by Mark Hebden
‘This sort of thing doesn’t help,’ Pel growled.
He prowled about, studying the ground about him. One of the lab men lifted his head.
‘Anything?’ Pel asked.
‘Not much, Patron, beyond a few cigarette ends. None of them particularly new.’
When Nosjean came back, Pel was standing with his hands in his pockets, his shoulders hunched.
‘I’ve contacted the type who runs the gymnasium, Patron,’ he said. ‘Name of Martinelle – Georges Martinelle. It’s only a small one, with about fifty boys. He’s an ex-major. Not a fighting man, it seems, but a physical training instructor who ended up in charge of all recruit training at Clermont-Ferrand.’
‘What about the boy?’
‘He couldn’t say. He’s promised to take a list of his members round to the Hôtel de Police. I let them know to expect it.’
‘Who? Darcy?’
‘Cadet Martin was on the desk. He said everybody was out.’
‘Everybody?’
‘Well, there’s no one in Goriot’s office and there seems to be nobody in ours.’
‘What’s happened to Misset?’
‘He seems to have disappeared too, now, Patron.’
‘He would. What in God’s name is Darcy doing? He should be here by this time.’
Leaving Nosjean to look after things, Pel signed to Brigadier Soulas, who drove him to the substation where his car was parked. By this time, the celebrations had a worn look. The band was still thumping out its beat but the bar had run out of drink and only a few youngsters were still dancing. Everybody else had gone home. Pel glanced at his watch. It was past midnight.
‘What in the name of God’s Darcy up to?’ he growled again.
With every policeman in the village suddenly on duty, the telephone was being attended by Madame Soulas.
‘I have a message for you,’ she said. ‘Inspector Darcy rang. Will you ring in at once?’
Pel glared. ‘Will I ring in?’ he growled. ‘Who does Darcy think he is?’
He picked up the telephone and dialled the number of the Hôtel de Police. The operator answered at once but it seemed to require a long time to get hold of Darcy. When he finally answered, he sounded breathless and in a hurry.
‘I think you’d better get back here, Patron,’ he said immediately before Pel could start asking questions.
‘What do you mean, I should get back there?’ Pel snapped. ‘You should be out here. We’ve got a murder on our hands.’
There was a moment’s silence. When Darcy’s voice came it sounded tired and deflated. ‘So have we, Patron.’ He spoke slowly and clearly so there should be no mistake about what he was saying. ‘Four! Three of them cops!’
Four
By the time Pel reached the Hôtel de Police he was grey with weariness, but if anything Darcy looked even more tired. Darcy was a handsome young man, dark-haired with flashing eyes and a way with women. It had often been in Pel’s mind that while he, Pel, didn’t spend enough time in other people’s beds, Darcy probably spent too much. Nevertheless, he was a good policeman who was always willing to work long hours, and had enough energy, if it could only have been harnessed to the power system, to run a battleship. At that moment, however, he looked jaded in a way that didn’t spring entirely from physical weariness.
His ash-tray was filled with half-smoked cigarette stubs and his desk was littered with half-consumed cups of coffee. In the office outside, Claudie Darel, the sole woman member of Pel’s team, was talking on the radio and he noticed that Cadet Martin, whose job really consisted of looking after the mail and running errands, was by the telephone despite the hour.
‘Everybody else’s out,’ Darcy said. ‘Every damned man we could raise. We’ve dragged them out of bed and off leave, and left messages when we couldn’t find them. Goriot’s in hospital with a bullet in his hip and one in the thigh. Desouches is dead. So are Lemadre and Brigadier Randolfi, of Uniformed Branch. Durin’s in hospital with Goriot.’
It made Pel’s little affair out at Vieilly sound tame. He became calm at once, his temper subsiding as he realised what Darcy had been handling. ‘Inform me,’ he said.
