by Mark Hebden
‘Pity it isn’t like television,’ Pel said sourly, thinking of Madame Routy. ‘I’ve noticed that, there, there’s always an initial on the hairbrush, or an address somewhere.’
‘Well, Patron,’ Darcy pointed out. ‘The suit was made in Düsseldorf. It’s on the label.’
‘And the underclothing in Belgium,’ Pel said.
‘With a tie here bought in Paris,’ Leguyader added. ‘Of course,’ he went on, ‘there are the cigars. You get the smell of stale cigar smoke as soon as you open the case.’
‘I have a nose,’ Pel said.
‘Give me a little time,’ Leguyader offered, ‘and I’ll tell you exactly what he smoked and where they came from. We have charts and microscope slides of every leaf under the sun.’ He fished in the pocket of a grey jacket and came out with a few fragments of dry tobacco leaf in his fingers.
‘You can always find this sort of thing in a smoker’s pocket somewhere,’ he said. ‘I expect you’ve got Régie Française tobacco in yours. You smoke Gauloises.’
‘No, I don’t,’ Pel said quickly.
‘He’s gone in for hand-rolled,’ Darcy explained.
Leguyader sniffed. ‘Expensive,’ he said.
‘Not that kind of hand-rolled. He rolls them.’
Leguyader gave Pel an amused look and Pel gave a bleat of explanation, as if he’d been found guilty of fraud.
‘Having to roll them makes you cut down the number,’ he said. ‘Unless you end up with frayed nerves, which make you smoke twice as many,’ Darcy pointed out. ‘Mind, you get strong fingers.’
‘Never mind my fingers,’ Pel snapped. ‘Get busy on that car! Get a description of it out. Ask if anybody’s been left with one they don’t know the owner of. And try in Alsace and Lorraine. They’re near the German border and they smoke a lot of cigars up there.’
When they returned to the office, Nosjean was there. He looked agitated.
‘What’s got you?’ Pel said.
‘They sent him to the hospital,’ Nosjean said.
‘Who?’
‘The old man. Bique à Poux.’
‘Why?’
‘Doc Minet was in the canteen, doing his yearly examination of the kitchen. He insisted on having a look at him. I’d stayed with him all the time, Patron, as you said, but Minet took me to one side and said he’d like to examine him.’
‘Why?’
‘He was still a bit breathless and Minet said his heartbeat was irregular – “filibrating” was the word he used, I think. He was also pale and sweating and Minet said that in a man of his age something must have triggered it off. He thought it might have been –’ Darcy glanced at his notebook – ‘a silent coronary.’
‘What’s that?’
‘I don’t know, Patron.’ Nosjean gestured. ‘But Minet got him in one of the cells and had a look at him. When he came out he said he ought to go into hospital for observation. Judge Brisard was waiting to join him for lunch and they went into a huddle and the judge agreed. You know what the judge’s like: Strong on charity and welfare and love-one-another.’
Pel nodded. He knew only too well.
Nosjean seemed worried. ‘They were going to give him a bath and put him to bed when I left. It’ll kill the poor old devil. If they remove all that dirt, it’ll be like taking away an overcoat.’
Pel grunted. ‘What’s his real name? Established that yet?’
He hadn’t expected that Nosjean would have, but he startled Pel.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘The hospital found his papers in his clothes. It’s Alois Eichthal.’
‘German?’
‘No. Comes originally from Riquewihr, Alsace.’
‘Checked him?’
‘Yes. There’s a family still living there. Several, in fact. I rang three of them. He’s related to them all. He was a clerk but his parents died and he disappeared. They haven’t seen him for years. I told them he was in hospital here but they weren’t having any. He gave them up and now they’re giving him up.’
Nosjean looked troubled and Pel patted his shoulder. ‘Perhaps he’s better in hospital,’ he consoled. ‘At least he’ll be looked after and live longer to enjoy his woods. Keep an eye on him, mon brave. Try to make him talk. We might need him yet and at least we’ll know where he is.’
