and all over France premises had been raided and arrests made. A few people with well-known names had been found where they shouldn’t have been – one member of the House of Representatives in the bed of the wife of another – and among those arrested had been two policemen, an army officer and a naval lieutenant.

  ‘They recovered a few things from La Bozec’s apartment,’ Darcy said. ‘Designs. That sort of thing. You ever heard of the Breux-Magnus machine gun?’

  ‘New one, isn’t it?’

  ‘Revolutionary, they tell me at the Ministry. Developed with the Americans and the British. There were also plans for a new injector or something for jet engines that’s used at the airport here.’

  ‘While doubtless at the barracks here, in the Rue du Drapeau, they have the Breux-Magnus?’

  Darcy managed a twisted smile. ‘No, Patron. That’s not ours. That comes from Clermont-Ferrand. But there’s also some sort of nuclear trigger which has been lifted from the establishment near Aignay. A few minor bodies have also been pulled in on the strength of what we’ve discovered. A storeman. An NCO at the airport. A sous-lieutenant of the Chasseurs Parachutistes. It seems they’ve been bringing them in in dozens all day.’

  ‘What about Dagieff or whatever his name is?’