Pel And The Touch Of Pitch

by Mark Hebden

  ‘And Kaufman?’

  ‘He organised it. He had a middleman to contact owners of genuine paintings, and find charities who would be happy to receive gifts. There was also a type to copy the pictures and some guy who knew enough about art to write a provenance – the verification which would suggest the picture was genuine. Kaufman, of course, took a cut and, in addition, had a little sideline selling duds to eager collectors.’

  Pel listened carefully, his fingers entwined, his spectacles up on his forehead.

  ‘The racket was finally uncovered and broken up by the police,’ Nosjean went on. ‘But it seems Kaufman wasn’t arrested and they think he came to Europe and transferred his operations here because Europe’s considered safer for the production of fake works of art. It seems they’re copied over here and then smuggled unframed into the States. The racket, of course, can’t be operated here because we don’t have this tax exemption for donations to charity in Europe. But the profit’s enormous and the Americans think the same organisation exactly has been set up. There’s a middleman, a copyist and a guy to write the provenance, with Kaufman beavering away behind it all. The middleman persuades an owner to have his painting restored and, while it’s being restored, a copy’s made, and from this other copies are made. The original’s returned to the owner and nobody knows what’s happening. There’s a Belgian involved and a few types busy over canvas, while the whole thing’s stage managed at a safe distance. It’s a racket of some size and I seemed to have got into it.’

  Pel was deep in thought. ‘And this Kaufman, of course, has a European organiser?’

  ‘Yes, Patron.’

  ‘Are you on to him?’

  ‘I’m making progress. It’s not been easy but I’ve built up a file on art frauds and they all seem to be connected.’ Nosjean outlined what he had discovered and the people involved: Chevrier, the fabric designer who bought pictures because he liked art; Macus, who bought them because he was a twister who’d been involved in insurance frauds before; Vacchi, who simply wanted to impress people. ‘Barclay,’ Nosjean shrugged. ‘He lent the picture – several pictures, in fact – for the opening of the Hôtel du Grand Cerf at Lorne, but he also sold a picture – two, in fact, Patron – to the Collège Privé de l’Est. The college was very pleased to have them and didn’t quibble about the price he put on them – 500,000 francs each. If they’d been genuine, they got a bargain, but one of them certainly isn’t genuine and I think, if we got Professor Grandjean to look at the other, we’d probably find that isn’t either because it seems to have come from the same source as all the others and the provenance and valuation are by the same old boy who claims to be a professor but isn’t.’

  ‘So Barclay was taken in?’

  Nosjean gestured. ‘If he sold two dud paintings for 500,000 francs each, Patron,’ he said, ‘then he wasn’t taken in. Whoever came off badly, Patron, it wasn’t Barclay.’

  Was it Barclay who was working the fiddle? Had he, in fact, been working a lot of fiddles? And was that the reason why he was kidnapped? It was an interesting point but one which Pel could see quite clearly was not at the moment in his own field of play.

  ‘Do I pass it on to Lamiel, Patron?’ Nosjean asked.

  ‘Leave it with me for a while,’ Pel suggested. ‘It’s a tricky one. Lamiel’s looking for terrorists and he’s determined to find terrorists. He might not be very happy to learn this.’

  He looked at Nosjean, his mind whirring away like wasps wings. ‘You remember the châteaux thefts, mon brave?’ he asked.

  Nosjean nodded. ‘1980, Patron. A few types were sent down.’

  ‘The men who did the breaking in. Got their names?’

  ‘Sure, Patron. I picked them up. Demi-sels, small-timers, both of them. Jean-Jacques Raméai and Henri Préz. Raméai was the skilled man. Préz was the hired help. I hear they’ve just got out.’

  Pel sniffed and rubbed his nose. ‘I need your friend, Raméai,’ he said.

  Nosjean looked startled.

  ‘I need to get into the Manoir de Varas,’ Pel explained quietly. ‘I need to get in – and out again – quickly and quietly, without anyone knowing. Could it be done?’

  It took Nosjean’s breath away but he was prepared to bet Pel had a good reason. ‘Do we know anything about the place, Patron?’

  ‘There’s no burglar alarm. No guard dogs. No gardien. I also suspect that security’s lax. Can Raméai get me in?’

