Pel and the Missing Persons

by Mark Hebden

  He went back to the bar, eyed the girl behind the counter again, and studied Ferry, who was in his drive up the street, tinkering with his car. As he watched, it suddenly occurred to Misset that Ferry hadn’t worked much lately, and that it might be a good idea to check up on him a little. It turned out that the truck he’d driven when he wasn’t unemployed was one of the little tractors that pulled the carts of suitcases out to the aircraft at the airport, where Trudis had the concession, but that he had been sacked four months before for trying to get into one of the pieces of luggage he was hauling.

  Trudis confirmed the fact. ‘We got rid of him,’ the personnel manager explained. ‘He had sticky fingers. Things went missing. And he was found trying to get into this suitcase.’

  ‘Did you inform the police?’

  ‘No. He hadn’t opened it so we couldn’t charge him with theft. Instead we sacked him on the spot.’

  ‘I bet he was mad,’ Misset said.

  ‘You’re telling me. He threatened us with firebombs, poison gas, tanks, nuclear weapons, the lot. We didn’t take much notice. He was always inclined to go over the top a bit. I think he isn’t quite all there.’

  It set Misset’s mind going again. Because his wife had been on at him again, he went to the Bar de la Petite Alsacienne to do his thinking. The girl eyed him suspiciously as he took his beer to a corner table where he could see Jouet’s house and Ferry’s house next door, with its battered car in the drive. He could also see the girl behind the bar without turning anything more than his eyes, and every time she bent to the sink he could look down the top of her dress, That was something Misset enjoyed. He was still day-dreaming when Pel appeared.

  He was in a bad temper. Darcy had disappeared and Pel was angry with the Chief – though he knew the Chief was right – and angrier still with Goriot. In addition, his cold hadn’t improved, his sinuses were worse and he was sure he was dying. What was more, his wife had had to go to Paris for the day on business and that always put him in a bad mood until she returned. When he had left the house, Madame Routy, taking advantage of her absence, had had both the radio and the television on. They had been playing different programmes when Pel had left but somehow she managed to absorb them both.

  Arriving at the office, he had had a go at Nosjean and De Troq’, complaining that they were getting nowhere with the Tuaregs and ignoring their arguments that they were; then he set about Aimedieu and Lagé. Brochard and Debray were out, and thus escaped, so it seemed to be time to have a go at Misset. Any time was a good time to have a go at Misset because it could be guaranteed that he wasn’t doing his job properly.

  While Misset was leaning on the table, trying to keep his eyes off the barmaid’s bust, Pel popped up alongside him. He seemed to emerge through a hole in the ground. Emerging through a hole in the ground when he wasn’t expected was one of Pel’s gifts.

  His temper was worse. There was a bunch of teenagers outside the bar, smoking in the way only French teenagers could smoke and it made him want to light up.

  Misset was staring into space.

  ‘See something?’ Pel asked.

  Misset jumped enough to jar the table and spill his beer. ‘No, patron,’ he said. ‘Thinking.’

  ‘With what?’

  Misset ignored the comment.

  ‘Found out about Jouet’s lawn yet?’

  ‘No, patron. It’s got me puzzled.’

  ‘I’ve seen no reports. Why not?’

  ‘I haven’t had time, patron.’

  ‘Everybody else finds time. Reports are what we exist on. Without reports, tomorrow’s policemen don’t know anything.’

  Misset’s mind fluttered, looking for a good excuse. Pel saw his mouth moving. He knew Misset was cursing him under his breath. It didn’t worry him. He liked people to curse him. It proved he was doing his job.

  As he stared at Misset, Misset couldn’t think what else to say so he jerked a hand at the road outside.

  ‘That’s Lax’s car,’ he said conversationally. ‘Councillor Lax. I think he has a lady friend round here. It’s always there. The one in front is Senator Forton’s.’

  Pel’s ears pricked. ‘Oh?’ he said. ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I’ve seen him get out of it. I’ve seen them talking there.’

  ‘Often?’

  ‘More than once.’

