by Mark Hebden
Remembering how, on the occasion of his visit with the party from Bois Haut, they had entered the old house by a small door at the bottom of the turret, they left the car where it was outside the bar and walked back to try the bell. At first there was no answer, then eventually they heard the bolts being withdrawn and found themselves facing the handsome young manservant, Gefray.
‘Monsieur Pel,’ he said at once.
‘I wish to come in,’ Pel said quickly, anxious to be off the street where he might be seen.
Gefray stepped back and, as they slipped inside, he pushed the door to and slid the bolts home.
‘Are you still locking the door?’ Pel asked.
‘I was advised to do so, Monsieur.’
‘By whom?’
‘By a gentleman by the name of Lamiel.’
‘Did he say why?’
‘He seemed to think there might be a break-in. Forgive me, Monsieur.’ Gefray was wiping his mouth on a striped apron. ‘I was just taking my meal.’
‘Where?’
‘In the kitchen.’
‘Let’s go there.’
The kitchen fitted in with all that Pel had seen about the house on his visit from Bois Haut. It was revamped, rebuilt and repainted to look like a medieval kitchen with modern accoutrements. The table stretched almost its full length and there were half a dozen chairs round it where the staff obviously ate. Gefray indicated that they should sit down and seated himself at the head of the table. Alongside him was another place setting.
‘Who’s that for?’ Pel asked.
‘The maid,’ Gefray said. ‘Annette Gilbert.’
Pel remembered the pretty maid. ‘Are you alone here?’ he asked.
‘At the moment, Monsieur. There’s a gardener and a cook. But it’s the cook’s night off and the gardener only comes during the day.’
‘You’d better carry on eating.’
Gefray shrugged. ‘It can wait, Monsieur. It’s only a cold collation.’ He produced a bottle of wine and three glasses. It was good wine, Pel noticed, without doubt one of Barclay’s best.
‘Have you news of Monsieur Barclay?’ Gefray asked.
‘Not yet.’
‘I trust it won’t be long before there’s something. At the moment, we’re still running the house as if he were about to appear. But there’s a rumour in the village that he’s dead.’
As Gefray spoke, the maid appeared. She was wearing yellow trousers and a flowered shirt and didn’t seem to be dressed for work.
‘Lolo,’ she began. ‘I saw two men prowling round…’
Then she saw Pel and Lagé and blushed. ‘I’m sorry, Messieurs. I didn’t see you there.’
Gefray gestured at the girl. ‘This is Chief Inspector Pel of the Police Judiciare,’ he said. ‘You’d better leave us alone for a moment. I’ll let you know when you can eat.’
The girl nodded, eyed Pel for a moment, then retreated through the door, closing it softly after her.
‘Lolo,’ Pel said. ‘That your name?’
Gefray blushed. ‘Short for Louis, Monsieur.’
‘Does everyone call you Lolo?’
‘Just friends, Monsieur. We’re all good friends here.’
Pel nodded. ‘What hours do you work here?’
Gefray shrugged and took a sip of his wine. ‘All hours, Monsieur. I know that these days there are supposed to be rigid hours for workers but running a house for a man as busy as Monsieur Barclay puts you in a rather different category. We are on duty whenever he’s here and off duty when he’s not.’
‘Isn’t that rather an arduous routine?’
‘No, Monsieur. He’s often away.’
‘What about Monsieur Barclay? Did you like him?’
‘He paid good wages.’
‘That isn’t what I asked.’
Gefray paused. ‘Then, yes, Monsieur. I did.’
‘The 15th. Were you here then?’
Gefray didn’t bother to consider. ‘Yes, we were.’
‘All the time?’
‘Yes, Monsieur.’
‘That was a Wednesday like today. Was that the cook’s night off, also?’
‘It must have been, Monsieur.’
Pel fished out the picture of Arri and laid it on the table.
‘Ever seen him before?’ he asked.
Gefray looked puzzled. ‘No, Monsieur. Should I have? It’s the man who was found murdered at Suchey, isn’t it? I’ve seen the picture in the papers.’