  ‘Name of God, Patron…!’

  ‘Can he?’

  Nosjean swallowed. ‘I dare bet he could.’

  ‘Can you find him?’

  ‘I’m sure I can.’

  ‘Then bring him him.’

  Two days later Jean-Jacques Raméai appeared in Pel’s office. He was understandably nervous. He hadn’t mended his ways and he expected to be charged with something.

  Pel didn’t beat about the bush. ‘I need to get into a house,’ he said. ‘The house is empty and there’s no burglar alarm, no guard dog and no caretaker. I think you can get me in – and out again – without anyone knowing.’

  Raméai looked indignant. ‘You think I’m going to risk my neck on a job like that?’ he bleated.

  ‘Yes, I do,’ Pel said calmly. ‘I’ve been having a look at you and I think you’re as shifty as you were when you were sent down seven years ago.’

  It was only a guess but it was a good one and Raméai went pale. ‘Look, Chief,’ he said. ‘I don’t know what you know…’

  ‘Never mind what I know. Are you prepared to do it?’

  ‘What do I get out of it?’

  ‘Nothing, except a promise to tear up the evidence I have in my hands about you.’

  Raméai thought for a long time, gnawing at the quick on his finger. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘I’ll need a good look-out, though.’

  Pel smiled. ‘You’ll have one. Nosjean here.’

  Nosjean’s head came up, startled. ‘Patron…’

  ‘Dry up, Nosjean. Is it a deal?’

  Raméai shrugged. ‘I’ve got no option, have I?’

  ‘No,’ Pel said cheerfully. ‘You haven’t.’

  Raméai swallowed. ‘I’ll need to look the place over,’ he said.

  ‘You’ll be given the opportunity. There’s a barbed wire fence but I doubt if that will cause problems. How long do you need? There are a lot of trees. A good pair of binoculars should tell you all you want to know.’

  ‘How long have I got?’

  ‘Forty-eight hours.’

  Raméai jeered. ‘I like to take longer than that.’

  ‘You don’t have longer. We need to get on with it.’

  ‘Suppose I just bolt?’

  ‘I wouldn’t advise you to.’

  ‘Suppose I sell it to the newspapers?’

  ‘I wouldn’t advise that, either. Doubtless, if it comes off there’ll be a small contribution from police funds.’ Providing, Pel thought, he could square it with the Chief. ‘It would be worth your while in more ways than one.’

  He produced a map and marked the spot, and as Raméai disappeared, looking vaguely troubled, he sat back. He had been accused of touching pitch; now he was touching it with a vengeance. He just hoped it would prove worth while.

  Raméai’s voice came on the telephone two days later, soft, quiet, sibilant.

  ‘It’s as easy as falling off a log,’ he said.

  ‘I thought it might be.’

  ‘There’s an unfastened shutter on the first floor just above the main door. The windows are latched but I can open them. Then I can go downstairs and open a side door I saw. I expect it’s only bolted. I’ve got a plan of the place.’

  ‘How did you manage that miracle?’

  ‘It used to be open to the public and I found the old gardien and got his plan off him. He says there’s some good stuff in there.’

  ‘Where,’ Pel warned, ‘it will remain.’

  ‘All right, all right,’ Raméai said bitterly. ‘When do we do it?’

  P
el glanced out of the window. ‘It’s a fine day and the weather forecast is good. How about tonight?’

  As Nosjean’s car pulled off the road among the trees, Raméai leaned forward. ‘Look, suppose a cop comes by and sees the car,’ he said.

  ‘He won’t,’ Pel pointed out. ‘The men at Vallefrie and Arbaçay have been informed that there’s a suspected planned break-in at the Chateau de Chameroi-Fontaine at Praislay and they’ve been drafted there to keep an eye on the place. Despite their mutual dislike, they’re panting with enthusiasm and excitement and expecting to get promotion by capturing the thieves.’

  Raméai snorted. ‘Poor bastard thieves!’

  ‘Save your sympathy,’ Pel said. ‘There aren’t any. It’s a false alarm.’

