by Mark Hebden
‘You look as tough as an old sea-boot.’
‘Oh, no. Listen.’ Yves Pasquier coughed energetically. ‘Lungs.’
‘Continue wearing the hat,’ Pel said. ‘Keeping the head warm is good for the lungs.’ He studied the plastic tommy-gun. ‘Don’t you use the Mexican gun I brought you?’ Pel felt slightly hurt. ‘I carried it a long way. It’s a replica of the one carried by Pancho Villa, the bandit.’
The boy shook his head. ‘Oh, no,’ he said. ‘That’s different.’
‘Is it?’ To Pel it had seemed a very normal small boy’s gun, not half as terrifying as the one Yves Pasquier was carrying at the moment.
‘I keep it under my pillow. It’s special, you see.’
Pel didn’t argue. What Madame had said was right. Things had different values to different people. To Yves Pasquier a plastic gun, of no great value and bought without much effort, represented a treasure. All the same, Pel thought, he couldn’t imagine Marc Donck committing murder for a plastic gun.
The day was too bright and too warm to be downcast for long, and he headed for the Hôtel de Police cheerfully. When he arrived, he was surprised to encounter Sergeant Bardolle just entering, as noisy as ever, pushing ahead of him a scared-looking Edouard Fousse, all gold ear-rings, necklaces and clanking bracelets. No wonder, Pel thought, he had plotted to rob the cheap jewellery stand at the supermarket. He obviously had great need of its wares.
As he drew nearer, he noticed that Fousse had a split lip, a bruised nose and a black eye. There was also a cut on Bardolle’s head and blood on his collar, and he was carrying a piece of heavy old-fashioned metal conduit piping.
‘I got the con, patron,’ he said. ‘He thought he could get away with it. But I found him. He was hiding in a shed at his mother’s. Lacocq was with me. Lacocq took one side. I took the other. He was watching Lacocq and he didn’t hear me.’
‘You can move silently?’
‘Yes, patron.’
‘Old poaching habits, no doubt.’
Bardolle gave Pel a quick look, obviously wondering how he’d learned about his misspent youth, and hurried on, gesturing with the iron pipe. ‘When he saw me, he took a swing at me with this. He got me, too. And he kept on swinging even when I tried to grab him. I had to let him have one to quieten him down.’
Pel glanced at Bardolle’s huge fists. ‘What are you charging him with?’
‘Theft. Wasting police time. Assault on a police officer.’
Pel studied Bardolle’s bulk and Fousse’s black eye, split lip and bruised nose. ‘I think,’ he said dryly, ‘that you ought to charge him with attempting to commit suicide.’
Nosjean was waiting in Pel’s office, anxious to explain what he was up to. Pel sent out for beer and Nosjean sat in the window to describe what he’d been doing.
‘Marc Moissin, patron,’ he said. ‘He has a brother, Georges Moissin, who works at Produits Métallurgiques de Nantes. We kept an eye on a certain Hilaire Baudon who claimed to have lost a green Renault, and found he turned up at work the following week in a red Citroën, remarkably like the one the Nantes police had said had been reported lost the following day by a certain Alain Tessler, who it seemed, was now driving a green Renault, without doubt the one Hilaire Baudon had reported losing.’
He outlined what Aimedieu had discovered. ‘It looks remarkably simple, doesn’t it, patron? Chanterrepie is just about halfway between Nantes and Dijon and a good place to swap cars.’
Nosjean had done his homework well and had looked up the list of those men who had reported their cars stolen and had claimed their value from their insurance companies. In this Aubineau had proved a great help.
It had also been necessary to check a few bank balances and it had come as no surprise to find that in almost every case the bank statement showed the unexpected appearance of a sum equivalent to the value of the lost car in the owner’s account – clearly, the insurance company’s money. But then, in every case, a proportion was removed a few weeks later – not sufficient to buy a new car, Nosjean noticed – but always a clear twenty-five per cent of the value of the car. And in some cases the money was paid to the Garage Moissin at Ferouelle. It was becoming clearer why Marc Moissin was able to flash 500-franc notes around.
