Pel And The Touch Of Pitch

by Mark Hebden

  ‘Shouldn’t think so,’ Darcy said. ‘Those I spoke to seemed to think the world of him. The women were at swooning point, in fact. He’s too good-looking. We have one thing, though. The driver’s seat of the Citroën that took him away was pushed back as far as it would go but the owner didn’t use it in that position. That seems to indicate that whoever drove it was a tall man.’

  Pel nodded. ‘Not much,’ he said, ‘but it’s something. Let’s get going.’

  As they rose, Pomereu picked up his cap and headed for the door. Then he stopped. ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Something I forgot.’ He fished in his pocket and laid a sheet of paper on Pel’s desk. ‘It was among the other parking tickets. They all come through my office. This one might interest you.’

  As the door closed behind him, Pel picked up the parking ticket, studied it for a moment, then he slipped it into his pocket.

  ‘Secret assignation, Patron?’ Darcy asked.

  ‘You might call it that,’ Pel said. ‘In the meantime, let’s have a closer look at Barclay. Perhaps he was involved with more than we realise. He was a bit of a linguist, I believe, and the government doesn’t always use named officials to do its dirty work abroad. Perhaps he was involved with something that isn’t generally known. I expect our Paris friends can supply the answer to that. They have the “in” to the men in the know in the government. Meanwhile, I’ll slip out to Courtois and see if Aimedieu’s discovered anything of note.’

  Aimedieu seemed bewildered. By the time Pel arrived with Judge Polverari he had been at Barclay’s home since early morning and he was growing bored. He had called out the local police who were guarding the only unlocked entrance, and he had talked to the staff – Gefray, the manservant, a gardener, a cook and the maid – and had produced nothing. In addition to his profession as an architect, his dealings as a financier, and his work as a member of the Assembly and a junior member of the government, Barclay had been involved with charity work for hospitals and museums, to whom he was always lending paintings; with homes for ex-servicemen and children; and with a fund, which was still functioning, set up for the relief of disasters such as the Mexican earthquake and the African famine. Not only did he appear to be a solid do-gooder, but, as Pel knew, he was the sort of man that women never failed to notice and also still had clinging to him the remnants of a youthful heroism.

  He walked round the hall of the old house. Standing under a great iron chandelier converted to carry electric light bulbs, he stared at the walls. The windows were all open now and the door stood wide, letting in the sunshine.

  ‘You remember me?’ he asked Gefray, the manservant. ‘I was here the other night with the party from Bois Haut that Monsieur Barclay brought.’

  ‘I remember you, Monsieur,’ Gefray said. ‘I have a good memory for guests’ faces. And, of course, I’ve seen your photograph in the newspapers from time to time.’

  Pel was surprised he could recognise anything from those. Most of them made him look as if he’d been struck by lightning.

  ‘That night’, he said, ‘all the doors and windows on the ground floor were locked and bolted when we were inside – I suspect at Monsieur Barclay’s orders. I saw him speak to you and the door was secured.’

  ‘That’s right, Monsieur.’

  ‘Was it his habit always to have the doors locked and bolted?’ Polverari asked.

  ‘At night, sir, yes.’

  ‘Even with guests in the house?’

  ‘In recent weeks, Monsieur.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘The general atmosphere of violence, I suspect, Monsieur. It’s something everybody goes in for these days, I imagine. There’s also the election due.’

  Pel could hardly find fault with anyone who made his job easier by taking precautions. He stared about him. ‘With the doors and the ground floor windows bolted and barred, it wouldn’t be possible to get in, would it?’

  ‘No, Monsieur. This house was built in the twelfth century and in those times big houses like this were virtual fortresses. The Dukes of Burgundy and their supporters were at war against the Kings of France at the time. There was a lot of treachery and they took care to make sure their homes were secure against assassins. The ground floor windows are five or six metres above the ground.’

  ‘Has Monsieur Barclay been afraid of intruders?’

  ‘Everybody is these days, Monsieur.’

  ‘I’m not thinking of burglars. He’s been kidnapped.’