Seven
Darcy had thought he’d been shown the green light by Marie-Claire Jacquemin but to his surprise he found he couldn’t make any headway with her. He’d always believed he could read the come-on signs from a woman like an Indian tracker and she’d appeared to be offering him to have him join her – after a few formalities such as dinner and drinks – in her bed. But, though he’d followed up the invitation like a pig after truffles, he’d got nowhere. She’d put him off again and again, her excuses always feeble, and it had dawned on him eventually that as far as he was concerned she was nothing more than an allumeuse – a cock teaser – and that, more than likely, despite what she said, she was still carrying a torch for Piot.
It puzzled him, and he went over to Dôle again to try his charm on her secretary, Danielle Delaporte. After all, he thought, she could make a good substitute.
Danielle Delaporte was more than willing to join him for dinner and he met her in the town centre. The hotel she suggested wasn’t much but, since Darcy was short on funds and pay day was a long way away, it was perhaps just as well.
In fact, the meal turned out to be better than Darcy had expected and, with her floating in a euphoria caused by a bottle of Côte de Beaune Villages and the sparkle in Darcy’s eyes, he steered the conversation round to Marie-Claire Jacquemin.
‘Does she still see Piot?’ he asked.
She seemed surprised that he should bother to ask.
‘But of course,’ she said.
‘I thought there was another woman he was keen on.’
She shrugged. ‘She doesn’t mean a thing, whoever she is.’
‘Then they’re still close?’
‘Of course.’
Darcy pulled a face. No wonder he couldn’t get to first base. He remembered the map of Bussy-la-Fontaine hanging in Marie-Claire Jacquemin’s office. Under the circumstances it made sense.
‘Does she still go to his place at Bussy?’ he asked.
Danielle smiled. ‘I would think these days he’s more likely to come to her place in Dôle.’
‘Why?’
‘More comfortable. She built it last year.’
‘Have you seen her with him there?’
‘No. But I’ve heard her on the telephone making arrangements. I wasn’t listening, you understand, but it seemed to be Monsieur Piot she was talking to.’
Darcy was careful not to push his questions too far. After all, his interest that evening was supposed to be in Danielle Delaporte, not Marie-Claire Jacquemin. So he rubbed his foot against hers under the table and held her hand from time to time.
It was bitterly cold outside and, as she hoisted on her heavy coat, she clutched at her bosom and he saw her face go pink.
‘I’ve broken a strap,’ she said.
As she disappeared to sort things out, Darcy waited in the hall. While he was there, Tisserand, the man he’d seen waiting in the car at Bussy-la-Fontaine, came through the swing door. He looked a little careworn and had a black eye.
‘Hello,’ Darcy said. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘On my rounds.’ Tisserand looked wary and ready to bolt. ‘I’m staying here. I cover Chatillon, Vesoul, Dôle and Dijon.’
‘What happened to the eye?’
‘I had a bit of trouble.’
‘With Grévy?’
‘Yes. He bumped into me in Savoie St Juste. Did you put him on to me?’
Darcy laughed. ‘Not likely. But he’s no mug. He probably found out. Perhaps his wife told him.’
Tisserand looked shocked. ‘She wouldn’t do that.’
‘She might,’ Darcy said. ‘Women are terrible with the drama. She probably threatened to leave him or told him you were
better in bed than he is.’
Tisserand looked indignant. ‘I was never in bed with her!’
Darcy shrugged. ‘That wouldn’t stop her saying you were, if she wanted to get at him.’
Danielle Delaporte reappeared, her bosom jacked up once more and Darcy steered her back to the apartment she shared with another girl.
‘She’s gone to see her mother,’ she pointed out helpfully as she poured him a drink.
‘Thoughtful of her,’ he commented.
He put his arm round her and kissed her. As his fingers went to the back of her dress, she pushed him away.
‘Don’t rush it,’ she said.
Darcy grinned. ‘With more skill I’d have had it off before you noticed. They should teach you to undo dresses at school.’
She giggled. ‘I’m not just a pushover.’
Darcy smiled. ‘Of course not,’ he agreed. ‘But there’s nothing so happy as a young, full-blooded girl suddenly introduced to the pleasures of the bed. You’ll be so excited when you get revved up you’ll hardly notice.’
