by Mark Hebden
‘There are always gangsters,’ he said flatly. ‘If somebody opens a bookmaker’s office and his runners operate on another bookmaker’s area, they end up brawling. That’s gangsterism. If three kids get together to pinch another kid’s ball, that’s gangsterism, too. The world’s full of it and it isn’t getting less.’
He rubbed his nose and fought to resist the impulse to light a cigarette. ‘Doesn’t seem to be much blood on the ground,’ he commented.
The doctor looked up. ‘He wasn’t killed here,’ he said. ‘That’s one thing that’s certain.’
‘Why dump him here then?’
‘Far as possible from the village.’
Pel stared about him. Beyond the path and the small opening where he stood, the forest was thick, and the undergrowth a mat of bushes, twigs and fallen branches.
‘If I wanted to dump someone,’ he said slowly, ‘I wouldn’t choose a spot only a couple of hundred metres from a dwelling house.’ He gestured at the trees. ‘I’d have dumped him in there.’
Two
The photographers had arrived now, with Leguyader, from the Lab, who looked as peeved as Pel about being dragged out at that time of day. He and his men, with the aid of the police, would go over the area looking for anything that might give a clue to the dead man’s identity, why he’d been dumped there, and who had killed him.
The wind had increased and flurries of sleet kept coming to make the snow more slushy. Moving branches showered the waiting men with small wet douches of snow, and they all looked frozen, their noses red against their white faces, their features drawn and strained.
None more than Pel. He’d put on so many clothes he could hardly move his arms, but the cold still crept insidiously through, and standing there, waiting for results, in a wind that was blasting its way across the snowy uplands all the way from the Baltic, was sheer agony.
He watched Leguyader, leaning over the body with him, his teeth clenched against the cold.
‘What sort of gun?’ he asked.
‘Impossible to tell until we find the bullets,’ Leguyader said. ‘Some would go straight through the head after the first shots, but there should be one in there somewhere.’
‘Any idea of size?’
‘Three-eight. Something like that.’
‘There are thousands of those about,’ Darcy said.
‘Including all those carried by the police,’ Leguyader pointed out.
‘Or stolen from the police,’ Pel said. ‘There are two of them at this moment around St Etienne. Anybody could have done it.’
‘Including a policeman,’ Massu said.
‘Why would a policeman shoot him?’ Darcy asked.
‘Perhaps he’d annoyed the policeman,’ Massu said.
While he waited for Leguyader to finish, Pel bent to read the plaque on the plinth of the cross. ‘Fussillés par les Nazis,’ it said. ‘7 Septembre, 1944.’ The date was followed by nine names.
‘What happened to them?’ he asked.
Massu grunted. ‘They’re buried in the churchyard at Orgny. They still talk about it sometimes.’
Pel stared again at the plaque. ‘One’s a woman.’
‘Yes.’
‘Légion d’Honneur, too. Know anything about her?’
Massu’s dark face changed. ‘Only what I’ve heard in Orgny,’ he said. ‘The older men still talk about her.’
‘What was so special about her?’
‘She was brave.’ Massu paused. ‘At least, so I heard. Her man was killed at Sedan or somewhere in 1940, so she joined the Resistance. She became one of the toughest fighters in the area. She killed dozens of the bastards, they say.’
‘Germans?’
‘Who else?’
Pel studied the sergeant. ‘You like this place, don’t you?’
Massu’s shoulders moved. ‘It’s my district. I look after it.’
‘Did your parents come from these parts?’
‘No. From the south. I’ve still got relatives down there, I believe.’ Massu gestured. ‘But I know how people feel.’
Pel stared about him. ‘Come up here often?’
Massu shrugged again. ‘Just to see Piot or Grévy, the garde. That’s all. There was a bit of fuss with their neighbour, Laco Matajcek, at Vaucheretard. That’s the next farm to the west. He’s a Czech. He came before the war and married a French girl. The farm was derelict and people tried to help him, but he’s a bit of a shyster and it’s still derelict. He’s got no friends. He tried to pinch land from this estate in the days of Monsieur Heurion and I had to come up to ask a few questions and serve notices. The action’s still going on.’