Darcy did so. ‘They were rushed to hospital,’ he continued. ‘But Randolfi was already dead, shot through the heart, with two other bullets just above the hipbone. Goriot’s suffering from shock and loss of blood. Lemadre was brought in with six bullet wounds in him, one just above the right scapula, a second an inch to the right of the tenth dorsal disc, a third in the left side, an inch below the tip of the left rib, a fourth and fifth in the left thigh, and another in the right calf. He was suffering from internal haemorrhage and was operated on at once, but he died within the hour. Desouches was brought in semi-conscious, a bullet in the right shoulder joint, another in the neck. His spinal cord was partially severed and his lower limbs were paralysed. He answered a few questions rationally but we’ve just heard he’s died, too. His wife was expecting a baby. Durin’s thigh was smashed. There was also a woman who happened to be just going home. Bullet in the head.’
‘What happened?’ Pel asked, shocked. ‘Did someone declare war?’
‘It started as an investigation into a suspected break-in.’ Darcy described what had happened. ‘They just let go with everything they had. Then the bang came. They obviously had explosives there and one of the shots must have hit the charge and up it went. Or else they’d prepared some mechanism for Zimbach’s safe and, when Goriot’s people arrived, they forgot it in the panic.’
‘Was no one arrested?’ Pel asked quietly.
‘Patron, every man but one of the group that went to investigate was hit, and that one was buried by the debris of the explosion.’
Pel gestured. ‘I wasn’t criticising, Daniel,’ he said gently and Darcy looked up because he couldn’t remember the last time Pel had used his first name.
‘We have a witness called Arthur Mattigny,’ he went on. ‘He says he saw two men helping a third man away and a woman hurrying behind. When Mattigny stared at them, the woman screamed “Go away, go away” at him. He thought the man was drunk and it was only when he got round the corner into the Impasse Tarien that he realised something had happened. Then he saw Randolfi on the pavement and thought the police had put on a raid on a brothel and Randolfi had been shot as they broke in. Whoever they were, they’ve got plenty of ammunition. Apart from what’s been dug out of Goriot, Durin and the dead men, they’ve already found seven bullets in what’s left of the house. There must be more under the debris.’
‘And the house?’
‘Wrecked.’
‘And the people who were seen escaping?’
‘They got away, Patron.’
‘Car?’
‘Nobody’s reported seeing them get into a car. When the smoke had gone and we’d cleared our casualties away, there was nobody there. They must have disappeared in the confusion. When I arrived the place was empty. De Troquereau got the witnesses into a bar and started questioning them. He was on the ball at once.’
‘Lagé? Misset?’
Darcy managed a small twisted smile. ‘Just like Lagé and Misset. They did their job but I wouldn’t give either of them top marks for brilliance. We’ve got Aimedieu working with us, from Goriot’s squad. He’s only a kid but he’s useful. He’s also the only one who was there and knows more or less what happened. We’ve also got Brochard and Debray from Goriot’s squad. It looks as though we’re going to be busy, because Goriot’s squad’s been cut to half size.’
‘Go on.’
‘We’ve got a search going on now. There’s a group of workshops at the end of the street and Misset’s going through it with the uniformed branch in case they went in there. Personally, I don’t think they did. There was food in the house and I found a pressure gauge, a flexible metal tube and several feet of rubber tube. The windows have been broken by the firing and bullets were found in the ceiling. It was like a Wild West shoot-out.’
Pel listened patiently
, saying nothing, and Darcy went on.
‘In the back yard there were indications that someone had climbed the wall to get into the house. There was an oxygen cylinder, broken bricks and tungsten-tipped drills, a carpenter’s brace, a chisel, crowbars and a metal wrench. A hole had been made in the brickwork, twenty-four inches high and twenty across. In the house there was mortar, sand, pressure lamps and asbestos boarding. The door was locked from inside and jammed so it couldn’t be opened. The ammunition all seems to be Browning. There’s a safe in Zimbach’s place that contains jewellery. It’s concreted in and they were either going to chisel it out or break into it.’
‘Any ideas who they were?’
‘I’ve got my suspicions.’
‘You’d better make them public, mon brave.’
Darcy looked up. ‘I think they’re terrorists,’ he said.
Terrorists! That was something they could do without.
For a moment, Pel sat in silence. Then, as he fished for a cigarette and found he hadn’t any, Darcy pushed a packet across and leaned forward with the lighter.
