Pel Is Puzzled

by Mark Hebden

  ‘They’re still watching him. They’ve intercepted his post and tapped his telephone. His conversations were all unsuspicious and there was nothing in his mail resembling Robinson’s black box.’

  Pel stared at his blotter. Across it lay the newspaper, the front page announcing in advance the result of the Tour de France. Van der Essen, as had been predicted, was leading, and there was a picture of him, thigh muscles like steel bands, head down, heading for the last stage, his sponsor’s name across his shirt, his cotton peaked cap over his eyes, his white musette on his back.

  ‘The damn gadget must be somewhere,’ Darcy said. ‘He couldn’t have got rid of it. Rambot can’t have got it or he’d surely have bolted. But he seems to be quite unconcerned. They know every move he’s made for the last few days. To the minute.’

  ‘Has Pissarro said anything?’

  ‘Patron, we’ve both had a go at him and so has Judge Brisard.’

  Pel frowned. They were both worn out with working over Pissarro.

  ‘Perhaps he’s not involved after all, Patron.’

  Pel scowled. ‘I’m damned sure he is,’ he growled.

  ‘Well, all he’s done is return from visiting his poule in Annonay and then dodge Misset and go to Boine. Perhaps he didn’t even dodge Misset. Perhaps he didn’t even know he was being watched and just got in his car and drove north to watch his man, Maryckx, go past.’

  Pel lifted his head. ‘Maryckx,’ he said slowly. ‘Maryckx!’

  His voice rose. ‘Maryckx,’ he said again and suddenly he jumped to his feet and started stuffing pencils and notebooks and spare packets of cigarettes into his pockets.

  ‘Paris,’ he said. ‘That’s where Maryckx is going!’

  ‘Of course, Patron. They’re all going to Paris.’

  ‘It’s where we’re going, too.’

  Darcy looked puzzled. ‘Won’t the Quai des Orfèvres be watching that end?’

  ‘Shut up and get the car,’ Pel snarled. ‘And, for the love of God, go by the motorway! This time I want to be in front of those damned cyclists and all the idiots who’re watching them!’

  ‘It’s pretty obvious what’s happened,’ Pel said as they hurtled up the motorway, the windscreen slashed by an unexpected drizzling rain. ‘Our friend, Rambot-Ladour-Dagieff-whatever-he’s-called was the link to the Russian Embassy. Sometimes things were drawn – by our friendly neighbourhood artist, Jacqmin, who’d put anything on paper for anyone without asking questions. Doubtless he’d been doing it for some time for industrial snoopers and it got around where it mattered. He drew the fuel injector and the breech block for the Breux-Magnus. Probably even quite innocently, but he described something square and shiny that had a hook-shaped thing that moved backwards and forwards. It’s a long time since I did my military service but to me that sounds like the breech block for a machine gun.’

  Pel finished his cigarette and blew out smoke as if his life depended on it. ‘When the drawings were done,’ he went on, ‘they were spirited away through agents found by Rambot or Philippe le Bozec from the Ministry.’ Pel looked indignant. ‘Where it started is anybody’s guess but I dare bet Pissarro was in it all the way. Who better to put to good use the things they lifted? His whole firm was geared to copy things. He even admitted copying things. He’d probably been Le Bozec’s man and Rambot’s man for years. It was Pissarro who planted Cormon in Robinson’s works and it was Pissarro who saw further possibilities in the gadget Cormon stole. Or found out what Robinson was up to – through Le Bozec, who more than likely got the information through his own sources at the Ministry.’

  Pel was shocked. Despite 1940 and the Occupation, he’d believed in patriotism and the thought Frenchmen could sell their country’s secrets left him shattered.

  ‘It’s quite clear Pissarro wanted Cormon to get hold of Robinson’s latest and best,’ he went on. ‘What easier? Cormon didn’t even need a jemmy. He knew all there was to know about locks. But it happened to be the time when Robinson went to England and he’d taken everything with him. It must have been about then that Cormon got the wind up and guessed that Pissarro was more than just a copier of industrial secrets. He was no hero but he was French and was worried about what was happening and decided to tell the police.’