‘Keep watching them,’ Nosjean had ordered and sure enough within days Aimedieu had appeared, grinning all over his face. ‘Baudon’s got a new car,’ he had said. ‘Brand-new Toyota Estate. Blue. Bought from a garage at Tubours near Lyons. Garage Poirons, Rue Clément-Marol. It’s got the label stuck on the window. I went to Lyons and did a bit of checking. They’ve still got the red Citroën which they took in part exchange. I told them I wanted to buy one and got a look at the engine. The number’s been changed. Cleverly. Hard to tell. But it was changed. I also got a look at the registration certificate. It’s phoney. It looks good but it’s got the new number on it, which makes it false and a criminal offence. One other thing. Garage Poirons at Tubours in Lyons is run by another Moissin – a cousin this time.’
It had taken only another forty-eight hours to discover that all the men from Métaux de Dijon who had lost cars and replaced them with fresh second-hand cars had all eventually changed them for brand-new cars bought from Garage Moissin at Ferouelle or, directed by Marc Moissin, from his cousin’s garage at Tubours near Lyons. From there, it took no time at all to learn that the owners of cars stolen from Produits Métallurgiques at Nantes had done the same, directed in their case to the Garage Ribin at Bordeaux. A little more digging showed that the Garage Ribin was owned by the husband of the sister of the man who owned the garage at Nantes, which had done all the engine-number changes. Doubtless the Moissins drew a cut on every transaction. It was a carefully planned operation with perks coming from all directions.
‘It’s pretty clear what’s happening,’ Nosjean said. ‘The Moissin brother at Métaux de Dijon persuades a workmate he needs a change of vehicle. The keys are handed over and the car’s driven out at the end of the shift while the owner makes a point of letting himself be seen searching for it. At the same time a car of roughly the same value is stolen by the same method at the other side of the country. If the first one goes in Dijon, the other goes in Nantes, and vice versa. The engine numbers are changed and, with the aid of little brother Bruno in the Vehicle Registration Department, they also get a new registration certificate. All done at full speed. The cars are simply swapped.’
‘But what do the owners gain?’ Aimedieu sounded puzzled.
Nosjean gestured. ‘They draw the insurance on the stolen car – a matter of around 33,000 to 40,000 francs – and they acquire a car to take its place at no extra cost. The owner of the exchanged car then sells his new second-hand car – the one he appears to have bought with the insurance he got to replace the one he’s lost but hasn’t – and buys a brand-new car, something everybody likes having, at the Garage Moissin or a garage recommended by them. So out of the deal they acquire a brand-new car and what’s left of a sum of around 30 to 40,000 francs insurance, less twenty-five per cent to Marc Moissin. Doubtless, they also pay heavily for the numbers being changed, and the new registration certificate, but I reckon they’re still around 20,000 francs or so to the good at the end. Moissin draws his twenty-five per cent and the cost of the numbers change, which is shared with brother Claude who recruits the mugs. I bet the word of a complicated fiddle like this flew round Métaux de Dijon like a forest fire. Brother Georges and his brother-in-law in Nantes are doing the same and the brother in the Vehicle Registration Office gets his share for pinching the registration forms and seeing they’re properly filled in – I expect, on another computer similar to the registration department’s.’ Nosjean smiled. ‘There are going to be a lot of red faces at Métaux de Dijon and Produits Métallurgiques de Nantes.’
Eighteen
The Hôtel de Police was busy. Crowded into the hall were around 60 nervous-looking men, dressed in their best clothes and doing their utmost to look as innocent as schoolboys. They
were the owners of the missing vehicles who were facing charges of falsely reporting cars stolen and fraudulently collecting the insurance, conspiracy, intent to defraud, wasting police time, and a few other associated things. Among them were the four Moissin brothers and a few odd brothers-in-law and assorted cousins. There were also a few lawyers, looking peevish because of the complications of the case; Judge Brisard and Judge Polverari, fretful and overworked; and Aimedieu, Brochard and Lacocq, who were the only ones there who were looking pleased with themselves. Nosjean was watching the milling crowed with an expression of bewilderment on his face.
‘Why do they do it?’ he asked. ‘The car owners I can understand. They got a new car for nothing, plus a bit in the bank. But the Moissins didn’t get such a fat lot – not sharing it among six or eight of them.’
Pel gestured. ‘Perhaps it boosted sales,’ he suggested.
