by Mark Hebden
‘Gold, for instance?’ Pel asked.
Barribal grinned. ‘Good Mexican gold. Beautifully worked. Rebozos – shawls – hats and sarapes. That’s the all-purpose garment in Mexico; you wear it against the cold, sleep under it, even make a tent of it. Except that nowadays they all wear blue jeans. And the old sombrero have disappear because you cannot get two in the front seat of a motor car without blinding the driver. You can buy all these in San Miguel and the Americans like it easy.’
‘Tula,’ Pel said thoughtfully. ‘Tepozatlán. San Miguel de Allende. How far away are they?’
‘Tula. Hour and a half from Mexico City. San Miguel. Just to the north of Querétaro. Two hundred kilometres. Both off the main road but there is a fast highway north.’
‘Could we do them both in a day?’
‘We do Tepozotlán and Tula in the morning and arrive at San Miguel in the afternoon. You stay the night but there is a good hotel. It’ll be full of Americans, I guess, but –’ Barribal shrugged ‘ – a word from the chief of police there will get us in. I fix it.’
Pel closed Martin’s notebook and, pushing the photographs into a neat pile, indicated to De Troq’ to place them in his briefcase.
‘We ought to go there,’ he said. ‘If we find nothing, I think we’ll go home.’
Nine
‘What are you expecting to find, patron?’ De Troq’ asked as they sat over a beer in their hotel.
‘I don’t know,’ Pel admitted. ‘With luck, Donck and the Hervé woman. After all, they’re the reason for us being here. We’re supposed to be taking them back. Perhaps even the missing Professor Martin. He’s probably just in bed with this Pilar, but we might be intrigued to discover what he’s after, because it looks very much to me as if he’s after something. And that, mon brave, might lead to an explanation of why Navarro was murdered. Donck and Hervé are linked with Navarro, and Navarro is linked with Martin; so it seems to me they’re all involved, somehow or other, and the explanation lies somewhere between them. Martin’s obviously been visiting Tula and this San Miguel place, so it’s more than likely Donck and the woman have also gone there. We might even bump into them in the street. It’s been known.’
It had, too. When Pel had been a young cop he had worked with an old sergeant who had been on the track of a wanted man for twenty years – ever since he’d been a young cop himself – and then one day in Dijon his car had collided with that of another driver on a corner and, when they had exchanged addresses, it had dawned on him he was face to face with the man he’d been seeking throughout his whole career.
That evening, Pel tried to telephone his wife, who had assured him she had telephoned France from Mexico without difficulty. Obviously things were different for Pel – things were always different for Pel – and there was a long wait. Eventually, just when he had fallen asleep on the bed, the telephone rang and the operator announced he was through.
‘Pel!’ The delight in his wife’s voice almost brought tears to his eyes. ‘Where are you?’
‘Still in Mexico City.’
‘You sound so close. I thought you must be back in Paris.’
‘Not yet. Our man’s disappeared. A fool of a policeman called Barribal let them escape.’ It hadn’t really been Barribal’s fault but it salved Pel’s fury to lay the blame on him.
‘When will you be back?’
Pel considered. Since the Mexican police had allowed his quarry to escape and had no idea where he was, it wouldn’t appear to be good sense to go on hanging around. No self-respecting police chief was going to keep two men in a foreign country at great expense on the off chance their quarry would turn up.
‘I don’t know,’ he admitted. ‘But since our man’s disappeared, probably very soon.’
‘Oh, Pel, I’m so pleased!’
It did Pel’s crusty heart good to think his wife was missing him. His cheerfulness evaporated, however, as he wrote out the cable that was to be sent to the Chief, informing him of the disappearance of Donck and Hervé. He tried to make out that there was still hope that they might be picked up but he didn’t really believe it and could just imagine the shout of rage when the Chief was informed. For the rest of that day, he suspected, Darcy was going to have a rough time.
He had just finished getting the facts down, and De Troq’ was preparing to send it off when Barribal arrived. García Granados, the Chief of Police, had a request to make, he said, and he’d been ordered to bring Pel to the police chief’s presence.
