by Mark Hebden
Bique à Poux answered nervously. He had been on the Heutelet place, he said. They had never minded. Sometimes he had helped them out. He had been there a long time and before that at Bussy-la-Fontaine, moving on to Vaucheretard when Heurion had died, because the rabbits had moved. Matajcek had never seen him.
‘He didn’t go far from the house,’ he said. ‘He was always busy there.’
‘Doing what?’
‘Not cleaning it, that’s a fact,’ Massu said.
The questioning went on for half an hour but Bique à Poux wasn’t much help and Pel turned eventually to Massu. ‘Get hold of Nosjean,’ he said.
Nosjean looked better after a beer and sandwich at the bar down the road. It obviously pleased the old man to see him because he beamed and stood up at once, clutching his ragged jacket to him with his dirty gloved paws.
‘Seems to have taken a fancy to you, Nosjean,’ Pel said.
‘All the waifs and strays fall for me, Patron.’
‘Take him down to the police canteen in the city and get him a decent meal. He looks as if he needs one. Then take him back to where you found him. No favours though – we don’t want it to come back at us. Take your time,’ he added quietly. ‘Try to get him to talk on the way. He might say something. Try to find out how much he prowls round the woods. Where he goes. Who he sees. It’s my guess he sees a lot more than he’s seen himself. I’ll get Lagé out to Matajcek’s place. Misset’s already busy and Krauss’ too slow. He’s best answering the telephone.’
‘That used to be my job,’ Nosjean said, cheered a little.
Pel lifted an eyebrow. ‘Krauss’ brain’s not what you’d call a precision instrument,’ he agreed. ‘Get going.’
Nosjean hesitated. If he didn’t get some time off his love life was ruined. He cleared his throat nervously. ‘I’ve been two nights on, Patron. And two days.’
Pel stared at him. ‘So have I.’
‘I’m due for an evening off.’
‘So am I. A lot of them. But you can’t have it. I promised Misset. His wife’s having a baby.’
‘She’s always having a baby!’ Nosjean looked indignant. ‘She has a baby every time he takes his trousers down.’
Pel was unmoved. ‘Some women are quicker at it than others,’ he said.
While they’d been interviewing Bique à Poux, Sergeant Darcy had gone to Dôle to talk to Piot’s secretary. Suspecting she might not see him if he asked for an appointment, instead he simply climbed into his car and headed south-east towards the Jura.
Dôle looked dreary in the rain, the Spanish renaissance houses wearing a crumbled look about them in the grey light, their façades streaming with water. Piot’s factory was on the east of the town, a modern building, with tractors standing outside, and as Darcy marched in through the front door of the office wing he immediately saw a notice saying ‘Marie-Claire Jacquemin’. The girl sitting at the desk in a small room with an open door alongside looked up. She was remarkably pretty even if on the hefty side. She had good legs and a jacked-up bust that wobbled as she moved, and Darcy lingered a long time over her desk, enjoying the view down the top of her dress as he stated his business.
‘Mademoiselle Marie-Claire’s busy just now,’ he was told.
‘Not too busy to see the police.’
Darcy’s identification card and badge produced a change of attitude at once, and the girl became helpful immediately.
A few minutes later he was being shown into a large empty office.
‘Thanks,’ he said to the girl. ‘If you’re ever run over, just mention my name: Daniel Darcy.’
She smiled. ‘My name’s Danielle. Danielle Delaporte.’
Darcy put on his best smile and she stared at him like a rabbit mesmerised by a stoat.
‘That’s far too big a coincidence to be ignored,’ he said.
Marie-Claire Jacquemin’s office was well furnished. On the wall, mounted on plywood was a map, and idly Darcy crossed to it. He was surprised to find it was a map of Bussy-la-Fontaine with every field and road named. Here and there it was marked by crosses. It was clearly a xeroxed copy and it puzzled him.
While he was studying it, Marie-Claire Jacquemin entered. She was a slim woman in her early thirties, with a pale face, green eyes like a cat, wide hips and endless legs that made Darcy catch his breath.
‘Just looking at your map,’ he said. ‘That’s Bussy-la-Fontaine, isn’t it?’
