by Mark Hebden
‘I’d like to make it an English garden,’ she said. ‘They have such lovely gardens in England.’
‘That’s because they have such dreadful weather,’ Pel observed. ‘It’s green because it’s always raining.’
‘They work hard in their gardens, too,’ Madame pointed out reproachfully.
Pel pretended to be deaf – it was a habit he’d picked up from the Chief – and his wife tactfully changed the subject.
‘I bought an antique warming pan today,’ she said. ‘From that old place near St-Seine l’Abbaye. The old woman who kept it died and it’s been taken over by somebody new and they’re trying to clear away the junk. It was cheap and it’s really very good.’
‘Perhaps it’s the one they used to smuggle the Man in the Iron Mask out of the queen’s bedroom,’ Pel said. ‘As a baby,’ he added. ‘You remember, he was the king’s twin brother. That’s why they put him in the Iron Mask. Young Yves next door’s been telling me about it. About the Count of Monte Cristo, too. He’s been reading a lot of Dumas just lately.’
Madame smiled. ‘Madame Routy and I will get to work on it,’ she said. ‘It’s in a terrible state but a bit of good polishing will bring it back to life. It’ll take a few days but it will be worth it. Oh, by the way, Daniel telephoned.’
‘He’s back?’
‘He wanted to know if you’d be in tomorrow. He wants to talk to you.’
‘What about? The man on the motorway?’
‘No, it’s personal, I think.’
Darcy was as brisk and confident as ever when he appeared next morning, his teeth shining, his profile in top gear. Pel guessed why he had chosen to go to Royan and wondered who it was this time. It was time Darcy married, he thought. It was Darcy who had pushed Pel into marriage when he hadn’t had the gumption to go ahead himself. Perhaps it was now Darcy’s turn to need a shove or two.
‘I’ve traced him all over the country,’ he was saying. ‘From one health and beauty centre to another. He seems to have been a randy old bastard. He wasn’t interested in the health, just the beauty. He liked women. The last place was here, in this city. Chasing a woman called Jeanette Guignard. I’ve tried to trace her but she seems to have left the area. It seems he became a bit of a nuisance in these places.’
‘So why does he come to be dead on the motorway between Mailly-les-Temps and Ponchet? Is there anything of that sort there?’
‘Nothing, patron. I’ve checked.’
Pel frowned. ‘Somehow, somewhere,’ he said, ‘there has to be a motive in all this. A randy old man who liked women, but too old to be much of a danger any more. But he seems to have had money and he seems to have chased women because he went to health spas.’ Pel’s frown deepened. ‘But not to get fit. Just to look at girls jumping up and down in shorts and vests? Would he do that? He could do it on a beach in summer. What puzzles me is where he obtained his money. We know there was a period when he was broke but he seems to have been in funds again when he died, although he was seventy-eight and had been retired a long time. Where does a man of that age obtain large sums of money?’
Pel tossed the file on to his desk, rubbed his nose, lit a cigarette, had a coughing bout that made him feel better, and looked up. ‘You wanted to see me? Geneviève said you seemed worried.’
Darcy admitted it. He was worried and that was unusual because Darcy didn’t normally worry much. His attitude to police work was cool. He was never quite as much committed as Pel but he was a good cop and took his work seriously. He hesitated a moment, then fished in his briefcase and produced a newspaper. It was La Torche, a virulent minor publication known to live off scandal. Darcy’s finger pointed. ‘There. That’s what I found when I got back. It’s a reference to that bribery case in Lyons. They’re suggesting now that we’re hiding something here. Something on the bomb case. They’ve linked the two cases together. “Have we got it nearer home?” they’re asking. Sarrazin wrote it. I recognise the style.’
‘Have you asked him if it’s his?’
‘He swears it isn’t. He says it came from Paris – news agency stuff. Their own investigative journalists.’
‘Investigative journalists should be cut into strips and fed to the pigs. They do nothing but harm.’ Not for nothing was Pel the founder, president, secretary and only member of the Bigots’ Association.
