by Mark Hebden
‘Try someone else,’ he suggested. ‘Do you work all right with Brochard?’
Bardolle frowned. Brochard considered himself a funny man and he was too often funny about Bardolle’s size for Bardolle to be enthusiastic. But he was supposed to be able to handle such situations and he nodded.
‘Brochard’s all right, patron,’ he conceded.
‘Right. You’ve got Brochard. Keep an eye on the place.’ Pel paused. ‘And, while you’re at it, are you keeping an eye on Edouard Fousse, too?’
‘It’s not him, patron,’ Bardolle said. ‘At least he never seems to be there when we arrive.’
‘He’s got a record. For theft.’
Bardolle frowned. ‘Well, he isn’t stealing anything from the supermarket,’ he said, ‘because nothing’s missing. After the second go, I got the manager to make a particularly fierce check. He didn’t want to because I made him make a note of everything that was available on the shelves at night when they closed and that meant he had to keep the staff late and pay them overtime. But he did it. Nothing was gone.’
‘Anything in there worth stealing?’
‘Plenty, patron. But nothing special. Food, obviously, but they’d have to steal so much they wouldn’t be able to carry it. There’s a chemist’s shop but it doesn’t carry much beyond aspirin and perfume.’
‘Tranquillisers?’
‘Yes, patron. But none missing.’
‘Nothing of real value?’
‘No, patron. There’s a jewellery shop of a sort, too. But most of what they sell’s junk. Not really worth stealing. It’s not a hypermarket with motor bikes and things like that. They’d have to steal a hell of a lot to make it worth the effort.’
‘What about money?’
‘None missing, patron. None at all. Very little kept on the premises. Manager drops it at the bank after closing time. Collects all the takings, counts them, watched by one of the security men with a pistol, then takes the money to the bank. Then he runs the security man back to his car and goes home. I’ve warned him I think it’s dangerous and someone some day’s going to learn his routine and hold him up.’
‘Quite right. Very sensible. Right, what about people? Anybody found near the premises?’
‘Nobody. One here and there. Nobody more than once.’ Bardolle frowned. ‘Except that cheeky con, L’Estropié. He always turns up to laugh at us.’
Five
The Chief’s conference to discuss the cases they were handling didn’t take long.
The Chief, Pel’s boss, was a big man with a red face who loved his food. He had been a champion boxer in his youth and sometimes when Pel was being difficult he felt it would be nice to slip back into old habits and take a swing at him.
He liked to know what was going on in his diocese and he usually had a lot of pots on the boil and, though Pel was his chief cook and bottle-washer, the Chief could never have called him the easiest man in the world to work with. Though Pel was bright, the Chief didn’t consider him one of God’s most inspired creations. In fact, sometimes he felt He ought to apologise for not doing a better job on him. Well aware of all Pel’s failings, his inability to stop smoking, his uncertainty in his private life, his inability to make friends, his constant bickering with Judge Brisard, the Chief, however, also knew that in his professional life, though he was prickly, awkward and arrogant, in his own way he was brilliant. Pel would have agreed with him. It wasn’t that he thought he was better at his job than other people, just that other people weren’t as good as he was.
The Chief studied him warily, a slight figure – only just big enough to scrape into the force – his spectacles on the end of his nose as he studied the file in his hand, and he realised that, despite all Pel’s faults, he was glad he had him.
‘Let’s have the details again,’ he said.
Pel opened the file and laid a notebook alongside it on the polished table top between them.
‘Serrano Navarro,’ he said. ‘Aged sixty-seven and well known to the police. Long and distinguished record.’ Sarcastically, Pel pushed across the table a sheet of paper containing the late Serrano Navarro’s life history as far as the police were concerned. It contained every kind of criminality save violence and sex. Navarro had been brought up before the magistrates for the first time at the age of twenty and had been appearing in court on and off ever since. Despite his failures, however, he appeared to have prospered because he had ended his life in a large house in the country with a housekeeper to look after him and a bodyguard to keep away his enemies, and of late, it seemed, had eschewed all his old wicked ways and concentrated solely on fraud and theft and, possibly, drugs.