  Pel paused, lit two fresh cigarettes and handed one to Darcy. ‘But he was also worried about what would happen to him for his part in it,’ he continued, ‘and thought he’d better contact Brigadier Foulot, that cousin of his. Perhaps he thought he might work a deal. He arranged to see Foulot, but Pissarro was suspicious after what had been said and went after him. He went to see him and learned from Cormon’s sister that Cormon was on his way to see Foulot and knew that if he didn’t act fast the game was up. He had to stop him or the lot of them were finished. Probably he picked up Rambot and, fortunately for them, Cormon dawdled, stopping for a brandy or two to give him courage and they caught him up near the hill down to Destres. That’s where Cormon realised he was being followed and they started driving faster and faster, with Pissarro trying to nudge him off the road. It wouldn’t have been hard. Cormon had a small Peugeot. Pissarro drives an old Bentley that’s as heavy as a tank. In the end, either because Pissarro pushed him over or because he lost control, Cormon went over the edge and landed in the fields.’

  ‘Where the car burst into flames.’

  Pel nodded. ‘Pissarro thought that was the end of it, but when they went down to have a look, they were horrified to see Cormon crawl out. Pissarro killed him.’

  Darcy frowned. ‘It’s pure speculation, Patron,’ he warned. ‘We need proof that’ll stand up in court.’

  ‘We’ll get it,’ Pel said grimly. ‘It had to be Pissarro. We’ll find he knows how to administer Doc Minet’s “hunter’s thrust,” I think. He’s gone in for every other kind of sport you can mention – even big game fishing. His office was filled with pictures of him at it – holding everything but a gun. But that doesn’t mean to say he’d never held a gun. And he had that knife of his that he used for pruning roses. He kept it in his pocket.’

  ‘But, Patron,’ Darcy protested again. ‘We’ve no proof. When we picked him up at Boine, he didn’t have the gadget. We didn’t find it anywhere and there was nothing on him even remotely resembling it.’

  ‘No,’ Pel agreed. ‘But he’d had it nevertheless.’

  Despite the weather, Paris was en fête for the arrival of the Tour. Tricolours hung in the rain like wet washing and half the buildings seemed to be plastered with signs. As they turned into the shining periphery road, the crowds were already gathering.

  De Frobinius was waiting at the Quai des Orfèvres looking puzzled.

  ‘Rambot’s watching the finish of the Tour,’ he announced.

  ‘I thought he might be,’ Pel said.

  De Frobinius didn’t argue and they climbed into Darcy’s car and headed for the Champs Elysées, collecting policemen as they went. When they arrived, there was an atmosphere of tremendous excitement and a loud hailer was blatting at the air with instructions to spectators and officials and the placings of the leaders. Publicity vehicles were parked every-where and there were police at every corner. The spectacle was in full swing. The road had been hosed down and brushed, and the two preliminary local races to work up the crowd’s interest had just finished. The news was coming in from St Germaine-en-Laye, Côte de Masnuls, Côte de la Madeleine and other places.

  ‘Van der Essen leads! Then it’s Ruyère and Cecano! Then O’Reilly and Joop Martin! Clam’s nowhere!’

  Heads craned where the crowds huddled for shelter on café terrasses, stumbling over tables which the rain had transformed from something that supported after-lunch drinks to bird baths spotted by water dripping from canvas awnings. As Darcy edged the car forward barriers slowed them down and in the end they left it, shouted to a policeman to keep an eye on it and began to hurry. Pel was ahead of the others and beginning to run. A policeman shouted at him to keep back but he didn’t hear and De Frobinius showed
his pass and waved the policeman aside. Snatching people from his path, Pel plunged on, his feet splashing in the gutters. There were a few protests but he heard none of them.

  ‘Here they come!’ The yell went up and, as the pack flashed past, the first cyclist home could be seen above the heads of the yelling crowd, coasting past with his hands in the air in a boxer’s handclasp of self-congratulation.

  ‘It’s Van der Essen,’ Darcy said.

  ‘To hell with Van der Essen,’ Pel snapped.

  Forcing himself through the crowd, the rain in his eyes, he saw the press and television reporters flood round the winner. Panting still with his effort, the man in second place was also disappearing under a crowd of friends, only slightly less hysterical than the winner’s party. The rest of the pack was coming now and Pel was trying to identify them. Alongside him, a man staring at a rain-wet list of the riders, ticking them off as they passed, was startled as the sheet was snatched from his hand.

  ‘Hé!’ he yelled. He was just about to reach out for it when Darcy grabbed him.

  ‘A minute, my friend,’ he said.

  ‘Who’re you?’

  ‘Police Judiciare.’

