by Mark Hebden
Kiczmyrczik’s bitterness was clearly written on his face. He was gaunt, the lines cut deeply into his features. He was in no mood to be helpful.
‘Why should I help you?’ he demanded. ‘France has done nothing for me.’
Darcy didn’t bother to point out that there were a lot of Poles in France – as there were a lot of Russians, Czechs, Letts, Lithuanians, Esthonians and others – to whom France had given little but shelter but who had shown their gratitude by living useful lives within her boundaries. He came straight to the point.
‘Where were you last night?’ he asked.
‘I don’t have to tell you.’
‘I think you do, my friend,’ Darcy snapped.
‘Then I was here.’
‘Anyone with you?’
‘Only Anna. She is my wife. Not in the way you believe in wives. But she is still my wife.’
‘She the only one?’
‘Who else would there be?’
‘A few of your friends. A few of your disciples. You hold meetings here.’
‘There was no meeting last night.’
‘All the same, I’d like the names of the people who make a point of attending your meetings.’
‘I can’t remember them all. There are too many.’
Darcy’s eyebrows lifted. To his certain knowledge there were no more than a dozen or so. People like Kiczmyrczik maintained small and very private groups.
‘You’d better start thinking.’
‘I have no intention. You’d better call your bully-boys and have me put in prison.’
As they talked, Anna Ripka appeared. She wasn’t old, half Kiczmyrczik’s age, Darcy guessed, a small slender woman with ill-cared-for hair, a complete lack of style, and the same bitter lines on her face that Kiczmyrczik had. Darcy guessed she’d always been ugly and had turned to Kiczmyrczik for no other reason than that no one else had ever looked at her.
‘What’s he doing here?’ she demanded harshly.
‘He’s part of the fascist police,’ Kiczmyrczik said.
She turned on Darcy, her face suffused with hatred. ‘Get out,’ she snarled. ‘Go away, go away!’
The way she spoke made Darcy remember the woman seen following the two men supporting their wounded friend from the shootings in the Impasse Tarien. But Kiczmyrczik gave her an alibi, as she gave him one, and it didn’t really mean a thing. As Darcy left, Tyl, who had listened throughout the interview, a smile playing about his lips, grabbed a handful of pamphlets from a chair and thrust them into Darcy’s hand. The headlines read ‘We need 1789 again, and a new Revolution.’ It was pretty dull stuff and also pretty meaningless.
‘You don’t have to read them,’ Tyl said as he showed Darcy out. ‘Nobody ever does. Anna burns them in the grate in the winter when they can’t afford coal.’
Darcy turned. ‘Are you one of them?’
‘One of what?’
‘Do you have revolutionary ideas, too?’
Tyl grinned. ‘Not really. I’m all for the people, of course, but you’ve only to look at me to see I’m not active. I’m the wrong shape and too good-natured.’
‘You could still have revolutionary ideas.’
‘Oh, sure!’ Tyl beamed. ‘I’m out of work, so it would be normal enough, wouldn’t it? Only I’m an optimist, which they aren’t. The revolution’ll come all right, and it’s our job to help it on by spreading the message, but it’ll come in its own good time and doesn’t need bombs to push it. In any case, I’m too ugly to have any influence. You have to look like the Old Man for that. Bit like an eagle, with lines of suffering on your face. That’s where the appeal lies.’
‘Does he make bombs?’
Tyl shrugged. ‘He’s getting a bit old for it but I wouldn’t put it past him.’
‘What about the other members of his group?’
‘I’m one. Jaroslav Tyl, Apartment 3, 79, Rue Georges-Fyot. I live with my sister. She keeps house for me. Our parents died when we were kids. We’re Czechs like Anna. My sister got married but her husband knocked her about a lot and it left her a bit nervous. When he was killed in a car accident – he was drunk – she came to look after me.’
‘What about the rest?’
‘Come and see me tonight and I’ll give you a full list.’
‘Are they active?’
‘Mostly they just talk. Most revolutionaries just talk, of course. What they do usually varies in inverse proportion to what they have to say. It’s the ones who don’t talk you have to look out for.’
