Pel and the Bombers

by Mark Hebden

  Pel was in a bitter mood as he watched the pressmen trying to get eye-witness accounts to go with their stories, Démon prominent among them, immaculate and handsome, a microphone in his hand.

  ‘There’ll be a press conference at headquarters at midnight,’ he said abruptly.

  Darcy’s head jerked round. ‘Bit soon, isn’t it, Patron?’ he asked.

  ‘No,’ Pel snapped. ‘I’m not having any martyrs made out of this business. They’re going to know this time how the thing was done.’

  Darcy looked sideways at his chief. Pel was never one to crow at a triumph, any more than he was one to whine when things went wrong. But he was in a strange mood.

  ‘For once,’ he said, ‘they’re going to get it right. They do a lot of talking but they never bother to listen much, and you can learn a lot by listening. This time they’ll make no mistakes. Three policemen are dead and four are wounded. I want you to set the facts down, Daniel, for a statement and I want it ready for when they arrive. Nosjean, let the press know.’

  But Nosjean wasn’t listening. Or at least he was listening to something in his own head that Pel’s words had stirred up, something which had nothing to do with what Pel was saying, and he knew suddenly what it was that had troubled him about Madame Crébert.

  ‘Nosjean!’

  Nosjean’s head turned. ‘Patron,’ he said slowly. ‘Could you give the job to someone else?’

  Pel’s eyes narrowed. He never liked people dodging duties. But it was unlike Nosjean to beg off. ‘Inform me,’ he said.

  ‘I’ve just had an idea, Patron.’

  ‘This is a funny time to have ideas.’

  ‘It was something you said, Patron. Things clicked together. It isn’t a hunch. It all fits. I think I know who killed the Crébert boy. I’d like to go and sort it out.’

  Pel eyed him, blank-faced. Nosjean’s hunches were sometimes right, and Pel believed in hunches. His mind slipped back to the night of July 14th, and the dark woods outside Vieilly, even to Madame Faivre-Perret being driven home in a police car when Pel had hoped to have that privilege himself.

  ‘I’ll need de Troq’, Patron,’ Nosjean said.

  ‘Would you also perhaps like Lagé and Darcy and Aimedieu? Perhaps also myself and Inspector Nadauld. Perhaps, even, you’d like Inspector Pomereu, of Traffic, to set up a few diversions?’

  Nosjean blushed. ‘No, Patron,’ he said. ‘Just De Troq’. I think we can clear it up between us. An hour or so will be long enough. We can be back for the press conference.’

  Pel was silent for a second then he gestured. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Tell Lagé to tell the press.’

  Nosjean hurried away to make a telephone call and find De Troquereau. Pel’s words had started up an idea in his mind: You can learn a lot by watching and listening. The words echoed Solange Caillaux’s sentiments and seemed to fill in the gaps that had been worrying him.

  Away from the Rue Daubenon the city was functioning normally. People were going about their business, heading homewards in the darkness. Considering what had been happening, the place looked remarkably placid.

  The lights in the Delacolonges’ apartment were all out save one which they assumed was the bedroom.

  ‘Reading in bed,’ De Troq’ said.

  ‘Doing something in bed at any rate,’ Nosjean agreed. ‘Her husband’s not at home. He’s on night duty. I checked with St Saviour’s.’

  He looked up at the flat. It was on the first floor, its balcony roughly twelve feet above the ground. ‘You stay here,’ he said. ‘You ought to have some fun.’

  The apartment block was silent as Nosjean mounted the short flight of stairs. As he rang the bell, he heard voices beyond the door. For a long time he waited, then he knocked and rang the bell again. The bolts were already being drawn as he walked slowly back down the stairs. As he reached the entrance to the block, he heard a cry and, as he went outside, he saw De Troq’ holding a man in the shadows.

  ‘You were right,’ he said cheerfully. ‘A lot of fun. He came through the window and over the balcony.’

  He pushed forward the man he was holding. It was Martinelle. He looked a great deal tougher than De Troq’ but De Troq’ had his arm and his hand was up near the back of his head, so that his face was twisted with pain.

  As they pushed him up the stairs, Madame Delacolonge was looking out of the door. She was wearing a housecoat and didn’t appear to have much on underneath. When she saw Martinelle, her face fell.