  Gefray considered and shook his head. ‘I don’t know, Monsieur.’

  ‘Would you say Monsieur Barclay was a nervous type?’

  ‘No, Monsieur. Far from it. He’d been a soldier. And a brave one, too. Until recently, he was often out at night. He had friends. He had admirers…’

  ‘Women?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Know any of them?’

  ‘Some, Monsieur. It’s only recently he’s started to have the place so carefully closed.’

  ‘As if he thought something might be about to happen?’

  ‘Since you mention it, Monsieur, though it didn’t occur to me before, yes, I think that might be the case.’

  ‘Even as if he thought that what happened today might have been about to happen at any time?’

  ‘I hadn’t thought of it like that, Monsieur.’

  ‘Did he talk to you much?’

  ‘Not a great deal, Monsieur.’

  ‘He never mentioned his fears to you?’

  ‘No. Never.’

  ‘To your knowledge, did he have any enemies?’

  ‘I know of none, Monsieur.’

  They seemed to be getting nowhere. Fast.

  Seven

  Breakfast time at Pel’s home usually started with a stroll round the garden. Until his marriage he had never had a garden, unless you could call a green pocket handkerchief behind the house he’d owned in the Rue Martin-de-Noinville a garden. You could hardly have called it a house, in fact, because it had always been a little tight round the hips. Pel had lived there for some time, his housekeeper, Madame Routy, who had ruled the place, keeping him well in subjection, cooking appalling meals, helping herself to his brandy and spending most of her time watching television. The only good thing which had come out of the relationship was Pel’s friendship with Madame Routy’s nephew, Didier Darras, now a police cadet and part of Pel’s office staff in place of one Cadet Martin, who had handled letters, studied the newspapers and fetched the beer and sandwiches when necessary but was now, a fully-fledged cop, out on the streets, combating the crime wave on his own.

  On his marriage, it had seemed to Pel that his new wife had committed the blunder of her life in taking Madame Routy on with Pel, but to his surprise, she had had Madame Routy eating out of her hand in less than a week, cooking splendid meals and watching the television only after working hours in the little flatlet she occupied at the back of the splendid new house at Leu.

  The disappearance of Didier Darras from the scene had also been more than adjusted by the arrival of Yves Pasquier, aged nine, at the house next door. Pel liked to hold conversations through the hedge with his new neighbour and he was determined not to be stirred out of his routine. He had been at the Hôtel de Police until midnight the day before and he knew he was likely to be there until after midnight again. Darcy had slept on a camp bed in his office, holding the fort. Always regarding himself as Pel’s protector, he had insisted on Pel going home, so there was no point in panicking to get the office. It was going to be a long enough day as it was, and his daily conversation with Yves Pasquier would help steady the world a little on its axis.

  It seemed that Yves Pasquier enjoyed the conversations, too, because whenever the weather was fit, he always seemed to be there before disappearing to school. He was there now, accompanied by his dog, a black mongrel devoid of shape but so plentifully endowed with hair it was impossible to tell which end was which. Only the fact that it sat on one end indicated that the other end was the end that might bite.

&nbs
p; ‘A man got shot in Paris yesterday,’ he informed Pel as they met.

  ‘People often get shot in Paris,’ Pel agreed. ‘It’s an occupational hazard with people who live in Paris.’

  ‘When people get shot they go “aaaagh!”, don’t they?’

  ‘Only on television or in children’s comics.’

  Yves Pasquier considered this for a time then he looked up. ‘There was a kidnapping yesterday, too,’ he said. ‘Here. Type called Barclay.’

  ‘So I heard.’

  ‘I read it in the paper. Are you handling it?’

  ‘These things usually fall into my lap.’

  ‘Was it spies?’

  ‘It seems unlikely.’

  ‘But that’s why they usually kidnap people, isn’t it?’

  ‘I’m sure there are other reasons.’

  ‘They usually demand the release of spies from the other side, don’t they?’

  ‘Which other side?’

  ‘Russia. America.’

  ‘I thought the Americans were on our side.’