‘At this time of night?’
‘I guess so.’
‘What on earth for? I’ve just been preparing a cable to my own Chief informing him that we hope to take a plane home within the next day or so.’
‘Don’t send it, Don Evaristo,’ Barribal said. ‘Not yet.’
‘In the name of God, why not?’
Barribal ignored the question. ‘I have my car outside. The Chief wait and he has a large bottle of brandy and four glasses on his desk.’
Puzzled, they allowed themselves to be driven to police headquarters. With the day staff and the typists all gone, it seemed quiet, but here and there uniformed and plain clothes men were still at work. In one of the rooms, they could see men in civilian suits, whom they assumed to be detectives, playing cards.
García Granados rose from behind his desk as Pel was ushered in with De Troq’. He was considerably more friendly than he had been when they’d first arrived, gestured expansively at the chairs which had been arranged in a half-circle, and began to slosh out large helpings of brandy. Picking up a glass, he held it out to Pel. ‘A su salud, señor,’ he said.
‘Bon santé,’ Pel said shortly. ‘Ask him to come to the point, Plutarco.’
Barribal spoke to the Chief who began to deliver what appeared to be a long address. Several times he tapped his head, twice he clutched his heart, and once he clapped both hands. When he had finished he sat back, looked at Barribal and gestured at Pel.
‘The Comisario,’ Barribal said, ‘says me to explain to you that he’s in a great dilemma. A guy’s disappeared – your Professor Martin – and today he receives a message from the famous University of Dijon in France asking where he’s gone to. He says he has no idea and neither has anyone else. He does not know this guy, Professor Martin, but he point out that you do and he make the request –’ he grinned ‘ – with the greatest concern for the inconvenience it must cause you, that you will help us find him.’ Pel frowned and he went on hurriedly. ‘He also point out, again with great distress, of course, that if you should find it impossible, he would also find it impossible to permit the extradition of the criminal, Donck, even if he’s found, and it is possible he may be, because we have find that he hire a car from the Hertz Agency in Mexico City who say that, as we thought, he heads north. He finally point out that it might be possible to kill two birds with one stone, and suggest you cable your Chief that you agree.’
Pel stared at De Troq’. ‘In the name of God –’ he began, then he stopped and shut his mouth again. He had just been promising his wife that he’d be home as soon as possible. Now it looked as though he might be in Mexico for the rest of his life, because Mexico was as big as Europe, full of desert and mountain and tropical forest where the chances of finding Donck, Jacqueline Hervé or Professor Martin looked remarkably slim.
‘The Comisario,’ Barribal went on, ‘say that he offer you all the facilities of our telephone service and that, with a police prefix demanding swift action, it should not be difficult.’
Nor was it. The answer was back by midnight. It was short and to the point, but Pel could just imagine the Chief’s face as he realised they had him over a barrel just as much as Pel. There would inevitably be interest at a superior level and the questions would come down from the highest of high altars. Where are Donck and Jacqueline Hervé? Why haven’t they been returned to face trial? Who allowed them to escape? No matter what they said, it would be firmly believed that it would be Pel’s fault and, through Pel, the Chief
’s.
‘Allez,’ the cable said. ‘Et bonne chance.’ Go ahead. And good luck. It didn’t say much but Pel knew what lay behind it.
They showed the cable to García Granados, who smiled and poured more brandy.
‘A su salud,’ he said. Pel didn’t bother to reply.
Barribal drove them back to the hotel. ‘I have been ordered to stick with you,’ he announced as he dropped them at the door. ‘And give every assistance.’
Pel gave him a sour look. Barribal constantly at his side was something which, at that moment, he felt he could do without. And just then he was missing Burgundy as he’d never missed it before and he found himself itching to be back in his own office with its swivel chair, large window and splendid carpet – choice of three colours for chief inspectors and above. Nostalgically, he wondered what was happening there – if Darcy was coping, and what Nosjean was up to, even if the supermarket at Talant had been broken into again.
