Pel and the Bombers

by Mark Hebden

  An hour later, Claudie appeared. She looked pleased with herself.

  ‘She doesn’t like policemen,’ she said. ‘One once pinched her behind when they were called in to investigate a burglary. I bought a hammer so we have a replica for the court. It persuaded her to talk.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Small. Round. Fat. Glasses. Slight foreign accent. Big smile.’

  ‘Tyl,’ Pel said at once.

  But when they went round to Tyl’s apartment, they found his sister looking puzzled. ‘He’s gone,’ she said. ‘He hasn’t been home for two days. He’s run off with the Ripka woman.’

  Fifteen

  A watch was put on Tyl’s apartment at once and a request was sent out to all police forces, stations, ports and airports, to keep a look out for him.

  The disappearance with Anna Ripka seemed well in character. Tyl had spent a lot of his time at the Kiczmyrczik flat. Doubtless he and Anna Ripka had got to know each other rather better than Kiczmyrczik had suspected – after all, they were of an age and looked alike in the way that husbands and wives often grew to look like each other. But Pel was under no delusion that Tyl had disappeared because of a love affair and he was firmly of the opinion that he was still somewhere in the city.

  He had no real reason for thinking this, but it was a hunch and he had a feeling it was a good one. Though detective work was based largely on attention to detail, there was still a lot of room for a good hunch.

  Which was exactly how Nosjean was thinking. The notes about the Crébert boy were still arriving and, while an idea had been building up in Nosjean’s mind for a long time, somehow things didn’t fit together. The boy had been seen to get into a car just before he had finally disappeared. Whose car was it? Madame Crébert’s? Despite the fact that it was highly improbable, Nosjean still wasn’t satisfied that she wouldn’t have killed her own son, and the family’s second car was a small blue Peugeot hatchback that could easily have been mistaken for grey. And what about Martinelle? They still hadn’t been able to pin down just where his silver Volkswagen had been. Deciding it was time to talk a little more to Solange Caillaux, he explained to Pel what was in his mind and made a date for lunch.

  ‘De Troq’ will look after things,’ he said. ‘And I’ll leave my telephone number.’

  Pel eyed Nosjean shrewdly. After the early days when he’d spent much of his time bleating about the lack of nights off, Nosjean had developed into a shrewd and imaginative detective.

  ‘You think something might come of this meeting, mon brave?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t know, Patron.’ Nosjean was painstakingly honest and never tried to mislead. ‘But we’ve got nowhere with the photograph. We’ve tried everybody in the city who prints pictures but they don’t look at them properly, of course, and there are no names in their receipts that ring a bell. We’re also checking the labs that do that sort of work, but so far we’ve drawn blanks. They don’t keep the receipts. I thought Solange Caillaux might just recall something she’d forgotten.’

  ‘Is she pretty?’

  Nosjean managed to blush. ‘Yes, Patron.’ Even in this, Nosjean couldn’t dissemble.

  ‘And how is your heart these days, mon brave?’

  Nosjean frowned. ‘Perhaps Odile Chenandier was right to get herself engaged to someone else,’ he said. ‘Perhaps I’m too involved with the job.’

  ‘It’s a failing in good policemen. Very well, off you go. You’ve deserved your night off. Had it been Misset–’ Pel left the sentence unfinished and gestured towards the door.

  Solange Caillaux appeared for the date in a neat flowered dress that went with the warmth of her smile.

  ‘I made it myself,’ she said.

  ‘It looks most professional,’ Nosjean admitted.

  ‘Anyone can become professional if they work at it. My mother did sewing to help out the family funds. I watched her. You can pick up a lot just by watching. That’s how I learned to become a teacher.’

  ‘It is?’ Nosjean was suitably impressed.

  ‘I decided when I was still at school that I wanted to teach, so in the last two years there I started watching the teachers. I was so absorbed in picking up their little tricks I forgot to listen.’ She smiled. ‘I became good at teaching but my examination results were abysmal.’

  While Nosjean was discussing the habits of Charles-Bernard Crébert with Solange Caillaux the report from Brouards arrived.

