Pel Among The Pueblos

by Mark Hebden

  ‘It must be Donck,’ Pel said. ‘Second half of the century. To his relations. Considerable difficulties. Under some stress. Not concerned with trivial matters but with tragic events known to history. There’s nothing more tragic than dying. He also mentions a diary. This accords with everything we know.’

  The letter concluded that any approach had to be made to the writer through a box number at the main post office in Dijon.

  ‘So he’s here,’ Pel said. ‘In this area, somewhere.’

  ‘What do we do, patron?’ Darcy asked. ‘Get the post office to tip us the wink when he appears?’

  ‘We get Nosjean’s friend, Mijo Lehmann, to express an interest in what’s to be offered, and to post her letter in Chagnay so that it will carry a Chagnay postmark. That ought to put him off guard a little. Then we wait until he picks it up.’

  ‘What then? Do we grab him?’

  ‘It wouldn’t work. He’ll not have the letters on him. They’ll be safely hidden and, if we grab him, we’ll never find them. He’ll have them safe as an insurance. But we’ll have the post office warn us when he turns up and we’ll follow him. After that, we think again.’

  Mijo Lehmann’s letter was dispatched and three days later Nosjean and De Troq’ were in the main post office in Dijon when the assistant dealing with poste restante boxes excused himself, took out a large red handkerchief and blew his nose loudly. Watching from the back of the hall, Nosjean quietly dropped the form he was occupied in filling and had been occupied in filling for some time. Standing by the bank of poste restante boxes let into the wall was Donck, quite recognisable despite the beard he had grown. He used his key to open one of the boxes, removed two or three letters and stood examining them as Nosjean headed for the door. Two minutes later Donck turned and headed for the car park nearby where he had left his car. Nosjean followed him, while De Troq’ moved slowly after him in an unmarked car.

  Donck climbed into a cream Peugeot and shot away from the car park. Waiting for De Troq’ to appear, Nosjean was surprised when he didn’t. Within a minute, it was too late and Donck had vanished. Red-faced with anger, Nosjean set off to find De Troq’, who was just round the corner, the unmarked car jammed against the wall by a red Fiat which, apparently, had tried to climb inside it. De Troq’ was bruised but not much hurt, though he was almost dancing with fury. Opposite him a youth sat on the pavement, weeping.

  ‘Tu as bien foutu le bazar!’ Nosjean snapped.

  De Troq’ glared at him and gestured at the weeping youth. ‘Un type schlass!’ he stormed. ‘The guy’s stoned out of his mind. Why did he have to be there? Then?’

  To their surprise, Pel didn’t hit the roof. ‘Inform me,’ he said.

  They explained what had happened, how De Troq’, following Nosjean to pick up Donck, had been hit by an old banger driven by a student high on drugs. Pel listened quietly.

  ‘It can’t be helped,’ he said. ‘He doesn’t know he was being followed and we still have plenty of time. Now he knows somebody’s showing an interest, he’ll want to move. We’ll wait.’

  But they waited another week and there was no further word from Donck. Was he suspicious? Had he been tipped off?

  ‘It was Donck, wasn’t it?’ Pel asked, suddenly anxious.

  ‘It was Donck,’ De Troq’ said.

  Another week passed and they began to wonder if Donck had gone elsewhere, while Nosjean began to grow worried because he didn’t want to be appearing in court just when – and if – Donck emerged from hiding. Having persuaded Mijo Lehmann to take a chance, it was in his nature to feel he ought to keep an eye on her.

  They were just beginning to think something had gone wrong when they had a stroke of luck. The stories filed by Fiabon, Henriot and Sarrazin about Pel’s trip to Mexico had appeared with the usual fanfare of headlines and they heard they had caught the attention of Pépé le Cornet. Everybody knew Pépé le Cornet. As they were all aware, he ran a highly efficient criminal organisation in Paris, and they learned he had let it to be known that, in addition to his other activities, he was also a collector of antiques and was particularly interested in old documents. His name was sufficient to stir up more than a few alarms – as though Attila the Hun had expressed a close interest in the Roman Empire – and immediately they began to imagine what would happen to Donck’s nervous system if Pépé appeared on his doorstep to persuade him it would be to his advantage to sell the letters to him.

