Pel and the Bombers

by Mark Hebden

‘Why have I been brought here?’ he demanded.

  ‘Questions,’ Pel said. ‘You might be able to help us. What happened to your lip?’

  ‘I was hit by a squash racket,’ Lacoste said. ‘Two days ago. I had to have three stitches in it.’

  Pel paused, then leaned forward. ‘You the doctor who was called out to a man with a bullet in his back on the night of the 14th?’ he asked bluntly.

  Lacoste’s eyes widened and he seemed to shrink into his chair. There was a long silence and a faint hospital smell of ether, cleanliness and floor polish seemed to come from him like the smell of fear. He was struggling to say something, but seemed unable to get it out, so Pel said it for him.

  ‘It was you, wasn’t it?’

  Lacoste’s head nodded slowly.

  ‘Let’s have it then. You guessed it was connected with the shootings in the city on that night, didn’t you? Why did you try to hide it?’

  Lacoste stared at Pel for a moment or two like a rabbit mesmerised by a snake, then he swallowed noisily and struggled again to speak. He had to have several tries. ‘I did not try to hide it,’ he managed at last in a thin uncertain voice. ‘I felt I ought to inform the police but I did not want to be involved. I was afraid.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I decided the man who drove me was a North African like me. The papers next morning said the shootings were by terrorists. I have a wife and two children. France allowed me to come here and practise. I did not want to be sent away.’

  ‘You’d have been less likely if you’d informed the police at once,’ Darcy growled.

  ‘You do not understand.’ Lacoste’s hands fluttered in an unhappy gesture. ‘Why did they pick on me? There are other doctors. They must have known I was Algerian. They must have got my name from somewhere.’

  ‘There are other Algerians working in the city hospital,’ Darcy pointed out. ‘It wouldn’t be difficult. If these people are Algerians, too, they’d know of you.’

  ‘I thought they might kill my children. I read of a boy being murdered also.’

  ‘That may have nothing to do with this,’ Pel snapped. ‘Come on, let’s have it! Where did you go?’

  ‘I do not know.’

  ‘You’ve got eyes. Did they blindfold you?’

  ‘No. But I have not been in this city long. I do not know it well and they drove me round and round in circles. Deliberately, I think. To bewilder me.’

  Pel glanced at Darcy. ‘Have you no idea?’ he asked.

  ‘I think it was the Montchapet district of the city. But I cannot be certain.’

  ‘What was it like?’

  ‘It was old and dilapidated. The houses looked very broken down.’

  ‘Anything else? Anything you noticed nearby? A cinema? A bar?’

  ‘I saw a bar called the Bar Olivier–’

  ‘Look it up, Darcy.’

  As Darcy turned away, Pel leaned closer. ‘Go on. Was it very near?’

  ‘Not exactly. A few minutes away, I should say.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘As I left I saw a street called the Rue Vendaduzzi.’

  ‘That’s in the Mareuil area,’ Darcy said. ‘I know it.’

  ‘Same area as the bar?’ Pel asked.

  ‘No,’ Lacoste said. ‘The other way. They did not drive me back the way we had come and all the streets were different. I noticed the Rue St Josephe, though.’

  Darcy’s finger was on a map. With the other hand he was checking the directories.

  ‘Got it,’ he said. ‘And the Bar Olivier. So where they took you must be somewhere in between. About here. It was a good guess, my friend. It might well have been the Montchapet district. Try again. We’re getting closer. What else did you notice?’

  ‘There was a supermarket. Super Flores, it was called. It was not really very big but that was its name. It was close by. I saw it almost as soon as they drove off.’

  Darcy was turning through the leaves of the telephone directory. ‘Rue Flores, Patron.’

  ‘Was that the street?’ Pel turned to Lacoste. ‘Was it in the same street as the house where you went?’

  ‘No.’ The doctor’s eyes were wide. ‘The next street. Or perhaps the one after that. I am not sure.’

  ‘What about this car they used? Why didn’t you get the number?’

  ‘I told you. I was frightened. I was afraid of being involved. I thought if they were part of this Libyan hit group that has been operating round Europe, I might be the next victim.’

  ‘Didn’t you even look?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What about the colour?’

  ‘I do not know. It was just dark. Black or blue perhaps.’