  It was Pel’s turn to have a faraway look in his eyes and, to Misset’s surprise, he didn’t pursue the subject of Jouet’s garden or Misset’s lack of brains and initiative. Instead he ordered a beer – even one for Misset – and stood staring through the open door at the two cars himself.

  ‘Pity you can’t hear what they’re saying,’ he said unexpectedly; then, finishing his beer, he departed, leaving Misset feeling he had been swept by a strong wind.

  Sixteen

  Nosjean was staring at a list of all the banks in the district. He had scored out the names of all the big ones and made a list of small country and suburban branches. It was still formidable and told him little. One of them, he felt, was due for the attention of the Tuaregs.

  Going to the supermarket at Talant, he found Janine Ducassis in charge, with no sign of the manager or Pascal Dubois.

  ‘It’s her day off,’ Janine announced. ‘We’re open seven days a week here. We take our days off when we can.’

  ‘What about the manager?’

  ‘He’s gone to the bank to collect the wages. Everybody gets paid today.’

  ‘Much, is it?’

  ‘I don’t know. It must be a lot.’

  ‘Does he go on his own?’

  ‘No. Sergeant Blanqui goes with him. He’s an ex-paratrooper.’

  ‘Good-looking? Young and active?’

  She grinned. ‘No. Ugly, old and randy. He tries to get me in his car.’

  ‘Which bank is it?’

  ‘Crédit Agricole.’

  ‘The one in the Place Dumanoir in the city?’

  ‘No. Monsieur Blond’s a bit nervous about the city. He says there are too many crooks about. He uses the branch of St-Florent. There’s an arrangement to draw the money there. I’ve been with him once. When Blanqui’s had too many brandies the night before.’

  Returning to his office, Nosjean sat, frowning. While he waited, the radio squawked. It was Claudie Darel.

  ‘That flat,’ she said.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘The owner’s name is–’

  ‘Arthur Tassigny de Bré.’

  ‘You knew?’

  ‘I wondered.’

  Claudie laughed. ‘There’s movement,’ she said. ‘Pascal Dubois left. In her own car. So did De Rille. In the Ford Sierra. Twenty minutes ago. I couldn’t get through before. The radio packed up.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘I think he’s got Tassigny with him. He must have been in the flat with him all night. It begins to link up. Dominique Tassigny seems to be De Rille’s girl-friend and De Rille’s the owner of the car we think was switched at Morbihaux. Pascal Dubois seems to be Arthur Tassigny’s girlfriend. I think she’s the one who passed on the information that Monique Vachonnière was in the habit of leaving her till with the key in it. The manager’s office overlooks the inside of the supermarket on one side and the forecourt on the other. She could easily have signalled to them if they were waiting across the road. I wonder if they’re going to do the supermarket again?’

  ‘Are they on their own?’

  ‘No. There’s another one doing the driving. I couldn’t see him properly. Small. Red hair.’

  ‘Dominique Tassigny,’ Nosjean breathed.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The one who’s crazy about fast cars and never misses Le Mans. She’s wearing a wig. What else has she got on?’

  ‘One of those denim caps. Blue. With a peak. Makes her look like Lenin on a bad day.’

  ‘Which way did they go?’

  ‘They took the Savigny road out of the city. Towards Marcilly.’

  ‘St-Florent!’ Nosjean said.


  ‘What?’

  ‘St-Florent! It’s St-Florent!’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘The branch of Crédit Agricole. The bank Louis the Limp heard about. But they’re not doing the bank. They’re doing the manager. Get out there, Claudie!’

  De Troq’ was already calling Pomereu and Turgot and telephoning the substation at St-Florent. Then he and De Troq’ left a message for Pel and ran for De Troq’s big roadster. It was bigger and faster than Nosjean’s car, a huge open affair with an enormous bonnet held down by a strap and headlights like enormous eyes. De Troq’ might be poor but it often seemed to Nosjean that poverty among the aristocracy was a comparative thing.

  They found a crowd outside the bank, all huddled together with the manner of scared animals, and they knew at once they were too late. Propped against the wall was an elderly man wearing a gun and a uniform of sorts. His hat had gone and there was a livid bruise on his head and blood on his face. Alongside him was Blond, the manager of the supermarket at Talant. He was white and looked shocked and seemed barely able to speak.

