Pel And The Touch Of Pitch

by Mark Hebden

  ‘I wasn’t.’

  ‘You passed on the information to someone that it would be available in its garage the weekend Barclay was kidnapped.’

  ‘I didn’t.’

  ‘I think you did. Who to?’

  But that was the end. Journais refused to say any more. ‘Take him away,’ Pel said. ‘You’d better lock him up, Daniel. He’s already said too much for his own safety and if we want him as a witness, it’ll be best not to turn him loose.’ He paused. ‘I suppose you’d better inform Lamiel.’

  Darcy shrugged. ‘Lamiel isn’t available,’ he said. ‘He’s still in Paris and Thomas is with him. The rest of his mob seem to be scattered half-way across Burgundy.’

  Sixteen

  The news that there was someone in residence at the Manoir de Varas came sooner than they expected. It was the brigadier from Arbaçay who supplied the information.

  ‘There’s someone there at the moment, sir,’ he said. ‘I saw a car turn into the drive as I went past on the way to Vallefrie. I turned round and went back but it had disappeared, so it must be inside. The gates are closed but I tried them and they’re not locked. I don’t suppose that clot from Vallefrie noticed anything, did he?’

  Slamming down the telephone, Pel yelled for Lagé, then changed his mind and started yelling for Claudie Darel instead. He wasn’t sure what he expected to find at the Manoir de Varas but, if it were Madame Danton-Criot, he had a feeling that Claudie might be a better bet than Lagé, with his slow movements and big feet.

  Sure enough, the gates were closed but not secured and Pel opened them enough for Claudie to drive in, then closed them behind them. A big Volvo was parked outside the front door as they halted and climbed the steps to ring the bell. There was a long silence then the door was opened by a girl. Pel’s mouth dropped open because she was beautiful. Darcy had been right.

  She looked startled, though. ‘How did you get in?’ she demanded sharply.

  Pel gestured. ‘The gates were unlocked.’

  ‘That doesn’t mean they’re open to everybody.’

  Pel produced his identity card. ‘We’re not everybody,’ he said. ‘We’re the police.’

  For a moment she seemed nonplussed, then a smile came, a flashing smile like a searchlight that warmed the heart and took the chill out of the interview. ‘Oh, well,’ she said. ‘I suppose it’s our own fault. I’m Domino. Domino Doignat.’

  Domino, for God’s sake, Pel thought. Perhaps he’d no cause to complain about Evariste Clovis Désiré. On the other hand, Domino was probably her own choice, which was different.

  ‘I wish to see Madame Danton-Criot,’ he said.

  The girl looked slightly disconcerted. ‘I think Madame Dédé’s busy just at this moment,’ she said.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Madame Dédé. That’s what I call Madame Danton.’

  ‘You are on warm terms with her?’

  ‘Of course. She likes to be friendly.’

  ‘Then I hope she’ll be friendly enough not to be too busy to see me.’

  There was a long wait in the hall as the girl vanished, and Pel sat on a stiff-backed chair so high his toes barely touched the floor. His eyes were all over the place and his nose was twitching.

  ‘Perfume,’ he said. ‘What is it, Claudie?’

  Claudie sniffed. ‘Chanel? Rochas? Dior? Whatever it is, it’s expensive.’

  After a while, they heard doors slamming and the girl reappeared, to lead them down a short corridor. All the doors they passed were firmly closed, Pel noticed, and the few articles of furniture in the corridor were all covered with dust sheets.

  ‘Madame Danton’s only just returned from the United States,’ the girl said. ‘And she’s off to her villa on the south coast tomorrow for a rest.’

  The room into which they were shown looked like an office. There were metal filing cabinets, shelves full of ledgers and what looked like a card index system. There were also several deep leather armchairs, a painting by Toulouse-Lautrec on the wall and a huge desk behind which sat a woman Pel assumed was Madame Danton-Criot. Once again, Darcy had been right.

  She was beautiful, with huge eyes and a cloud of dark hair. She rose as they entered, tall and stately with perfect features and a superb figure that was clothed in a blue dress that matched her eyes and showed her shape to perfection. Yet, somehow, there seemed to be something missing. She was a woman who wore her sex like a badge of office but her face remained that of a businesswoman and there was no innocence there.