  ‘How about the inside?’

  ‘I do not know.’

  ‘What about the people who drove you, the people who were there when you examined the wounded man?’

  ‘I tried not to look at them. They were muffled up. It was clear they did not want me to see them.’

  Pel stared at the doctor for a moment. His dark skin was grey with fright. Pel sighed and shrugged.

  ‘Get on to Uniform and Traffic, Daniel,’ he said. ‘Tell them to look for our street in the area of the Rue Flores. When we find it, we’ll take this type along in a police car and get him to identify it. In the meantime, he’d better make a statement. We’ll need one.’

  Lacoste was half-way through his statement when the telephone rang. It was Inspector Pomereu, of Traffic.

  ‘One of my crews think they’ve found your street,’ he said. ‘Old, two-storeyed houses. Dilapidated. Rue Dubosc, two streets away from the Rue Flores. If you arrive from one end you pass the Bar Olivier. If you arrive from the other you pass the Rue Vendaduzzi and the Super Flores supermarket. We’ve made a few enquiries and we’ve found a pharmacist who was knocked up late on the night of the shootings by a woman asking for bandages. She said there’d been an accident. The pharmacist offered to go along and help but she wouldn’t let him. She said it wasn’t that important but she took away enough crêpe to bandage a horse.’

  Pel frowned. ‘Why has the damned man been sitting on this information all this time?’ he growled. ‘They’re all doing it.’

  ‘I asked him that,’ Pomereu said. ‘It’s a rough district round there and people learn to mind their own business and keep their mouths shut.’

  ‘Where are your people now?’

  ‘They’re parked in the Rue de la Justice just round the corner from the Bar Olivier end of the Rue Dubosc.’

  Pel put the telephone down. ‘Let’s go,’ he said.

  Bundling Dr Lacoste into Darcy’s car they roared away from the centre of the city, Lacoste cowering in the rear seat, terrified of being seen. The police car was waiting in the Rue de la Justice as Pomereu had said, the two men inside it trying to look as if they’d just stopped for a quick drag at a cigarette where they couldn’t be seen.

  As Pel’s car halted alongside, the sergeant leaned over. ‘Just round the corner, sir,’ he said.

  ‘Right.’ Pel turned to Lacoste. ‘Sit up and see if you can identify the place.’

  Darcy’s car cruised slowly down the Rue Dubosc, trying to look like any other car. It was a shabby area of peeling paint and torn posters, scraps of old newspaper fluttering in the gutter in the breeze.

  ‘I think–’ Lacoste spoke in a whisper as if terrified of being overheard ‘–I think that’s the place. That or the one next door.’

  Pel glanced at Darcy. ‘We’ll try next door first,’ he said.

  As the car stopped, a man with a dark skin appeared in the doorway. He eyed them warily.

  ‘We’re looking for a man who was brought home here several nights ago,’ Darcy said. ‘He was hurt. Did you see anything?’

  The man studied them for a moment. ‘You Flics?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I don’t have to help you.’

  ‘You don’t,’ Darcy said. ‘But you’d better. He might have explosives and you might be the next one
to go up.’

  The man’s eyes flickered then he gestured with a jerk of his head. ‘Next door,’ he said quietly. ‘I heard the woman crying and looked out. They took him in there.’

  ‘Who’s there now? Do you know?’

  ‘No idea. There was a woman and two men holding up another man. I thought he was drunk and the woman was his wife, and she was hysterical because he’d been beating her or something.’

  ‘Know who they are?’

  The man shook his head. ‘People change too often round here for that.’

  As they retreated to the car, the dark-skinned man vanished inside and returned a few moments later with several other men and women and a few children. Almost at once, doorways across the street began to fill with people.

  Pel glared at them. ‘They’d hang about with their mouths open if it were the last trump,’ he growled to Darcy. ‘Tell the sergeant from the car to get them back inside. Tell him to say there may be shooting. And there may well be. Got your gun?’

  ‘Yes, Patron.’

  ‘Radio in. We’re not having another massacre. We’ll try to be a bit more cautious than Goriot was. Tell Claudie to send out anybody who’s around. They’re to wait in the Rue de la Justice out of sight. You stay here to make sure nobody bolts.’