Pel next fished out the photograph of Arri’s car and laid it alongside the picture of its owner.
‘Ever seen that car before?’
‘No, sir.’
‘It was here late on the evening of the 15th.’
Gefray frowned.
‘The owner arrived in a hurry, ran round the back of the house, obviously trying to see someone, then ran back to the car, climbed in and drove away. Are you sure you didn’t see him?’
Gefray was frowning heavily. ‘Quite sure.’
‘Then why did he run back to his car and drive off in a hurry? I think he tried the bell but nobody answered, so he decided there was no one at home. He seemed to be on urgent business, perhaps concerning Monsieur Barclay. In fact, he was an old comrade of Monsieur Barclay from Dien Bien Phu, the man Monsieur Barclay rescued when he was wounded, and for whom Monsieur Barclay received a decoration. It seems to me he arrived with something important to give to Monsieur Barclay but, apparently finding no one at home, he left again. Some time the following day, we believe, he was murdered. I’m interested to know why he came here?’
Gefray looked a little confused. ‘I know nothing about it, Monsieur.’
‘Nothing?’
‘No.’
‘And you never saw him?’
‘No.’
Pel gestured to Lagé. ‘Go and ring the bell, Lagé,’ he said.
Lagé rose and lumbered off. They heard the door open and shut. There was a long pause. Lagé was obviously making the most of the dramatic moment. The bell jarred in the silence. Pel said nothing until Lagé returned and sat down.
‘It makes a loud noise,’ he observed and Gefray swallowed. ‘But you didn’t hear it?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
Gefray’s glance flew to the door where the maid had disappeared. ‘Perhaps I had gone to bed.’
‘The sun was still out. The man was seen to arrive and disappear. Where was Barclay that night?’
Gefray glanced at a diary on the bench near his arm. ‘He had been to Paris. He wasn’t expected back for two days.’
‘So you were alone?’
‘Yes.’
‘With the cook taking her night off.’
‘What are you getting at?’
‘You know what I’m getting at. You were in the house but you didn’t hear the bell. This man, Arri, arrived in a panic, obviously anxious to get in touch with Monsieur Barclay. He must have rung the bell, which is loud. But you didn’t hear it.’
‘I’ve told you, I must have been in bed.’
‘With the girl who appeared just now?’
‘That’s none of your business.’
‘No. Your morals are your own affair. I’m only concerned with what that man wanted when he arrived in such a hurry. You were in bed with her, weren’t you? And you’d locked the door and chose not to answer the bell.’
Gefray nodded silently.
Pel wondered how much further to pursue the enquiry. Could the incident have been connected with the kidnapping? He had to remember he was there only to investigate Arri’s murder, not Barclay’s disappearance. That was Lamiel’s business and Lamiel had decided he didn’t like Pel.
He was silent for a moment. ‘The women who came here,’ he asked eventually. ‘I know there were women. I saw one the night I came. Her name was Huguette Pouyet. There were others, too, weren’t there?’
‘Yes. They came, stayed the night and left the next day. Most of them I never saw again. But there was one who ca
me more often. She never stayed and I got the impression she wasn’t a—er—a friend, but a business associate. They seemed to discuss money most of the time.’
‘Do you know her name?’
‘Monsieur Barclay was careful to avoid mentioning it when I was around, but I once heard him call her Dédé.’
‘Dédé? That sounds like a nickname. Or a special name between lovers. What was she like?’
‘She was very beautiful. Will that be all?’
‘Not quite.’ Pel gestured at the plates on the table. ‘I’ve seen plates like that before,’ he went on slowly.
Gefray stared at the plates. They were green and gold and of fine china.
‘The man who called here on the 15th,’ Pel said, ‘Jules Arri. He had one or two plates like that.’
Gefray shrugged. ‘I’ve never heard his name mentioned. Except…’ he paused. ‘Perhaps – one night when I came into the salon. Monsieur Barclay was on the telephone and I heard him say “Thanks, Jules. Still the good sergeant.”’
‘“Thanks Jules. Still the good sergeant.” That was all?’