Because Darcy was an expert, she didn’t notice, and as they got their breath back he subtly steered the conversation to Marie-Claire Jacquemin again.
‘That map in the office,’ he said. ‘Know why she has it there!’
‘No.’
‘What do the crosses mean?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Does she put them on?’
‘No, they were on when I first saw it.’
‘When was that?’
‘When she first took me on. Three years ago. She’d just taken over the office from Piot.’
‘And the crosses?’
‘She ticks them off.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know. I notice she ticks one off about every few months or so.’ She stopped nibbling his ear and lifted her head to look at him. ‘Did we come here to discuss her?’ she asked. ‘Or me?’
Leguyader was as good as his word, and he rang Pel the following morning soon after he arrived at the office.
‘Handelsgold,’ he said. ‘A common cigar made in Germany and sold abroad – not too cheap, but not too expensive either.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Clothes a mixture. Some French. Some Belgian. Some German. You’re looking for a Frenchman who travels in Germany and Belgium.’
‘Or a German who travels in Belgium and France.’
Pel replaced the receiver and stared at the day outside. It was raining again, the water streaming down the window pane. Gloomily he rang for Darcy.
Darcy wore a smug look. Pel knew at once what he’d been up to, and since Pel had had only Madame Routy wearing out the television, the thought put him in a bad temper.
‘I suppose you’ve been up to your old tricks again,’ he said.
Darcy smiled. ‘I’m going downhill faster than a greased pig, patron.’
Lagé was with him. He seemed baffled. He’d been handling the Matajcek end of the business now for twenty-four hours and he’d got nowhere. He’d even spent the whole night out at the derelict farm, searching.
‘I’ve been over the whole place, Patron,’ he said. ‘So far there’s only one thing I’ve found – dirt. He must have lived like one of his own pigs. For all I know, he shared their sty. I wouldn’t be surprised.’
‘What about his wife? He had one. Where’s she gone?’
‘I’ve asked around. Heutelet and Piot and Grévy. They say they last saw her six months ago. Apparently, they asked Matajcek where she’d gone but he wasn’t exactly a chap to chatter much. He just told them what he told us – she’d left him. And, judging by the dirt, I’m not surprised.’
‘Get on to the Press,’ Pel said. ‘Give them a description. Let them know we’re looking for her. She might see it. It’ll keep them off our necks for a bit, too.’
As Lagé left, Pel frowned. He was irritated and his mind was full of questions. He’d spent the previous night unable to read because of the television and he’d been so much on edge he’d been unable to sleep, too. And because he’d been unable to sleep, his mind had worked all night over the man at the calvary. Why dump him there, he thought. Why there? Why not leave him where he’d been murdered? Why undress him? Why shoot him when he was already dead?
‘And why six times?’ Darcy asked. ‘Unless, Patron–’ he spoke slowly ‘–unless it was to hide his identity. Perhaps he was easily identifiable. And, if he was, perhaps his identity would lead to the guy who killed him.’
It was an idea. ‘Any response on the teeth?’
‘Not yet, Patron.’
Pel picked up the photograph Madame Grévy had found. ‘No ideas yet who she might be?’ he asked.
‘I’m waiting for Piot, Patron,’ Darcy said. ‘Thought I might talk to him. But he’s in Paris. Do I try him there?’
‘No. Wait till he comes back.’
Darcy glanced at the photograph. ‘The only thing that occurs to me about her,’ he said, ‘is that she’d be good in bed.’ He glanced again at the picture. ‘She appears to have a bit of cash, Patron. That’s a pretty expensive-looking dress she’s got on. It stands out a mile that it didn’t come from Monoprix. In any case, I doubt if Piot’s the sort to go in for shopgirls. That secretary of his isn’t cheap either.’
‘You, of course,’ Pel said, ‘are an expert on class.’
Darcy smiled, unabashed. ‘I know it’s safer to stick to your own league.’
Nosjean was suffering from conscience. He’d promised Bique à Poux that he’d take him home. It was only a shabby tent in a wood, but to the old man it was as much home as the house where Nosjean lived with his mother and father and three adoring sisters, all of whom considered him a cross between Maigret, 007 and Matt Helm.