  ‘What happened?’ Nosjean said.

  ‘They snatched the bag. With the wages.’

  Nosjean looked about him, puzzled. The police were represented only by two constables. ‘Who’s handling this?’ he demanded.

  As he turned away, Pomereu’s car screeched to a stop and policemen poured out. Almost immediately Turgot’s car arrived behind it and more men appeared, then a third car hurtled up containing Claudie Darel.

  ‘For the love of God,’ Nosjean yelled at the local cops, ‘who’s in control?’

  ‘Brigadier Maret.’

  ‘Well, where is he?’

  One of the constables gestured and they saw there was another crowd of people several hundred metres away down the road. There was a police van there as well as an ambulance.

  ‘Come on!’

  They fell into De Troq’s car and as it stopped again by the crowd, Nosjean jumped out.

  ‘What happened?’

  Brigadier Maret, a fat man with steel-rimmed spectacles, gestured at a bloodstained shape in the road. Ambulance men were just covering it with a blanket.

  ‘Not us,’ they announced. ‘It’s the mortuary van you want. He’s dead. We can’t help him.’

  The brigadier signed to one of his men. ‘Get on to them. Quick.’

  ‘See we get the blanket back,’ the ambulance man added. ‘We don’t want it getting lost like the last one.’

  ‘What happened?’ Nosjean asked him.

  ‘The buggers kept it. It made up their blanket numbers for one they lost some months before and–’

  ‘Here!’ Nosjean roared. ‘What happened here? For the love of God, a man’s dead and you’re worrying about a damned blanket!’

  The ambulance man blushed and vanished and, as Nosjean showed his identity card, Brigadier Maret came to life at last. He indicated the body.

  ‘It’s Colonel Boileau,’ he said.

  ‘Who’s he?’

  ‘Colonel Amadéo Boileau. He lives at the other end of the village.’

  ‘How’s he come to be dead? What happened? Was he involved in the hold up?’

  ‘Well, yes and no. Some type was just coming out of the bank down there with a bag in his fist. There was another guy with him. Then these two other types appeared from a car that drew up. The first two were clubbed down and the bag snatched. The hold-up men ran back to the car and it shot off down here.’

  ‘And Boileau? Was he one of them?’

  ‘No, he wasn’t. He’s an old soldier. He was taking his daily walk.’ The brigadier indicated a cocker spaniel which was sniffing at the shape under the blanket. ‘With his dog. That’s it. He comes down here every day about this time. Before anyone knew what was happening, the car was heading this way. The colonel tried to stop it. He stepped out into the road and waved his arms.’

  ‘It knocked him down?’

  ‘They drove straight at him. They hadn’t much choice. It was either stop and be caught or knock him out of the way. He was flung into the air and hit the windscreen. The car swerved and he rolled off the bonnet and the wheels went over his chest. We have a witness, an old man coming out of the shop over there. Boileau was still lying in the road when the driver of a car down there backed into the road to stop the getaway.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘The driver of the getaway car saw the way was blocked so they reversed. Fast. They ran over the colonel a second time. Then they set off again and turned right to the main road. The colonel was caught by his jacket and dragged along. He was heard shouting for help. When people got to him his jacket had come off and he was lying in the road. The car had gone. He was already dead. The doctor says his lungs must have been crushed and penetrated by the ends of broken ribs when the car backed over him. He also has a broken neck and fractured skull.’

  ‘Is he married?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then don’t you think you’d better inform his wife?’

  ‘Oh, God,’ the brigadier said. ‘I suppose I had.’ He was obviously not looking forward to the task and Claudie stepped forward.

  ‘Give me the address,’ she said. ‘I’ll go.’

  The brigadier obliged hurriedly.

  ‘Who else was in the car besides the two who did the snatch?’ De Troq’ asked as Claudie vanished.

  ‘Just the driver.’ The brigadier seemed shocked. ‘A kid with a linen cap on. One of those blue denim things with a peak. He had longish red hair.’