‘Yes. Then he put the telephone down.’
‘Jules Arri was Monsieur Barclay’s sergeant when he was in Indo-China in the Fifties. What do you think he meant?’
‘I have no idea, Monsieur.’
‘And you have no idea how it is that Jules Arri, who apparently didn’t make a habit of coming here, had plates identical to the plates Monsieur Barclay uses.’
‘None at all, Monsieur.’
‘Do you know where Monsieur Barclay bought his china?’
‘I have no idea, Monsieur. None’s been bought while I’ve been here.’
Pel picked up one of the plates and examined it. It was exactly like the chipped plates they had found at Arri’s cottage.
‘Do you normally use Monsieur Barclay’s best plates to eat from in the kitchen?’
Gefray flushed. ‘It has a crack, Monsieur, you’ll notice. It would never be used for a dinner party so it had been relegated to the kitchen.’
‘Are there many?’
‘Of course, Monsieur. There is a full dinner service. Fifty-four pieces. With matching coffee cups.’
‘What about glasses?’
‘Monsieur Barclay used only the best.’
Pel was thinking of the wines found at Arri’s cottage. Had Barclay been in the habit of visiting Arri? ‘Was he much of a drinker?’ he asked.
‘Not particularly. He kept good wines, of course.’
‘I’d like to see them.’
Gefray didn’t argue. He took a key from a hook on the wall and gestured to the door.
The cellar was off the living room, down a few stone steps close to the fireplace. It was neat and clean, with the wine racks along one wall. Pel moved along them, noticing the names. To his surprise, because he had been expecting them, there were none of the names he had found at Arri’s cottage.
He was silent and thoughtful as they returned to the salon.
‘Had Barclay ever received visits from other men? Men you know about. Men who didn’t arrive when you were in bed with the girl. Men you let in.’
Gefray was flushing. ‘Not normally. But there was a visit from a man about a month ago. Late in the evening.’
‘What did he want?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Didn’t you hear anything?’
‘He was careful to shut the door. But he seemed angry.’
‘Did you hear his name?’
‘No. Monsieur Barclay received a telephone call, then he told me the man was coming and that I was to let him in and go to bed. It was late.’
‘So you went to bed?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you’ve no idea what the visit was about?’
‘I got the impression that the man was a colleague of Monsieur Barclay and that he had some sort of business disagreement to discuss. I heard him say “What are you up to, Claude?”’
‘That’s all?’
‘No. Then he said “You’ll not get away with it.”’
It didn’t sound like a terrorist kidnap organisation. Terrorists didn’t make a habit of warning first.
‘No other visits?’
‘None I know about.’ Gefray frowned. ‘There were letters, though.’
‘What sort of letters?’
‘Some of them seemed to worry Monsieur Barclay?’ ‘Blackmail letters perhaps?’
‘I suppose they could have been.’
Could it have been a jilted woman, Pel wondered. But a woman could hardly have done the kidnapping on her own and they knew several men had been involved. Even a jilted girl could usually round up a few friends, though – brothers or assorted cousins – to grab a wayward boyfriend, imprison him, threaten him, blackmail him, beat him up even, to let it be known her affections were not to be trifled with. Pel knew all about that sort of thing. As a young cop he had once spent a whole week using unfamiliar bars because a girl he had dropped rather too suddenly had threatened to set her family on him.
It was all very puzzling. For some reason Arri’s murder seemed to be connected to Barclay’s disappearance. But why? Were they involved in something together? Did Barclay get rid of Arri because he was troublesome? It didn’t seem so. ‘Well done, Jules,’ he had said. ‘Always the good sergeant.’ That sounded approving. But could it have been to give Arri a sense of false security? After all, hadn’t Delilah made love to Samson before cutting off his hair? Hadn’t Judas kissed Christ to identify him to his enemies? Hadn’t Ney sworn his loyalty to the throne before going over to Napoleon? History was full of treacheries.
If that were the case then, had Barclay killed Arri and staged his own kidnapping to divert suspicion? But, if that were so, why had he removed Arri from the scene? Could Arri be some part of the terrorist scene? It didn’t seem to make much sense.