  It was dark by this time but Raméai led them unerringly into the bushes and shone his torch on the two-strand barbed wire fence. As Lagé put a foot on the bottom strand and hauled up the other, they scrambled through and pushed their way into the undergrowth, leaving Lagé behind to give a warning if anything went wrong. Once they came to a sudden stop as they heard movement in the bushes but it turned out to be a fox, and they saw its eyes glowing in the torch’s beam.

  Raméai found his way to a daunting cast-iron fence which had once been the original boundary, but one of the railings had been broken and it wasn’t difficult to slip through. Soon they were moving across a wide lawn that led to the front of the house, then their feet were crunching on thick gravel.

  Raméai indicated the three large glass doors of the terrace. ‘Locked,’ he said. ‘And bolted from inside. I’m not touching them.’ He gestured to the first floor windows. ‘That’s where I’m going.’

  On the terrace he produced a rope from his bag. It had a three-pronged hook on the end, the spikes covered with bicycle inner tube to stop it clattering. Tossing it up, he managed to hook it on a convenient protuberance.

  ‘I’ll be seeing you,’ he said. ‘Wait for me by the side door.’

  They watched him, a shadowy figure as he made his way along the wide ledge below the first floor windows. Then they heard the clink of tools and a faint grating sound.

  ‘Patron,’ Nosjean said, ‘I don’t like this.’

  Pel sniffed. ‘Neither do I, mon brave. But there’s a lot hanging on it.’

  As they waited, they heard a loud click above their heads then the creak of a rarely-used hinge.

  ‘He’s inside,’ Pel said.

  The hook and the rope came down on them and they gathered them up. A few minutes later, as they waited by the side door, they heard bolts withdrawn, then the door opened, gaping like a cavern into the blackness.

  ‘Look slippy, for the love of God!’

  Inside, they switched on torches. The shutters were closed and secured by iron bars. ‘They don’t bother with the second floor,’ Raméai said. ‘I drilled a thirty-millimetre hole and poked a screwdriver through to lift the latch. It was a piece of cake. Where do we go now? What are we after?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Pel said. ‘I just want to look.’

  There was a strong smell of perfume and the place was luxuriously furnished, while the doors, which had been closed on Pel’s visit, when opened revealed luxuriously-appointed rooms. In one of them was a large bar, hardly the thing for a private house. Upstairs, the corridors were divided into a series of apartments. In each was a small salon containing a dining table, a chaise-longue, and comfortable armchairs. The drapings were in excellent taste. Each also contained a comfortable furnished bedroom containing a large double bed. There was a refrigerator containing drinks, and the bathrooms, like those of the cottages, contained cosmetics, perfumes and bath salts of the highest quality.

  Each bedroom was walled with mirrors and there were more mirrors above the beds. On the walls were life-size paintings of girls – all in the nude, some of them in suggestive poses. Beside the beds were low tables and it didn’t take more than a glance to see that a lot of the books they held were pornographic, but all in the best of taste, with more photographs of naked girls.

  Moving down to the kitchens, they found just what Pel had expected – plates like the ones he had found at Arri’s and at Barclay’s house in Courtois – dozens of them. The bar revealed the finest of wines and spirits and the cellar was full of grand cru wines and champagne.

  Moving to the office, they saw a string of pearls lying on the desk and, as Raméai’s hand went out to it, Pel banged his fingers with the torch. Raméai said nothing but he gave Pel a pained look. The files were all locked, but it didn’t take Raméai five minutes to open them. Pel glanced inside. The card indexes contained names, some of which startled him. Many of them came from his own city, but there were others that came from Paris – big names, important names, even one or two famous names. There were even names from England, Germany and Italy. Alongside each was a date and a number, which he assumed to be the number of the suite – and a girl’s name: Riri, Reggie, Francie, Domino, Din-Din, Nenette – all names they’d already come across. There were other similar names – Chouchou, Rosie, Lucy, Millie, Nini – and with them were their real names – Jeanne, Regina, Bernadine, Francine, Georgette, all much more commonplace than the cozy ones they’d adopted. Mostly their names were linked with the same man’s name, though occasionally they changed, and there was a cross index that indicated that sometimes parties were made up of two or more men and more girls. There was one even of four men and four girls.