  Darcy tossed it on to Pel’s desk with a sigh. ‘They say there are hundreds of their locks about,’ he said. ‘But only three places in this area where they’re sold. Tincals, Brandt Ironmongery in the Rue Sembac, and Marshals, the builders’ suppliers in the Rue Billette. Nobody else will stock them because they’re so expensive. I’ve checked, of course. Marshals say that, judging by the number of the key we have, M138H, the lock must have been sold several months or so ago, and they have no record whom to.’

  ‘Put it on the radio,’ Pel suggested. ‘Ask if anyone has a Brouard lock with that number. Make it important.’

  The day ended with Pel beginning to grow concerned. The President’s visit was close enough now to be worrying, and when Darcy offered to buy him a beer at the Bar Transvaal, he suggested Raffet’s bar instead, to check on Raffet’s guard and whether he had heard any more of Kino’s friends.

  Misset was at the counter with a beer, looking bored, and he jumped as he saw Pel’s small frame alongside him.

  ‘I hope you’re remembering that you weren’t placed here merely to fill yourself with that,’ Pel growled.

  ‘No, Patron! Not at all! He gave it to me!’ Misset indicated Raffet. ‘Took pity on me. It’s a boring job, this.’

  ‘You could always talk to the customers,’ Pel said. ‘You could even help with pouring drinks, so long as you didn’t pour too many for yourself.’ He turned to Raffet, his eyes questioning, and Raffet shrugged.

  ‘I think you’ve frightened them off,’ he said. ‘I expect they’re over the border by now or hiding out in Paris or Marseilles.’

  ‘Don’t be too sure.’ Pel was never one to take chances.

  ‘I’ll be glad when Lagé comes to relieve me,’ Misset said. ‘You get sick of standing around.’

  ‘Try sitting down,’ Pel growled. ‘It might help.’

  They had their drink then Darcy headed for his car. He had a date with a girl.

  ‘You’re growing too senior to have dates,’ Pel warned.

  Darcy smiled. ‘And you’re growing too senior,’ he said, ‘not to. People will begin to think there’s something odd about you.’

  Pel wondered if there were. He drove home gloomily, his mind occupied half by Madame Faivre-Perret and half by the thought of the families of Randolfi, Desouches and Lemadre. He had been that afternoon to see Goriot, who still looked pale and was obviously in pain.

  Madame Routy was watching the television when he arrived. It seemed to be a bird-watching programme but she had the volume control turned up so loud it sounded more like a riot. Glancing quickly at Pel, she turned it down at once.

  ‘There’s something in the oven,’ she said.

  ‘I don’t need it,’ Pel said.

  She gave him a sour look and he decided to push his success a little further.

  ‘I need to work,’ he said. ‘I shall need some quiet.’

  She gave him another sour look and switched off the television. ‘I’ll go and see my sister,’ she said.

  As she disappeared, Pel took off his shoes, poured himself a whisky and settled himself in the ‘confort anglais’.

  He was feeling weary but he consoled himself that he probably wasn’t half as weary as some of the men still making house-to-house enquiries. By this time, he suspected some of them were beginning to curse the day they decided to become policemen and were wondering why they hadn’t become sewage workers instead.

  There were still teams of them going round with clipboards. Did you see this? Did you hear that? Any strange neighbours? Any strange noises in
the night? Any strange smells? That one usually baffled the people they spoke to but they didn’t know that some explosives had strange smells – strange enough, in fact, to give you a headache if you got too much of them.

  If only they could get a lead. If only–!

  He came to life with a jerk as the telephone rang. He hadn’t been aware how tired he was and he’d dropped off to sleep, still clutching his glass. He slammed it down on the table and reached for the telephone.

  It was Darcy. ‘I think you’d better come down, Patron,’ he said.

  ‘What now?’

  ‘They called me in. Somebody’s just shot Raffet.’

  ‘What!’

  ‘He’d just closed the bar and stepped outside for a cigarette when this car came roaring past and someone stuck a gun in his face and pulled the trigger. Twice. He’s dead.’

  Raffet’s body was still lying in the gutter with a canvas screen round it. Leguyader’s men were already measuring tracks left in the road by the car as it had swerved past. They didn’t tell them much and it was very much just a formality that had to be gone through. Misset and Lagé were watching them, looking worried.