‘Reason?’ the Chief asked. ‘Why was he shot?’
‘The only inference we can draw,’ Pel said, ‘is that somehow he was involved with something in Mexico.’
‘That’s a reason for shooting him?’
‘With Navarro it might well be. He liked to say he’d retired, but that didn’t mean he didn’t keep his eyes open for anything that might benefit him, and he’d recently been in touch with Professor Henri Martin.’
There was a pause and Pel went on to explain. ‘Martin’s a professor of history with several well-known books behind him. But –’ he paused ‘–he has a reputation for twisting evidence to suit his ideas and–’ he paused again ‘ – of stealing documents for his work.’
‘So Professor Martin’s also not completely honest?’
‘That seems to be the view of his colleagues who doubtless know him better than we do.’
The Chief waved them on and Darcy took up the story.
‘Professor Martin’s an expert on late nineteenth-century France,’ he said. He’d done the required reading by this time and was showing off a little. ‘He’s produced work on the Panama Scandal, the sale of honours uproar, and a few more. He disappeared at the beginning of April, though he’s probably just doing research abroad. One other thing –’ here Darcy gave thanks for having picked an intelligent girlfriend, because her remarks had led him to make a few enquiries in the right place ‘–Navarro has a Mexican background and is known to have been visiting libraries recently, investigating the intervention by France under Napoleon III in Mexico in 1861, when an attempt was made to impose on the Mexican people a puppet emperor, the Archduke Maximilian, brother of the Austrian Emperor, Franz Josef.’
‘Why in the name of God would Navarro become involved in that?’ The Chief was as bewildered as everyone else had been.
Pel shrugged. ‘He’s Martin’s brother-in-law,’ he pointed out. ‘And it started about the time Martin disappeared.’
‘What about the girl, Jacqueline Hervé, and Marc Donck?’ The Chief was anxious to get to the nitty-gritty.
Pel explained: How Donck came into the picture because Jacqueline Hervé, who was Navarro’s mistress, got involved with him, too, and passed on what Navarro was up to – whatever it was; how Donck called on Navarro, quarrelled with him and shot him, unhappily for him leaving behind his gun and a lot of fingerprints.
‘A warning was sent to all ports and airports,’ he said. ‘But it seems they didn’t stop to pick up luggage and got out of the country before the alarm was raised. Reports seem to indicate they went first to Spain and picked up another flight from there to somewhere further afield.’
‘So –’ the Chief doggedly returned to the nub of the matter ‘ – why did Donck kill Navarro?’
‘That,’ Pel said in his most pontifical manner, ‘is something we shall doubtless find out when we pick him up.’
‘If he’s disappeared abroad, you might not pick him up.’
‘That seems more than likely.’
They discussed the various angles of the case for some time. There were a lot of curious aspects to it and the Chief wanted to know the answers. Why, for instance, was Navarro suddenly interested in a French Army campaign in Mexico over 100 years earlier? Had Martin engaged him – because he was part-Mexican and his brother-in-law – to do some resea
rch for him?
‘That’s the way it seems.’ Pel pushed his spectacles up on his forehead among the thinning hair that lay across it like strands of wet seaweed on a seashore. ‘It looks as though Martin discovered something worth investigating and asked Navarro to check on the background. But Navarro was no fool and he probably also spotted what lay behind Martin’s interest, so that in the end both of them were after the same thing.’
‘What?’
‘It has to be something of considerable value.’
‘So what was it?’
‘Treasure?’ Nosjean suggested. ‘Wasn’t Mexico the place where the Spanish found their gold in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries? Weren’t their galleons raided by privateers?’
‘That gold came from Peru.’ De Troq’s words came quietly but with the confidence of a man of education. ‘West coast of America, anyway. I think it was brought across the isthmus of Panama. The mule trains were often attacked there.’
‘What then? What were they after?’
‘Inca treasures? Aztec treasures? Mayan treasures?’ De Troq’ seemed sure of his facts. ‘Valuable artefacts? Mexico’s full of old burial grounds.’