‘Know anything about this garde who found the body?’
‘Grévy?’ Massu’s heavy shoulders moved. ‘He’s been around a long time.’
‘How about the owner of the place, Piot?’
‘Bit of a mystery man.’ Massu shrugged. ‘Keeps to himself. Moved out here permanently last year. Up to then he spent most of his time in Dôle where his works are.’
‘Why isn’t he married?’
Masau grinned. ‘Perhaps he can get it without.’
‘Does he have girlfriends?’
‘If he does, I’ve never heard of them.’
‘Boyfriends?’
‘Never heard of any. He seems normal enough. Shoots. Drives fast cars. Went around with his secretary a lot.’
‘This secretary: what’s her name?’
‘Jacquemin. Marie-Claire Jacquemin.’
‘Married?’
‘No.’ Massu’s grin came again. ‘So it’s not her husband we found, and Piot didn’t do it to get rid of him.’
Pel frowned. ‘What’s her address?’
‘Somewhere in Dôle. You could get it from the factory. He still owns it, but he leaves it now to a manager. She still works there. She’s quite important. He made her a director, I’m told. Partly to make sure the place’s run honestly.’ Massu’s wide mouth lifted again. ‘Partly, perhaps, for services rendered.’
‘You’d better find out about her, Darcy.’
‘Right, Patron.’
‘And now let’s go and see the garde.’
Bussy-la-Fontaine had been converted from a farmhouse and was built in local stone, with wine-coloured beams and ochre plaster. Heavy tiles covered the roof which was overhung by huge oaks almost bare of leaves. On either side were the remains of old walls, tufted with withered grass. At the end of one of them was a group of outbuildings and barns which had been converted into garages, and, separate, just beyond the end of the other was the cottage of the garde, with a wired-off area for chickens and a small fenced patch where an Alsatian guard dog stared angrily at them. The area between the walls had been sanded and converted into a courtyard, and what had once been a horse trough contained earth and the withered remains of the summer’s geraniums.
The garde’s cottage was over-decorated with calendars and pictures and coloured mirrors, and there was a big television in the corner. As Pel appeared the garde stood up. He was in his middle fifties and dwarfed even Massu. But this was chiefly because he was tall where Massu was not, and he had a belly like a wash tub and enormous thick-fingered hands. A woman stood behind him, a little younger but still good-looking, fully-dressed like the big man and wearing an overcoat.
‘Albert Grévy,’ the big man said. ‘I’m the garde. This is my wife, Françoise.’
He reached for a bottle and placed it on the table. ‘Marc,’ he said.
Pel eyed it dubiously. So far, with one he’d had in the car with Darcy on the way up this made three since he’d got up and he hadn’t eaten a thing yet. By evening he’d be in agonies with indigestion. He wished he were a superintendent, or even the Commissaire, or better still, retired.
‘Santé,’ he said, and sank the marc.
As Grévy swallowed his own drink, his wife, standing near the gas cooker, shifted on her feet.
‘You’ve been told by the doctor to get weight off,’ she said. ‘Th
at’ll not do it.’
Grévy gestured. It was an indifferent gesture, a dismissive gesture, as if he’d never taken any notice of her and never would.
Pel looked at him. ‘I believe you found the body,’ he said.
The garde nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘About four o’clock.’
‘Know him?’
‘No.’
Pel paused and forced himself to resist the temptation of lighting a cigarette. Instead he took out the little roller device and pushed tobacco into it to produce a bent-looking cigarette of infinite thinness and not too sturdy a character. As he lit it, it gave off the usual shower of sparks and a puff of smoke, and vanished in one drag.
Grévy pushed a packet of Gauloises across the table. ‘Better have one of these,’ he said.
Pel stared at him resentfully. ‘I’m trying to cut it out,’ he said. But he took one, nevertheless, and inhaled it thankfully.
He moved to the fireplace and stood with his back to the blaze, warming his behind, aware that he was keeping the heat from everybody else but cold enough not to care.
‘Was he found at the calvary?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’ Grévy poured more drinks.
