Pel And The Touch Of Pitch

by Mark Hebden

  As Claudie disappeared, Didier put his head round the door. ‘Sous-Brigadier Foulet from Valoreille on the telephone, sir.’

  Sous-Brigadier Foulet had a soft voice and sounded like a conspirator. ‘Sir,’ he said. ‘I’ve just had a couple of seventeen-year-old kids in to see me. Name of Léon Paty and Colette Rousseau. They say they overheard Arri talking with someone outside his cottage around the time he disappeared.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘It doesn’t appear to amount to anything at all really. I was all for gettting rid of them because the boy’s not the brightest. Come to that, neither is the girl. But I thought I’d better let you know.’

  ‘Where are they now?’

  ‘They’re sitting on a bench in my office.’

  ‘Keep them there I’ll be out in less than an hour.’

  Snatching up notebook and pencil and enough cigarettes to give lung cancer to the whole province, just in case he was delayed somewhere and couldn’t get to a tabac, Pel called for Claudie Darel.

  ‘Leave what you’re doing,’ he said. ‘The sous-brigadier at Valoreille’s got a couple of kids wanting to talk to us. One of them’s a girl, so you’d better come with me.’

  The two youngsters sat opposite Sous-Brigadier Foulet’s desk. Pel eyed them quietly, and Sous-Brigadier Foulet reached out and gave Léon Paty’s shoulder a shove. The boy woke up with a start. He had a portable radio beside him, with a wire leading to headphones which hung round his neck.

  ‘We didn’t come forward before’, he said, ‘because we didn’t see the notice in the papers. We don’t read the papers. We heard something. Outside Monsieur Arri’s house.’ He looked at the girl. ‘We were in the alley just alongside. It was dark.’

  ‘Which is why you were there, I suppose?’

  Paty shifted uncomfortably and the girl gave an embarrassed giggle. ‘Yes, Monsieur. There aren’t many places where you can be alone.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Two men stopped outside the house. I recognised Monsieur Arri’s voice. I sometimes work at the garage at weekends and I’d often served him petrol. I couldn’t see who was with him because we kept back in the shadows.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘They came from down the street somewhere. I heard Monsieur Arri say “He wouldn’t do that.”’

  ‘Do what? Did he say?’

  ‘No, Monsieur. He just said “He wouldn’t do that”. And the other man said “But he did do it”. Then Monsieur Arri said “Are you sure?” And the other man said “Yes” and Monsieur Arri said “I’ll ask him”. Then the other man said “You’d better not”.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘Yes, Monsieur. It’s not much, is it?’

  ‘It helps. What happened then?’

  ‘Nothing. Monsieur Arri went into his house and we heard the other man walk away. Then a car started up and we saw lights come on and a car went down the street past us. It was small. Something like a Citroën Visa. That size.’ Paty frowned and the girl’s hand slipped into his. ‘Will there be a reward?’ he asked.

  Pel’s eyebrows shot up. ‘You were expecting one, maybe?’

  Paty blushed. ‘We thought it would be useful. We’d like to get married.’

  Pel gazed at the two earnest young faces. ‘I’d advise you to wait a little while, mon brave,’ he suggested.

  Climbing into the car again to return to the Hôtel de Police, Pel sat silently as Claudie let in the clutch. The following night, as they now knew, Arri had turned up at Barclay’s house at Courtois where Madame Boileau had seen him. Had he gone, not to give something to Barclay, but to tell him something, to warn him? Was Barclay the man who was being threatened? It began to seem likely.

  So why had Arri gone to Barclay’s house? Pel remembered Yves Pasquier’s words. ‘I’m on your side. No matter what they say about you, I’m on your side.’ That was loyalty, undisguised and unqualified. Had Arri felt the same about Barclay? Barclay had saved his life, and had later rescued him when he was on his uppers by finding him a job – this mysterious job they were still trying to identify – and probably he had never forgotten it. Whatever it was that Barclay was up to, had Arri’s loyalty remained with him and had he attempted to warn him of the kidnap attempt, only to lose his own life?

  It seemed to slot together.