  ‘Oh, my God,’ she groaned.

  ‘Look,’ Martinelle said, as they thrust him into the flat. ‘It isn’t what it seems.’

  ‘Isn’t it?’ Nosjean said blandly. ‘What is it then?’

  ‘She’s frightened of being alone when her husband’s on nights.’

  ‘And you come to hold her hand?’ Nosjean gestured at the settee and as Martinelle and Madame Delacolonge sat together he looked at them coldly. ‘How long has it been going on?’ he asked.

  ‘A few months,’ Martinelle admitted eventually. ‘We got to know each other when she brought the boy to the gymnasium when his bicycle was punctured.’

  Nosjean looked at Madame Delacolonge. ‘Regularly?’ he asked. ‘When your husband’s on night duty.’

  She nodded silently.

  ‘Does he know?’

  ‘No.’ She paused. ‘He wouldn’t object, anyway. He’s so pathetic.’ She gave a weary gesture. ‘He was about as good at that as he was at everything else.’

  Nosjean broke in. ‘I have a question,’ he said. ‘You can both answer it, if you like. Were you here together the night young Crébert was murdered?’

  They glanced at each other then decided there was no point in denying the matter.

  ‘And your husband?’

  ‘He went to see his sister,’ Madame Delacolonge snapped. ‘He was always going. They wept on each other’s shoulders. They were a perfect pair.’

  Doctor Bazin, the director of St Saviour’s, was none too pleased to be disturbed when off duty.

  ‘Of course it’s possible for a patient to get out,’ he said. ‘Nothing in this world can be considered perfect.’

  ‘Then,’ Nosjean asked, ‘how do you know he didn’t get out?’

  ‘I can only take the word of my staff.’

  ‘This staff: Are they at hand when the doctors do their rounds?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Do they make notes?’

  ‘Some do. It depends on their skill or their enthusiasm.’

  ‘Could they learn from what they hear? Could they learn symptoms?’

  Bazin sniffed. ‘Some are even able to diagnose and several are quite capable of prescribing. They don’t, of course, and only the sister in charge is able to obtain drugs.’

  ‘Never the nurses?’

  ‘Never!’

  ‘Never?’

  Bazin hesitated. This, he recognised, was a dangerous question. ‘We try not to make mistakes, of course,’ he said, ‘but this place is staffed by human beings.’

  Neither Nosjean nor De Troq’ spoke as they drove back into the city.

  The Créberts’ door was opened by Crébert himself. ‘Good God,’ he said, when he saw them. ‘At this time of night?’

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ Nosjean said. ‘We’d like to see your wife.’

  ‘She’s gone to bed.’

  ‘Then I’d be grateful if you’d ask her to come downstairs, Monsieur.’

  Crébert frowned. ‘Is it absolutely essential?’

  ‘I’m afraid it is.’

  ‘You realise what this will do to her, don’t you? She’s just beginning to get over the thing.’

  ‘Monsieur,’ Nosjean said stiffly, ‘we’re trying to bring the murderer of your son to justice.’

  Crébert studied them for a long time then he shrugged. ‘Very well,’ he said.

  Madame Crébert came down the stairs nervously. Nosjean said nothing until she was sitting down and Crébert had placed a brandy in her hand. Nosjean
watched her carefully. He understood now the feeling he’d had about her being torn between two loyalties.

  ‘I’d be grateful if you’d make it as quick as possible,’ Crébert said.

  ‘We’ll do our best,’ Nosjean promised as Madame Crébert watched him warily. ‘It consists really of just one question. On the night of your son’s death, Madame, you said your husband was away on business and that, because you were feeling low in spirits, your brother, Robert Delacolonge, came to keep you company.’ Nosjean paused. ‘Was that true?’

  Crébert gestured. ‘If my wife says so, then it must be.’

  ‘I have to make sure, Monsieur. Was it, Madame?’

  Madame Crébert lifted a pale beautiful face towards her husband, then she looked at Nosjean again and inexplicably burst into tears.

  ‘Damn you!’ Crébert snarled at Nosjean. ‘Now look what you’ve done. You’d better go.’

  ‘I haven’t yet had an answer,’ Nosjean persisted.