‘And the body? Propped up? Lying down?’
‘Just lying there. On its back.’
‘Notice any footprints?’ Darcy asked.
‘No. Just fresh snow.’
‘Do you allow people to visit the calvary?’ Pel asked.
‘Yes,’ Grévy said. ‘You can drive there from the village.’ He moved his big hands in a gesture. ‘Nobody ever goes there these days.’
Pel looked up at him. With his black eyes and narrow face, and his flat forehead with its plastered-down hair, he looked like a cobra.
‘Then what were you doing there?’ he asked. ‘At four o’clock in the morning.’
For a moment the garde’s big face was blank, then he began to bluster.
‘There’s been some chicken stealing going on round here lately,’ he said. ‘The dog started barking and I went out to make sure they were all right.’
‘Where do you keep the chickens?’
‘Back of the house.’
‘So why go down to the calvary?’
The garde gestured. ‘I thought I saw a light among the trees.’
‘What was it?’
The garde gestured again. ‘I’m not sure now that there was one,’ he said. ‘I just saw a flash of light. But there was still a bit of moon and it could have been shining on the snow or on a puddle between the trees. I was thinking of the chickens.’
‘And you went to investigate and found the body?’
‘Yes.’
‘No sign of tracks?’
‘No. The snow had fallen.’
‘Whoever put him there,’ Massu observed, ‘must have been a strong man.’ His glance flickered to the bulk of the garde.
‘Could he have been driven there?’
‘There were no tyre marks.’
‘There wouldn’t be,’ Darcy said. ‘It’s been freezing for days. The ground under the snow would be too hard to show anything.’
Pel stood silently, toying with his pencil. ‘Go near the calvary the previous day at all?’ he asked.
Grévy frowned. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I was working on the tractor most of the morning in the garage. In the afternoon I went down to Orgny to get spare parts.’
Pel frowned. ‘Any strangers about here lately?’ he asked.
‘No.’
‘Nobody who might have been this chap we found?’
‘We don’t often get people up here,’ Grévy said. ‘Though they’re allowed to visit the shrine, they’re not allowed to wander in the woods. There are a lot of young trees about and they could damage them. When they’re fully grown we sell them to timber merchants. They bring in their own workmen to cut them down. They’re usually Czechs.’
‘Czechs?’ Pel looked up. ‘This guy, Matajcek, next door’s a Czech, isn’t he?’
‘Yes. He worked on the woodcutting at one time. That’s how he spotted the land next door.’
‘Look into him, Darcy,’ Pel said. ‘Who do you use for this wood-cutting?’
‘Sordet Brothers from Chatillon.’
‘Any other firms who use Czechs?’
‘Only Jacques Peyroutin, from Langres.’
‘Look them up, Darcy.’ Pel looked again at the garde. ‘How about you? How did you come to work up here?’
Grévy shrugged his big shoulders. ‘I worked in a factory in Chaumont but I was never well. They told me I needed fresh air. Here I’m always out of doors. I’m my own boss. Or more or less. Monsieur Piot’s easy to work for.’
‘He’s not been at it long, has he? Does he understand it?’
Grévy smiled for the first time, but it was curiously mirthless. ‘He does his farming with a digger,’ he said.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, he’s not like Monsieur Heurion. Monsieur Heurion knew the game inside-out.’ Grévy’s sombre face melted into another smile. ‘This one seems to prefer reshaping the place to replanting it. He’s dug a dam, changed the roads in three places, and removed about four banks. I think he just likes to drive the digger.’
‘Did he ever have any strange visitors?’
The garde looked puzzled and Pel tried to explain. ‘Did anyone ever visit him who didn’t seem to fit?’
Grévy still didn’t grasp what he was getting at and Pel lost his temper. ‘If you saw one of the Baader-Meinhoff Gang or the Red Brigade visiting the Archbishop of Paris,’ he snapped, ‘that would be strange, wouldn’t it? Ever see anybody like that here?’
‘Baader-Meinhoff?’
Pel glared.
Grévy shrugged. ‘Well, the Archbishop of Paris never visited here.’