  Pel had just walked back to the Rue de la Justice when a car screamed to a stop. It was Lagé, willing as ever. With him were Aimedieu, Brochard and Debray, blonde and pale like a pair of twins. A moment later Pomereu arrived with his sergeant.

  ‘Thought you might be in need of a little help with the traffic,’ he said.

  Soon afterwards Inspector Nadauld of Uniformed Branch arrived, splendid in a uniform of black and sky blue, his képi outlined with silver braid. His sergeant already had the telephone in his hand ready to call for reinforcements.

  The Chief arrived a few minutes later. ‘Shouldn’t we call in the CRS?’ he asked. ‘After all, they’re the security forces. That’s what they’re for – to deal with rioting and terrorists.’

  ‘I think we should handle it ourselves,’ Pel advised. ‘We’d look silly if it turned out to be gang warfare between the boys in Marseilles or a bunch of Corsican caids who’ve fallen out.’ He shrugged. ‘If it is, I suggest we leave them to it. I’m all for that lot shooting each other.’

  While they were still deciding how to handle the business, Pel found himself facing a tall dark-haired young man wearing a smart Parisian suit. He held a microphone in one hand and behind him was a television cameraman with all his apparatus. He knew immediately who he was.

  ‘I’m Robert Démon,’ the young man explained.

  Pel scowled. ‘I’ve been wanting to meet you,’ he said.

  Démon smiled. ‘I’m glad I’m so popular.’

  ‘You’re not,’ Pel snapped. ‘I’d like to know more about your sources of information. They might be of help to us.’

  ‘Am I being interrogated?’ Démon looked sardonic.

  ‘You’re being asked where you got all this information you disseminated in your television programme.’

  Démon smiled again. ‘I don’t divulge sources.’

  ‘That’s a comfortable excuse to hide behind if your sources are dubious. And who are these people living in the area of the Impasse Tarien who’ve said there was something odd going on?’

  ‘I can’t give names.’

  Pel glared. ‘I suspect there are no names,’ he snapped.

  Démon shrugged. ‘We have our contacts,’ he said smoothly.

  As they talked, Darcy arrived, pushing forward an old woman. She was loaded down with shopping.

  ‘She lives opposite,’ Darcy explained. ‘She says there’s nobody in there.’

  ‘No, chéri,’ the old woman agreed. ‘There isn’t. I know. There were four of them, two men and two women. I used to watch them from my window. It’s right opposite and I can see in. There’s not much else to do but watch when you’re my age. I heard them come back late on the night of the shootings, but this time there were three men and one woman. One of the men was drunk. I saw two of the men leave later. I’ve seen nobody moving about this morning.’

  Démon, who had been listening carefully, moved forward again. ‘If there’s nobody in there,’ he said, ‘isn’t all this–’ his hand gestured at the police cars and the policemen standing in groups ‘–rather a sledge-hammer to crack a nut?’

  Pel was just wondering if he couldn’t find a good reason to run him in when Lagé spoke excitedly.

  ‘The old dear’s wrong, Patron!’ he said. ‘There is somebody in there! The chimney’s smoking!’

  Every head jerked round and up. Lagé was right. A thin spiral of blue smoke was drifting up from one of the chimneys.

  They went into a huddle again.

  Slowly, with the aid of the old woman and the dark-skinned man from next door, they managed to build up a picture of the interior of the house and the habits of its occupants. It seemed they spent most of their time upstairs and there was only a narrow staircase.

  They looked at each other. A narrow staircase with a man at the top with a gun could be a death trap, and Pel had no wish for more butchery. They were still trying to decide what to do when Lacoste stepped forward. ‘I will go in,’ he said.

  Pel looked at him. He was still clearly terrified but he seemed suddenly in control of himself.

  ‘There might be a man in there with a gun,’ Pel said. ‘Perhaps more than one.’

  ‘Never mind. I have caused much trouble and I owe France a great deal. I will take the risk. I have a perfectly legitimate reason. I was called to a desperately wounded man. I have only to say I was worried and wanted to know how he was.’

  ‘What if they start shooting?’

  Lacoste managed a twisted smile. ‘Then I shall fling myself down,’ he said, ‘and wait for you to come and rescue me. First, though, I think I should have a medical bag to make my visit look more professional.’

