Pel and the Bombers

by Mark Hebden

Dennis glanced at Pel and swallowed hard. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I’ve read all the newspapers about the shootings and the rewards for information. All those appeals for anyone to come forward who might know where they are. I’ve had the police in my shop asking if any of my customers have been behaving oddly.’

  ‘And have they?’

  ‘Well, I don’t know.’ Dennis swallowed again. He looked scared to death. ‘There’s one who might be.’

  ‘Name?’ Pel said.

  ‘Got it, Patron,’ Darcy said. ‘Liliane Lefèvre. Apartment C, Top floor, 97, Rue Daubenon. Montchapet district again. Aged about thirty-one. Single.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘She lives alone,’ Dennis said. ‘She always has. Well–’ he paused ‘–sometimes there’s a man there. She’s not fussy, you know. We always know by the amount of groceries she buys. Half a kilo of butter becomes a kilo. A kilo of apples becomes two kilos. We can always tell how many there are in a family.’

  Pel was listening quietly, not interrupting. ‘When she has a man there, what she buys always goes up. Double. Sometimes a bit more.’ Dennis tried a nervous smile. ‘Depends on whether they’re big eaters, I suppose.’

  ‘And you think she has someone there now?’

  ‘Not one. Three, I think.’

  ‘You’ve seen them?’

  ‘No. Just worked it out. My wife said to me “I see Liliane’s got a boy friend in again” but I didn’t take much notice at first because she’s like that. It often happens. Then my wife said. “He’s a big eater, this one. Eats enough for two. Perhaps even three.”’

  Pel glanced at Darcy, lit a cigarette and passed the packet to Dennis who helped himself gratefully.

  ‘Well, when she said that,’ he went on, ‘I remembered what I’d seen in the papers. Police looking for three men and all that. I started wondering. When she came in again, I made a careful note of everything she bought.’ He fished in his pocket and produced a torn scrap of brown wrapping paper. ‘That’s it. There’s a lot of groceries there for one.’

  ‘Perhaps she buys for long periods,’ Pel suggested.

  ‘She’s not that organised. Buys by the day. Almost by the meal. Comes in during the morning for the midday meal, about six o’clock for the evening meal. Except Mondays when we close. Then she goes round the corner to Barnardi’s place. His vegetables are terrible.’

  ‘Is this her usual practice? Twice a day?’

  ‘Without fail. She’s on the knock, of course, and sometimes she’s short of cash and just buys what she can afford.’

  Pel interrupted, gesturing at the scrap of brown paper. ‘She doesn’t seem to have been short of cash on this occasion. Was it for one meal?’

  ‘If it’s the usual method,’ Dennis said. ‘Yesterday morning she bought eggs for lunch. She said she was going to make an omelette.’

  ‘How many eggs?’

  ‘Twenty.’

  ‘For one omelette? For one woman?’

  ‘That’s what she said. She came in again last night and bought some more.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Tomatoes. Bread. Wine. And a large bottle of Scotch. That was unusual. She doesn’t usually afford that sort of thing.’

  Pel glanced at Darcy. ‘She was buying them Dutch courage,’ he murmured. ‘Before they set out to fix Raffet. I think we’d better look into this. First, though, let’s have Monsieur Dennis taken home.’

  ‘Is it safe to go home?’ Dennis asked.

  ‘Is your wife there?’

  ‘Looking after the shop. It’s closed, of course. That’s why I was late coming. You can’t afford to miss a customer these days.’

  ‘I think you’d better get back to her,’ Pel said. ‘Behave quite normally. Say nothing to anyone. Don’t tell anyone where you’ve been.’

  ‘Not on your life. I’ve read about that lot. There was a new one last night, I heard.’

  ‘Have you ever seen anyone going in to this Liliane Lefèvre’s rooms?’ Pel asked.

  ‘No, sir. My shop isn’t in the Rue Daubenon. It’s round the corner.’

  ‘Never mind. We’ll find out. Off you go. You were right to come in.’

  When Dennis had gone, Pel began to make his plans. ‘Every available man,’ he said to Darcy. ‘No mistakes. Better to look silly by finding nothing than have them get away again.’

  ‘What about Misset?’

