by Mark Hebden
‘Nevertheless, you know your way about his papers. So! You will now go home, mon brave, take your copy of Mes Aventure en Mexique from the shelf and you will read it. Carefully. From end to end. You will then go to Paris and go through the papers in the Musée de l’Armée.’
‘What am I looking for, patron?’
‘References to treasure. As we know, the Emperor Maximilian hid three-quarters of his war chest and it has never been seen since. There are stories that it’s been found. Others that it has not. I think Donck and Hervé – for that matter Navarro and Professor Martin, from whom all this started – certainly thought that it had not, and guessed where it was. So go home. Read everything you can that was written on the Mexican intervention, then come back here and tell me if you’ve found any reference to treasure.’
De Troq’ rose slowly, a little puzzled. He had a date for the following evening with Judge Polverari’s secretary. He’d been away a long time and had a lot to catch up on. He had been wondering, in fact, how he could wangle the night off and now, it seemed, he had no need to. On the other hand, he knew Pel would be waiting and he would need to be back in the office after a reasonable lapse of time with the facts at his fingertips. He had better, he decided, get busy at once.
‘Very well, patron,’ he said. ‘I’ll find out all I can.’
After he’d gone, studying the files, Pel had a sudden wish to know more of the man they had heard so much about. So far, he realised, he’d never really met him face to face.
‘Maximilian, Emperor of Mexico,’ he said to Claudie Darel, when she appeared in answer to his call. ‘Know anything about him?’
‘No, patron. Not a thing.’ At least she was honest. Most people, unwilling to admit lack of knowledge, would have hummed and hah-ed and made guesses.
‘Bring me the encyclopaedia,’ he said. ‘Let’s have a look at him.’
The volume was deposited on his desk, a slip of paper between the appropriate pages, and he opened it and stared at the small print:
Maximilian Ferdinand Joseph, Archduke (1831-1867). Emperor of Mexico. Brother of Emperor Franz Joseph of Austria and son-in-law of King Leopold I, of the Belgians, whose daughter, Charlotte, he married in 1857. Born Schönbrunn, Vienna; governor of Lombardo-Venetia. When French troops invaded Mexico, he was offered the Mexican throne. He arrived in Mexico 1864. Juárez, the elected Mexican president opposed him and civil war followed. In 1867 the Fr. troops were withdrawn and M. was captured at Querétaro and shot. See E. Corti, Die Tragödie eines Kaisers, 1933; M. Hyde, Mexican Empire, 1945; La Tragédie Mexicaine, Camille Buffin, Brussels, 1925.
Maximilian, Pel decided, seemed to be the sort who never managed to come to terms with reality and was easily taken in by a bunch of political shysters. Nowadays, he’d be chosen as the front man by a bunch of swindlers to give an impression of honesty. At the very least, he would be the man who allowed himself to be taken in by door-to-door bond salesmen.
There was a picture, flattering no doubt in the way of royal portraits, of a tall young man with a blank visage adorned by a luxuriant beard, but to a policeman’s cynical eye, he looked exactly like the idealistic type of young man who might well get himself shot. He had the look of a born victim.
Other things in addition to the Donck-Hervé case were also moving and Aimedieu’s checking of the rash of 500-franc notes in Cloing had brought an unexpected bonus.
‘The Moissin repair depot,’ he told Nosjean. ‘The garage at Ferouelle nearby. Run by a type called Marc Moissin. They seem to come from there. We thought they might. Mind, the place seems straightforward. It takes a lot of vehicles for repair and overhaul, and there’s a steady sale of new cars. I expect a lot of ready cash changes hands. There are plenty of little fiddles. Cars are like that. They breed fiddles.’
Nosjean frowned. ‘What’s known about this place?’ he asked. ‘I still think Ferouelle’s a funny place to have a repair depot. What about this Marc Moisson, for instance? Is he honest?’
‘He has no record.’
‘Doesn’t mean a thing. There’s always a first time. What do you know of him?’
‘He has a brother who helps him at weekends. He doesn’t live at Ferouelle, though. Lives in Dijon. Works at Métaux de Dijon.’
Nosjean’s ears pricked. ‘Does he now?’ he said slowly. ‘What’s his name?’
