Pel Among The Pueblos

by Mark Hebden

  As they headed south, his cynical old heart began to thump. Soon be in Burgundy, he thought, land of Vauban, Bussy Rabutin, Madame de Sévigné and Colette. The first sight of the cracked tower of Sémur-en-Auxois as they turned off the motorway brought it all back and he arrived at Leu full of joy at his native land and intending to show all his affection for his wife. After a preliminary clutch at her, he had murmured his newly acquired endearments, ‘Vida de mi vida. Alma de mi alma,’ but she had obviously had no idea what he was talking about and, steering him to a chair, had given him a large whisky and sent him straight to bed. He had awakened that morning feeling that after a sleep everything would be all right. But it wasn’t. The lack of sleep and the strange effects of jet lag had caught up with him again.

  After a while, Claudie Darel pushed her nose round the door of his room. She was the only woman in Pel’s group and he always swore she’d been picked deliberately by Darcy because, in addition to being efficient, she was also pretty and charming. Pel managed to erase his scowl as she smiled at him because that was the effect she had on him.

  ‘How do you feel, patron?’ she asked.

  ‘Like death,’ Pel said. He made a brave effort. ‘Probably, soon I’ll just feel as if I’m dying.’

  ‘You need a café-fine.’

  She smiled again and even Pel’s hard heart melted. She had that effect on everybody in the Hôtel de Police and Pel didn’t know that she’d just been sent in by Darcy to bring him round. There were matters which needed Pel’s attention and they couldn’t wait all day until he’d recovered what passed with him as good temper.

  Claudie fussed round him, bringing the coffee and brandy. ‘Make you feel better, patron,’ she said.

  After a while, she tried him on the outstanding mail Darcy hadn’t been able to handle, then she laid a file on his desk. It said. ‘Talant Supermarket Enquiries’ on the outside. Always Talant supermarket, he thought. When he didn’t throw it at her, she tried another one a few minutes later. This one said ‘Métaux de Dijon: Stolen Vehicles Enquiry’. When that didn’t appear to rouse him to fury, she left the room and reported to Darcy that it might be possible to speak to him.

  ‘Mind,’ she said, ‘I can’t guarantee it.’

  Darcy grinned, patted her backside as she passed, picked up a few more files, put on his best smile – all white teeth and wrinkles round the eyes – and decided to take a chance.

  Pel was staring at the files with a deep frown on his face. Darcy studied him for a moment, decided it was safe, and offered a cigarette.

  Pel stared at it reproachfully. One of the precepts of the societies that preached ways and means to stop smoking was ‘Ask your friends not to offer you cigarettes.’ But that was impossible: Policemen didn’t have friends. Only colleagues. He took the cigarette and Darcy, knowing a cigarette could work wonders on Pel, had his lighter to it before he could change his mind.

  ‘Millions stop,’ Pel said bitterly. ‘Why can’t I? I often wonder what my wife thinks of me. I’ve even thought of having a small fan fitted to me so that the smoke’s always blown away from her.’ He sighed. ‘I even brought back with me enough cigarettes to fill a lorry. Duty free.’

  Darcy nodded sympathetically. ‘I know how it is, patron,’ he said.

  ‘I went to buy some perfume for my wife,’ Pel went on. ‘I’d bought her some gold and a thing called a sarape – a sort of blanket with a hole in it – but then I thought I’d try some perfume. And there they were. Thousands of them. All kinds. British. American. French. Mexican. Staring me in the face. How do you get round a situation like that? I bought as many as I could carry without breaking my arm.’

  He sighed again. It was a hopeless situation. Even his natural meanness – he preferred to call it carefulness – made him buy things he didn’t want. But, after all, no good Burgundian would ignore the opportunity to buy at knock-down prices enough cigarettes to fill a bar-tabac.

  He tapped the ash from the cigarette, realising he was suddenly feeling better. Darcy spotted the improvement at once.

  ‘Jacqueline Hervé,’ he said. ‘Found strangled. Doc Minet’s report’s in the file.’

  ‘Where did it happen?’

  ‘In the cottage Navarro gave her. We found the deeds there. She was known to the neighbours as Jacqueline Dubois.’

  ‘Didn’t they see the picture of her in the papers and on television?’