‘It doesn’t sound like Martin’s line of country,’ Darcy said. ‘Everything he did was directed towards the last century.’
‘And why was Navarro reading up the French intervention?’
‘A lot of French money was sent to Mexico at that time and a lot disappeared that was never accounted for. Some of it was funds supplied to the French Army there and a lot disappeared into private pockets. Could Martin have learned where some of it was hidden?’
‘It would help if we knew where Martin was at this moment.’
Nosjean looked up. ‘Could he be in Mexico?’ he asked.
The rest of the day was quiet but somehow Pel had an uneasy feeling that something was brewing and it came as no surprise when he, Darcy, Nosjean and De Troq’ were summoned to the Chief’s office just before they were due to knock off for the day. He was even more suspicious when the Chief produced a bottle of wine and handed glasses round. Offers of wine were always ominous.
As they sat down, the Chief leaned back in his chair.
‘Marc Donck,’ he said.
‘Ah!’ Pel sat upright, expecting to glean information that had come via the experts in Paris. Paris felt they knew everything. They felt they knew how the people of Burgundy behaved and thought and acted, as they felt they knew the people of Seine et Loire, Champagne, Lorraine, Charente Maritime and everywhere else in France. The fact that they didn’t was by the way. Only Paris was unaware that they didn’t know a damn thing about the rest of France.
‘He’s been found,’ the Chief said.
‘What!’ This time Pel’s uprightness was entirely honest and spontaneous and not performed to please the Chief.
‘He’s been arrested.’
‘Good. We can pick him up then. Where is he?’
The Chief smiled maliciously. Occasionally he liked to startle Pel. ‘At the moment he’s in a place called the Penitenciaría del Estado.’
Pel looked puzzled. ‘The what?’
The Chief repeated the words.
‘Where’s that?’
The Chief grinned. He was enjoying Pel’s bewilderment. ‘It’s in Mexico. It’s a sort of open prison, near Mexico City. He seems to have been involved in a car crash. We have all the details. He was found unconscious but, after they pulled him out, the Mexican police found something that made them suspicious and, after doing a bit of investigating, they stuck him in the penitentiary to await developments.’
‘What was it? What we’re looking for?’
‘At this moment I don’t know.’
‘Well, it’s nice to know he’s out of circulation.’
‘It’s not quite as simple as that,’ the Chief said. ‘He’s wanted in France for a double murder and murder takes precedence over everything else.’
‘Do we have a deportation agreement?’
‘Whether we have or not, it’s been fixed by Paris. He can, and should, be extradited.’ The Chief frowned. ‘On the other hand, I sometimes wonder if the performance is worth it. It would be much better for France if we left him where he is.’
Pel agreed wholeheartedly. Though as a policeman he felt it was always his duty to apprehend criminals and see them brought to justice, he didn’t believe in duplicating effort or wasting money.
The Chief gestured. ‘How much better it would be if we could simply send our evidence to Mexico with a request to the Mexicans to have him shot. Think of the time it would save.’
Again Pel entirely agreed.
‘However,’ the Chief said, ‘having brought Paris into it, we can’t now ignore it. They have the Minister on their neck because he has the Chamber of Deputies on his neck and some idiot representing some half-baked area in the Alpes Maritime will doubtless ask why Donck hasn’t been brought home to face trial.’ Like most policemen, the Chief didn’t have much time for politicians of any creed or colour.
‘Alors,’ he said. ‘There you are. He has to be brought back.’
‘I’m glad to hear it.’ Despite everything, Pel still remained a great believer in a good strong Nemesis pursuing criminals to their doom.
The Chief seemed to be enjoying himself. ‘It’s going to be a nuisance going to Mexico to bring him back,’ he said.
Pel shrugged. ‘I suppose so,’ he agreed. ‘Who’s organising it? Paris?’
‘No. Us.’
For the first time, Pel began to be suspicious. ‘That means sending someone to bring him home,’ he said.
‘That’s right.’
‘Who?’