‘I don’t believe him, of course,’ Darcy said. ‘He wrote it because he’s heard something, but he’s afraid to say so out loud.’ Darcy frowned. ‘And when I got back I found people looking at me, patron. As if I had two heads or something. People I talk to here at headquarters don’t hang about. They go away. Even Pomereu.’
‘Pomereu’s a fool. He always was.’
‘And that girl who works in the typing pool. Danielle Delaporte. She came here from Beaune. She’s – well, you know her, patron – she’s–’ Darcy made vague shapes with his hands.
‘I know her,’ Pel said.
‘I took her around for a while. It finished a long time ago but we stayed good friends. Whenever I go near her now she gets up and walks away. What’s wrong with me, I thought. Do I smell? Then I bumped into Brochard. He was with Louis Leblanc. Louis the Limp. You know the guy. He works at Garages Blaine and produces information for Brochard. He was saying someone’s going to knock off a bank.’
‘Which?’
‘He didn’t know.’
‘And when?’
‘He didn’t know that either.’
‘Has Brochard informed Nosjean? It might be the Tuaregs.’
‘Nosjean’s been told. But Louis also heard Jacquot Hugo talking. You remember Hugo. He was sent down for burglary and he said something that bothers me. He said, “If Duche can get away with it, why can’t I? How much do I have to pay?”’
‘Was he accusing someone of taking bribes over Duche?’
‘I went to see him, patron. At number 72. He was accusing me.’
Pel said nothing and Darcy went on angrily. ‘No wonder people don’t stop to talk to me any more. It doesn’t pay to be associated with doubtful characters.’ Darcy’s face reddened. ‘Where did a rat like Hugo get that, patron?’
‘Did he say it to you?’
‘To Brochard. Brochard passed it on.’ Darcy passed a hand over his face. ‘I’ve always got on all right with Brochard.’
‘Has he heard something?’
‘Rumours. That’s all. Name of God, patron, I think he actually thought there might be some truth in it. On the principle that there’s no smoke without fire.’
‘Who do you think’s behind it?’
‘Aimedieu’s heard it, too. He was in Goriot’s team and all Goriot’s lot are talking about it. They’re saying I was slow getting to the airfield when Nadauld was shot. Patron, I was just behind you.’
‘Is Aimedieu just trying to do for Goriot? He doesn’t like him.’
‘Aimedieu’s not like that.’
‘No, he’s not. Neither is Brochard. What about Misset? He’s the one who spends more time than anybody else talking. Has he heard anything?’
‘I’ve not asked him, patron. And I’m not going to. You don’t go up to a guy and say “Somebody’s spreading tales about me,” do you? That makes him begin to wonder, “What tales?” And then he listens harder. And he hears them, too, because, having been warned, he reads into things suggestions that aren’t there. Is it Goriot?’
‘Why should Goriot be after you?’
‘That business over Duche. I as good as told him he was a damned fool. He doesn’t like it. He also doesn’t like the fact that, in spite of being senior to me in service, he’s junior in fact. Also, patron,’ Darcy paused, ‘–he doesn’t like you. You got the job he hoped to get and you got his team – or what was left of it: Aimedieu.’
‘He’s not got Aimedieu any longer.’
‘He won’t like that either.’
Pel reached across the desk and helped himself to a cigarette from Darcy’s packet, then sat back in his chair. Office politics
were always part of any job. For every man doing a decent day’s work, there were two who were wheeling and dealing. It was the same with police work as with any other profession. There were always men who made it their aim in life to be near the people who mattered, to be noticed, who always talked louder about things than better men, because that way they came to the notice of the people at the top. When there was a job going, they were the ones who got it. Pel didn’t like it, but everybody had to live with it in some form or other.