  ‘England, then. They’ve never been on our side.’ Yves Pasquier considered. ‘Perhaps they’re going to blow up the world.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The kidnappers.’

  ‘There wouldn’t be much point in kidnapping anybody if they were going to blow up the world.’

  ‘No, I suppose not. But I was watching this video about this man who wanted to rule the world and threatened to blow it up if they didn’t let him. He’d got masses of plutonium buried in an abandoned coal mine.’

  ‘Did he succeed?’

  ‘No, they stopped him just in time.’

  Pel nodded sagely. ‘On television they usually do.’

  He could see his wife waving, so the conversation came to an end and Pel went indoors. Madame Routy poured coffee for them both and Pel did his usual balancing act of trying to spread jam on a croissant with a spoon as he held it in his hand. Finishing his meal, he rose, wiped his mouth and headed for the door.

  ‘I might be late,’ he said. ‘The kidnapping’s altered a few timetables.’

  ‘I heard,’ Madame Routy offered, ‘that it’s Red terrorists.’

  Pel gave her a look that wouldn’t have shamed a frozen food plant. ‘I heard,’ he said, ‘that it’s a gang who want to blow up the world.’

  His wife didn’t have to guess very hard to know where that one had come from and she laughed. Madame Routy glared. As Pel headed for the front door, she handed him his briefcase as if she hoped it contained a bomb which would explode as soon as he was safely away from the house. There was little love lost between Madame Routy and Pel. Indeed there never had been. For the sake of Madame Pel they had endeavoured at first on Pel’s marriage to live at peace with one another, but it hadn’t worked and now they enjoyed their enmity as much as ever, while Madame Pel, realising in her subtle way that it kept them busy and happy, allowed them to enjoy it, merely stopping Madame Routy from shoving her oar in too often and gently chiding Pel in her quietly humorous manner when he was in danger of becoming too rude.

  He drove down the hill into the city without incident – unless you could call narrowly missing an eight-wheeled truck as he joined the main road an incident. From the movements of the truck driver’s mouth he had discovered something that a lot of people had known for a long time – that Pel was not a good driver.

  ‘You deserve to be écraséd,’ he roared. ‘Flattened! I’ve a good mind to report you to the flics.’

  It wouldn’t have done him a lot of good, Pel thought sourly. The flics knew he was a poor driver, too.

  The election campaign was beginning to hot up, he noticed as he drove into the city, and posters carrying the pictures of candidates were appearing everywhere, where possible pasted over those of the opposition – a case of last come, best served. Teeth were more than ever in evidence in flashing smiles, though some of the candidates preferred to show themselves as earnest-minded individuals with the weight of the Republic firmly on their shoulders and presented grim visages to the voting public. Party colours were also well in evidence with huge placards full of party propaganda or abuse. Country people being slower to anger or delight, the villages were fairly subdued, as they always were, but the city was hard at it despite the early hour, with loudspeaker vans already on the streets making the morning hideous with their clamour.

  The office seemed to be full of people when Pel arrived, all of them apparently arguing about the election. Most of them disappeared abruptly as Pel’s face appeared round the door –

  especially those like Misset, who was always skilful at looking busy until you really studied him and found he wasn’t. As he appeared in his office, Claudie Darel, the only woman member of his team, dropped his letters on his desk. She was followed by Police Cadet Didier Darras.

  Pel looked up. He still hadn’t got used to seeing Didier there and in uniform. Since Didier’s mother had an ageing father who sometimes demanded her attention, Didier had often turned up at Pel’s house for a snack from his aunt, Madame Routy. He and Pel had become good friends because they both enjoyed boules and fishing and loathed television and had often taken great delight in waiting for Aunt Routy to cook one of the appalling meals she had cooked in those days and then disappearing into the blue to eat out so that she had to polish off the disaster herself. Not long before, Didier Darras had announced he wanted to be a cop and, through Pel’s string-pulling, had finally taken the place of the recently departed Cadet Martin. Getting him into uniform was something Pel was proud of and he had already started putting ideas into the mind of Yves Pasquier.