‘Yes.’ She had a brisk manner and offered him a chair and a drink, both of which he accepted with alacrity. Darcy was a great one for grabbing opportunities, and this, he felt, was an opportunity in the making.
‘I thought you might be coming to see me,’ she said. ‘I’d heard about the murder at Bussy-la-Fontaine.’
‘How?’
‘From Monsieur Piot.’
‘Why should he ring you about a murder on his land?’
She smiled. ‘He didn’t. He rings regularly about the factory. That’s when he told me. In passing, you might say.’
Darcy gestured at the room with the glass of pernod she’d given him. ‘Splendid place you’ve got,’ he said. ‘For the boss’ secretary.’
She smiled at him, unmoved. ‘I’m no longer the boss’ secretary,’ she pointed out. ‘I’m the boss.’
Darcy was nonplussed. ‘You mean it’s your factory?’
She gestured. ‘Not quite. But Monsieur Piot passed over the management to me.’
Darcy eyed her. ‘Why did he do that?’
‘Because I’d worked with him for twelve years or more and I knew the job inside out. He asked me if I could do it and I said I could. So that was that.’
‘Quite a jump.’
‘He’s a believer in liberated women.’
‘What does he get out of it?’
‘Profits and a well-run factory, to say nothing of a total absence of worry. The place hums. He draws his dividends. I do the worrying.’
‘It’s still a big thing to do.’
She eyed him, her smile dying. ‘What are you getting at?’
‘I wondered why.’
‘You wondered if I’d been in his bed a few times, is that it? And this is my reward?’
Darcy gestured, making a moué with his mouth. To his surprise, she was quite unoffended.
‘Well,’ she said. ‘You’d be right. I was and it is.’
She had been bought off, she admitted, but though she had been in love at first, after a while it had been merely convenient and she’d done well out of it. When Piot had wanted to terminate the affaire she had agreed, but only after making a few qualifications. When the unions had objected to her new position, she had sorted the matter out.
‘One or two lost their jobs,’ she said coolly.
‘It’s surprising there wasn’t a strike.’
‘Not the way I fixed it.’
‘You good at fixing?’
‘Not bad.’
‘Why did your affaire with Piot finish? Was there another woman?’
Her smile came back. ‘I never saw her, but I assumed there was.’
‘Why?’
‘He just lost interest.’
‘I wouldn’t,’ Darcy said pointedly. ‘Ever go out to Bussy-la-Fontaine?’
She smiled again. ‘He always takes them out to Bussy.’
‘Does he now? Was there anyone before you?’
‘One or two. They didn’t last long. Perhaps they weren’t as good as I am.’
Darcy smiled. He was rapidly becoming aware that his questions were going to be a waste of time. Despite her looks, Marie-Claire Jacquemin was a hard-headed woman and not in the least sentimental.
‘Are you good?’ he asked.
She answered him frankly. ‘He often told me so.’
Darcy gestured at the map on the wall.
‘Why?’ he said.
‘Why what?’
‘Why do you have that up there?’
She shrugged. ‘I was always interested in Bussy. I think of it
with affection still. I had some good times there.’
Darcy looked thoughtfully at the map. ‘Why isn’t it framed?’ he asked.
She smiled. ‘It’s not worth framing.’
Darcy smiled, too. ‘People who keep pictures – or maps – of places for which they’ve got a lot of affection usually do frame them. And they don’t hang them in their offices.’
‘I’m not sentimental. I just liked the place.’
‘In fact,’ Darcy went on, ‘that looks exactly like the sort of thing I’ve seen in contractors’ on-site offices. Builders use them. Land speculators use them. Just like that. Mounted on a piece of board and hung on the wall in their offices, nice and handy so they can look at it a lot. Is that what you do?’
‘Always.’
He knew she was lying. ‘What do the crosses mean?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know.’
Darcy looked again at the map. ‘That’s a photostat,’ he said. ‘What happened to the original?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Would Piot have it?’
‘I wouldn’t know that either.’