‘Can’t have this, Patron,’ he said gently. ‘Smoking mine.’
‘I’ve been smoking yours for years,’ Pel growled.
‘Not lately, Patron. I’d begun to think you’d deserted to the non-smokers.’
‘I wish to God I could,’ Pel said.
He huddled in his chair, his head down, still wearing his hat, deep in thought.
‘Why do you think they’re terrorists?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know, Patron. Just a hunch. We’ve had a lot of people drift into this area in recent years, accepting low wages that are pushed even further down by their numbers. There was that riot at Castel and that case last month at the glass works near Dôle. Attempted wages snatch. They got away, you’ll remember, but not with any money, and when they were holed up in Longeau they shot themselves. They were identified as dissident Algerians. We also know of other groups.’ Darcy stopped to draw breath. ‘How about yours, Chief?’ he asked. ‘I gather you’ve got one, too.’
Pel started. In his absorption with the killing of the policemen, he had almost forgotten Vieilly.
‘A child,’ he said. ‘Nosjean’s handling it for the time being.’ He rose, his hands in his pockets. ‘We’d better do a check,’ he said. ‘The Maire’s diary. The Prefect’s. If these people of yours are terrorists and were preparing explosives, what were they for? They must have been for something. Get in touch with the Palais des Ducs. There must be something coming up they were hoping to disrupt. Let’s have a list of possibilities. And let’s have everybody in for a conference first thing in the morning. Uniformed branch can keep an eye on Vieilly and the Impasse Tarien until we’ve sorted things out. You’d also better get on to the Chief and see if we can have a few men from Uniformed Branch for a while. We’ll sure as God need them, because there’s going to be an outcry in the press: Three policemen and a woman dead, two more wounded, and a boy dead at Vieilly. Make it early. And tell Misset if he’s one second late, he’ll be back on traffic.’
‘That’d be no help, Patron,’ Darcy said wearily. ‘We’re going to need everybody we can get – even Misset.’
By the following morning the shock was beginning to subside a little. The death of a policeman always sent a wave of anger rippling through a police force. Though they all knew the chances of dying at their job existed, nevertheless when someone did it always came as a blow. And three! Three was a massacre!
Inside the Hôtel de Police the scene was chaotic. Everybody was in a mood of cold anger, stunned by the killing. There was a crowd outside, that grew bigger every minute with children, reporters and television cameramen.
Darcy and Pel had organised their team by this time. Sergeants experienced in murder had been brought in from the districts, and other men had been called in to work behind the scenes, to collate the facts, interview callers, keep records and generally make themselves useful. Extra telephones had been installed, empty cabinets arranged, and filing indexes set up with typewriters and stationery.
Going to the scene of the shootings, Pel found the Impasse Tarien cordoned off by police cars. The newspapers were already carrying banner headlines and the television and radio had put out bulletins. As he moved into the wrecked house, there seemed to be dozens of policemen around – in cars, on motor-cycles, on foot.
As he talked with Darcy a man was brought in. He was small and nervous.
‘Gilles Roman,’ he introduced himself. ‘I might have a clue.’
Pel eyed him hostilely, expecting another of the wild statements they’d been receiving ever since the shootings had taken place. ‘Well?’ he asked. ‘What is it?’
‘I saw a car in the Rue Claude-Picard,’ Roman said. ‘It’s only a few hundred metres from here. I couldn’t tell what make it was but it was pale blue and it was going fast. I saw it scrape three other cars which were parked there. It didn’t stop.’
‘Its number?’ Pel asked.
‘I got some of it.’
Pel could have kissed him. At last they had something to work on. ‘Let’s have what you got.’
‘9701-R – and then I lost it.’
Pel gestured at Darcy. ‘Get him down to the Hôtel de Police,’ he said. ‘Then get hold of traffic and find out everything you can about this incident. Get hold of everybody who had a car parked in Claude-Picard and came back to find it damaged. One of them might just have seen something. And let’s find who was driving this blue job. We might have something to report to the conference.’