  ‘It seems she was a bit crafty. She did her hair differently and wore no make-up and it changed her appearance. They spotted Navarro at once when I produced pictures. He was there occasionally. It seems they liked to go there for weekends. Donck went there, too, I think. They couldn’t be certain, but they thought it might be him.’

  ‘But they didn’t report it?’

  ‘You know what people are like, patron. If they’re not certain, they do nothing. They’re afraid of making fools of themselves.’

  ‘A pity more don’t chance it. Why wasn’t she spotted as she passed through Immigration Control at the airport? We’ve never withdrawn our request for them to look out for her.’

  Darcy placed a small hard-backed folding document on the desk. ‘Passport, patron,’ he said:

  The words, Estados Unidos Mexicanos, caught Pel’s eye at once.

  ‘Mexican,’ he said. ‘I thought they must have had them.’

  Darcy opened the passport. The picture of Jacqueline Hervé bore no resemblance to the sophisticated girl in the photograph that had appeared on television, and showed instead a plain-looking girl with straight hair. The name on the passport was Ramona Flores Guzmán.

  Pel nodded. ‘Donck was known as Pierre Alaba. I expect he had a Mexican passport, too, from the same source.’

  As he laid down the passport, Darcy produced a small coloured folder. Inside was an airline ticket to Morocco.

  ‘One way, patron,’ Darcy said. ‘We found it in her handbag. She was intending to bolt again and this time she wasn’t coming back.’

  ‘Where is she now?’

  ‘In the morgue. I suppose you’d like to visit the cottage.’

  Pel was already reaching for his hat and coat.

  Darcy gave him the details as he drove. The house had been gone over. It had been obvious at once that somebody had been searching for something.

  ‘Yes,’ Pel said. ‘Treasure.’

  ‘Treasure? What treasure?’

  Pel gave Darcy a run down on the Mexican trip, and explained just what had taken place.

  ‘But no sign of any treasure?’ Darcy asked.

  ‘No treasure,’ Pel said. ‘None at all.’

  Fontenay L’Église was a quiet village in the hills and Jacqueline Hervé’s cottage was just outside in a lane along the edge of a clump of trees. Nothing had been changed and the chalk outline of where she’d been found was still there.

  They moved about the rooms, opening drawers and checking things.

  ‘No treasure here, patron,’ Darcy said.

  ‘She had something,’ Pel insisted, and went on to explain the ideas that had been in his mind as he’d flown home. ‘Jacqueline Hervé was in Mexico. We know that. But she came home. Why? Because they’d forced Martin to tell them where the treasure was and I think they’d picked it up and she had it in her possession.’

  He sniffed and lit a cigarette. ‘It’s not hard to work it out,’ he went on. ‘Martin met Pilar Hernandez at Tula and she shared his bed, entertained him during the day and acted as interpreter when needed. She made him take her to the film set because she’d once acted in a film and was nuts about them. After Chapadores they went on to San Miguel de Allende. During this time, Martin had found the treasure or at least where it was. He didn’t intend to share it with the girl because she was just an extra detail. He returned to Mexico City to pick up what he needed – probably maps, something of that sort – and about that tirne Donck contacted him and told him some story that persuaded him to go to Chapadores. I expect he chose the film set because it was out of the way and
never visited after dark. In the meantime, Pilar Hernandez was waiting for him, but he never turned up because he was dead, and after a day or two she decided that, like other men, he’d dropped her and she took a job.’

  They turned the facts over for a while then Darcy looked up.

  ‘And the treasure, patron?’

  Pel paused. ‘I think Donck must have pulled off one or two small jobs to raise money,’ he said. ‘And they were able to pick up the treasure, whose whereabouts they’d got from Martin before they killed him. Then, because they needed money to get out of the country, Donck pulled the bank job that went wrong. While he was in gaol, Hervé shopped him for Martin’s murder and bolted with the loot. Unfortunately, Donck escaped and he guessed where she’d gone. He must have known she had a false passport and no doubt he was able to check her destination with the airlines. So he came back to France, too, to find her, because he’d guessed where she’d hole up – here.’