The Chief grinned. In fact he almost burst out laughing. ‘You,’ he crowed.
Pel’s fury had to be seen to be believed. It had been so concentrated he had seemed about to take off and whizz round the room.
Darcy had glanced at Nosjean. ‘We have lift-off,’ he had whispered.
By this time, however, all Pel’s excuses were expended, all the bitterness and shrill protestations worn down. All the paperwork he claimed he had to do, all the lists he had to work through, all the computer reports, had been brushed aside in cavalier style. He had to sort out Misset, he had complained, because he always had to sort out Misset. There was Lagé’s forthcoming retirement. There was the suggestion that Nosjean ought to be upped to inspector. There was the fraud case at Argente and the jeweller’s break-in at Buhilly, the false alarms at Talant, the cars being stolen from the car park at Métaux de Dijon.
The Chief waved them all away. ‘They’ll wait,’ he announced. ‘Darcy can handle them.’
Darcy had smiled and nodded. Much as he admired Pel, he always enjoyed running the show on his own – at least until it grew too difficult, then he was always pleased to see Pel back.
‘He has Nosjean,’ the Chief said, and this time it was Nosjean, all pale intensity, dark eyes and eagerness, who smiled.
‘The rest–’ the Chief dismissed them with a wave of his hand ‘–they’ll survive. Go off, Pel. Take a break. A day or two in a different country might do you good.’ It might even, the Chief thought, smooth the little bugger’s temper a touch and reduce the everlasting tension between him and Judge Brisard. It might even – though the Chief was none too sanguine about this – make him realise that Burgundy wasn’t the only place in the world. ‘You’ll have De Troq’ to do all the running about for you. You’ll need a spare hand, anyway, in case you manage to bring the woman back, and De Troq’ speaks the language.’
De Troq’ straightened up. He was pleased, but he didn’t smile because De Troq’ was a baron – even if a poverty-stricken baron – and barons didn’t go in for letting their hair down by smiling too much. He was slightly built like Nosjean, with a small neat head, beautifully cut hair and an expensive suit, because being poverty-stricken was comparative, and poverty-stricken barons always seemed to be able to afford to be less poverty-stricken than most people. And he kn
ew his abilities. He spoke three or four languages and had a grand manner which usually squashed self-important people and had often been a great asset to Pel’s team. There was just one snag, he thought. He had recently become involved with a girl who worked in Judge Polverari’s office. He and Nosjean had been competing for Claudie Darel’s favours for a long time but recently their noses had been pushed out by one of the junior advocates and Nosjean had been forced to fall back on girls who looked like Charlotte Rampling, and De Troq’ on the girl in Judge Polverari’s office. She was attractive, intelligent, and what was more, had a grandmother who was a baroness which, in De Troq’s eyes, made her very suitable.
Pel’s temper was simmering like a witch’s cauldron as he returned to his office. There was nothing unusual in his bad temper. Pel was often in a bad temper. Chief inspectors of the Brigade Criminelle of the Police Judiciaire, those splendid men who pitted their wits against the crooks of the French Republic, had every right to lose their temper occasionally, and often every excuse.
He stared at the future with empty eyes. After remaining unmarried for far longer than he had ever intended – though he had to admit, looking at himself in the mirror in the bathroom every morning, it was understandable – he had finally been brought to the altar and, to his amazement because he had never believed it possible that anyone could live with him for long without throwing him out, it had been an instant success. And now they were snatching it away from him!
He lit a cigarette, stared at it with disgust, and, wondering why he couldn’t give them up, dragged the smoke down to his socks and immediately felt more able to cope with the problem. To Pel, anywhere beyond the bounds of his native province was outer darkness. The Mediterranean coast, so beloved of holiday-makers, to Pel was a hotbed of vice. The north was cold. The west was damp. The east led into the wastes of Russia whence came the winds that petrified him in winter. This time it was worse than that, though. It wasn’t merely Paris or Champagne or Alsace. It was thousands of kilometres away. Thousands! Ten? Twenty? It didn’t matter much. Pel thought of it with a catch of the breath.