  ‘It would scare him silly,’ Darcy said cheerfully. ‘I bet he starts to think again.’

  Sure enough, two days later another letter turned up at the office of Antiques et Beaux Arts, requesting a meeting.

  ‘I am eager,’ Donck said this time, ‘to take up residence in the United States and am in need of money, because the United States has a strict law about having adequate means before granting a residence permit, so I wish to conclude the arrangements as quickly as possible.’

  ‘He’s bitten,’ Darcy crowed.

  ‘However,’ the letter concluded, ‘because of their enormous value, I have no wish to sell the letters and the diary on the open market and am prepared to let them go for a quick sale for five million francs.’

  ‘He’s come down,’ Pel said. ‘I think he’s got the wind up. Tell him we’ll buy. And this time, when he picks up the letter we’ll make sure we follow him. We’ll have cars all round the area.’

  ‘This time,’ Darcy warned, glancing at Donck’s letter, ‘it won’t be as easy as that. It’s occurred to him by this time that he could be followed and he says he’ll telephone for the reply. He says we’ve to put a telephone number in Antiques et Beaux Arts.’

  ‘Think he’s on to us, patron?’ Nosjean asked.

  Pel frowned. ‘He’s probably more afraid of Pépé le Cornet than he is of us,’ he said. ‘But we’ll put the telephone number in. It had better be a special one. Arrange it with Telecommunications. It must be in the directory because he’s bound to check up where it is and if he finds it doesn’t have an address to go with it, he’ll be suspicious. I think we need to find someone who could well be acting as an agent for a wealthy buyer. He’s got to be involved in antique manuscripts and prepared to allow us to use his house. It’s also got to be someone who knows something about the subject so that when Donck telephones he’ll be able to discuss the subject with conviction, because Donck’s bound to try him out first to make sure he’s not a cop. What about your lady friend at the university, Daniel? Would she know someone of that nature? Preferably as little like a cop as possible.’

  Darcy nodded. ‘I’m sure she will.’

  Two days later, he appeared in Pel’s office with a small square man with a beard. He was no longer young but, though he didn’t look like a cop, he looked quite capable of looking after himself.

  ‘Jean-Pierre Delahaye,’ Darcy introduced. ‘Lecturer in Fine Arts and Antiquities. Played scrum-half for Perpignan for three years.’

  A faint smile appeared on Pel’s face. ‘I think he’ll do,’ he said. ‘Get a tape recorder attached to his telephone.’

  Jean-Pierre Delahaye was more than willing to help. He himself had had manuscripts stolen and he felt helping the police might give him a little satisfaction.

  On Pel’s instructions, he acquired leave of absence from his job and sat down at home to wait, always with De Troq’ or Nosjean available to listen in with him. The advert duly appeared and within twenty-four hours the telephone rang.

  Delahaye gave his name and the voice on the wire, cautious and wary, spoke. ‘This is Box Number 21,’ it said. ‘Are you the type who’s interested in my letters?’

  Nosjean leaned closer.

  ‘I’m that man,’ Delahaye said. ‘In fact, I’m acting as agent for the buyer who lives in Paris.’

  ‘It was a woman before. Name of Marie-Joséphine Lehmann.’

  ‘She put me on to you. That’s all. She’s a dealer and she merely keeps an eye open for me.’

  ‘Who’re you? What do you do?’


  ‘As a matter of fact, I’m a lecturer at the university in Antiquities and Beaux Arts. I do this as a side line.’

  There was a laugh that indicated that Donck considered that Delahaye’s activities were probably as dubious as his own.

  ‘All right. What are you offering?’

  ‘The sum you named. Five million francs.’

  ‘They’re cheap at the price.’

  ‘They are if they’re what my client wants.’

  ‘He’ll be glad to have them.’

  ‘Who wrote them?’

  ‘The Archduke Maximilian, Emperor of Mexico. While he was a prisoner of the Mexicans after they’d captured him. He wrote them asking for help just before he was taken out and shot by a firing squad. There’s also a diary; believe me, it’s good reading.’