He wasn’t personally worried because he knew his career was safe. It was expected he’d get the Chief’s job when the Chief retired and, if it had anything to do with the Chief, he would. But there were plenty of other men with influence who might come up on the rails at the last moment. With Pel, it didn’t matter much because he preferred being out in the field. Darcy was more vulnerable, however. It was Pel’s hope that when the time came for him to move up or move out, Darcy would take his place. Darcy was the best fitted for it. Nosjean was cleverer and probably so was De Troq’, but Nosjean lacked Darcy’s drive, and he suspected De Troq’, who enjoyed being known as the titled cop, wasn’t really interested.
It was worrying, and Goriot and his problems were taking up far too much of Pel’s time. In addition they seemed to be getting nowhere with their enquiries.
But then, the shoe Sous-Brigadier Chevraux had brought in seemed to start things moving again.
‘Patron,’ Lagé said, appearing in Pel’s office, ‘I might have a lead on our friend, Dupont. That shoe’s his, all right. It matches the other and I wondered why was it found where it was. So I took a look at the map. There’s another village about five kilometres away. Lugny. I wondered if there were any connection – if he had a woman there, for instance. If he didn’t, how come the shoe was there?’
Pel listened gravely and Lagé smiled. ‘So I tried his bank and they let me see his statement. He was getting a regular income from somewhere, patron. There’s a monthly figure of ten thousand francs and another of five thousand. They don’t know where it comes from because it comes via a Swiss bank. They said there were others as well but one by one most of them stopped. I also noticed there were several payments over the last year to a place called the Hospice de Lugny. I wondered what the Hospice de Lugny was. I thought it might be a health and beauty clinic but it turned out to be a nursing home. It’s no more than two kilometres from where he was found. I wondered if he’d been spending time there.’
Pel reached for his cigarettes. ‘Only one way to find out,’ he said. ‘Come on, Daniel.’
The Hospice de Lugny was an old-fashioned house of grey stone, ugly because it belonged to the era when, with blossoming business at the end of the last century, industrialists without much taste had tried with their homes, carriages and clothes to make themselves look more important than they were. It had turrets and a short flight of steps to the front door.
As they stopped the car a bulky young man was working outside, repairing the steps with new stones. He tossed down the square bricklayer’s hammer he was using, and rose and studied them for a moment, his expression blank.
‘You booked in for a stay here?’ he asked.
‘No,’ Pel snorted. ‘We’re not. Who’s in charge?’
‘I am.’
‘You own the place?’
The young man frowned. ‘Well, no.’
‘You the Matron?’
‘No.’
‘Then you aren’t in charge.’
‘I am when the others are busy.’
‘There are others?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then you’d better go and find them. Tell them the police wish to speak to them.’
The young man studied them for a moment or two longer, then he turned sulkily and vanished, leaving the door open for them to enter. They followed him inside. There was no reception desk but in the hall there was a room which appeared to be an office, in as much as it had a desk, a telephone and a few files. Across the hall was a dining-room of sorts. It had four or five small square tables, each set for two people. On each one was a small glass vase with a single wilting flower in it. A woman in an apron was arranging them. She was youngish and well built and she stared at the door with contempt.
‘No manners,’ she said.
‘Who?’ Darcy asked.
‘That boy. Throws his weight about. Not quite right in the head. Measles as a child. Behaves as if he owns the place.’
‘Who does own it?’
‘Madame Weill.’
‘He’s gone to fetch her?’
‘He’ll have to go a long way.’
‘Oh? Why?’
‘She’s away on holiday. She’s gone to see her daughter. She lives in St-Trop’.’
‘You part of the staff?’
‘I’m most of it. I’m the cook. We could do with more help. They’re always making alterations. Taking up floors. Painting windows. Digging up the grounds.’
‘Why are they digging up the grounds?’
‘They say they’re looking for a well. They say there’s an underground spring here and they’re trying to find it. They had maps and books out of the library on it. They say spring water’s good for the residents. Pure. Good for the kidneys. They even talk of selling it. They’ll never find it. I don’t think there is one.’