‘Claude. Claude Moissin. The father owned the garage before Marc Moissin, and the sons were taught the trade before the old man died.’
‘The sons?’ Nosjean asked.
‘There are others as well. One lives in Nantes – ’
‘Does he work there?’ Nosjean was bolt upright at once.
‘Yes.’
‘Where exactly?’
‘Produits Métallurgiques.’
‘Aren’t they the firm who’ve been having cars stolen like Métaux de Dijon?’ Nosjean was turning sheets of paper over at great speed. He slapped the pile. ‘That’s right. Here it is. What do we know about this Moissin? What’s his name?’
‘Georges. He married a girl from Nantes whose brother runs a garage, and Georges went over there to live. He also helps in the garage at weekends.’
‘Name of this garage?’
‘Garage Tourdin.’
‘Lot of garages around, aren’t there? Tell me more.’
Aimedieu shrugged. ‘There are four Moissins altogether. Marc, Claude, Georges and Bruno. Three are fitters. The other – Bruno – is a clerk. Civil Service, I think.’
‘Three fitters. One runs a garage at Ferouelle and tosses around 500-franc notes as if they’re confetti. One works at Métaux de Dijon, which is suffering from a rash of stolen cars, and helps his brother at Ferouelle. Another brother works at Produits Métallurgiques de Nantes, which is also suffering from the same rash of stolen cars, and at weekends he, too, helps his brother-in-law, who owns the Garage Tourdin. A big coincidence, don’t you think, mon vieux?’
Aimedieu did think, and Nosjean leaned across the desk.
‘Get out there,’ he advised. ‘Have another look round. I’m sure you’ll come up with something more.’
Going to see Dugaste again, Nosjean found him with his head in the engine of the new Citroën he’d bought.
‘Got it near Lyons,’ he said.
‘At Tubours?’ Nosjean asked innocently.
Dugaste looked startled. ‘How did you know?’
‘Heard about that place. I’m after a new car and I’m told they’re good.’
Dugaste’s relief was obvious. Nosjean’s question had clearly frightened him but he seemed satisfied with the explanation. He smiled. ‘Went off for the weekend with the wife and went mad. Marc Moissin put me on to the place. He’s clever with cars.’
Indeed he was, Nosjean thought. Very clever. Too clever for his own good, in fact.
Going back to the lists of stolen cars, it didn’t take him long to spot a strange similarity between the cars stolen from Métaux de Dijon and those stolen from Produits Métallurgiques de Nantes. Within a day or two of a car being reported stolen at Nantes, he noticed, one was reported to the insurance companies as being stolen at Métaux de Dijon, or within a day or two of one being reported lost at Dijon, one was reported stolen at Nantes. And oddly enough, though the cars were never the same model, they were always roughly the same size and always roughly the same value.
‘Are they swapping them?’ Aimedieu asked.
‘If they are,’ Nosjean said, ‘who’s profiting? Let’s dig a bit more deeply. What about this fourth brother, who works for the Civil Service?’
Surprise, surprise.
It didn’t startle them very much when they learned that Moissin Number Four, by name Bruno, worked in the Vehicle Registration Department in the Préfecture in the city. ‘Now that,’ Nosjean said, ‘is very interesting, isn’t it? I think you’d better have a full-time watch put on that place at Ferouelle while I go to see the top boy at the Préfecture.’
The top boy in the Vehicle Registration Offic
e in the Préfecture was a stiff-necked civil servant who looked faintly dessicated. At first he denied to Nosjean the slightest possibility of anything going wrong with the system of registering vehicles.
‘It’s foolproof,’ he insisted.
‘Foolproof?’ Nosjean’s eyebrows lifted.
‘Absolutely.’
‘Are you suggesting that there are never cases of registration forms being damaged, crumpled, torn or lost before they go through the computer so that they have to be written off.’
‘Absolutely.’ A deep frown of disapproval changed to one of anxiety. ‘Well, of course, there are always one or two. It’s inevitable, isn’t it? Nobody and nothing is foolproof.’
‘You just said your system was.’
‘Well, perhaps I was being over-enthusiastic. A few are always lost.’
‘Many?’
‘Of course not. One or two each month.’
‘Which would add up to quite a few in the course of a year, wouldn’t it?’