The lecture room at the Hôtel de Police was crowded. Even the Chief was there. So were Judge Polverari and Judge Brisard, who were watching the two cases separately; Inspector Nadauld, of Uniformed Branch, who was there because he was supplying extra men; and Inspector Pomereu, of Traffic, because road blocks had been set up all round the city; to say nothing of Doc Minet, Leguyader of the Lab, Prélat, of Fingerprints, and Grenier of Photography. Half the city’s police seemed to be crowded into the lecture room, their faces bleak with the knowledge of what lay ahead of them.
Pomereu had already found the owners of the damaged cars in the Rue Claude-Picard but they had not been near their cars at the time and had seen nothing and, with Roman the only witness, everything seemed to depend on finding the car which had done the damage.
On the other hand, more people had reported seeing the two men helping a third through the street. Like Arthur Mattigny, who had been the first to see them, they had all assumed they were friends helping home a drunk and hadn’t taken much notice. From these sources, however, there had been no mention of the woman and they could only assume she’d gone ahead to warn the driver of the blue car Roman had seen or to prepare some hiding place. If nothing else, they now had descriptions of the wanted men, even if only vague, and they had been immediately put out to all forces.
By this time, every message, however trivial, that came in – and there were hundreds – was being recorded and cross-indexed, an open channel had been set aside for radio transmitting and receiving, and a special radio made available for both cars and subsidiary headquarters, an expert operator handling the Hôtel de Police end.
They all took their places and began to shuffle themselves to some sort of comfort on chairs or leaning against walls and filing cabinets. Everybody was there. Misset – running to fat and good-looking in a way that had once got him the girls but now made him look merely self-indulgent – had managed to arrive on time. Only just, but he’d made it, the last to slip into his chair.
‘Sorry I’m late, Patron,’ he had panted.
‘You’re not,’ Pel growled. ‘But you’re only just “not”.’
He stared round at his squad. Like Darcy, he was drawn with fatigue. Most of the others had managed to snatch an hour or two’s sleep but he and Darcy had been at it all night. Pel had taken a few minutes off to telephone Madame Faivre-Perret and had heard her gasp of horror as he had explained what had happened, then the to
uch of sorrow in her tones as she had said she understood.
He wondered if she did. Marriage was in the air these days but he wondered if she knew what she was letting herself in for: A lot of loneliness and empty evenings, if nothing else, and a deep involvement with the police that often alienated friends and neighbours. Fortunately, she was a businesswoman with the best hairdressing salon in the city, which would compensate by occupying her when she needed occupying.
He looked again at his squad. His men were as familiar to him as his own two hands. Misset: Lazy, careless, bored with his marriage and always with an eye on the young women secretaries employed about the Hôtel de Police. Pel had several times tried to get rid of Misset, but so far he hadn’t managed it. Lagé: Friendly, willing enough – even to do other men’s work, usually Misset’s – but lacking in imagination and usually wandering around like a dog looking for a bone. Nosjean: Pel looked at him with warmth. Soon they would need to promote someone to take Darcy’s place as senior sergeant and Pel had a feeling it would be Nosjean. He was quick, intelligent and eager. Over-earnest for Pel’s taste’s so that his conscience not only troubled Nosjean but all the rest of the squad too, including Pel. At the moment he looked withdrawn and bleak, his face taut. De Troq’: Sergeant Baron Charles Victor de Troquereau Tournay-Turenne. With a handle like that, de Troq’ ought to have been an ambassador. Instead he was a member of Pel’s team, and a surprisingly good one. Educated, arrogant, handsome, self-confident and keen, the absolute opposite of Misset, he was another in the line of Nosjean and Darcy, never expecting evenings off and managing to slot his private life into the gaps left by his police work.
Pel’s eyes roved on. Claudie Darel: Sent to his team from Paris, neat, attractive, dark-haired with the look of a young Mireille Mathieu and disruptive in that she kept every male member of the squad on his toes to compete for her favours. At the moment De Troquereau was leading the field. Régis Martin: Cadet, almost entirely lacking in experience but earnest and eager to be a proper policeman, on Pel’s squad to answer telephones, attend to the mail and fetch bottles of beer from the Bar Transvaal across the road.