She was being frankly unhelpful now and Darcy changed direction. ‘This arrangement you entered into with Piot,’ he said. ‘The management here in return for backing off. Bit cold-blooded wasn’t it?’
‘No. He knew me. He knew I’d stick to my share of the bargain and I have. And so has he.’
Darcy paused. ‘Do you do that sort of thing often?’ he asked.
‘No. I never did it before and I’ve never done it since.’
‘What about other men?’
She eyed him. Darcy was a good-looking man, broad-shouldered, young, virile, with flashing eyes, large white teeth and a strong chin and curling mouth.
‘There haven’t been any other men,’ she said. Then she paused and smiled, friendly again. ‘Not yet!’ she ended.
To Darcy it was as good as a green light, and Darcy was good at recognising green lights. It wasn’t often he made a mistake.
He left Dôle, whistling cheerfully as he drove. His route back didn’t carry him anywhere near Bussy-la-Fontaine but, glancing at his watch, he decided he had plenty of time and he was never one to miss a chance to advance his career.
It was late afternoon as he neared Piot’s estate, and as he approached he saw Grévy, the garde, pass him in a small blue Renault heading towards Orgny. Off on his evening visit to the bar, no doubt.
A little further along the road, tucked in the trees, was a small Diane with a man sitting behind the wheel smoking. Suspicious, Darcy drove past the end of the drive to Bussy-la-Fontaine, turned the corner at the crossroads, waited for a while, then swung round and drove back. The car had gone.
He grinned and parked his car in the trees near the end of the drive. Two hours later the little Diane returned and, as it did so, Darcy started his car and pulled out abruptly to stop in front of it, blocking the drive. The man behind the wheel of the Diane was startled and scared-looking. He was smart-moustached, middle-aged and portly, and he was also no hero and seemed to expect Darcy to drag him out of his seat and beat him up.
‘Who’re you?’ Darcy snapped. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Tisserand.’ The word was blurted out. ‘Lionel Tisserand.’
‘Where from?’
‘Lyon.’
‘What are you doing here?’
‘I’m a farm salesman. Pumps. That sort of thing. I come often. It’s on my round. I sell things. You can ask.’
‘Do you usually come at this time of the day?’
Tisserand’s eyes flickered. ‘Well-no.’
‘Monsieur Piot know you’ve been?’
‘He wasn’t there.’
‘Albert Grévy then?’
‘Well – no. He was out. Are you from Grévy?’
‘What if I am?’
‘We did nothing.’
‘Who did nothing?’
‘Me and Françoise.’
Darcy grinned. ‘But you’d like to, wouldn’t you?’ he said. ‘Do you often come when Grévy’s out?’
‘No. Just once or twice.’
‘What do you and Madame Grévy do? Talk?’
‘Well, no.’
‘Hold hands?’
‘No. Look, nothing’s happened.’
‘Not yet.’ Darcy smiled. ‘But it will soon if it goes on much longer, won’t it? Let’s have your full address. Give me your papers.’
‘Why?’ There was a faint spark of defiance. ‘Who’re you?’
Darcy flashed his badge. ‘Police.’
Tisserand looked worried and the defiance collapsed. ‘Look, you won’t mention this to Grévy, will you. There’s no need. There’s nothing in it.’
Darcy ignored him, took the number of his car, his name and address, and sent him on his way. Watching him drive away, he decided that Françoise Grévy must often be lonely.
The woods looked dark under the low clouds as he drove down the winding drive. The snow had gone and his wheels threw up waves of water as he splashed through the puddles. There was no one at the house so he called at the garde’s cottage. Madame Grévy answered the door. She looked pink and flustered.
‘Monsieur Piot went to Paris,’ she said immediately. ‘He decided it was all right. Nobody told him he shouldn’t.’
Darcy went along with her for a while. ‘Do you have his address?’ he asked.
‘Of course. It’s in the Sixth Arrondissement. 9, Rue Charles Pegny.’
‘Does he often go to Paris?’
‘Fairly regularly. He’s doing a forestry course there. He hopes to take over when my husband retires.’ She frowned. ‘And not too soon either, for me. It’ll be nice to live in a street again and have neighbours. You never see anybody from month end to month end up here – especially in the winter when my husband’s out.’