  Pel nodded satisfied and indicated to Raméai to close the drawers and lock them again.

  Raméai was staring at him, puzzled. Nosjean looked strained and pale in the light of the torches.

  ‘Patron…’ he tried.

  Pel gestured. ‘Let’s go,’ he said. ‘I’ve found what I wanted to find, and it’s just what I expected to find. There’s nothing more to do here.’

  ‘It’s obvious,’ he went on quietly. ‘It’s a place for men who want to do a little business, have a little exercise, eat a little good food served on splendid china, and then go to bed with a girl. This isn’t a back street operation, but it’s still a brothel. And, Mother of God, what a brothel!’

  Eighteen

  ‘Patron,’ Nosjean looked puzzled, ‘it’s not a crime to run a brothel. Especially one which is obviously run on good lines.’

  ‘It’s a crime if it isn’t licensed,’ Pel said stiffly.

  ‘At least they kept it quiet.’

  ‘Not quiet enough. Sécret de deux, sécret de Dieu. Sécret de trois, sécret de tous. They forgot – walls have mice and mice have ears.’ But who’s going to worry about who goes to a brothel?’

  ‘Paris might not worry about who goes to a brothel,’ Pel said. ‘But the provinces do and, despite the fact that Paris thinks that what Paris does the whole of France is doing, the provinces don’t take these things so lightly. They would certainly object to a junior member of the government being involved.’

  When he reached home Madame Pel was sitting on the settee holding a small whisky and listening to Mozart. Indifferent to music, Pel poured himself a drink, and sat on a chair at the back of the room, unobtrusively reading the headlines in the newspaper until it had finished. As the machine clicked, Madame caught sight of him for the first time and reached out to touch his hand.

  ‘You’re always so good,’ she said. ‘Letting me listen to things you don’t like.’

  Pel shrugged, trying to look as if he’d behaved with true nobility but in reality fully aware that it was always easier to read the paper than try to understand eighteenth century melodies.

  ‘Was it a good day?’ she asked.

  ‘A very good day. And tomorrow I think we should go to see your Cousin Roger.’

  Madame almost dropped her glass.

  She had never known Pel enthusiastic to meet her relations before. Usually he was full of excuses but she had noticed that, though Cousin Roger was considered the black sheep of the family, somehow he and Pel had taken to each other at the party at Bois Haut.

 
A telephone call brought an enthusiastic response from Roger’s wife. She was delighted to be seeing Madame Pel again. ‘And Roger will be pleased to see Pel!’ she shrieked down the telephone.

  It was a noisy day. Roger had two cats, two dogs, several goldfish and a budgerigar, to say nothing of four children, all of them at the age when they made a lot of noise, got in the way and ate enough for a carthorse. Apart from the goldfish and the budgerigar, they all seemed to spend all their time fighting cheerfully with each other and when Pel and his wife arrived the two youngest children were playing at terrorists.

  ‘If they stick splinters under your fingernails’, one of them was saying, ‘will you tell them who sent you?’

  ‘I’ll tell them long before that.’ To Pel the reply seemed eminently sensible.

  They had lunch which started with apéritifs at midday, and finally put their coffee cups down at four in the afternoon, to look round to see if anyone was interested in tea. Roger, in fact, had dropped off to sleep in the sun.

  Pel nudged him. ‘Show me the garden,’ he said.

  Roger groaned, climbed out his chair with an effort and poured the dregs from his brandy glass into the aquarium in the hall. ‘I think it cheers them up,’ he said.

  Leaving the rest of the family squabbling over who was going to make the tea, they drifted off up the lawn towards the shrubbery.

  ‘I suppose’, Roger said, ‘you’ve come about Barclay.’

  Pel admitted the fact.

  Roger offered a cigarette and sat down on a bench in the shade. ‘He was a shifty type, you know,’ he admitted. ‘We’ve been his accountants for a long time but I never knew a period when he wasn’t always a few steps ahead of us.’ He seemed a little puzzled. ‘He’d been getting stock together,’ he went on. ‘Negotiable bonds, money, company assets that could be sold. I think he was planning to go to America. He’d applied for a residence permit there, I know, and he’d been transferring funds for some time.’