Thirteen
Suddenly they began to make headway – in both the Arri and the Barclay cases.
‘Pomereu’s found a farmer,’ Darcy told Pel, ‘who saw what might well have been some sort of rehearsal for the kidnapping. He was driving cattle on a hill out towards Villers-Chenaudin when he noticed several cars on the road below him. It must have been interesting because it seems he lost one of his cows among the trees.’
As usual, the report was coming over the top of a bock of beer in the Bar Transvaal.
‘They were going through a set of movements that seem to have been the same as the ones Jacqueline Duhamel saw when Barclay was snatched. There was even a motor cyclist who set the thing going. We’re trying to find out more but we already know one of the cars was a yellow Passat. We’ve also found a type who could have known Ennaert’s Citroën was in its garage the night it was needed. In fact, there could be a whole bunch of them. It’s a nosey neighbourhood.’
The habits of Ennaert and his girl friends were well known, it seemed, and everybody in the street, even in the bar opposite, seemed to know what went on, though none of them seemed to deserve a second glance except a man called Henri Journais.
‘He was in the army,’ Darcy said.
‘179th Regiment?’
Darcy shrugged. ‘His neighbours think he knows all about karate, and, what’s more, he seems to be tall enough to drive a car with the seat pushed right back. He’s done his time in the army but he worked for a while with a security firm until the job fell through. Now nobody’s quite sure what he does.’
‘Have you brought him in?’
‘No. He’s disappeared with his wife. The neighbours think he’s gone to Blois to do some fishing in the Loire. I’ve got the uniformed boys here to keep an eye on his apartment and asked Blois to pick him up if they spot him. But you know what it’ll be like there. Give a Frenchman a fine day and he’ll have his rod over the nearest stretch of river before you can breathe.’
That evening, Darcy was on the telephone to say they’d taken another step forward.
‘We’ve found the owner of the yellow Pas
sat,’ he said. ‘A Madame Danton-Criot. Dominique Danton-Criot. She has a big house near Vallefrie. She says the car was parked in the drive overnight with the keys in it, and the gates were left open, and it had disappeared when she went out to it the next morning. It was found the same evening at Arbaçay, the next village.’
‘Who found it?’
‘She did. She was driving through Arbaçay in another of her cars – she seems to have three – and there it was. In the square. She had someone with her, who took over the car she was driving and she simply got in the Passat and drove it away. It was unlocked and the keys were on a shelf under the dashboard.’
‘Did she report it?’
‘No. It was undamaged and nothing was missing, so she decided it had been taken by kids who’d been drinking in Vallefrie.’
Pel frowned. ‘But it wasn’t kids, was it?’ he said slowly. ‘It was somebody who used the car to rehearse a kidnapping. This Madame Danton: Has Lamiel seen her?’
‘Yes, Patron. He seemed very happy to accept her word.’ Darcy chuckled. ‘I think he was influenced a bit by the way she looked.’
‘How did she look?’
‘Well, you’ve seen Brigitte Bardot. And Sophia Loren. Maybe even Marie-France Pisier. She’s a bit like all three. Only better.’
Pel frowned. ‘What in God’s name are you trying to say?’
‘She was one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen, Patron. Not young any more, but then neither am I. I can’t think how I’ve never managed to meet her. As tall as me. Superb figure. Dark hair and the most enormous blue eyes I’ve ever seen. She managed to project considerable voltage into the occasion.’
Pel gave a contemptuous sniff. ‘I think you should go home and take a cold bath.’
Darcy chuckled. ‘A little sex is what makes the flowers grow. Cops always have dreams about damsels.’
‘Some cops just have bad feet. Who is she?’
‘I don’t know, Patron. I’ve never seen her before and apparently neither has anyone else.’
‘Wealthy?’
‘Judging by her house, yes. Manoir de Varas it’s called. Near to Vallefrie.’
‘Which is where?’
‘Next village to Arbaçay. It’s a big house. Long drive. Outbuildings. Stables. It’s even got a couple of statues in front. You can smell money.’