  ‘I’d like to see them.’

  ‘Not before the money’s delivered.’

  ‘I’m not prepared to buy something unseen for my client. I must be able to identify them. My client will pay the sum requested, I’m sure, providing the letters are genuine, because he feels they’d be an asset to his collection. If not, providing they’re genuine, he feels he could recoup his loss by reselling them. However, first, he requires photocopies of them to indicate they are genuine, and he’ll require something in the nature of provenance – proof that they’re genuine and not forgeries. He’ll require dates, times and places of acquisition, and a period of a week to get proof of the genuineness.’

  ‘I’ll send you photocopies and contact you again.’

  ‘You’ll want my address.’

  Donck’s reply showed he was one step ahead of them. ‘I have your address,’ he said.

  It was tense as they waited for the photocopies to arrive.

  ‘We’re wasting time,’ Darcy grumbled.

  ‘No,’ Pel insisted. ‘You might say we’re playing spider to his fly. He’s got to come out into the open before long if he wants the money. He knows nobody’s going to turn over several million francs until he has his hand on the letters.’

  This time the reply came more quickly. It was in the form of a thick envelope, postmarked ‘Dijon.’

  ‘He’s not taking any chances on us discovering where he’s hiding out,’ Darcy said.

  Pel opened the envelope and took out the first of the photocopies. It was addressed to ‘The Emperor Napoleon III’ and the first words he saw inside were ‘Sire, my brother –. ’ He studied the letter for a while, then glanced at the other photocopies. They simply showed the names of the addressees and the beginning of the letter, and were directed to the Empress Carlota, the Emperor Franz Josef, and Queen Victoria. According to the nationality of the recipients they were written in their own language.

  ‘I don’t think there’s much doubt,’ he said. ‘These are the letters. When he telephones, tell him the money will be ready and will be handed over in return for the letters and that he’s to name a rendezvous.’

  The tension was growing. It was a little like a game of chess with an experienced player. It was difficult to concentrate on anything else and Nosjean had been taken off the Moissin case so he could concentrate on the letters.

  Pel’s temper shortened and at breakfast time when, as she brought in the croissants, Madame Routy opened her mouth to make an observation on some comment of his, Madame Pel caught her eye and by the faintest movement of her head, forbade her to utter a word. Fortunately Madame Routy caught the signal and her mouth closed like a gin trap. Click.

  Heading with Darcy for Delahaye’s home by a roundabout route and entering through the back door from the garden of the adjoining house, Pel was waiting with Nosjean and De Troq’ when the telephone went and the tape recorder clicked. They leaned forward as the voice came, reproduced for them all to hear on an amplifier.

  ‘Well?’ There was only one word.

  Delahaye drew a deep breath, aware of Pel’s eyes on him. ‘I think the letters are genuine,’ he said. ‘At least the one that’s reproduced in full is.’

  ‘You’ll pay my price?’

  ‘My client is not prepared to argue. You can have your cheque –’

  ‘No cheques! I want no cheques.’

  Delahaye paused and looked at Pel who nodded. ‘I didn’t really think you would,’ he said. ‘Very well. How do you want it?’

  ‘In cash. Notes of a hundred francs and less. No big ones that will be difficult to dispose of.’

  ‘I have a feeling that this isn’t very honest.’

  There was a laugh. ‘That’s what I was thinking. What’s a lecturer at the university doing buying antique letters for some client in Paris. Is he American?’

  Delahaye looked at Pel who nodded. ‘Yes, he’s an American.’

  ‘Pity I didn’t ask for more. I expect he can afford it. Americans normally can. How much is he paying you for getting into this?’

  ‘That’s my business.’

  ‘You can’t touch pitch without being defiled, you know. Does he know that?’

  ‘I think he’s quite happy with the situation,’ Delahaye said brusquely. ‘Can we get down to business? I can have your money ready within a day or two. What about the letters?’

  ‘They’ll be ready. I’ll have them in a small blue holdall.’

  ‘How will I know I’m getting the genuine articles?’

  ‘You can have a look at them. Bring the money in a holdall of the same sort and same colour. You can buy them at Nouvelles Galéries for about 100 francs. Then all we have to do is exchange bags.’