  ‘Misset too,’ Pel snapped. ‘He might get shot. We shall need binoculars and rifles. We shall also need marksmen, barricades, loud-hailers, walkie-talkies. Everything. Inform Pomereu – there’ll need to be traffic control. And Nadauld – we’ll probably have to draw on his men, and we’ll certainly require a few uniforms to keep back the crowds. They’re always willing to get shot for the sake of seeing someone bleed to death on the pavement. But they’re to keep out of sight and no one’s to move until I give the word. I don’t want our friends frightening away.’

  Pel’s manoeuvre moved like clockwork. People in the houses in the Rue Mozart facing the back of 97, Rue Daubenon, who were known to be friendly to the police, had been knocked up, and now their rear rooms were filled with policemen dripping weapons, their feet stamping dirt from the wet street across best carpets. From the rear windows, they could see Number Ninety-Seven plainly. It was a narrow-gutted, four-storey house with a yard backing on to a builders’ premises that stretched across to the houses in the Rue Mozart. The streets around remained silent and still except for an occasional prowling cat. Standing in Dennis’ shop, Pel discussed with Darcy and Inspector Nadauld how they should get at the men believed to be in Liliane Lefèvre’s rooms.

  While they talked, the Chief arrived, his car coming to a stop with a quiet squeak of brakes. Polverari was with him and they closed the doors gently.

  ‘They called me,’ the Chief said.

  ‘It might be as well,’ Pel observed. ‘A few tricky decisions are going to have to be taken.’

  Round the corner, where the Chief’s car was halted, four police cars blocked the road.

  Though the inhabitants weren’t yet aware of it, all the other streets in the neighbourhood were also blocked and a headquarters had been set up in a shed at the back of Dennis’ shop. Dennis was none too keen but there seemed to be nowhere else until daylight and the idea of collecting the reward consoled him.

  Among the fruit and vegetable boxes, they pored over a plan of the area obtained from the department of the City Engineer, one of whose minions had been dragged from his bed and taken down to his office to root through his drawers for it.

  ‘If it’s our friends,’ Polverari said, ‘then we can expect shooting.’

  ‘We’ve got the answer to that one,’ Pel said. ‘There are men at the opposite side of the Rue Daubenon, overlooking the windows. We also have men at the back to keep heads down at that side.’

  ‘There are people in Number Ninety-Seven, though,’ he went on, drawing on what Dennis had told them. ‘At least three families, the owner on the first floor. We have all their names. We ought to get them out. To say nothing of the woman herself. She’s probably not putting them up willingly and we’ve got to give her the chance to get clear.’

  Eventually they decided to try the ground floor apartment first, and De Troquereau, who was considered the most persuasive, was sent to bring the family out. As he knocked on the door, a small thin woman appeared, her expression hostile.

  ‘You Madame Treville?’

  ‘Yes.’

  When De Troq’ explained that they needed someone to go up to Liliane Lefèvre’s flat to persuade her to come down, she refused at once.

  ‘Not me,’ she said. ‘I’m on my own with three children, one sick. My husband’s on nights. He’s permanently on nights. If you want Liliane, you’ll have to get her yourself.’

  ‘Is she in?’ De Troq’ asked.

  ‘I heard her go up earlier and I haven’t heard her come down.’

  ‘How about us getting a Policewoman to look after the kids so you can
go up and tell her to come down?’

  ‘Not for fifty thousand francs! I don’t like her that much. Besides we’re not on speaking terms. She’d know there was something funny going on.’

  ‘We need her out of there.’

  ‘Well, you’ll have to get her out yourselves. Nobody round here would go and fetch her out in the middle of the night. She’s got a tongue like a viper. Especially if she’s got a man in there.’

  Madame Treville hitched at her housecoat.

  ‘And now, if you’ll shift yourself, I’d like to shut this door and go back to bed. My youngest girl’s got a cough. Listen.’ From the back of the apartment De Troq’ could hear the persistent coughing of a child.

  As she tried to close the door, De Troq’ put his knee against it. ‘How long has your child been ill?’ he asked patiently.

  ‘A week now.’

  ‘Would Liliane Lefèvre hear the coughing?’

  ‘Everybody can hear it. You can hear it in the next street.’