  ‘How are things going?’ he asked as the boy placed the newspapers on his desk.

  Didier shrugged and, worried that he might be disillusioned with police work, Pel probed.

  Didier shrugged again. ‘It’s not the work,’ he said. ‘That’s all right. It’s Louise Bray.’

  Louise Bray had been his steady girl friend ever since she had first hit him over the head with her doll.

  ‘What’s wrong with Louise Bray?’

  ‘She’s started going to discos with Martin.’

  ‘Cadet Martin?’

  ‘He’s a cop now.’

  Pel frowned. Martin had been known to turn heads before. ‘How did she meet him?’

  ‘I introduced them.’

  ‘That was foolish. Martin’s a handsome lad. Think they’ve got something going?’

  ‘It’s beginning to look like it.’

  ‘What do you intend to do about it?’

  Didier shrugged again. ‘I could shoot him,’ he said. ‘They’re teaching me to handle a gun at the armoury. But I don’t suppose I will.’

  ‘It would certainly lose you Louise Bray.’

  ‘I wasn’t thinking of her. I was thinking I’d lose my job.’

  As the door closed, Pel reached for the newspapers. Barclay’s kidnapping was plastered over every front page. Le Monde, being Le Monde, had devoted no more than two columns at the top, but that was star billing from Le Monde. ‘Minister Kidnapped’, it said. The other papers were less restrained and La Torche seemed to have thrown its head back and let out a wild howl of indignation.

  ‘Government Compromised,’ it yelled. ‘Kidnapped Minister Knew All the Secrets.’ It devoted the whole of the front page to the kidnapping – it was difficult to devote more because little was known and, anyway, headlines usually occupied most of La Torche’s front page, but there was also a whole page inside with pictures, telling the reading public what a fine man Barclay was, of his interest in arts, the various charities he supported, the buildings he had designed, his heroism as a young officer in Indo-China. The pictures seemed to indicate they were right, and showed Barclay holding his head up in a heroic attitude, his mane of grey hair ruffled by the breeze, the very acme of good looks, courage and integrity. Inevitably, however, they couldn’t resist the urge to stir things up with suggestions that security hadn’t been tight enough and that the police
had fallen down on the job of protecting members of the government.

  As Pel tossed the papers aside, the telephone went. It was the Chief. He sounded nervous. ‘The DST will be arriving any minute,’ he confirmed. ‘They telephoned half an hour ago to say they were on their way.’

  As Pel put the telephone down, Lagé appeared. ‘Jules Arri, Patron,’ he said. ‘No luck so far. I’ve contacted every firm I can think of who might have a night-watchman in the area off the Rue de Bourg. Nobody knows him. I’ve got the photographs now, too, but nobody recognised them. Nobody’s ever seen him. He’s been spotted walking down the Rue de la Liberté but that’s all. I’m wondering if, after he parked his car, somebody picked him up. That does happen. People share cars and the cost of petrol to go to work.’

  ‘They don’t seem to have shared Arri’s car. That was always in the Place de la Liberation.’

  ‘Perhaps they had an arrangement and Arri did the paying while the other type did the driving. Perhaps he didn’t like driving. I’m still asking. I’ve got Lacocq and Morell showing the photographs on the buses. They’re running at that time in the morning and somebody might have spotted him getting off one. I’m also trying taxis. I’ll pick him up eventually, Patron.’

  As Lagé vanished, Darcy appeared. He looked spotless and shaved to the bone, his collar gleaming, his clothes uncreased, as if he were about to take a girl out to dinner. Pel couldn’t believe he’d slept on a camp bed in the office all night. If Pel had slept on a camp bed in the office, he’d have looked like something the cat had dragged in.

  Darcy didn’t waste time. ‘Pomereu, of Traffic,’ he said. ‘He’s reported that all the missing vehicles have now turned up. The van was found on a feeder road to the motorway at Chimeray. There were no fingerprints. Prélat’s been at it ever since dawn. It was well worked over. We’re obviously dealing with professionals.’