  ‘As soon as I’ve convinced myself the letters are what my client wants.’

  ‘And as soon as I’ve satisfied myself that the money’s genuine.’

  ‘Very well. When and where?’

  ‘Friday, the 19th. Midnight. Crossroads south of Chassellis St Pierre. Where the N413 crosses the road to Auxerre. Got it?’

  ‘Friday, the 19th. Midnight. Crossroads south of Chasselis St Pierre. Where the N413 crosses the road to Auxerre.’

  The telephone clicked and went dead.

  ‘Do you know the place, Daniel?’ Pel asked.

  ‘I know it, patron. He’s picked a good spot. There’s a small wood to one side but the other side’s open country.’

  ‘Houses? Could he be watching from a house?’

  ‘No houses, patron, apart from the village, which is across the fields.’

  ‘Right.’ Pel looked at Delahaye. ‘Will you be prepared to make the exchange?’

  ‘Is it dangerous?’

  Pel paused. Police work was always untidy, often inconclusive, and sometimes very dangerous.

  ‘It might be,’ he admitted. ‘And I think we should go through a few drills with you because you’ll need to signal us somehow as soon as you know the letters are genuine, so we can move in.’

  ‘And in case,’ Darcy said grimly, ‘once he gets his hands on the dough, he snatches the letters back so he can sell them again somewhere else.’

  Pel lit a cigarette from the one he’d just finished, realised what he’d done, was about to stub it out, remembered the cost of cigarettes, and changed his mind. It gave him an idea.

  ‘It had better be a cigarette,’ he said. ‘We’ll fix something else as well but a cigarette will do. You can hardly use a torch.’ He pushed the packet across to Delahaye and watched him light it. ‘So a cigarette would be best. Donck won’t be alarmed at seeing you light up and it’s the obvious thing for someone to do when they’re a little nervous.’

  ‘Which I shall be.’ Delahaye gave a grim smile.

  Pel nodded. ‘In the meantime, we’d better survey that road, Daniel.’

  ‘How’re we going to do it without him seeing us? Assuming, of course, that he’s watching.’

  ‘There are plenty of unmarked cars around the Hôtel de Police. Use them all. Go backwards and forwards, every time in a different car. And don’t stop. Nothing more than a long pause before crossing the junction. Keep your eyes open for somewhere we can post men. We’ll need photographs so we c
an work something out, and they’ll need to be taken with a long-distance lens in case he is watching. Pick your best men. Young men. Not Lagé. He’s too old. And not Misset. He’ll bungle it. They’ve got to be planted within easy reach, so it’s up to you to find somewhere. We’ll also need a searchlight ready to shine on the crossroads, and night-glasses so we can see what’s going on. We’ll also need cars on every one of the four roads, but well back and well hidden so they can’t be seen. In the meantime, we’ll set about providing the money.’

  Darcy looked surprised. ‘Are we going to give him the money?’ he asked. It didn’t sound like Pel.

  ‘No.’ Pel almost snapped the word. ‘We have a stock of small counterfeit notes from Lyons’ Jean-Paul Leroy case, as you know. That’s what he’s going to get. It’ll be dark –’ he glanced at the window – ‘and probably raining and he’ll be in no position at the Chasselis crossroads to spend any time examining them. So long as the ones on top are genuine, and the ones underneath will pass in a cursory inspection as genuine, that will do.’

  ‘Let’s hope he doesn’t notice,’ Darcy said. He paused. ‘There’s still just one small problem.’

  Pel’s eyebrows lifted and he went on quickly. ‘When we get the letters back – as I’m sure we shall – whom do they belong to? France? The Mexicans? Or Vienna?’

  Pel considered for a moment. ‘That’s not something for us to worry about,’ he said. ‘The Chief can sort that one out. But I’d say myself that finders are keepers.’

  Twenty

  The next twenty-four hours saw a great deal of activity around the Chasselis crossroads. Among the traffic that passed and repassed were cars from the Hôtel de Police. None of them ever stopped but they all paused before crossing over, while their drivers, apparently cautious and checking the road was clear, took a good look round them.