  ‘Then arrest that type there! He’s got my programme!’

  ‘Sorry, mon brave. He’s Police Judiciare too!’

  The rain dripping off his hat, Pel was going down the sodden list with his finger.

  ‘Lyeaux, Macorde, Maëlle, Mahon, Martin, Maryckx. Number 197.’ He thrust the programme back at the startled owner and pushed nearer.

  ‘There’s Rambot,’ De Frobinius said, gesturing across the crowd. ‘He’s here!’

  ‘Of course,’ Pel said. ‘He would be.’

  He was reading aloud the numbers of the riders as they swept past. ‘176…18…44…83

  ‘Pissarro’s man seems to be well back,’ Darcy said. ‘If that’s the type you’re looking for.’

  ‘That is the type I’m looking for.’

  ‘Do we arrest Rambot?’ De Frobinius asked.

  ‘Not until I say.’

  ‘…79…62…85…for God’s sake, don’t say the damned man’s fallen!’

  ‘There, Patron!’ Darcy said. ‘One-nine-seven! That’s him. Coming up now. He doesn’t look much like the winner Pissarro thought he was.’

  ‘He doesn’t have to,’ Pel said. ‘All he had to do was finish.’

  Maryckx, his rain-soaked diamond-patterned green vest bearing the words, Pis-Hélio-Tout, the peak of his cap turned up, was slowing down as he passed between the yelling crowd. He appeared to be looking for someone.

  ‘Rambot seems to be one of his supporters,’ Darcy said.

  ‘I’m not surprised,’ Pel said. ‘Stand by.’

  They saw Rambot, covered from head to foot in a grey plastic mackintosh, approach Maryckx as he stopped and began to wipe his brow with a red handkerchief. Rambot shook hands, smiled, slapped Maryckx’s back and began to talk earnestly to him, pointing to the bicycle. As they talked, Maryckx began to fish in one of the pockets of his racing jersey where he stored the food he picked up in musettes at feeding points. As he withdrew his hand, Rambot moved forward.

  ‘Now!’ Pel said, and De Frobinius lunged with Darcy. As they grabbed Rambot, there was an immediate yell from the crowd.

  ‘Get the cyclist!’ Pel said, and policemen moved forward in a wave.

  Resenting the interference with the sacred Tour, the crowd began to push and shout. In the scuffle, Pel was swept off his feet and found himself on the asphalt with his fingers trodden on. As he rose, cursing all athletes and everybody who was interested in athletics, he heard a shot. Immediately, there was a yell of terror from the crowd and, despite the crush, it managed to sweep back like a flood-tide. People fell and were trampled on. Several more shots rang out and a woman alongside Pel, on her knees, her head down between her hands, lifted her face to yell. ‘Assassins! Anarchistes!’ she screamed and tucked her head down out of sight again.

  As Pel scrambled to his feet, he saw that De Frobinius had Rambot, his mackintosh torn, surrounded by policemen and Darcy had Maryckx safely guarded. A wounded gendarme was being helped away.

  ‘In his pocket,’ Pel said. ‘It’s in his pocket!’

  Thrusting his hand into Rambot’s pocket, De Frobinius produced a small black plastic box, roughly eleven centimetres long and five centimetres wide.

  ‘This it?’ he asked.

  ‘That’s it.’

  Maryckx was staring at it. ‘He told me it was a film of the leaders,’ he said. ‘He said it was urgent and had to be handed over to Agence Presse Duval. This type—’ he gestured at Rambot ‘—said he was Agence Presse Duval. It’s nothing to do with me. I was just earning a few extra francs.’

  ‘That’s something we can check on,’ Pel said. ‘Bring him in.’

  Darcy was staring at Pel. ‘Patron,’ he asked. ‘How did you know he had it?’

  ‘He was Pissarro’s man,’ Pel said as the pressmen crowded round. The photo flashes began to dazzle them and a television reporter shoved a microphone in Pel’s face and started yelling questions. ‘Pissarro said he was going to watch him at Boine. But why? If he was as interested in the race as he said he was, why wasn’t he following it by car like everybody else with an interest in it? Why wasn’t he an official, detecting and punishing misdemeanours? Because he had Robinson’s gadget and he handed it over at Boine. In the food satchel. Maryckx dropped the empty one and Pissarro handed him the full one – and that contained the black box. It changed hands just before we arrived. It was the only way to get rid of it when he realised he was being watched. But what a way! He was one of the sponsors of the team and had every right to be at Boine. Nobody would interfere. Nobody’s allowed to interfere. And it was almost as quick as by car. It had to be connected with the Tour. We couldn’t get away from the damned thing. We were tripping over it everywhere we went.’