In fact, Darcy was quite enjoying himself. Despite the fact that he admired Pel, normally he always had him standing somewhere in the shadows just behind him and Pel could be a frightening superior at times. Though Darcy affected a cheerful indifference, he wasn’t quite as indifferent as he pretended, and he had no wish to have Pel return in a bad temper to discover he had missed something.
The supermarket at Talant was still puzzling Bardolle. There had been another alarm and, after the uniformed cops had taken a look at it, Bardolle had gone along also. Police dogs had been sent and the place had been examined, but they seemed to have got nowhere and achieved nothing, except the horse laugh from L’Estropié, Edouard Fousse. Aimedieu still wasn’t quite sure what he was looking for at Fontenay because he had checked the 500-franc notes, and they had all proved genuine. Every one.
Nosjean, however, seemed to be making progress. He had picked at random three car owners who had claimed insurance on their stolen vehicles but had not reported them to the police: one François Orain, a Roger Pelaut, and a man by the name of Dugaste, and it seemed to be time to get down to particulars. François Orain he knew about, but when Nosjean called to see him again he was just about to drive off in a Peugeot 304.
‘New car?’ Nosjean asked.
‘Second-hand,’ Orain explained. ‘To take the place of the other one. Just got it. I had to scratch round a bit to raise the money but I expect the insurance company will pay up eventually.’
‘Nice buy,’ Nosjean said. ‘Where did you get it?’
‘Garage Moissin at Ferouelle. I was told they were good and they were.’
Nosjean watched him disappear with his wife and family to do the shopping. He was certain there was something fishy going on but he couldn’t put his finger on it. Perhaps Pelaut might let drop whatever it was, because he was one step up on Orain and had had his replacement second-hand car for a few weeks now.
He was in the street outside his house cleaning it when Nosjean arrived. It was a reasonable-looking Renault and he was putting a good shine on it.
‘Thought I might sell it,’ he said. ‘And buy a new one. It’s in good shape but it’s not like the one I had, and you get used to a car, don’t you?’
‘Yes, you do,’ Nosjean agreed. ‘But it’s not bad-looking. Where did you get it?’
‘Garage at Tubours near Lyons. Marc Moissin, who has the garage at Ferouelle, put me on to it. He’s good with second-hand cars but he hadn’t got what I wanted when I went to see him, so he put me on to this other place.’
‘Same value?’
‘About the same. Hundred or two in it. After all, I’m not rich so I had to use the money I got from the insurance company after the old one was pinched.’
Nosjean gestured at his own battered vehicle. ‘I’m thinking of swapping that,’ he said. ‘I’ll try them. Who told you about Moissin?’
Pelaut frowned. ‘Some type at work,’ he said. ‘I can’t remember exactly.’
Since the thefts of cars from Métaux de Dijon had been going on for three years on and off, Nosjean decided that perhaps it might be a good idea to go back a little further in time, and Josephe Dugaste, who had had his car stolen the previous winter, seemed a likely subject because he was now the owner of a brand-new Citroën. He was a small thin-faced man with a beard, which made him look like a ferret peering through a hedge, and he seemed to have adjusted very well to his loss.
‘I’ve got a new one, now,’ he said. ‘I got hold of a second-hand Toyota at first, to tide me over after I was paid the insurance money for the stolen one, and I did quite well out of it. In fact, I got a bit more than I expected so I got rid of it and bought a new Citroën BX instead. It’s nice to have a new car. Especially without paying much extra.’
‘When did you buy it?’ Nosjean asked.
Dugaste thought for a while. ‘8th March,’ he said eventually. ‘As soon as I got the insurance money. It happened to be my wife’s birthday so I thought it would be a nice surprise for her. I traded the Toyota – in the one I bought to tide me over when my original Citroën was stolen. I’d kept it for a while but then I decided to go mad and have a new one. The insurance company had written they were going to pay up.’ He grinned. ‘My wife thought it was a good birthday present, though I’m the one who really benefits.’