  Darcy frowned. ‘There’s only one question, though, patron,’ he said. ‘Why, when she had the treasure and the whole world at her feet, did she do something that was so obviously dangerous and come back to France?’

  On the way back to the city, they stopped at a bar and sat under the trees with a beer. Darcy was still frowning.

  ‘What beats me, patron,’ he said slowly, ‘is, if they had the treasure, and it seems they must have had it, why did Donck hold up the bank? I know you can’t pay for an airline ticket with a handful of doubloons, but you can always sell old coins. There’s a ready market for them and they’re easily handled. And there’s another thing. Treasure’s big. And heavy. A war chest to pay an army would weigh too much to get it back here without questions being asked.’

  ‘She obviously did get it back,’ Pel said.

  ‘Patron, a woman couldn’t carry all that money. Not in coins. It’s not possible.’

  ‘Could she disguise it?’

  ‘What as, patron? Farm machinery?’

  Pel gave him a cold look. While he considered sarcasm a very effective weapon, in his office there was only one person who was entitled to use it.

  ‘It’s possible, of course, that they changed the coins for something smaller of equal value,’ he admitted. ‘But, whatever it is now, it’s either still in Mexico and Jacqueline Hervé intended to go back for it after coming here, or else – and more likely – she had it here with her and Donck found it and took it.’

  Sixteen

  Pel was studying himself in the mirror in his office when Darcy appeared. Mexico had aged him, he decided. There were new lines about the eyes, and his hair-line had receded so far it looked as if the tide had gone out.

  As Darcy sat down, they lit cigarettes, Pel for once not feeling guilty because he considered it could be claimed he was under the stress of work. The pictures, including a not very satisfactory new one of a plainer Jacqueline Hervé blown up from her passport photograph, went out again – to the Press and the television people, requesting anyone who had seen either of the subjects to inform the police at once.

  It brought the Press to Pel’s door immediately – Sarrazin, the freelance; Henriot, of Le Bien Public, the local rag; and Fiabon, of France Dimanche. They wanted to know what was going on and why Pel had been to Mexico.

  Pel talked to them for half an hour, managing to tell them nothing more than he wished to, giving them only the details he wanted making public in the hope that they might be able to help. It was normal enough for the Press to work closely with the police and, while sometimes it brought some strange stories to light, it sometimes also brought information.

  Pel looked more normal now, probably because now that he was absorbed in something he no longer had the time to think of his own complaints. Darcy decided to chance his arm.

  ‘Talant supermarket,’ he said.

  Pel glared. ‘Hasn’t that been cleared up?’

  ‘Bardolle’s been out there three times since you left for Mexico, the last time yesterday. Before that four times.’

  ‘Have we complained to them?’

  ‘Yes. It’s been rewired.’

  ‘Perhaps it needs rebuilding.’

  ‘Yes, patron. We’ve told them that unless they can get their alarm system right, we’re going to have to make them pay not just for the fact that they have the alarm connected to the Hôtel de Police but also for the fact that we go out about once a week for false alarms. They’ve promised to look into it and get the system replaced with a better one.’

  ‘So what’s the problem?’

  ‘That type, Edouard Fousse – L’Estropié. The bastard’s always there grinning his head off and shouting abuse at Bardolle. Bardolle’s sworn he’ll hit him one of these days.’

  ‘He’d better not,’ Pel said. ‘Bardolle’s fists are as big as sacks of coal. If he hit Edouard Fousse, he’d disappear into outer space.’

  Darcy grinned. ‘Bardolle’s a surprisingly gentle type normally,’ he said. ‘He loves kids and dogs.’

  ‘Is he the best man for the job?’

  Darcy considered. ‘He’s a countryman and he’s best employed in the countryside.’ He looked at Pel. ‘He confessed the other day that he’d done a little poaching as a boy.’

  ‘I hope he stopped when he became a cop.’