  ‘Chief Inspector Pel,’ she said. ‘Please do sit down. Domino, how about some tea?’ She smiled at Pel. ‘You’re lucky. Officially, I’m not here. I’m just between trips. I’ve just returned from the States and I’m due to leave on Sunday for the south for a week. I have a villa at Saint-Tropez. Normally the gates would be locked but today, because we weren’t staying long, we decided not to bother and you found them unsecured.’ She gestured at the girl. ‘Domino is my companion.’

  ‘Doesn’t she find it lonely here, Madame?’ Pel asked. ‘Without other young people around.’

  Madame Danton shrugged. ‘Oh, it’s not that lonely. And she always goes away with me when I go. She’ll be with me at St Trop’. She looks after tickets and luggage and hotels and hire cars and that sort of thing and when we’re here we have a lot of guests. Young men among them. She enjoys herself, I think.’

  They chatted about the weather for a while, then the girl appeared with a tray and proceeded to pour tea and hand it round. Pel took his with a nod of thanks, sipped it, then produced the picture of Arri.

  ‘We’re trying to identify this man, Madame,’ he pointed out. ‘We have his name. Jules Arri. An ex-soldier. He had a job somewhere round here – possibly in Arbaçay, possibly in Vallefrie. We can’t find out where and I’m wondering if perhaps you know him.’

  Madame Danton studied the picture. ‘Should I?’

  ‘He was dropped every night somewhere between Arbaçay and Vallefrie and there’s nothing between them except isolated farms who certainly didn’t employ him and don’t know him. That only leaves this place. Could he perhaps have been employed here in some capacity?’

  She shook her head and offered the photograph to the girl who also shook her head.

  Pel kept his face straight. ‘He’s not on your staff?’ he asked.

  She smiled, the picture of graciousness. ‘We have a very small staff. They all live in.’

  ‘Where are they now?’

  ‘They’re all on holiday. When I go away, so do the staff. It’s an arrangement that suits them well. There are only three and I’ve sent them all on splendid holidays. The cook’s gone to Majorca, the housemaid to Corfu.’

  ‘And you paid for them? That must be expensive.’

  ‘It’s also a good way to keep your staff. They have a pretty good life. When I entertain, I do so in style. But when I’m not here, I close the place up.’

  ‘It’s a fine house,’ Pel said.

  She smiled. ‘We’ve transformed it,’ she agreed. ‘It’s now become quite a show-piece.’

  ‘Have you thought, Madame, of making it a château classé and having people visit it? There’s a lot of money in it.’

  Madame Danton smiled again. ‘We haven’t reached that stage yet. It might come to that, but at the moment it’s just a home. We’re always trying to improve. We’re building a new swimming pool at the moment. A smaller one. Some of our friends have children and, as they’re too small to be in the big pool, we decided to build a new one especially for them. We started a day or two ago. We got a firm from Dijon. They sent a digger. It was working near Vallefrie so we contacted them and they sent it over at once. It’s important to get it finished quickly. We’ll get Piscines Myrtha from Dijon to concrete and tile it when we return from St Trop’.’

  ‘Is the house safe to leave?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘I hope you have a good burglar alarm system?’

  She laughed. ‘We have good sh
utters.’

  ‘Guard dogs?’

  ‘No guard dogs. They frighten my friends.’

  ‘No gardien?’

  ‘My friends don’t like to be regarded as security risks.’

  Pel slipped his coffee and examined the cup. ‘Pretty china,’ he commented.

  ‘I like nice things.’

  ‘I’ve seen the pattern before somewhere.’

  ‘It’s not uncommon.

  Pel gestured. ‘Don’t you find this place large for one person, Madame?’

  She smiled. ‘Not really. I was brought up in a place like this. My father was very wealthy and had a small château in Provence. You’ve probably heard of him. The Baron de Mahieu.’

  Pel hadn’t.

  ‘And the house is yours?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  ‘But I understand the cheque for it was paid for by a Belgian gentleman by the name of Edmonde Dupont.’

  She looked startled that he knew the name but she recovered quickly. ‘Well, yes,’ she said. ‘He’s my cousin. He’s a very wealthy man. But he’s a bachelor and he does a lot of travelling on business. He has an apartment in Paris but he felt he wanted a pied-à-terre in the country. He likes shooting. He bought this place.’