Nosjean thought for a moment. ‘Where did you get your second-hand car?’ he asked. ‘The one that replaced the stolen one.’
‘Garage Moissin at Ferouelle.’
Same as Orain, Nosjean noticed at once. Same place that had advised Pelaut to go to Tubours. ‘Why there?’ he asked.
‘A type at work told me about him. He got a second-hand car there and got a good deal.’
‘Would it have been François Orain?’
‘Might have been. I can’t remember now.’ Dugaste’s eyes flickered. ‘I think it was Marcel Morice, in fact. He works alongside me.’
‘Is Moissin a Citroën agent?’
‘He deals in everything. If you want it, he can get it for you.’
‘That must cost a bit more, because he’d have to get a car he didn’t normally sell from an agent who did, who’d also want a profit.’
Dugaste shrugged. ‘He says it’s worth it for the trade it brings.’
‘He must do very well somewhere,’ Nosjean commented shrewdly. ‘Good value for second-hand cars. Any kind of replacement.’
Dugaste smiled. ‘Perhaps he charges a lot for repairs.’
It turned out that Marcel Morice, in fact, didn’t know Dugaste and that started Nosjean wondering afresh. If Morice didn’t know Dugaste, how had he come to tell him? Morice couldn’t remember telling him and, in any case, he had bought his own car in Dole. Dugaste was obviously lying.
Somehow, Nosjean hadn’t quite taken to Dugaste, anyway. He seemed a little sharper than he ought to have been and, learning that he had been insured with Aubineau, Nosjean went to see the insurance manager again.
‘Yes,’ Aubineau admited. ‘We paid him. Thirty-three thousand francs for the Citroën. He seemed very satisfied. I gather he bought a Toyota to replace it.’
‘That’s right,’ Nosjean said. ‘8th March.’
Aubineau grinned. ‘Well, he must have sold the wife and kids,’ he said. ‘We didn’t pay him until 10th May. Two months later.’
It seemed odd enough for Nosjean to visit Dugaste again. This time Dugaste had the same sort of shifty expression Nosjean had noticed with Orain and he was on the alert at once, convinced by this time that there was more to the theft of cars than he’d realised.
‘How did you manage to buy it?’ he asked. ‘On tick? After all, 33,000 francs is a lot to lose. But you managed to buy a new car before you received the insurance.’
‘Oh, no, I’d received it.’
‘Two months afterwards,’ Nosjean said quietly. ‘I got that from Assurances Mutuelles.’
Dugaste frowned. ‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘I did. I forgot. I got it on a down payment with some money my wife let me have. I remember now. The insurance company
had agreed to pay, so I told her I wouldn’t have to owe her for long. She took some convincing, believe me.’ Dugaste laughed. ‘You know how women are – suspicious.’
Nosjean was still not satisfied. It was Nosjean’s gift for not being satisfied that made him a good detective. Everything, he knew, had to lock together like a jigsaw and if it didn’t, it was no good trying to shove it into place so that it appeared to fit. It had to fit. Full stop. Fit. F-I-T. No argument. And this didn’t seem to. Nosjean went back to Aubineau.
Aubineau was puzzled. He sent for the files and the girl who looked like Charlotte Rampling brought them into him, giving Nosjean a shy smile as she passed to let him know she hadn’t forgotten him.
Aubineau was peering at the papers now. ‘10th May,’ he said. ‘That’s when we paid. It’s down here. Complete with cheque number and everything.’
‘He said he got it on 8th March.’
‘Not with our money.’
‘But you did pay him?’
‘Oh, yes. 10th May. Our computer didn’t make a mistake. Computers don’t.’ Aubineau grinned. ‘At least, most of the time they don’t. There was one occasion when it told us to pay out 2 million francs on a 20,000-franc claim. But you always know, and there was nothing wrong with the computer on 10th May. And we never – repeat, never – pay out until the last moment anyway, in case the car turns up. Once the computer says pay, you might never get it to change its mind.’