‘Nobody?’
‘No.’
‘Where’s your husband now?’
‘Orgny.’
‘When’s Monsieur Piot due back?’
‘I don’t know. He’ll telephone to us to get the food in when he’s coming. We have a cellar here. And stocks. When he comes I do the cooking for him.’
‘I see. Does he always come alone?’
She gave him an old-fashioned look. ‘It’s none of my business.’
‘It had better be.’ Darcy smiled. ‘I’ve just met Monsieur Tisserand down the lane.’
She gave him a scared look. ‘There’s nothing going on between us.’
Darcy beamed at her. ‘But things are heading that way, aren’t they?’
She looked at him sullenly. ‘You’d be lonely if you were up here all the time. What do you want to know?’
‘Does Piot always come here alone?’
She sniffed. ‘Would you? If you had all that money?’
‘Ever made a pass at you?’
‘No. More’s the pity.’
‘Do you know who it is he brings?’
‘It’s always the same one. He told me she’s his cousin.’
‘And is she?’
‘Cousins don’t normally share the same bed, do they?’
‘Some do. Did she?’
‘I make the beds. And why not? He’s a bachelor. He’s entitled to what he can get.’
She had no idea of the woman’s name but she’d heard Piot call her ‘Nadine’. She hadn’t even ever seen her properly because she always arrived wearing dark glasses and a large hat or, if it were wet, holding an umbrella. She hadn’t even seen her at mealtimes because it was her job only to put the meal in the oven in the kitchen so they could serve themselves, and when she had taken it in Piot always locked the door as she left. She washed up the following morning, while the woman was still in bed.
‘You’re sure she’s not a cousin?’
‘If she is, why does he keep her so well hidden? We never get to see her.’
‘Never?’
Madame Grévy’s face changed. ‘I have a photograph,’ she said.
Madame Grévy’s look was cold. ‘I found it down the back of a chair once after they’d gone.’
‘Can I see it?’
She disappeared to the back of the room and rummaged in a drawer. The photograph had been taken in the summer with the sun shining and the leaves on the trees. Standing in the front doorway of the house was a woman, beautiful, well-dressed with an elegance that suggested wealth and more sophistication than Orgny could provide. This was Paris, Marseilles or the Côte d’Azur.
‘Nice hair-do,’ Darcy commented. ‘Pity you don’t know more about her.’
She gave him a sharp look. ‘I do know more,’ she said.
The woman came from Dijon. She knew this from the labels on her coats which, when they weren’t bought in Paris, had been bought there. Her car also had a Dijon number.
‘Which you failed to notice, of course?’
She gave him a haughty look. ‘I’m not a policeman. But I noticed it was one of the new Renaults. A big one. Not like the one my husband crashed coming home drunk from Orgny.’
‘Was he drunk?’
‘Of course he was.’
‘Is he often drunk?’
She frowned. ‘Often enough to be a nuisance,’ she said. ‘He’s lonely, too. That’s why he goes to the bar. He’d be better retired and living in a street in Chatillon with the bar in the square at the end. Then at least I’d be able to go and get him if I wanted to.’
Six
Pel went home wearily that night. It had been a bad day. For Pel most days were bad days, but some were worse than others. The spade Nosjean had brought in had no fingerprints on it except Matajcek’s, there had been a confrontation with Brisard who had seemed determined to bring Pel to heel, and finally an interview with the Chief.
‘I can’t do my work with him breathing down my neck,’ Pel complained. ‘My men couldn’t work with me breathing down their neck, and I can’t with him.’
The Chief was a big, cheerful man who spent a lot of his time sorting out the quarrels between the volatile members of his staff, and he remained unmoved.
‘You’ve been handling people like Brisard long enough now,’ he said, ‘to brush him off without even turning a hair.’
Pel frowned. There were some arguments, he felt, that couldn’t be settled by discussion or even by being taken to law. The answer was a duel, otherwise they’d go on rubbing each other up the wrong way for the rest of their lives. A duel, he thought, had the finality of a full stop, and he’d enjoy shooting Brisard.