  ‘So it isn’t really yours?’

  She shrugged. ‘Well, yes, it is. He wanted a country home and someone to look after it. He installed the swimming pool and the tennis and squash courts. He’s very keen on keeping fit. The house was then made over to me. It’s as simple as that.’

  Pel spoke, blank-faced. ‘And what does he get in return, Madame?’

  She studied Pel for a moment then she laughed. ‘I know what you’re thinking, Monsieur,’ she said. ‘But it isn’t that. I look after it, that’s all. We have an arrangement that if he should ever wish to marry, then the house reverts to him and I receive compensation in the form of another house of equal quality.’

  ‘Think she’s this type Dupont’s mistress?’ Pel asked as they drove down the long winding drive.

  ‘She’s something a bit odd,’ Claudie decided.

  ‘There’s some connection between her and Arri. Those plates we had our biscuits on were the same as the ones at Arri’s cottage – and at Barclay’s house at Courtois.’

  As they closed the big iron gates at the bottom of the drive a car drew up. It was a large and expensive-looking Mercedes and the driver was a young man very smartly dressed in a blazer, grey flannels and a pink shirt with a blue polka dot silk scarf at his throat. He glanced out of the car window at Claudie, who was just pulling the gates into place.

  ‘Hello,’ he said cheerfully. ‘I haven’t met you, have I? Are you new?’

  ‘No,’ Claudie said. ‘I’ve been around for quite a while.’

  ‘Really? How about turning round then? I’m just going in.’

  Claudie smiled sweetly as she climbed into the car alongside Pel. ‘Afraid you can’t,’ she pointed out. ‘The place’s closed.’

  He looked started. ‘What do you mean? Closed?’

  ‘What I said – closed.’

  ‘It can’t be. It’s never closed.’

  ‘It is now.’

  ‘Who’s closed it?’

  ‘The police, for a start.’ Claudie beamed. ‘I’m police!’

  The man’s jaw dropped and he promptly put his car into reverse. ‘I’ve obviously got the wrong place,’ he said. ‘Place I was looking for was a hotel.’

  He did the fastest three-point turn Pel had ever seen and, since the car was powerful, he was half a kilometre away before they could do anything to stop him.

  Pel stared after it for a moment. ‘It makes you think, doesn’t it?’ he said slowly.

  ‘Yes, Patron,’ Claudie agreed. ‘And I expect that what you’re thinking is the same as what I’m thinking.’

  Pel nodded. ‘I’d be very interested to get inside this place when there’s nobody around,’ he said. ‘Sunday evening, for instance, after she’s left for St Trop’. Meantime, Claudie, get in touch with the Quai des Orfèvres. Ask them if they’ve ever heard of this type, Bernard Rykx. If necessary, try Interpol. You could also look up the Repertoire des Administrateurs, Directeurs et Gérants Français. He should be in there.’

  Claudie didn’t take long.

  ‘Bernard Rykx, Patron,’ she said. ‘The only Rykx they know in Paris is a Georges Rykx. Also known as Dupont. A Belgian who’s lived in France for thirty years. He seems to be a very dubious piece of goods.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘They aren’t sure. They’ve never been able to pin anything on him, but they think he’s mixed up with the gangs. I also had a long session with the Directory of Directors, Administrators and Managers. It gave a lot of Georges Rykx’s interests. It also gave a lot of Barclay’s, too, Patron, and I noticed that some of them were the same.’

  ‘And Rykx is involved with the gangs?’ Pel frowned. ‘So: Is Barclay also?’ The case seemed to grow more confused with every enquiry they made.

  ‘Could they be working together somehow, Patron?’

  ‘I’ve known stranger things in politics.’

  ‘Could they have been ever since they were young men? Could Rykx – who must be that Risse type in Marseilles, Patron – could he have found out about that little peccadillo we unearthed that could have been Barclay, learned more about him from Loget, the civilian in the records department who sold information, tried to blackmail him and in the end decided to work with him?’

  ‘It’s pure supposition,’ Pel said.

  ‘Yes, of course, Patron. But a man like Rykx could use Barclay’s political influence to good value. Perhaps Barclay couldn’t refuse in case Rykx brought out what he knew about him and the girl, Denise Darnand.’