  ‘You can see–’

  ‘I have to insist, Monsieur.’ Nosjean’s voice grew harder. ‘Much as I dislike distressing your wife.’

  Crébert turned to his wife. ‘In the name of God, Régine, answer them!’

  She gazed at her husband, the tears streaming down her cheeks. Crébert turned to a drawer, took out a tablet and handed it to her. She swallowed it quickly and took a sip of her drink. Nosjean suspected she wasn’t as distressed as she appeared to be, that she’d become skilful like her son at putting on an act to get her own way and that she was playing for time, hoping that by appearing distressed she’d put them off and they’d go.

  ‘Well, Madame?’ he said. ‘Was your brother here that night or not?’

  Still she didn’t answer and Crébert gestured at the door. ‘You’d better go,’ he said.

  ‘I must insist on an answer,’ Nosjean said stiffly. ‘If I can’t get one, then I shall have to ask your wife to come to headquarters where, doubtless, the juge d’instruction will be able to persuade her.’

  Crébert looked angrily at them, then back at his wife. ‘You heard what he said, Régine,’ he said harshly. ‘For God’s sake say “yes” or “no” and let’s be rid of them.’

  Her eyes were huge and swimming with tears. Nosjean steeled himself. ‘Well, Madame?’ he said. ‘Was he or was he not?’

  She looked at him for a moment and then she seemed to throw back her head and howl like a dog. ‘No-o-o-o!’

  Nosjean and De Troq’ escaped as fast as they could. Crébert was still staring, shocked, at his wife as they let themselves out.

  De Troq’ was deep in thought. ‘There’s still one thing we can’t get round,’ he said slowly. ‘The boy was seen to get into a grey car. Was it hers?’

  ‘It was at the Porte Guillaume,’ Nosjean pointed out. ‘A roundabout. And like all roundabouts it’s lit with sodium lights.’

  He headed for the Porte Guillaume and drove the little red Renault round it slowly, giving De Troq’ time to take a good long look.

  ‘It’s grey!’ De Troq’ said.

  ‘Exactly,’ Nosjean agreed. ‘What those boys saw as a grey car was a red car. The colour had been changed by the lights.’ He drew a deep breath. ‘She knew,’ he went on. ‘She knew what her brother suffered from. She knew, because it was the same thing she suffered from. The same thing her elder son, her parents, her whole family suffered from: Mental instability. She guessed where he really was but she couldn’t say because he was the only one who could get her out of her moods. Only an unbalanced woman could have entertained such a division of loyalties for a minute.’

  ‘God help her husband,’ De Troq’ said. ‘It’s funny the people you can find you’ve married.’

  ‘Yes,’ Nosjean agreed, remembering Odile Chenandier. As he considered her, he realised he hadn’t thought of her for days. It had been easier than he had imagined. A month before he’d been wondering whether to join the Foreign Legion.

  Twenty-one

  Nosjean and De Troq’ got back to the Hôtel de Police just as the press conference was about to start, and by that time, it had all been cleared up.

  As they’d expected, Anna Ripka had insisted on a lawyer and to nobody’s surprise he appeared within half an hour and turned out to be a man of an Arab cast of countenance and of Libyan descent by the name of Sorudz Rassaud. It was to him that she attempted to pass the key and he was stopped as he left.

  He was of less stern metal than Anna Ripka and, with his help, they had picked up at his flat three more men – one of them the missing Hamid Ben Afzul – all from North African countries, who though they firmly denied it, were clearly intending to use the store of arms and explosives hidden in the room near the station. Their aims were vague but they seemed to be hoping to influence through terrorism France’s attitude to Libya.

  Faced with their evidence, Anna Ripka had also thrown in the sponge. The original intention had been to plant gelignite in a sewer near the station entrance and detonate it by remote control but, with the police alert, it had proved too difficult and, when they learned that the sewers were to be searched, they had decided to use the rocket launcher and placed the gelignite in the roof Another few corpses more or less were easy enough to accept.

  As they got the last of it down on paper, Pel felt satisfied. He had no need to pull any punches with the press now. Despite the slanging they’d received, they’d done the job. Only just, but they had.

  Stretching, Pel looked at the clock and dragged his jacket straight. It was the same jacket he had worn throughout the siege, battered, soaked, torn and wrinkled. His face was grey with fatigue.