‘You do plenty. Where were you last night?’
‘Home. With my sister. We can’t afford to go out much. We’ve got no money. But we’ve got a television. Black and white, of course. We had it given. A type in the same block who was going in for colour and couldn’t get anything for his old one. My sister’s an addict. I’d rather read a book but–’ Tyl shrugged ‘–you know how it is. You’ve got to let them have their way, haven’t you?’
As the few facts that were available were brought in, the press started clamouring for a statement. Fiabon, of France Dimanche, Sarrazin, a freelance who represented anybody who’d use his material, and Henriot, of Le Bien Public, were waiting by Pel’s office. Outside, there were a few others, men from Paris who had come screaming down the motorway as soon as the flash messages from Sarrazin, who acted as their contact in the city, had reached their offices. One or two of them were big names and Pel regarded them with distrust because the Press’ habit of giving things which were best kept quiet, as often as not put criminals on their guard and sent them to ground. With terrorists, it was even more tricky because of the Press’ habit of giving facts which were best encouragement to the men who made them. And terrorists loved publicity and every word that appeared helped them, to say nothing of providing information for the hosts of eager imitators who still hadn’t discovered how to set about things.
He gave them what he could – nothing but the bare facts, but there appeared to be plenty of those for them to get their teeth into. It wasn’t every day that three policemen, a woman and a boy were murdered, to say nothing of a house being blown inside out. Despite this, they seemed to feel he was short-changing them.
‘Is that all?’ Fiabon asked.
‘Isn’t it enough?’ Pel said. ‘It’s all we know at the moment. You have the names of the dead and wounded men and the injured civilians.’
‘We could use more.’ Sarrazin was one of the more ardent and vociferous critics of the police. ‘The big television boys will be here soon. They’ll want more than this.’
Pel didn’t look forward to the big television names with their over-publicised commentators. Half the time their strident utterances became clarion calls summoning the faithful to war. ‘Doubtless by that time,’ he said, ‘we’ll know more.’
As the pressmen vanished, Cadet Martin appeared. ‘There’s a type called Andoche to see you, Patron.’
Pel frowned. ‘Can’t Inspector Darcy see him?’ he asked.
‘He insists on you, Patron.’
Andoche was a young man in his early thirties, wearing jeans, sneakers, a shirt stamped UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA, and a great deal more hair than seemed to be necessary for a comfortable existence.
‘Robert Andoche,’ he introduced himself. ‘Mature student. President of the Free Burgundy Movement.’
He held out his hand to shake Pel’s. Pel regarded it coldly.
A little disconcerted, Andoche frowned and went on more uncertainly. ‘Just wanted to let you know we weren’t responsible for the death of the Fuzz,’ he said.
‘For the death of what?’ Pel growled.
‘The – well, you know–’ Andoche gestured ‘–it’s just a name, isn’t it?’
‘It’s not one we use here.’
‘Well, you wouldn’t, would you? Anyway, we just wanted you to know, so you don’t start making life uncomfortable for us.’
Pel recalled a few occasions when a Free Burgundian meeting, asked to move on becaus
e it was obstructing the pavement, had degenerated into a brawl and stones had been thrown. He considered Andoche had a nerve.
He stared at him. He didn’t look particularly clean or hard-working. ‘You’ve made life uncomfortable often enough for what you choose to call the Fuzz,’ he snapped.
Andoche gestured. ‘Well, that’s what you’re for, isn’t it?’
‘My impression was that the police existed not so much to be targets for you and your friends but to keep law and order.’
‘Within fascist rules, of course.’
‘This is a republic,’ Pel snapped. ‘With great socialistic ideals, whatever government is in power. It was the first true democracy of the people, by the people, for the people, no matter what our friends in Britain or the United States might say.’
Andoche could see he was getting nowhere. ‘Well,’ he said ‘Just wanted to let you know. We wouldn’t go in for that kind of violence.’
‘But you wouldn’t say no to others?’
Andoche grinned. ‘Well, anything’s allowed in politics, isn’t it? I thought you’d be pleased. Thought I’d like to help your investigations and all that.’