  Twenty-three

  It was over.

  The congratulations had come in thick and fast. Even from Paris and London. One from De Frobinius and one from Fergusson, both very official, and a third one, much more informal from Inspector Goschen – ‘Well played.’ It puzzled Pel because he’d been playing no game. He’d been in deadly earnest. Indeed, most of life was deadly earnest for Evariste Clovis Désiré Pel and, a modest man, he’d been surprised at the enormous success they’d had. What had started as a mere enquiry by Traffic had blown up to a size that involved the whole nation. It was perhaps not surprising, Pel thought modestly, that the Chief had talked of rewards and promotion. He might, after all, find occasion to put on that suit he kept for meeting the President of the Republic.

  All he really needed to make it complete was someone to share it with.

  There was even a short note from Madame Faivre-Perret but, Pel noticed bitterly, no Madame Faivre-Perret. She hadn’t dropped everything and rushed back full of admiration. She was still in Vitteaux burying her aunt. Surely to God, Pel thought, she ought to have got the old biddy under the sod by this time.

  He drank a little too much brandy in the Chief’s office then went round to the Bar Transvaal with the members of his staff – noticeably leaving out Misset, who still hadn’t managed to claw his way back into favour. Since his way home coincided with Nosjean’s, they ended up together in the Bar du Destin, Pel a little heavy-headed but pleased with himself. In the mood he was in, he felt he could conquer the world.

  ‘Your châteaux robbers, I’m glad to say,’ he said to Nosjean, ‘are also behind bars.’

  Nosjean shrugged. His triumph had gone almost unnoticed in the greater glory of the department and of Evariste Clovis Désiré Pel.

  ‘Not quite,’ he said. ‘All we’ve got are two unknown burglars who were employed to lift the stuff. And they’re not talking.’

  ‘You have the two in Paris.’

  ‘We can’t hold them, Patron.’

  ‘You can always re-arrest them when they’re released. Eventually they’ll be nervous wrecks. Prêt à gr
imper au mur. Ready to climb up the wall. They’ll talk in the end.’

  Nosjean frowned. ‘The one I wanted was the one who’s behind it all. The brains. The expert. Madame de Saint-Bruie insisted there was an expert. Until he’s found, we’ve not finished, and it’ll all start again in a year’s time when everything’s quietened down.’

  Pel paused. ‘Perhaps,’ he said slowly, ‘I ought to go down and see Madame. Convey our thanks. Do you think a lunch ought to do the trick, Nosjean?’

  Nosjean glanced at him, his eyes amused. ‘Perhaps that would be a good idea, Patron,’ he said.

  Pel nodded. A campaign in the direction of Madame de Saint-Bruie, he thought, might stir Madame Faivre-Perret to action. He felt certain she’d get to hear of it. If she didn’t, he could probably drop a few hints. And, if nothing came of that, well, there was always Madame de Saint-Bruie herself. She had shown a considerable interest in him. Not exactly a Madame Faivre-Perret, of course – but she was a woman. Pel felt sure something could be made of her. She also appeared to be wealthy, as Pel was not. Certainly, one thing Pel did not possess was the houseful of priceless treasures of which she liked to boast. All Pel had was an overworked television and the comfort anglais – the deep armchair which was more often than not occupied by Madame Routy. It might be nice, he felt, to live in a house surrounded by priceless treasures.

  ‘I’ll make a point of it at the weekend,’ he said.

  Nosjean smiled. ‘I have to go down there tomorrow,’ he said. ‘You know what it’s like. It takes ten minutes to arrest someone and two hours to fill in all the papers. I didn’t get the chance before, because I was hauled back when Robinson was murdered.’ He thought warmly of Marie-Joséphine Lehmann. ‘It’s my day off and I think I ought to manage one this week. I’ll slip down, take out the girl from the shop for lunch as a reward for her help and inform Madame that you’ll be along at the weekend to see her. Shall I arrange a meal, Patron?’

  ‘You know a good place, mon brave?’

  ‘The Hostellerie D’Artagnan at Coublon-le-Grand’s first rate, Patron. Not expensive either,’ Nosjean added, feeling sure that this would add to its appeal.