  There was little doubt but that it was the Tuaregs, and this time they had gone too far. Up to now nobody had been hurt and people, reading of their exploits in the newspapers, had come to regard them as folk-heroes full of pranks and joie de vivre. Now it was different. A man was dead, a decent honourable man decorated by his country for bravery with the army. A woman was widowed. And the killing had been deliberate.

  There had been plenty of witnesses who could swear to the clothing of the robbers – thick Canadiennes and scarves tied tightly round their noses and mouths. ‘Like motor cyclists.’ The phrase cropped up twice in half an hour.

  Blond, the manager of the supermarket, had recovered a little by the time they returned to him and the guard was being attended by a doctor, assisted by a woman who said she was a nurse.

  ‘What happened?’ Nosjean asked.

  ‘I knew at once what was going to happen,’ Blond said, ‘because they were wearing the same coats as the men who did the supermarket.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I yelled out “It’s them” and old Blanqui reached for his gun. But he’s old and too slow. He’s got enough medals to fill a cart but he got them a long time ago. I’ve been on to the owners demanding someone younger but they’ve never done anything about it. One of them hit him with what looked like a sawn-off shotgun and the other snatched the bag from me. I tried to hang on to it but he kneed me in the balls and I let go.’

  ‘Do you always collect the money at the same time?’

  ‘No. I try to vary it.’

  ‘Who’d know the time?’

  ‘Only me. And Blanqui, of course. Perhaps the office staff.’

  The case occupied them for the whole of the rest of the day. The car which had been used in the hold-up was found late in the evening, parked badly, one door open, by a policeman in a prowling patrol car. Inevitably it had been stolen – from Chenove – and was the property of a doctor. It had been tuned for high speeds. There were no fingerprints – they hadn’t expected any – but the policeman who had found it had found a plastic carrier bag caught in a bush a few yards away.

  ‘It’s marked Supermarket Talant,’ he pointed out.

  Nosjean and De Troq’ had a habit of thinking about the cases they were involved in separately, to see where their conclusions matched.

  Nosjean was furious with himself. ‘An old man’s dead,’ he snarled. ‘Because I tried to be clever.’

  ‘Not you,’ De Troq’ pointed out.
‘De Rille and his friends.’

  ‘It’s as plain as a pikestaff.’

  ‘Now it is!’

  ‘De Rille and Tassigny did the job. The Tassigny girl was the driver. She’s an expert. She was probably the one who tuned up the car – at the De Rille family home. In what were the stables, remember? She learned from the people who knew – in the pits at Le Mans. We’ll give them time to get bedded down. Claudie’s keeping an eye on the place.’

  They went in De Troq’s car. They had a search warrant. Judge Brisard, who should have been available, was missing and Nosjean suspected he was visiting the woman he kept at Beaune. Judge Castéou obliged with a signature.

  ‘The Tuaregs?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  Ten minutes later they drew up outside 17, Rue Barnabas with a quiet squeak of brakes. Pomereu and Turgot waited a little further down the street.

  Nosjean gave his instructions. ‘Two men on the front staircase, one watching the lift, and two watching the service staircase.

  The block of flats where De Rille lived was silent as they paused outside.

  ‘Ready?’ Nosjean asked.

  De Troq’ nodded.

  There was no reply to Nosjean’s knock so he leaned on the bell, knocking with his other hand. Eventually they heard movement inside the flat and the door was opened. De Rille was wearing a silk dressing-gown and apparently nothing else. They pushed their way past him.

  ‘What the hell’s going on?’ he demanded. ‘Do you know what time it is?’

  ‘I have a search warrant,’ Nosjean said.

  ‘The hell you have! My lawyer will want to know about this.’ Nosjean pushed into the bedroom. Sitting up in bed, as naked as De Rille, was Dominique Tassigny.

  ‘What in God’s name’s this?’ she said. There was nothing rhapsodic or melodic about her voice this time. It was harsh and frightened and she looked as if she’d been crying.

  ‘Out of bed, please,’ Nosjean said. ‘Get dressed.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I say so and, if you don’t want to accompany us to the Hôtel de Police looking like that, you’ll do as I say.’