  Doc Minet was angry. He wasn’t a young man and the shootings seemed to have got under his skin. ‘Why him?’ he asked.

  ‘Information,’ Pel growled. ‘He’d been helping us.’

  ‘You’ll not get anyone else to help you.’

  Pel said nothing. Minet was right. But at least they knew it couldn’t be any of the people they’d brought in. Which left the three they hadn’t yet put their fingers on. Hays, Kotchkoff or Tyl.

  ‘Any witnesses?’ he asked Darcy.

  ‘Nobody. The street was empty. Raffet told his wife he was going outside for his usual breath of fresh air. It was something he did every night when they pulled the shutters down.’

  ‘Did his wife see anything?’

  ‘She only heard it. She heard him call out then she heard a car start up. She thinks it was waiting along the street. Then she heard it accelerate and suddenly decided something was wrong. She didn’t know why. Instinct perhaps. She was running from the kitchen to the bar as she heard the shots, then Raffet staggered and fell at her feet. He was already dead.’

  ‘Did he manage to say anything?’

  ‘No. Nothing.’

  ‘Did she see anyone in the car?’

  ‘She thought there were three of them. Two in the front and one in the back who had the gun. It was over in a matter of seconds.’

  ‘What about the car? Any description?’

  ‘She thought a big Citroën. She saw no number. One could hardly expect her to. Raffet fell against her and almost knocked her down. When she recovered her senses, it was just disappearing round the corner.’

  Pomereu of Traffic appeared. ‘We’ve got the car,’ he said. ‘We found it near the Cours de Gaulle. It’s obviously been abandoned in a hurry. It was standing at forty-five degrees to the curb, the doors open and the engine warm. One of our crews stopped alongside it, thinking something was wrong, and reported it by radio. They hadn’t heard of the shooting. We’ve just learned it was stolen yesterday at Chatillon. Belongs to a solicitor. We’re having it checked for fingerprints.’

  Minet was just straightening up and flash bulbs were going off as Photography did their stuff.

  ‘Two bullets,’ Minet said. ‘One entered his right eye and came out at the back of his head. The other hit him in the throat and came out through his neck just under the left ear. Either would have killed him.’

  ‘Make sure all roads out of the city are stopped,’ Pel snapped to Pomereu. ‘They’re still here, so let’s make sure we keep them here.’ He stared savagely at Darcy. ‘We had a guard on the damn’ place,’ he said. He looked at his watch. ‘It was Lagé. Where was he?’

  ‘Having trouble with his car, Patron. It wasn’t his fault and he was only four minutes late arriving, but you know what Misset’s like. Always slow at relieving other people but if anyone’s late relieving him he goes up the wall. He was in the bar, telephoning Lagé’s home to find out where he was.’

  Pel’s eyes were hot. ‘I want him in my office at eleven o’clock tomorrow morning,’ he snarled. ‘By twelve o’clock he’ll be back in uniform patrolling the Porte Guillaume.’

  Sixteen

  As it happened, it didn’t work out that way.

  The next day was one of surprises. The first even as Pel sat down in his office.

  There were three days left before the President arrived. The Chief was working himself up to a heart attack over the arrangements and chivvying Pel to get a move on. Once more he had tried to get the visit put off and received a second flea in his ear from an official at the Elysée Palace, who had told him that the President of France didn’t put off visits because of threats.

  The tension was becoming electric and Pel was watching everybody he passed in the streets for outward signs of anarchic tendencies or for the hostility he felt the city – stirred up by the television and despite the recent sympathy over the murders – was beginning to feel for the police. He hadn’t eaten a proper meal for days, subsisting largely on beer and sandwiches at the Bar Transvaal, and he couldn’t remember when he last had a good night’s sleep. Raffet’s murder had provided just one more night when he hadn’t even been to bed.

  The rings under his eyes like the circles left by sloppy wine glasses, unshaven, his clothes rumpled, he was staring bitterly at the new pile of reports concerning Raffet’s murder when Claudie Darel appeared. Despite the pressure of work she looked as pretty as ever, her black hair neat and shining.