  The following morning, there was a report on the radio of a bomb exploding at Saint-Etienne, the responsibility claimed by some Arab organisation Pel had never heard of. Saint-Etienne could be considered important because it was an arms manufacturing town and it was a great deal nearer to home than Paris, and he could well imagine Lamiel being uptight about it.

  Sure enough, when he arrived at the Hôtel de Police he found himself in the middle of a panic. As he entered, he met Darcy heading for the lecture room Lamiel was using for his talks.

  ‘Some old dear’s reported men going in and out of a house at 47, Rue des Closeries, near the Industrial Zone,’ he said as he shot past.

  Pel knew the Rue des Closeries. He even knew Number 47.

  ‘One of them had a gun, she said,’ Darcy went on. ‘We’ve all been called in. Briefing in five minutes. Everybody’s got to attend. Even young Darras.’

  ‘What about me?’

  Darcy managed a grin. ‘I dare say he wouldn’t say no this time, Patron,’ he agreed.

  In the lecture room, Lamiel was deep in conversation with Thomas and as soon as they separated Darcy spoke up.

  ‘I know this address we have,’ he said. ‘It’s where Taddeus Kiczmyrczik’s sister lives.’

  Lamiel clearly wasn’t impressed. ‘He’s a dissident,’ he rapped.

  ‘He’s always been a dissident,’ Darcy agreed. ‘Give him exactly what he wants and he’d still be a dissident.’

  ‘This isn’t a laughing matter,’ Lamiel snapped.

  ‘I’m not laughing,’ Darcy snapped back.

  ‘Then don’t treat it lightly. Who’re the people who visit him?’

  ‘Other men like him. I’ve given you their names. But he also surrounds himself with anybody who has a grievance. Anti-Bomb people. Anti-government people. Anti-left people. Preserve the countryside people. Anti-vivisectionists. Take your pick. Half the time they don’t have a thing in common beyond the fact that they’re anti.’

  ‘How do you know there aren’t young activists among them? – younger terrorists?’

  ‘I don’t. I’m guessing from long experience.’

  Lamiel turned to Thomas. ‘We’ll pick them up,’ he said. ‘Are they dangerous?’ he asked Darcy.

  ‘Of course they aren’t.’

  ‘We’ll take no chances. Get going, Thomas. You know what to do.’

  The telephone exchange set up in the basement of the Hôtel de Police was fully manned and Lamiel’s men were in the house next door to Number 47, Rue des Closeries. The owners were a little startled but had been warned to behave as normally as possible and were busy making coffee for everybody. They had no idea what was going on but they suspected that the old man who visited next door had been up to his tricks again. He was always causing trouble in one way or another, always being run in for acting the goat, and they could only suppose that it was the mixture as before.

  There were more men in the houses opposite and a disgusted Darcy was standing in the doorway of a laundrette listening to his personal radio. He had tried to get out of taking part in the raid but he had been unable to and was now watching the windows of Number 47. As he concentrated the owner of the laundrette appeared. She was fat and hostile.

  ‘Those citizen band things should be banned,’ she said, indicating Darcy’s radio.

  ‘It’s not a citizen band thing,’ Darcy said.

  ‘Well, whatever it is, they affect the television.’ She indicated the set placed above the washing machines for the entertainment of her customers.

  Darcy smiled. ‘They also have a nasty effect on people,’ he said cheerfully. ‘They do things to their chromosomes. Especially wo
men. Makes them lose interest in sex.’

  The woman stared at him and, not sure whether to believe him, decided to play safe and backed away.

  Upstairs in the house next to Number 47, Lamiel’s men had clamped microphones to the adjoining walls and were sitting over their equipment, their faces blank, headphones on, listening.

  ‘I think there are four of them’, one of them was saying. ‘And a woman.’

  Lamiel frowned. ‘Get Darcy.’

  A message on his radio brought Darcy to the back door of the house.

  ‘There are four there now’, Lamiel said. ‘And a woman.’

  ‘That’s normal enough. She lives there. She’s Kiczmyrczik’s sister.’

  ‘How do we know it isn’t the two old types you mentioned joined by two younger ones and a woman activist?’

  ‘We don’t,’ Darcy said. ‘That’s what you say. But I’ll go along with it.’

  ‘You’re not being very helpful.’