Leaving the desiccated gentleman somewhat shaken but promising to keep the enquiry firmly under his hat, Nosjean contacted Aimedieu and, telling him to draw on Brochard, Lacocq or Morell, said he wanted to know everywhere that Marc Moissin, of the garage at Ferouelle, went.
Meanwhile, however, there was no sign of Donck and no one could remember seeing Jacqueline Hervé, save the neighbours at Fontenay l’Église. However, all was not lost because a fortnight later, Aubineau reported another theft from the car park of Métaux de Dijon. ‘Not ours,’ he told Nosjean. ‘Assurances Gau. They told me. Type called Baudon. Hilaire Baudon, 17, Rue Petite Baratte, Talant. He’s claimed for a stolen green Renault. Number 67 RH 39.’
‘Thanks,’ Nosjean said.
‘Are you getting anywhere?’
‘We might surprise you yet,’ Nosjean said and promptly got on to the police at Nantes.
Two days later he was far from surprised to learn that a yellow Citroën, number 14 PT 33, owned by one Alain Tessler and of roughly the same value as Baudon’s Renault, had disappeared from the car park at Produits Métallurgiques de Nantes.
He smiled. Things were beginning to come together. After all, Dijon and Nantes couldn’t be much further apart without going outside France. It seemed a very amicable arrangement for a scheme which was finally beginning to take shape in his mind.
It came as no surprise when Aimedieu appeared in the office.
‘Marc Moisson,’ he said. ‘He drove to Nantes in a green Renault number 43 BH 67 – a Bas Rhin number. I followed with Brochard.’
‘Could it have been the stolen car?’
‘It could. Same model, but different number. He set off on the Dijon-Bourges road to Tours, but then he turned off and stopped in the square at Chanterrepie.’
‘And?’
‘And, lo and behold, soon afterwards a Citroën, colour yellow number 61 HR 17, appeared. Moissin got out and talked to the man who’d driven it in. They swapped papers, then called in a bar for a drink.’
‘Any documents change hands? Registration documents, for instance.’
‘Yes. They were both carrying the manufacturer’s grey cards and they exchanged them. Then –’ Aimedieu grinned ‘ – instead of going back to their cars, Moissin got into the Citroën and headed back towards Dijon.’
‘And the other type?’
‘He got in the Renault and headed towards the Nantes road.’
‘They swapped cars?’
Aimedieu frowned. ‘They’re changing the numbers, dodging up the registration documents and swapping them. Why?’
‘We’ll know before long,’ Nosjean said. ‘The type from Nantes. Who was he, do you know?’
‘Marc Moissin called him Georges. We went into the same bar for a beer and did a bit of listening. They were noisy, cheerful and seemed very pleased with themselves. I think it was his brother.’
Nosjean smiled. ‘I think so, too,’ he said.
A report from Barribal, requested by Pel, arrived the following morning. It was short and to the point and was addressed to ‘Chief Inspector Don Evaristo Clovio Desiderato Pel’. Pel promptly hid it under his blotter. Evariste Clovis Désiré were bad enough. Evaristo Clovio Desiderato were beyond the pale.
The message, to read which he waited until Claudie had disappeared, was short. ‘Your friend, Marc Donck, alias Pierre Alaba, went round airlines in Mexico City claiming to be detective. By that means he learned that Jacqueline Hervé, alias Ramona Flores Guzmán, flew out of Mexico City on 17th, by jumbo to Paris, France. Have seen passenger list.’
Pel showed it to Darcy. ‘It’s obvious now, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘He knew she came back to France and he knew why. Let’s go and have a beer.’
As they reached the hall downstairs, the doors to the street crashed open and Bardolle, as big as a dray-horse and as usual just as noisy, appeared through them. He was hopping mad and Bardolle was big enough when he was hopping mad to make his presence felt. The noise was enough to shake the windows.
‘That little creep, Fousse,’ he was snorting. ‘I thought he was up to something because he was always there. But I could never pin him down. Nothing had ever been pinched and no one had got inside. Now I’ve got him.’
Pel’s eyebrows lifted. ‘What happened, mon brave?’