  Pel studied his fingers for a moment, pushed his spectacles up on to his forehead, lit a cigarette slowly and deliberately, drew several deep satisfying drags at it, then looked up.

  ‘Could Denise Darnand be Dominique Danton-Criot?’ he asked.

  It was worth thinking about.

  Pierre Lamotte, known to the police as Pépé le Cornet, had crossed Pel’s path on more than one occasion, the last time when Pel had put his second-in-command away for a long time for organising a big jewel haul. His home was on the outskirts of Paris near Meudon, a large house in its own grounds and surrounded by iron railings. As Pel – by arrangement made on the telephone – drove in, he noticed men prowling about and what looked like large and fierce Dobermanns wandering around loose.

  He was shown in by a square dark man who looked as if he might be a Corsican and led down a corridor. Pépé le Cornet was sitting in a deep armchair, stroking a very small lapdog. Alongside him was a woman who seemed to be dripping diamonds and looked as if she’d just stepped out of the Folies Bergère. While policemen struggled along in old cars, in small houses, with wives in clothes they’d had for years, crooks had magnificent houses, drove Citroën CXs, Cadillacs, even Rolls Royces, had pads in the Seychelles and the South of France, and women as beautiful as goddesses.

  ‘Chief Inspector Pel!’ Pépé didn’t rise. Indeed, he was so fat these days, Pel noticed, he would probably have found it an effort. ‘This is a bit unexpected. Sit down. Drink?’ He gestured at the woman. ‘Cherie, a drink for the Chief.’ He stroked the Pekinese on his lap and looked at Pel. ‘My little favourite,’ he said.

  ‘I hope you don’t let it out unaccompanied,’ Pel said dryly. ‘The Dobermanns look as though they’d eat it for breakfast.’

  Pépé frowned, then he managed a grin. ‘I’m very careful, Chief’ he said. ‘Especially these days. What can I do for you?’

  Pel decided to come straight to the point. ‘Know a man called Claude Barclay?’ he asked.

  Pépé’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Deputy Barclay?’ he asked. ‘Look here, Chief, don’t come here accusing me…’

  ‘I’m not accusing you,’ Pel snapped. ‘I asked if you knew him.’ Pépé calmed down. ‘Well, yes, I know him. Half France knows him. Especially si
nce he was kidnapped.’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘I’ve heard a few things.’

  ‘Such as what?’

  ‘Such as that he’s not all he’s cracked up to be.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘He has his finger in a few pies.’

  ‘What sort of pies?’

  Pépé clammed up. ‘Look, Chief, you shouldn’t be asking me these questions.’

  Pel acknowledged the fact. He was touching pitch again with a vengeance and could land up in a lot of trouble. But it had to be done.

  ‘We’re on different sides of the fence, Chief,’ Pépé pointed out.

  ‘Sometimes even enemies arrange an armistice,’ Pel said.

  ‘That’s true enough, Chief. But I’m not telling you anything. I’ve said all I’m going to say. Have another drink?’

  Pel declined and shifted the course of the conversation.

  ‘Bernard Rykx,’ he said. ‘Ever heard of him?’

  Pépé’s face suddenly closed up and the hand that was stroking the Pekinese stopped. He gestured at the woman and she rose and left the room.

  ‘What are you after, Chief?’

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘I don’t know anybody called Bernard Rykx. But I know a little shit called Georges Rykx who’s trying to muscle in on things. Is he the one?’

  ‘More than likely. Is he interested in the things you’re interested in, Pépé?’

  Pépé managed to compose himself. ‘I’m not interested in anything these days,’ he said. ‘I’m too old. I’ve gone legitimate. You can inspect my books, if you like.’

  ‘So what about Rykx? Why does he worry you?’

  ‘He doesn’t worry me, Chief. But he worries a few people round here and in Marseilles.

  ‘Such as Maurice Tagliatti?’

  ‘Maurice wouldn’t mind seeing him off.’

  ‘What sort of things is he in?’

  ‘You name it, he’s in it.’

  ‘Drugs?’

  ‘Drugs. Booze. Nightspots. Protection. Pimping. Brothels. He tried to muscle in on the Nice casino business but Maurice saw him off.’

  ‘How come he’s never been picked up?’