It bothered Nosjean that he hadn’t yet been able to keep his promise. He was a conscientious young man, better at his job than he realised, but troubled always by too much sensitivity, and the thought of Bique à Poux stuck in hospital when he preferred to be in the woods worried him. In the end, he climbed into his car and drove out to the Centre Hospitalieu.
The nurse in charge of the ward where he was directed shrugged when he asked about the old man. She looked like Catherine Deneuve’s younger sister, and she had a figure that showed to advantage even in her uniform. She eyed Nosjean, who was far from ill-looking, speculatively.
‘He doesn’t seem to respond to treatment,’ she said. ‘But of course, he hasn’t been in long.’
Nosjean had difficulty spotting the old man. Staring round the antiseptic ward with its lockers, beds, curtains and starch-white staff, he couldn’t see him anywhere. Then he saw a thin white hand waving towards him and it dawned on him that it belonged to Bique à Poux.
They’d bathed him, shaved him and washed his hair, and he was now dressed in a striped nightshirt. Doubtless they’d burned his old rags. There was nothing on his locker, no greeting card, no flowers, not even a bottle of orange juice. Lying back on the pillows, he looked frail and, now that they’d removed the dirt, much older, and without his beard, fragile.
‘They took my clothes away,’ he complained, and Nosjean noticed that even his voice seemed to have grown weaker.
‘They’ll give you new ones,’ he said.
‘I preferred my own.’ Bique à Poux sighed. It was too hot in the hospital, he said. Airless and stuffy. He preferred the woods, where nobody bothered him. He could always see things there – birds, animals, insects. He knew all their little troubles.
Nosjean eyed him warily, wondering if the old man was pulling his leg. ‘Birds?’ he said. ‘Animals? Insects?’
‘Of course. I lived among them. Trees, too.’
‘Trees?’
‘Why not? They have feelings, you know, like you and me. I once heard a story about a man with special hearing who could actually hear the little scream when someone plucked a flower and the cry of agony when someone chopped down a tree.’
Nosjean stared at the old man, a littl
e startled, then he realised that if the old man looked at things as carefully as he appeared to, perhaps Pel’s suggestion that he get him to talk was a sound one.
‘Ever see any people?’ he asked.
‘Oh, yes.’ Bique à Poux smiled at last. ‘Often. Poachers. A few gardes selling things that didn’t belong to them. Sometimes men with other men’s wives.’
‘Did you see anything last Wednesday night?’
The old man’s eyes flickered. ‘I might have. That was a busy night.’
‘Busy? In what way?’
‘There were a lot of people about that night.’
‘Where?’
‘In the woods.’
‘How many?’
‘Two, I should think. That’s a lot of people in the middle of the night.’
‘Who were they?’ Nosjean asked. ‘Did you recognise any of them?’
The old man’s eyes went blank and Nosjean changed the question.
‘Where were you?’ he asked.
‘In the Bois Carré.’
‘Where’s that?’
‘A kilometre from the shrine. It’s on Matajcek’s land. Where it joins Piot’s land near the shrine.’
‘What were you doing there?’
‘Just looking round. That’s all. I often look round.’
‘At night?’
‘There was a moon.’
‘See anything?’
‘No. But I heard plenty.’
‘What, for instance?’
‘These two men.’
‘Which two men?’
‘I don’t know. I didn’t see them. They were in the shadows.’ Nosjean frowned. ‘Where were they?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know. I think they were in the Plaine. That’s the big field at the bottom of the wood. It’s still Vaucheretard land. I could hear their voices.’
‘What were they saying?’
‘I didn’t hear it all. I heard one of them say something in German. Then he spoke in French and the other asked “Why?” – in French – and the other man said “I only did my duty”.’
Nosjean paused. ‘How did you know he spoke German?’
‘I was sent to work there during the war. I spent a long time there, working on German farms. I walked all the way back from Poland in 1945 when the war was over. There was snow on the ground and I had no boots. My feet were frostbitten. I know German all right.’