  ‘Look, go up to the top flat and tell her your child’s very ill and your husband’s at work and you need help.’

  She studied him suspiciously. ‘I don’t see why I should help the police,’ she said. ‘They’ve never done anything for me.’

  De Troq’ refrained from pointing out that they only kept the streets safe in a day and age which would rapidly descend into anarchy without them, and that they were helping her now by trying to catch three dangerous men who had shot and killed three cops, wounded two others, killed a woman and a bar proprietor, and would just as easily shoot anybody else who got in their way, including Madame Treville.

  ‘Look,’ he tried. ‘Your children could be in danger. So could everybody else in this building. If she sees a woman at the door, she’ll not suspect anything.’

  ‘Can’t you get a policewoman?’

  ‘She needs to recognise you.’

  Eventually, Madame Treville agreed to go but she was worried about her children so Claudie Darel was smuggled in to sit with the children. Her calm demeanour immediately soothed Madame Treville’s fears.

  ‘All right,’ she said. ‘I’ll go up now.’

  As she vanished, De Troq’ and Nosjean heard her knock on a door above their heads, then a low conversation, and finally the sound of footsteps descending the stairs.

  ‘There are two of them,’ Nosjean murmured. ‘We’ve got her.’

  They took up positions behind the door and, as Madame Treville entered the room, followed by the woman from upstairs, De Troq’ closed the door quietly.

  Liliane Lefèvre was a tall, well-built woman with untidy blonde hair and she was in her slip. ‘What’s this?’ she demanded.

  ‘Police,’ Nosjean said. He jerked his head at Claudie. ‘Get the Patron.’

  ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Just be quiet. We want to talk to you.’

  ‘I’m in a fine state to talk to anybody. Half-undressed.’

  ‘Can you lend her a coat?’ Nosjean asked Madame Treville.

  Madame Treville sniffed but she produced an old coat of her husband’s and the Lefèvre woman shrugged herself into it. As she was buttoning it, the door opened and Pel appeared.

  ‘We’re looking for three men,’ he said. ‘Jaroslav Tyl, Kasimir Hays and Sergei Toom Kotchkoff, also known as Tom Kotchkoff. There’s possibly a fourth also, Hamid Ben Afzul. We have reason to believe they’re hiding in your flat.’

  She tossed her head. ‘I’m a single girl. I don’t have men in my flat.’

  Madame Treville sniffed again. Pel continued in the same cold voice.

  ‘These men are suspected murderers,’ he said. ‘We want them for questioning in connection with the deaths of three policemen and a woman in the Impasse Tarien on July 14th and the murder of a bar owner, Claude Raffet, last night.’

  Her eyes narrowed but she said nothing.

  ‘We know there are people in your apartment beside yourself.’

  ‘It’s a lie!’

  ‘Very well,’ Pel said. ‘I’d better go up. If I’m shot dead then you’ll be charged under Article 60 of the Penal Code. You could get several years.’

  Liliane Lefèvre’s eyes swept across Pel, De Troq’ and Nosjean like those of a trapped animal. Then she nodded.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘They’re there.’

  ‘Names?’

  ‘I don’t know their names. Not their proper names. I’ve met them in bars. One of them’s called Jaro, one’s called the Russian and one’s called Weasel. None of ‘em’s very old.’

  ‘Old enough,’ Pel said. ‘Are they awake or asleep?’

  She sighed. ‘One of them’s always awake.’

  Pel glanced at the stairs. They were narrow and curving; he couldn’t see any attack being made up them without someone being hurt, and he had no intention of chancing that. Policemen’s lives were as sacred as anybody else’s.

  He gestured at Nosjean. ‘All right, mon brave. Take her away. She’ll be charged with harbouring known criminals, knowing them to be guilty of criminal offences.’

  As the Lefèvre woman vanished, Pel gestured. ‘Let’s have everybody out,’ he said. ‘We need a clear field.’

  It was easier said than done. It was raining, the drops splashing on the windows in an unexpected noisy shower, and Madame Treville had no wish to leave her warm apartment.

  ‘I’ve got a sick child,’ she pointed out.

  ‘She can be wrapped in blankets,’ Pel said. ‘We’ll see she’s taken to where she can be properly looked after.’