  ‘I’m doing exactly as I’m told.’

  ‘The television’s on.’ The voice came in a flat monotone from the back of the room. ‘It’s the news.’

  ‘They’re trying to find out if anything’s happened,’ Lamiel said. ‘Or else it’s to drown their voices.’

  Perhaps, Darcy thought, they were just hoping to learn that the Russians had taken over. Or the Fascists. Or the Liberals. Or the Social Democrats. Or the Wets. Or the Dries. Or the Hawks. Or the Doves. It wouldn’t matter much to Kiczmyrczik. Perhaps they were just wanting to know what had won the 2.30.

  On the other hand, with a bomb in Paris and another in Saint-Etienne – that one doubtless a protest against the manufacture of arms, or the sale of arms to the wrong people, or the non-sale of arms to those the makers of the bomb considered the right people – he could see why Lamiel was nervous and not prepared to take any chances. And if Kiczmyrczik had been stupid enough to introduce a weapon into his sister’s house at this highly sensitive moment, then he deserved all he got. Kiczmyrczik had never been popular with the police and Darcy could well imagine him, if he had a weapon, being a great deal less popular.

  Lamiel listened to the reports. He seemed to be on edge and looked as if he hadn’t slept for some time, his mouth tight, his face drawn, his eyes ringed with shadow. Eventually, it seemed he could stand it no longer, as if the tension had built up so much he would burst if he didn’t do something to relieve it.

  ‘We’re going in,’ he said.

  Darcy eyed the equipment they had stacked up. The rifles, revolvers, stun grenades and smoke bombs. It would be God help Kiczmyrczik if that lot started going off, he decided, and he tried to put in a word of caution.

  ‘You won’t need all those,’ he said.

  ‘We usually do.’

  Darcy looked alarmed. ‘For the love of God,’ he said, ‘don’t start shooting unless they shoot first.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘They’re old men. You might find you’ve made a mistake and they might drop dead.’

  Lamiel gave him a contemptuous look, the look of the ruthless Paris operator for the weak-minded provincial. ‘We’ll do it whichever way we have to,’ he announced. Nevertheless, he made a point of telling Thomas not to shoot first.

  As they left, Darcy sat down at the kitchen table and waited. For a long time there was silence.

  ‘What’s happening?’ the owner of the house asked.

  Darcy shrugged. ‘I think’, he said, ‘that somebody’s trying to commit career suicide.’

  As they waited, almost holding their breath, there was a sudden outbreak of shouting, a couple of shots and a dull thud.

  ‘Mother of God!’ Darcy said, jumping up and heading for the street.

  He arrived just in time to see one of Lamiel’s men burst out of the house next door. ‘We’ve got them,’ he announced as Lamiel appeared round the corner.

  He was followed by billowing clouds of smoke, then an elderly woman and four elderly men appeared, all looking dazed, their hands in the air, coughing and spluttering, the last one, Kiczmyrczik, cursing bitterly. Behind them came two more of Lamiel’s men holding machine pistols and wearing gas masks.

  Lamiel stepped forward. ‘What were they doing?’ he demanded.

  The men with the machine pistols looked puzzled. ‘Playing cards,’ one of them said.

  ‘What in God’s name was the shooting then?’

  ‘One of them reached under the table. Georges thought he’d got a gun there and fired a couple of rounds into the ceiling.’

  ‘Was ‘there a gun?’

  ‘No. Just a bottle of brandy.’

  ‘A gun was seen being carried in.’

  The man with the machine pistol pulled a face. ‘It wasn’t a gun. It was a metal rod for a curtain runner. They put it up, hung the curtains, got out the brandy bottle and started playing piquet.’

  Darcy was hardly able to contain his delight. He had suffered a lot at the hands of Lamiel.

  ‘Old revolutionaries nobody takes any notice of,’ he crowed to Pel. ‘Old men dead as mutton. Lamiel’s gone to Paris. I think he’s none too keen to show his face at the moment. Thomas has gone up there, too, and there are only their stooges left here at the moment, sitting around with their thumbs in their bums, wondering what to do.’

  It was worth celebrating with a beer at the Bar Transvaal.