Pel reached across his desk and pressed the bell. When Darcy appeared he gestured at Andoche.
‘Shove him in a cell,’ he said.
Andoche’s face reddened. ‘I came to help you!’ he yelled.
‘You probably will,’ Pel snapped. ‘Give him a going over, Daniel. See who his friends are. They might be interesting.’
Six
The flat occupied by Paul and Régine Crébert was as different from the one occupied by Tadeuz Kiczymrczik and Anna Ripka as it was possible to be. It was on the ground floor of a block in one of the most expensive areas of the city, and it was elegantly furnished with expensive fittings. The walls were covered with paintings, there was a grand piano, a large television and a host of potted plants which, with the light coming into the room through the enormous windows, made Nosjean feel a bit like a newt swimming among sunlit reeds.
Madame Crébert was sitting on the settee, in tears, but still, Nosjean noticed, managing to look elegant. She was tall, well-made and beautiful and, despite her misery, had dressed carefully, every hair in place. Some people, Nosjean told himself, put on the right clothes as automatically as washing themselves. To Madame Crébert, it would have been bad behaviour to appear badly dressed, whatever had happened. Her husband stood by the window, his hands in his pockets, staring out at the street, his face bleak, his eyes empty.
‘He went out after school,’ Madame Crébert was saying slowly, as if picking her way through her thoughts. ‘He had just done his homework. He was inclined to be lazy at school and was sometimes difficult and he’d been given extra to do.’
‘Was he clever?’ Nosjean asked.
‘Yes.’ The father turned and spoke over his shoulder. ‘But he wouldn’t work. He wouldn’t get down to it.’
‘Neither would you,’ his wife observed bitterly. ‘Never. You could have made something of him but you never bothered.’
Her husband gave her a look which seemed to indicate that he thought much the same of her. Nosjean coughed and brought their thoughts back to where they had been.
‘Was he a well-behaved boy?’
‘He’d been properly brought up,’ Crébert said.
His wife enlarged. ‘He had excellent manners.’
‘When he chose to use them,’ her husband added.
‘What do you mean by that, Monsieur?’ Nosjean asked.
Crébert drew a deep breath like a sigh. ‘He was like most children these days. He could be pleasant enough with other people but with his parents he was difficult. He answered us back, was often sullen, refused to do things, often went days without speaking to us.’
‘It wasn’t always like that,’ his wife said.
Her husband sighed again. ‘No,’ he agreed. ‘Not always.’
‘Can you tell me more about when you last saw him?’
Madame Crébert dabbed at her eyes and steeled herself. ‘He finished his homework,’ she said. ‘Then he went out. Shortly afterwards, I had occasion to go to my handbag and I realised a fifty-franc note was missing. I’d got it especially to pay my daily help and it had gone. Then I remembered that Charles-Bernard had been in the hall just before he left the house. I’d thought he was just sulking and thought no more about it. When I realised the money was missing, I realised what he’d been doing.’
Nosjean waited quietly as she dabbed at her eyes again. ‘I feel so guilty,’ she said, her voice rising to a wail. ‘I feel it was my fault.’
For a while she was unable to speak and her husband spoke for her. ‘When the boy came in,’ he said, ‘she accused him of taking the money. He admitted that he had and she told him what she thought of him.’
‘But then–’ Madame Crébert’s voice was a moan ‘–he produced a bunch of flowers and said he’d taken the money to buy them for me because it had been my birthday the day before and he’d forgotten it. I felt so awful. I apologised and said how wonderful he was. But he’d already taken offence and went off in a huff. That was the last I–’ she looked at Nosjean with tragic eyes. ‘It was my fault. I know it was my fault. I worried all evening about where he’d gone.’
‘Were you here?’
‘All evening.’
‘Alone?’
‘My husband was away on business. My brother came to see me. He sometimes does when my husband’s away. He’s always kind. We think the world of him. Charles-Bernard was upset because I’d been angry with him, but how was I to know?’