  ‘Can I have a word with you, Patron?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m busy. What’s it about?’

  ‘Robert Démon.’

  Pel scowled. ‘Robert Démon’s no friend of mine.’

  ‘He’s no friend of mine, either, Patron.’

  ‘Then what’s the trouble?’

  Claudie gestured. ‘He rather fancies himself with the girls. He passed me in the car park last night and followed me to ask me out for a drink.’

  ‘And you went?’

  ‘I thought it might be useful, Patron. Now I’m sure it is. I was in plain clothes, of course, and I think he thought I’d come to report a lost dog or something.’

  Pel leaned forward. This pretty girl who looked like Mireille Mathieu obviously had hidden depths.

  ‘There wasn’t much happening last night,’ she went on. ‘At least not before the Raffet shooting. He took me to St Symphorien. We had a meal. Then we drove back to the city. By a roundabout route, of course, and we stopped on the way. They all do.’

  Pel frowned. There had been a time once when he had, too. ‘Go on,’ he growled.

  ‘He talked a lot. Mostly about himself. He has a high opinion of Robert Démon and Robert Démon’s spot on the television. I had a pocket tape recorder in my handbag and I switched it on. You’d be surprised what I heard.’

  ‘What did you hear?’

  ‘Well, I encouraged him a bit, I have to admit. But he was hardly discreet. Would you like to hear what he said?’

  She placed a small tape recorder on the desk. The voice that came from it was thin and reedy but it was quite clear and was quite obviously Démon’s voice.

  For a few minutes, Pel listened to a lot of chat about Démon’s work. He was obviously struck by Claudie and was trying to impress her. Then Claudie gestured to him to pay attention.

  ‘It’s rubbish, of course,’ the voice went on. ‘I know it’s rubbish, but it sells. It’s what people want.’

  ‘Is it wise to give it them, though?’ The voice now was Claudie’s.

  ‘Does it matter?’ Démon’s voice continued. ‘We all have to make our way in this world and I’m making mine very nicely, thank you.’

  Claudie leaned forward as the voice paused and switched off. ‘This is the relevant bit, Patron,’ she said.

  As she switched on the tape again, Démon’s voice came again. ‘I’m going to demand o
n my programme that the Security Police are called in. Make a proper job of it.’

  ‘Isn’t it better to take it quietly?’ The voice was Claudie’s once more. ‘Less people get hurt that way.’

  There was the sound of a chuckle then Démon’s voice came. ‘What does that matter? It makes better viewing to see people helped away with blood on them. Especially if they’re Flics. I’ve more than once persuaded kids to heave bottles at them to get a better story. That business at Castel, for instance. You remember that? I had my cameras with the kids and a few francs here and there, a petrol bomb or two, and away you go. Everybody wondered how I got the pictures.’

  Claudie switched it off and looked at Pel. ‘There’s more of the same sort, Patron. But that’s the best, I think.’

  ‘Through his tiredness, Pel was impressed not only by her skill and cleverness but also by her loyalty.

  ‘And the quiet moment in the car?’ he asked.

  She gave a twisted smile. ‘If you look at him carefully, Patron,’ she said.

  ‘You’ll see a long scratch on his right cheek. We could probably get him for assaulting a police officer. He’d plead that he didn’t know I was a police officer, of course, but there you are, you can’t have everything. The tape recorder was still going and, if nothing else, he was pressing his attentions on me when I was objecting. I have evidence. You could call it molesting.’

  It was late when they finished but even as Pel reached for his hat, the telephone rang.

  It was Darcy. ‘Better come in here, Patron,’ he said excitedly. ‘We’ve got a lead, and I think it might be good.’

  In Darcy’s office was a middle-aged man with a moustache and glasses. His clothes were shabby and he wore a checked cap with a red pompom.

  ‘We might,’ Darcy said ‘–we just might – have found out where they are.’ He gestured at the man in the cap. ‘This is Patrice Dennis, Patron. He runs a grocery store in the Rue Balam. Go on, Monsieur Dennis. This is Inspector Pel. Tell him what you told me.’