When De Troq’ appeared, he looked a little strained and tired. It wasn’t entirely due to the reading he’d done, though he’d done plenty, but the night before he had been with Judge Polverari’s secretary. It had been late when he’d left and, realising he still had reading to do, he had continued without going to bed. He felt like something the cat had dragged in.
Assuming he’d been doing only a lot of hard work, Pel offered him a cigarette and asked Claudie Darel to produce coffee. De Troq’ accepted both with gratitude.
‘Well,’ Pel said when he was settled, ‘what had your venerable ancestor, the General, to tell us?’
‘Not much we don’t know already,’ De Troq’ admitted. ‘He mentions the money lost at the Battle of San Jacinto and that Maximilian hid the rest of the war chest because he was beginning to realise he was going to be defeated and thought he could use it to bargain for his life. Already European diplomats were asking for his safe passage home and thought it could be bought. Unfortunately, it seems that, though the war chest was hidden, Maximilian could find no one he could trust to dig it up without also disappearing with it, and anyway, Juárez had no intention of freeing him and preferred to shoot him instead – pour encourager les autres.’
‘So there might have been a treasure in the stables at Las Rosas and it might not have been dug up before 1920, as we were told?’
‘Possibly, patron.’ De Troq’ frowned. ‘But the General also mentions there was something else that Maximilian said might save his life.’
Pel pushed his spectacles up to his forehead and leaned across the desk. ‘Inform me.’
‘Maximilian didn’t spell it out. I expect he was being cagey, but he mentioned the Hacienda de las Rosas again.’ De Troq’ paused. ‘There’s one other thing, too. After Maximilian was shot, his personal belongings were all sent back to Europe in a ship that had been waiting at Veracruz to carry him to Austria, and it seems the captain had been warned to receive, in the event of disaster, a large packet of letters and Maximilian’s diary for 1867 – the last months of his life. These, he was told, were addressed to – among others – Maximilian’s wife, Carlota, by then mad; his brother, the Emperor Franz Josef, of Austria; Napoleon III; Eugénie, Napoleon’s wife; Marshal Bazaine, who’d been in command of the French forces in Mexico; the King of Italy; the King of the Belgians; the President of the United States; and Queen Victoria of England, to whom he was, of course, related. There were others to various other people, too. The General learned all this later from Felix zu Salm.’
‘Whom we bumped into in Mexico.’
‘Exactly. However – ’ De Troq’ looked up ‘ – I’ve done a bit of checking. In Austria. In Italy. In Belgium. There’s no record of any letters ever arriving in Europe. They seem never to have left Mexico.’
Pel frowned. ‘What was the content of these letters?’
‘Impassioned appeals for help. Requests for money. For soldiers. For ships. Descriptions of how things were going. Pleas. Confessions. They must have told quite a story. Especially the diary.’
Pel was deep in thought. Without being aware of it, he lit a fresh cigarette from the stub of the old one. ‘Would these letters have any value?’ he asked.
‘A letter by the composer, Lizst – not a composition, just a simple letter – fetched 15,000 dollars in New York last year, patron.’
‘And how many of these letters were there by Maximilian?’
‘I get the impression there were at least fifteen – probably more.’
Pel scratched a few figures on his blotter. ‘That would mean a rough value altogether of around 225,000 dollars or say around 1,575,000 francs, not counting the diary. A rough estimate but near enough.’
‘You think they were the treasure, patron?’
‘You suggested it. Not me.’
‘They’re the sort of thing that would catch Martin’s interest. It was his period. He was an expert on the nineteenth century. They’re also the sort of thing that might catch Donck’s eye. He was a scholar. Even if a scholar gone wrong. It would also explain Navarro’s interest. He was a scholar too, and, what’s more, a scholar with a Mexican background. He’d be able to assess their genuineness.’
‘Do you know any more about these letters?’
‘Yes, patron. I’ve made enquiries. If they didn’t reach Europe, then they must have remained in Mexico. For some reason, they must have been kept there. Perhaps they were never passed on to whoever it was who was to carry them to Europe. And if they weren’t, patron, Martin could have discovered that perhaps they hadn’t been destroyed and still existed. Martin, more than anybody, would know their value to collectors.’