  It was De Troq’, using all his charm, who finally persuaded her it might be dangerous to remain.

  ‘Is there going to be shooting?’ she asked.

  ‘We hope to do what we have to do without that, but it may come to it.’

  The thought that she might be missing something changed Madame Treville’s mind again. ‘We’ll go across the street,’ she said. ‘To my sister’s. We’ll see better from there.’

  ‘Nobody’s crossing the street,’ De Troq’ explained. ‘Any movement that’s taking place is taking place on this side, hard up against the wall, so it can’t be seen. Have you any friends on this side?’

  She hadn’t and changed her mind once more, coming to the conclusion that she might see better from her own front window.

  It took another quarter of an hour of tortuous arguing, conducted in whispers, before she agreed to move.

  They got them out at last, hurriedly dressed, the sleepy children in the arms of policemen.

  The landlady followed, equally unwillingly, from the first floor, then a whining old man from the second floor.

  ‘Go away,’ he said, as they tapped at his door. ‘I don’t know you.’

  ‘We’re police officers.’

  ‘I don’t want anything to do with you.’

  They eventually managed to get inside and told him he would have to leave.

  ‘This is my home,’ he wailed. ‘Why am I being evicted?’

  ‘You’re not being evicted,’ De Troq’ explained. ‘We’ve just got to clear the place.’

  ‘I don’t want to go. It’s my home!’

  ‘Well, we all love our homes,’ De Troq’ said patiently. ‘Most of us have nice homes and wives and kids–’

  The old man sniffed. ‘Home’s all right,’ he said. ‘I was never very keen on the wife and kids. Besides, I like to keep quiet. At my age, people die. If I keep quiet, I might not be noticed. Anyway, I can’t manage the stairs. I get vertigo. I’d fall. I’m ninety-one. I fought at Verdun in the first war before you were even thought of.’

  De Troq’ decided to try the problem on Pel.

  Pel scowled. ‘We can’t bring in an ambulance crew,’ he said. ‘Can he be carried down on someone’s back?’

  ‘Not on mine, Patron,’ De Troq’ said. ‘He’s big and looks heavy.’

  ‘Misset,’ Pel said maliciously. ‘Get Misset.’

  Misset, who had been keeping well out of Pel’s way, came forward sh
eepishly. ‘There’s a man in the second floor flat,’ Pel said. ‘He needs carrying down the stairs. Go and do it. If you drop him, I’ll have you shot.’

  Eager to reinstate himself, Misset hurried off.

  The old man was still sitting on his bed, whining, but Nosjean had managed to get him into trousers and an overcoat and had wrapped him up with a scarf and placed a cap on his head.

  It wasn’t easy getting him on to Misset’s back but they managed it in the end, Misset’s face red with the effort. The noise they made going down the stairs seemed enough to wake the dead.

  ‘Name of God!’ Misset panted. ‘The old bastard’s heavy! What’s he been eating? Lead shot?’

  They got the old man into the street at last but as Misset put him down, he immediately started whining about the cold.

  ‘Pick him up, Misset,’ Pel said. ‘We want him safely out of sight.’

  Misset gave him an anguished expression and, hoisting the old man on his back again, tottered off, reeling from side to side, until he vanished round the corner.

  Pel looked at the Chief. ‘That’s the lot,’ he said. ‘The place’s empty now except for our little friends in the top apartment.’

  ‘What do you propose now?’

  Pel frowned. ‘We wait,’ he said.

  Seventeen

  Daylight came with the sky rapidly filling with heavy black clouds which soon started to increase into a brewing storm. The eerie light made the wet pavements shine.

  The street remained empty of traffic. If anyone made a run for it, Pel wasn’t having any obstacles in the way of the police marksmen. Nevertheless, nothing was done to prevent people going to work, because he wished everything to look as natural as possible. Not that he thought the men in the top floor flat had missed much. By this time they must be well aware, from the very absence of noise, that the rest of the house was empty.

  The first workers – the market employees and people who did their jobs before the rest of the world woke up – began to move off towards their places of employment and it didn’t take them long to spot the police cars waiting round the corner and the policemen in doorways and behind windows in neighbouring streets. Obviously something was happening and, as the word got round, the district began to fill with people whom the police had to keep moving and out of sight.