  When Pel returned to his office, Lagé was waiting in the sergeants’ room with a short thickset man who was screwing his cap in his hands.

  ‘Jean Clenot, Patron,’ he said. ‘He’s a taxi driver. He’s just come in.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He’s been away for a few days and just returned. He’s heard of our enquiries and he thinks he picked up our friend, Jules Arri, one evening just off the Rue de la Liberté.’

  Pel sat up. ‘He did what!’

  ‘Seven-thirty, he says, so it must have been just after he’d parked his car in the Place de la Liberation.’

  Pel pushed a chair forward and Clenot sat nervously. Noticing his fingers were stained yellow, Pel pushed forward a packet of Gauloises. ‘Smoke?’

  Clenot took one gratefully and lit up. Pel followed him, glad of an excuse.

  ‘Go on,’ he said. ‘Inform me.’

  ‘Well,’ Clenot said. ‘I saw this photograph of this guy in the newspaper and I decided it was this type I picked up last month.’

  ‘Where did you pick him up?’

  ‘On the Rue de Bourg. Just off the Rue de la Liberté. He was waiting and waved me down.’

  ‘Where did you take him?’

  ‘Out Arbaçay way.’

  ‘You’re sure of this?’

  ‘Dead sure. It was a good long drive and worth a bit. You remember that sort of thing. He paid and gave me this good tip.’

  ‘Did he mention how he was getting back?’

  ‘He said he’d be able to get a lift. I asked him if it was where he lived and if his car had broken down. He said, no, he worked out that way and normally was picked up but that night this type who picked him up hadn’t been able to make it. I got the impression he did the journey regularly and was going to work or something.’

  ‘Where did you drop him?’

  ‘Outside Arbaçay.’

  ‘Where exactly?’

  ‘About five hundred metres outside the village.’

  ‘This side?’

  ‘No. The other. The Vallefrie side.’

  ‘No address?’

  ‘No. I asked him what address he wanted and he said, “No address. I’ll tell you when to stop”. He didn’t have much to say and eventually he said “Stop”. So I did. He paid me and I turned round and set off back.’

  ‘Did you see where he went?’

  ‘No. He just set off walking from Arbaçay to Vallefrie. He was still walking when I turned the corner and lost him.’

  ‘How was he dressed?’

  Clenot shrugged. ‘Normal. He wore this suit. You know – not smart, but clean and tidy. Tie. He was well
shaved. In fact, he looked as if he’d only recently shaved.’

  ‘As if he were going to work? At some place where he was expected to look clean and reasonably smart?’

  ‘I suppose so. I didn’t think of it at the time but, yes, I reckon that’s how he was.’

  ‘And he gave no hint of where he was going?’

  ‘None at all.’

  When Clenot had gone, Pel sat staring at his blotter until Lagé came back after showing the taxi driver out.

  ‘Vallefrie,’ he said slowly. ‘Know it, Lagé?’

  ‘Sure, Patron. I’ve been there often.’

  ‘Anything special about it?’

  ‘Not that I know.’

  ‘How about hotels or restaurants?’

  ‘There’s just the Hôtel de la Poste. Nothing special. Used to be good but it changed hands and they say the grub’s terrible now.’

  ‘Nothing else? Nothing classy?’

  ‘Nothing I know of, Patron.’

  ‘But Arri was going out there. Regularly, that type said. What was he doing then? Moonlighting? Working in a restaurant we don’t know about? Is that where those wine bottles at his house came from?’ Pel frowned. ‘Somewhere between Arbaçay and Vallefrie, Clenot said.’ He began stuffing cigarettes into his pocket. ‘Perhaps we should go and have a look, Lagé. We might find something interesting.’

  The road between Arbaçay and Vallefrie was long and straight and ran between extensive woods on either side for a matter of eight or nine kilometres. There were no villages in between, hardly a house in fact. Just an occasional farm, shabby-looking and ramshackle because it didn’t seem to be good farming country. They didn’t see many people. Just an old woman on a bicycle with a couple of loaves stuck into her saddle pannier. A symbol of France, Pel decided. If France ever had a new coat of arms, it would be crossed baguettes with a ficelle rampant and the motto ‘Let them eat bread’.