‘You weren’t,’ her husband muttered. He crossed the room to place a hand on her shoulder and looked at Nosjean. ‘Sometimes you didn’t know where you were with him. When you tried to be kind he rejected you. If you tried to be strict, he sulked. He’d been spoiled all his life.’
‘By you,’ Madame Crébert said.
Crébert stared at her for a moment, then he snatched his hand away and went back to the window.
‘I didn’t realise he hadn’t come in again,’ Madame Crébert said. ‘He had his own key and he had to go out that night, anyway, to his gymnastic club. When I went in to wake him for school the next morning his bed hadn’t been slept in. At first I thought he’d run away again–’
‘Had he done it before?’
‘Once he got as far as Vézelay. The second time he didn’t go beyond the city boundaries. He did it to make us angry. He was always doing things to make us feel guilty. I rang his school. They hadn’t seen him so I thought I’d better let the police know. You have to, don’t you? And I wanted him back.’
Nosjean leaned forward. They had already checked all the known homosexuals in the city, the perverts and the men with records of indecency towards children. ‘Why do you think he was at Vieilly?’ he asked quietly.
The Créberts looked at each other.
‘Is there anyone at Vieilly to whom he’d turn if he were in trouble at home? An aunt? Someone like that?’
‘We have no relations at Vieilly.’
‘Has he ever been there before?’
Crébert frowned. ‘Not that I’m aware of.’
Remembering the wounded woman at Porsigny and the shot at the watchman at St Blaize, Nosjean tried a new line.
‘Was he interested in guns?’
‘Not to my knowledge.’
Nosjean paused. ‘Explosives?’
Crébert stared. ‘Explosives? What are you suggesting?’
‘Nothing in particular. But many boys experiment with making explosives. A lot of them know how. Especially those who’re good at chemistry.’
‘He was not good at chemistry,’ Crébert said stiffly. ‘His subjects were literary. Languages, mostly. Why do you ask?’
Nosjean drew their attention to what had happened in the Impasse Tarien and mentioned the wounding of the woman at Porsigny and the theft of the detonators at St Blaize.
Madame Crébert covered her face with her hands.
‘Oh, God, Paul,’ she moaned, ‘what had he got himself involved in?’
Nosjean hastened to set her mind at rest. ‘We’re not suggesting that he was involved in anything,’ he said. ‘It might not be connected, but we have to enquire.’
‘He was a good boy.’
Crébert frowned and seemed to steel himself. ‘No,’ he said firmly. ‘He wasn’t a good boy. He was spoiled and self-willed and he had a habit of wandering about the streets late at night when he should have been at home. But he knew nothing of explosives and little of chemistry. I’m sure of that. On the other hand, in his roamings, it’s possible he may have seen something.’
Madame Crébert’s lips tightened. ‘He was a lonely boy,’ she said. ‘Sad. He kept to himself. His father didn’t like him.’
‘Régine, for God’s sake, stop talking like that–!’
‘Doctor Nisard said so.’
‘Doctor Nisard said nothing of the kind.’
‘Who’s Doctor Nisard?’ Nosjean asked.
‘The family doctor,’ Crébert said. ‘He knew the boy well, of course. He’d treated him since birth.’
‘He suffered from depressions,’ Madame Crébert put in. ‘His father always said he’d come between us. He never really liked him.’
Crébert threw up his hands. ‘Oh, mon Dieu!’ he said. ‘He did come between us. But only because he was allowed his own way too much. But to say I never really liked him – in the name of God, Régine–!’
As Nosjean reached the street, a small red Renault like his own drew up in front of the house and a young man climbed out. He saw Nosjean and immediately approached.
‘You the police?’ he asked.
Nosjean was wary at once. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘You the press?’
The young man looked startled. ‘Mon Dieu, no!’ he said. ‘I’m part of the family.’ He gestured at the house. ‘I thought I’d better call round and see how they were. How are they?’
‘How would any parents be when they’d just learned their son’s dead?’
The young man nodded soberly. ‘Yes, of course. Silly question. I’m his uncle. Régine Crébert’s my sister. Name of Delacolonge. Robert Delacolonge.’