  Darcy grinned. ‘All the same, he has to take his whack at town jobs like the rest of us.’ He glanced at his file. ‘Other outstanding things. One aggression nocturne – in the Rue de la Liberté. Kid aged eighteen. Fortunately for us, as he bolted he ran straight into Brochard who was there by sheer chance, returning that way to the Hôtel de Police after making an enquiry about an assault at Amicourt. It’s my opinion he’d been to see a girlfriend but I can hardly haul him up for it when he picked up the mugger. There was also an intruder in the Nouvelles Galéries. Wino called Raymond Ellice. He found the door unlocked and walked in because it was warm and he was looking for somewhere snug to sleep. Naturally he became interested in their wines and spirits department. But why was it open? It seems that one Jacques Delmar had opened it and got away with a brand-new racing bicycle that was on display. Carried it down from the third flour without being spotted from the road or by one of the security men. We picked up Raymond Ellice the same day. Drunk. With a case of brandy stolen from the Nouvelles Galéries under the bed. Jacques Delmar was picked up an hour later. He was just giving the bike a bit of a polish and thinking of trying to find a backer so he could enter the Tour de France next year.’ Darcy grinned. ‘Not too bad, patron. We’re well up on the list. After all, Lyons had two shot in a bar last week. They were teasing the landlord for not standing his round, so he got out his shotgun and blew them through the wall.’

  ‘It doesn’t pay to tease landlords.’

  Darcy laughed. ‘Paris is in a mess, of course. The latest crime report says it’s the least safe city in the world, with a burglary every eight minutes, a 640 per cent increase over six years in the use of heroin, a 270 per cent increase in five years in aggression on the Métro, and a great need for another 3,000 cops. It’s like a Sunday School here by comparison.’

  Pel nodded, his mind far away. He stubbed out his cigarette. ‘What’s De Troq’ on?’

  ‘I’ve told him to help Nosjean.’

  ‘Take him off it. I need him. Tell him I want him.’

  De Troq’ entered warily. The news that Pel was in a bad temper had permeated the Hôtel de Police and everybody was being wary. He opened the door slowly, closing it quietly behind him, a small neat figure completely untouched, Pel noticed bitterly, by his trip across the Atlantic.

  ‘De Troquereau,’ he said. ‘Victor-Charles de Troquereau Toumay-Turenne. Also known as the Baron de Troquereau.’

  De Troq’ eyed him narrowly. ‘That’s right, patron.’

  ‘Descendant, of one Armande-Pierre de Troquereau Toumay-Turenne, General of the Empire.’ He paused. ‘Second Empire,’ he added, because Napoleon III’s Second Empire was a shabby imitation of the Great Napoleon’s First Empire. Theirs ha
d called them Napoleon the Great and Napoleon the Small, and there was a lot of truth in the comment.

  ‘His grandfather,’ De Troq said, coldly, never one to take cheek, not even from Pel, ‘was a brigadier-general in the First Empire and his title came from the old regime, not one of Bonapartes.’

  Pel didn’t argue. It was something he already knew because he’d looked it up. ‘Armande-Pierre,’ he said. ‘1815 to 1891. Served, if I’m not mistaken, in the Crimea, Algeria, Mexico and at Sedan in the Franco-Prussian War.’

  ‘That’s right, patron. Something wrong with that?’ De Troq’s voice was cold because he suffered quite a lot of leg-pulling in the sergeants’ room.

  ‘None whatsoever,’ Pel said. ‘I’m still interested in the intervention in Mexico and he might have had something to say about it. Knowing your absorption in your background, I thought you might be able to help. You’re off Nosjean’s car case and on the Navarro-Martin-Hervé case.’

  De Troq’ sat in silence.

  ‘I learned a lot about General de Troquereau while we were in Mexico,’ Pel went on. ‘He had a lot of things to say about what happened.’

  ‘I think he came out of it with some shreds of honour left,’ De Troq’ said. ‘He was one of the few who did.’

  ‘That I’m not denying. Do you have much information on him?’

  ‘There’s a lot in the military museums, patron. In the Musée de l’Armée at the Invalides in Paris, there’s a portrait. They also have his papers.’

  ‘When we were in Mexico we found people tended to bring out his book Mes Aventures en Mexique and quote it at us.’

  De Troq’ grinned. ‘He fancied himself as a writer, patron.’

  ‘You have a copy, I know. And I imagine you know his papers in the Musée de l’Armée.’

  ‘Like the back of my hand, patron. In families like mine it’s the habit to grow up with such things. We had money enough then to do so. Unfortunately, by the time I was adult the money was no longer there.’