‘Talant,’ Bardolle said. ‘He set up those alarms, patron. Deliberately. It was part of a plan. He found he could set them off with a wire, so he hatched a little plot. When the alarm went off, he bolted round the corner and only appeared after a police car turned up. He did it so often, in the end Traffic and Uniform began to get sick of investigating. But that was the idea. He noticed they took longer every time to arrive – naturally, because they always assumed it was going to be another false alarm. At Talant, it always was and they didn’t rush. And that was what he was working up to, because last night it wasn’t a false alarm. He forced a window at the back, but he knew he couldn’t go inside without setting off the alarm. But he’d been timing our arrivals and he knew he had a good twenty minutes to do what he wanted. He got in and out again at the back, while the alarm went off and Traffic and Uniform were arguing at the front about whether to drag out the manager and what they were going to call him when he arrived. Traffic and Uniform are playing hell.’
‘You’re not doing badly yourself,’ Pel said dryly. ‘How did you find out?’
‘Two kids kissing goodnight under the trees saw him leave. The stupid con couldn’t even make a good job of it.’
‘Have you been to look him up?’
‘He’s disappeared, patron.’
Pel patted Bardolle’s arm. It was like patting an iron girder. ‘He’ll be in the city somewhere,’ he said. ‘What’s been taken?’
‘Jewellery.’
Pel’s eyebrows lifted. ‘I thought they didn’t carry anything worthwhile.’
‘They don’t,’ Bardolle growled. ‘But that’s what he was after. His brother told me. Cheap jewellery. He wears it. He’s crazy about it. You’ve seen him, patron. Earrings. Bracelets. Neck chains. He’s spent all these hours and wasted all our time just for a handful of cheap jewellery.’
Seventeen
Pel rose early the following morning. Summer was on its way and the air was balmy. Madame Pel was in the garden, clipping the heads off a few dead flowers and quietly singing one of the obscure little songs she seemed to love:
Gais et contents,
Nous marchions triomphants,
En allant à Longchamp…
It was all very familiar and made Pel glad to be home. Pel’s nesting instincts were stronger than he’d imagined, and long-distance telephone calls were never the same. Especially with Pel. If he tried to call an insurance company in Lyons he invariably found himself speaking to a brasserie in Pau.
Madame Routy served breakfast in the garden. Pel didn’t like eating outside. In the evening, it made the onion soup congeal, and at breakfast time it made his coffee cold. However, he gave way as graciously as possible because Ma
dame enjoyed it, and over the croissants she started asking him again about his trip.
‘There are other things that are valuable, which could be considered treasure, apart from gold and silver,’ she said.
‘Such as what?’
‘Skill, for a start. Could it be paintings? After all, Maximilian would undoubtedly have had a few valuable possessions of that sort.’
‘Jacqueline Hervé would never have got old masters through the Customs,’ Pel said. All the same, he decided, it was a thought worth investigating if nothing else turned up.
‘Could it have been drugs?’ his wife went on. ‘After all, isn’t Mexico where marijuana comes from? Isn’t that where it all started?’
Pel shook his head. ‘What have drugs to do with the intervention in Mexico and the Emperor Maximilian?’
‘It depends, I suppose, on what you consider valuable. An old man with no money probably considers his pipe valuable. My mother kept all the letters I wrote from school, all my drawings, every bit of needlework I did. Some of it was dreadful but she kept it and I’ve no doubt to her it had worth.’
When Pel left, Madame Routy opened the door for him – with an alacrity, he thought, that seemed to indicate she was glad to be rid of him. As he drove out of the gate, Yves Pasquier was in the road with the dog, Gyp. He was wearing a cowboy hat and was frightening the birds with a plastic tommy-gun which was emitting fiendish rattles. He appeared to be engaged in a running battle with bandits.
‘They’re there,’ he pointed out. ‘Behind the trees.’
‘Who are?’
‘The gangsters! They’re after me.’ Yves Pasquier paused. ‘Did you find that cure for chewing gum mixed up with string and marbles?’
‘I’ll have a word with the Forensic Laboratory,’ Pel said. ‘They might be able to come up with something.’
‘Trying to get it off’s the chief problem. Maman gets furious. She doesn’t like chewing gum. She says it’s bad for the digestion.’ He frowned. ‘I suppose it is if you’re delicate. I’m delicate.’