Pel decided to let it go. Either Grévy was more stupid than he looked or he was being clever.
‘Contact the Chief, the Palais de Justice and the Proc,’ he said quietly to Darcy. ‘Let them know what’s happening. Go down to Orgny and use Massu’s telephone. I’ll go and see Piot.’
The courtyard was wet and the sand that stuck to Pel’s shoes was tramped into the kitchen of the main residence. Piot was waiting for him, a small rugged-looking man with a fresh outdoor complexion, broad shoulders, a good-natured expression and a clear air of being in charge of himself. He was wearing city clothes.
He was fishing in a cupboard and as Pel appeared he straightened up with a bottle in his fist.
‘I was just about to leave for Paris,’ he said. ‘I’m Piot. It’s cold out there, Inspector, so perhaps you’d welcome a glass of something warm. The spirit we distil here could be used in a blow torch.’
He sloshed plum brandy into glasses and they drank. Pel felt it moving down into his stomach and spreading out fanwise into all the little roots and branches of his system. It was going to be a terrible day, he knew, with missed meals, and too much to drink in an effort to keep warm.
Piot had stirred up a fire of logs on a high, raised hearth and it was blazing enough to make the place warm, though there were still murderous draughts howling round the place.
Pel sat down at the table. ‘I’ve just been talking to the garde,’ he said.
Piot’s face twisted in a small smile. ‘About me, I expect,’ he said. ‘And now it’s my turn to talk about him.’
Pel shrugged. ‘It’s the only way we can find out about people.’
‘What do you want to know?’
‘Well, for a start, what do you do here?’
‘I try to improve the place. It was a mess when I took it over.’
‘A mess? Grévy says that the previous owner, Heurion, was pretty good.’
‘Well, I suppose he was.’ Piot smiled. ‘But he was old-fashioned. He was seventy-six when he died.’
‘What do you do?’
‘Drainage. I concentrate on drainage. It’s a big thing these days. A lot of land’s been reclaimed by drainage.’
‘Here?’
‘Not yet. But it will be. Some of the bottom lands are wet. Then there are roads. They have to be maintained so machinery can move about. And dams. I’ve built one already. I’ve got a digger. A Poclain.’
‘Go near the calvary yesterday at all?’
Piot smiled. ‘Not likely. It was too cold. I helped Grévy with the tractor in the morning. In the afternoon, I was here at the kitchen table working. Reports. That sort of thing. Anything else?’
‘Yes. Your girlfriend. The one who was your secretary.’
Piot laughed. ‘That’s all over. She’s happy. I’m happy. We agreed to part. I made her a good present and she’s never bothered me since.’
‘What do you know of Grévy?’
‘He came with the place. He’d had chest trouble. Asthma. Something like that. I can’t remember exactly. He’d been working at Chaumont and been advised to get an outdoor job.’
‘Is he honest?’
Piot smiled. ‘Perhaps he sells logs to his friends. Perhaps he drinks my wine. Perhaps he eats the eggs from the chickens whose feed I pay for. In fact, I’m sure he does. But those are normal perks, aren’t they, in the same way that the clerks in my works at Dôle take home my office paper to write their private letters on, then send them off stamped by the office franking machine. Everybody has perks of some sort.’
‘Is that all?’
‘All I can guess at.’
‘He says he was out there at four o’clock when he found the body. That’s pretty early.’
‘Not for Grévy.’
‘Does he usually go out at that time?’
‘Invariably. Then, just to prove he’s out and about, he starts the tractor and leaves it running by the gate so it’ll wake me up and I’ll know he’s on the ball.’
‘Is he good at his job?’
‘He does all I ask.’
‘Sober?’
Piot smiled again. ‘Not always. He likes to drive down to Orgny at lunch time and in the evenings. His wife goes on at him about it. I hear them from here sometimes. He wrote off a new car he bought coming home in the summer. He walked the rest of the way and by the time Sergeant Massu arrived he was stone cold sober and full of black coffee. They breath-tested him, of course, but by that time what he hadn’t got rid of had dispersed.’