  Pel turned. ‘Anybody know a doctor in this area?’

  Brochard did. ‘Doctor Garand,’ he said. ‘Rue Boromeo, just round the corner. Two of them run a surgery there. Him and Doctor Leclerc.’

  ‘Go and borrow a medical bag. They must have a spare one between them. It doesn’t have to have much in it.’

  ‘It had better have something,’ Lacoste said. ‘In case they want me to identify myself.’

  ‘All right.’ Pel jerked his head at Brochard. ‘You heard what he said. Tell him it’s a matter of life and death.’ He paused. ‘It probably is,’ he ended.

  While Brochard disappeared to argue with the doctors in the Rue Boromeo, Pel organised his men. Debray and two of Nadauld’s men went off with the old woman, making a circuitous route to the back of the Rue Dubosc, with instructions to watch from her window.

  ‘There’s to be no shooting,’ Pel insisted. ‘Not until you’re told to shoot.’ As he spoke, he looked firmly at Aimedieu, who still seemed on edge. Pel was afraid he might be after revenge for his dead comrades and decided to keep him close by where he could watch him.

  He turned to Pomereu. ‘Car at each end of the road,’ he ordered. He looked at a street map and turned to Nadauld. ‘Let’s have men in the street which runs parallel,’ he suggested. ‘In case they’ve got an escape route.’

  A dustcart was moving down the street as they talked and he remembered he’d seen dustbins on the pavement in the Rue Dubosc.

  ‘Stop that cart, Lagé,’ he said. ‘You and Debray borrow overalls and move down either side of Rue Dubosc. Look as if you’re getting the bins ready but warn everybody to get indoors. We don’t want anybody hurt.’

  As Lagé and Debray struggled into the blue overalls, Brochard returned, carrying a square medical bag. With him was another man also carrying a medical bag. He introduced himself as Doctor Garand.

  ‘It sounded as if there might be trouble,’ he said. ‘If it’s anything like the affair in the Impasse Tarien, I thought you might need an extra doctor. Would you like me to go in
as well?’

  Lacoste stiffened. It was as if now he’d decided to be a hero he wasn’t going to share his heroism with anybody. ‘I will go alone,’ he insisted. ‘They will know me.’

  Grasping the handle of the medical bag, he headed for the Rue Dubosc. As he turned the corner and disappeared from sight, Darcy unbuttoned his jacket and felt for his gun. Aimedieu already had his gun in his hand.

  ‘Put that away,’ Pel snapped.

  Faintly shamefaced, Aimedieu replaced the gun in its holster. Pel wasn’t without sympathy. It wasn’t easy for a man to see three of his colleagues shot dead.

  They waited silently. The radio telephone in Nadauld’s car was squawking. Its harsh tones jarred on the nerves.

  ‘For the love of God,’ Pel growled. ‘Either answer it or turn it off.’

  Nadauld’s sergeant put the receiver to his ear, spoke briefly, and switched off.

  ‘Lacoste’s coming back,’ Darcy said from the corner.

  It seemed ages as they waited. Lacoste looked pale but relieved.

  ‘Anybody in there?’ Pel asked.

  ‘The man I was called to,’ Lacoste said. ‘He’s dead. There’s also a woman. On the floor near the kitchen fireplace. She’s probably dead, too.’

  Eleven

  The house was shabby like most of the houses in the area. It had a diminutive hall with a staircase running up from it, a living room and a dining room – if they could be honoured by such names – containing sticks of furniture, threadbare carpets and one or two ugly pictures. The windows had no curtains, but shelves made by resting planks on bricks contained books by Marx, Engels, Nietszche and a few others, together with bundles of pamphlets – one, Darcy noticed immediately, like the ones he had seen at the home of Kiczmyrczik.

  They edged through the rooms, two men moving out into the backyard to check a shed where there was a rusty bicycle frame and a few pieces of timber, and Darcy was just about to step into the back kitchen when he heard a heavy sigh. Beyond the kitchen table, lying on a rug beside the fireplace, was a girl. She was just stirring as if she’d been in an exhausted sleep, obviously the woman Lacoste thought was dead. As he entered, she sat up abruptly and, as her eyes fell on him, she immediately began grabbing papers and stuffing them on to the dying fire.