‘So what happened to these letters?’ Pel asked. ‘If it’s letters we’re after.’
De Troq’ opened his notebook, turned several pages and looked up. ‘General de Troquereau,’ he said, ‘mentioned Agnes Salm-Salm.’
Pel sat bolt upright. ‘Who?’
‘Agnes Salm-Salm. Our missing friend, “ASS”. The letters we couldn’t understand. It was Agnes Salm-Salm, the American circus rider who married Felix zu Salm-Salm.’
‘I thought his name was Felix Salm.’
‘That’s what people appear to have called him. The same way people call me De Troquereau or even De Troq’, instead of my full name of De Troquereau Tournay-Turenne. These old names, patron. They can be quite a mouthful.’ De Troq’ gave a rueful smile, but he sounded quite proud of the fact, nevertheless.
‘His full title was Prince Felix zu Salm-Salm. He was the son of one of the great families of Germany and he’d served as a cavalry officer, but mounting debts forced him to leave his regiment and take service with the Austrians. He was soon in debt again, though, so he went to America and fought with the Northerners in their Civil War and became a brigadier-general. While he was there, he met his wife, Agnes, the circus rider. They didn’t appear to match much but, in fact, it seems to have been a good marriage. She was the more intelligent of the two and helped to further his career and followed him throughout the Civil War, working in hospitals. When the war ended, though, he had no job, but there was a full-scale war going on south of the border so they joined Maximilian. He was with Maximilian at Querétaro.’
De Troq’ studied his notes again. ‘The Siege of Querétaro started on 14 March 1867, and the Juáristas broke in on the night of 14–15 May, and Maximilian, Salm and many others were taken prisoner. Agnes Salm was allowed to visit her husband and the two of them plotted Maximilian’s release. Given sufficient money, even the senior officers in charge of the prisoner could have been bribed, but Maximilian considered escape beneath his dignity and, anyway, the bribes were enormous and he had little money. In the end, Agnes Salm was ordered to leave, so she turned her attention instead to Juárez himself and, though he refused to pardon Maximilian, he did promise to save her husband. The emperor was shot but Salm was allowed to go free – though it didn’t do him a lot of good. He was killed during the Franco-Prussian War three years later.’
‘A brave woman.’ Pel was impressed. He could see himself held prisoner and his brave wife struggling to free h
im. He shook his head to rid himself of the image.
‘How did you get to know all this?’
‘Her mémoirs, patron. They were published. I looked them up.’
Pel frowned, deep in thought. ‘During all this time,’ he asked, ‘did she stay in Querétaro?’
‘No, patron. And this is the interesting part. She says she was lodged in the most comfortable hacienda in the neighbourhood.’
‘Las Rosas?’ Pel lit a cigarette at speed, again without even noticing. ‘That’s where Maximilian’s treasure was supposed to have been hidden.’
‘“Treasure” isn’t a word that Agnes Salm ever uses,’ De Troq’ pointed out. ‘She mentions being entrusted with documents and there are references to them in her unedited mémoirs, though she cut them for the published edition. She says – ’ De Troq’ glanced again at his notes ‘ – that, while pleading for Prince Salm’s life, she was entrusted with letters which, it seems, were smuggled from Maximilian to Salm who passed them to his wife at some point when she was allowed to talk to him. She took them away, intending to send them on, but, because it was dangerous to be found with them, she hid them – by the look of it, at the Hacienda de las Rosas. But after another visit to her husband, the Mexicans began to be suspicious and she was never allowed to go back to the hacienda. When Maximilian was shot, she assumed that the letters, which were largely appeals for help, had become worthless, so she left them where she’d hidden them, and by the time she produced her edited mémoirs she seems to have decided they weren’t worth mentioning.’ De Troq’ paused again. ‘Perhaps they weren’t worth anything then, patron. But they would be now. Perhaps they were the “treasure” Martin was after. They told us at the Hotel de las Rosas of hidden cupboards in walls and in beds and tables. We saw some. She must have hidden them there and Martin must have found them.’ He juggled with his notes again. ‘She published two lots of mémoirs, both covering roughly the same period. But there was also another edition, unedited, produced in New York around 1900, probably after her death. In the copy I got hold of, she says she slept with Maximilian, Bazaine and Napoleon III.’