‘Did you know a Monsieur Dupont?’
‘Him!’
‘You do know him?’
‘Of course I did. He tried to get me in corners.’
Pel stared about him. ‘What is this place?’ he asked.
‘What do you mean, what is it?’
‘A health farm?’
‘This?’ She looked startled. ‘It’s a rest home for geriatrics.’
As she collected her tray and shuffled off, they looked round in bewilderment. They had half expected bounding young gym instructresses in tight T-shirts and satin shorts.
A moment later they heard feet clattering and a woman appeared. She was good-looking in a beefy sort of way, tall with a bosom like a frigate under full sail, her hair blond but going grey. Pel had a feeling he’d met her before but he couldn’t place where.
She was breathless and shook hands hurriedly. ‘Sully,’ she said. ‘Marianne Sully. I’m sorry to keep you waiting, but we’ve got some alterations going on in the laundry. This is an old building. We’re putting in a new floor and the concrete mixer’s going. My husband also works here. I’m running the place at the moment. My son said you were the police and wanted to see me.’
‘You’ll be the Matron?’
‘Deputy Matron, actually. Madame Weill, the owner, is the Matron.’
As they talked, a man appeared. He was tall, dark and good-looking. Madame Sully introduced him. ‘This is my husband, René,’ she said. ‘We only have a small staff because most of the people who come here come just for a rest and a little quiet. To convalesce. To get over a death. Because they’re just tired. Because their children who look after them need a break. We concentrate just on looking after them and feeding them well. We have a good kitchen staff and a few odds and ends but the responsibilities lie between us and the Matron.’
‘Do you know a man by the name of Jean Dupont?’
Madame Sully’s hand went to her mouth. ‘Name of God,’ she said. ‘You’ve found him?’
‘We seem to have, madame.’
‘Is he all right?’
‘I’m afraid he’s dead, madame.’
‘Was it his heart?’
‘No, madame, it wasn’t his heart. It was a motor car. He was found on the motorway near Mailly-les-Temps with head injuries. Was he a resident here?’
Madame Sully sat down heavily. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘He was. But he disappeared. I thought he’d gone home.’
‘Why would he do that?’
‘He quarrelled with the last place he went to.’
‘Which place was that?’
‘I don’t know. It’s what he said. Apparently he often quarrelled. I thought t
hat was what must have happened. Something had upset him.’
‘Didn’t you know he was dead?’
‘No.’
‘Didn’t you see it in the newspapers?’
‘We don’t have them. We find they upset some of the residents. They read the death and in memoriam notices and start thinking how old they are.’
‘The television then? The radio?’
‘We must have missed it. I wanted to telephone his home, but he was a widower and we hadn’t got a number.’
‘Why not?’
‘He refused to give one. He said there’d be nobody there, anyway. He liked to keep to himself. He said he had his reasons.’
It was a phrase Madame Chappe had said he used.
‘He had a daughter,’ Madame Sully offered, almost as though she could read Pel’s thoughts. ‘I know, because he spoke of her. I thought perhaps he’d gone to her.’
‘Did you know her?’
‘No. So I couldn’t telephone her.’
‘Why didn’t you report he was missing?’
‘Why should we? He wasn’t ill or deranged. Apart from having bad feet, he was perfectly fit – almost too fit at times. He paid to come here for a rest – more than once – and he was free to leave if he wished.’
‘When did he come this time?’
‘A month ago.’
‘What did he do here?’
‘He liked to play cards. We played with him.’
‘Who did?’ Darcy asked.
‘I did. And my husband. We also usually raked in Bernard. That’s Bernard Ruffel, who’s my son by my first husband. He’s quite good even though he’s not clever. He didn’t want to play. He’d been repairing the kitchen floor. It’s one of those flagged ones and he’s good at that sort of thing. He brought his tools because he’d been busy and he has difficulty changing direction when he’s concentrating. He’s – well – subnormal, but he’s a good boy. He put his tools in the hearth.’