  ‘I think I’d better go home and change,’ he said. ‘It’ll soon be time for the press boys.’

  ‘Why not stay as you are, Patron?’ Darcy suggested slowly. ‘Démon will be there, looking clean and pretty. Let him see what the men he criticises so much have to look like.’

  ‘It’s an idea, Daniel.’

  ‘It’s even worth developing,’ Darcy said. ‘I’ll get hold of all the boys who were involved and have them in, too, still covered with blood and snot. I’ll also get the type who was hit in the arm. A bit of bandage and a sling might make that smooth bastard think a bit.’

  As they rose, Nosjean and De Troq’ appeared. They looked flushed and excited and Pel stopped and managed a smile.

  ‘Inform me,’ he said. ‘Were you right?’

  ‘Yes, Patron,’ Nosjean said. ‘We’ve got him. It was Delacolonge. He confessed. He said first that his car had been stolen on the night of the murder, then that it had been taken by the Strangler to carry the corpse of a Marseilles gangster who’d been shot, to be buried in the woods. He even showed us a letter to that effect, signed with his own name. Then he denied his confession and said he’d been on duty. The roster at the hospital said different. He was a failure at everything he did and, though he didn’t show it, he suffered from depressions and took tranquillisers. The capsules in the boy’s pocket came from him. He stole them from his sister and from the drugs cabinet at St Saviour’s.’

  ‘It seems to slot together,’ Pel observed mildly.

  Nosjean nodded. ‘He knew how to treat depression, of course, because it was his job to accompany the doctors at St Saviour’s on their rounds and he knew all about diazepam. When the boy couldn’t talk to his father and found his mother’s black moods worse than his own, he went to Delacolonge.’

  ‘And Delacolonge’s a nut?’ Darcy asked.

  ‘He’s a nut all right. He’s never done anything successful in his life and that was the point of all those notes, for the demands that there should be more publicity about the case. He wanted to be noticed. He felt he’d committed the perfect crime and was furious when he found he’d been squeezed off the front page by the killings in the Impasse Tarien. We found the revolver he was holding when he took the picture of himself in the telephone booth. It doesn’t work. The firing pin’s missing. The head-shrinkers are having a session with him now. I think they’l
l decide he isn’t fit to stand trial. The only thing in his mind was that his memoirs would be worth a fortune.’

  Pel nodded his satisfaction. ‘One more club to hammer the press with,’ he said. ‘Let’s go and get it over.’

  The lecture room was crowded with pressmen, and chairs and tables had been arranged on the raised dais. Permission had been granted to the television crews to assemble arc lights so they could get their pictures, and Démon was there, dominating the scene, smooth, confident and immaculate. As Pel took his seat, with him to make it fully official were the Chief, Judge Polverari and Judge Brisard.

  The statement Darcy had prepared, giving all the facts, was handed out. It stated in neat columns just who’d been killed and just who’d been wounded. Alongside were the names of the dead terrorists – one of them shot accidentally by his friends – and of those under arrest. It was a formidable array, but the dead and injured on the side of terrorism were well outnumbered by the dead and injured on the side of law and order.

  The details about the attempt to assassinate the President set up gasps among the unsuspecting journalists and one or two of them even began to edge towards the doors and the street where the telephones were.

  ‘Don’t hurry,’ the Chief advised. ‘They’ve been locked and you haven’t got all the facts yet.’

  Pel gave them the facts, the weapons that had been found, the last arrests, the room overlooking the station, the rocket launcher. The pressmen wrote furiously.

  ‘So let’s have no martyrs,’ Pel said coldly. ‘This is why this conference has been called. These men are terrorists and they don’t hesitate to shoot – even, you’ll remember, at the Holy Father in Rome. There have been lots of demands for an investigation into the methods of the police who, in carrying out their duties, have even been subjected to a marked campaign to discredit them.’ He paused and looked over the journalists. ‘It’s conveniently overlooked by some of those critics,’ he went on slowly, ‘not only that policemen risk their lives so that the people who criticise them can sleep safely in their beds, but also that they’re assaulted by petrol bombs, nail bombs, blast bombs, hand grenades and a variety of other more sophisticated weapons. Do these critics who want an enquiry into police methods also wish an enquiry into the use of these things by terrorists?’