Pel Among The Pueblos

by Mark Hebden

  A long-distance camera was situated in the spire of the church at Chasselis from which a series of photographs were taken. A lone walker complete with back pack and stick came up from the direction of Auxerre, paused on the crossroads to check his map – and have a good look round as he was doing it – then continued at a leisurely pace towards Chasselis. On the other road which crossed it, a man with a shot-gun and a dog halted to adjust his shoelaces, fill and light a pipe and pat his dog before continuing. During the afternoon a tractor came across the field, driven by Brochard – who had been brought up on tractors because his father was a farmer – with Darcy riding on the trailer behind. They both wore yellow rubber boots, dungarees and caps and they spent some time clearing a ditch near the crossroads, shovelling the mud they extracted into the trailer before disappearing towards Chasselis.

  By evening they had a pretty shrewd picture of the locality.

  ‘There’s a hollow twenty yards away,’ Darcy said. ‘Part of a ditch. And a wall that could conceal another man, running almost to the crossroads. We could also have a couple of men among the trees, one of them with a radio. As soon as it’s obvious something’s happening he could contact the cars waiting to pick up Donck if he tries to bolt.’

  ‘We’ve got to know the letters are genuine before we move,’ Pel said. ‘Delahaye’s got to give us some signal. If Donck’s offering photocopies or something like that, Delahaye’s got to identify them as such. It’s no good moving in on him if he hasn’t got them with him.’

  ‘We’ve also got to be able to hear what’s said,’ Darcy pointed out. He turned to Delahaye. ‘Would you be willing to wear a microphone? One that’ll pick up any conversation.’

  Delahaye shrugged. ‘No problem. What happens if the bag doesn’t contain the letters?’

  ‘Say so. Simply say “I’m not satisfied” or “These aren’t the letters.” We’ll hear.’

  ‘What happens then, patron?’ Darcy asked. ‘If that’s the case, Donck’s going to snatch the money and run. We’ll have to pick him up and chance losing the letters. We’re taking risks all the time. If we guess wrong, our reputation’s in tatters.’

  Pel shrugged. ‘I expect we’ll learn to live with it,’ he said.

  The 19th was a grey day with a lot of cloud and a drizzle of rain, and it suddenly occurred to Darcy that it was also the dark of the moon. Donck had picked a good time. It would be a very black night and impossible to see a thing.

  Plain cars, their crews complete with sandwiches and Thermos flasks, took up their places as soon as it was dark – four of them, each covering one of the four roads that made up the crossroads. In the same way, men on foot and all armed, were waiting to take up their positions after dark and settle down for a long wet miserable bone-aching wait. A radio van had been driven into the wood in the dark of the previous night and hidden among the undergrowth, Brochard and Lacocq doing watch until Pel and Darcy took over. Aimedieu, Bardolle, Debray and Morell were also around, while Lagé was watching the radio back at the Hôtel de Police with Claudie Darel. Misset, not trusted with anything important, was answering the telephone.

  During the afternoon, the Chief appeared in Pel’s office. He was clearly worried. ‘Is it going to work?’ he asked.

  ‘It had better,’ Pel said darkly.

  ‘He’s killed three times so he’ll stop at nothing. Oughtn’t we to have a policeman to do the job? To say he’s Delahaye.’

  ‘We’ve no one who knows enough about antique manuscripts to be able to talk intelligently if Donck decides to ask questions.’

  ‘What about De Troq’? He knows about antiques.’

  ‘De Troq’s not an expert.’

  ‘He helped crack the château thefts.’

  ‘That was furniture, porcelain, and paintings. He also knows enough to answer a casual query or two because of his great-great-grandfather being in Mexico at the time the letters were written. But Donck’s been called an educated thief. He’d soon spot that De Troq’ doesn’t know enough to be a lecturer at the university, because he went to university himself. Besides, Delahaye doesn’t look like a cop and I think it’s best that way. Donck can’t suspect him of being a plant.’

  ‘Suppose Donck pulls a gun?’

  That was something that had been worrying Pel. ‘We think he might not have one,’ he said. ‘He obviously had to get rid of the gun he acquired in Mexico because he’d never get it aboard the plane.’

  ‘He’d know where to get another.’

  Pel said nothing. He was hoping he hadn’t.

  Evening came early. The drizzle hadn’t let up for a minute all day and it had turned out to be one of the most miserable spring days they’d had for years. As a result, darkness came grey, wet and clinging, and the home-going crowds, huddled together as they waited for buses, thankfully scrambled aboard out of the wet when they arrived. Drivers collecting their parked cars thought nostalgically of home and more than a few considered the possibility of a quick one on the way. Slowly the city emptied as the queues of vehicles, windscreen wipers going, glass reflecting the dazzling kaleidoscope of the red, green, blue and yellow of neon lights that had been turned on early, wheels throwing up a mist of water from the streaming road, headed out to the suburbs.

  At Chasselis, cars arrived singly to drop a man or two men in the square then headed off into the darkness while their passengers, heads bent, shoulders bowed, disappeared among the houses as if on their way home. In fact, they were skirting back gardens to begin a long muddy trek over the fields in the darkness to their places of vantage.

  Pel and Darcy, who were the last to leave the Hôtel de Police, were just considering a quick rum to help keep them warm when the telephone went.

  ‘That’ll be Nosjean to say he’s got Delahaye and the money and is on his way.’

  It was Nosjean all right, but, while he had the money, he didn’t have Delahaye.

  ‘Patron – ’ there was a note of panic in his voice ‘ – Delahaye!’

  ‘What’s wrong with Delahaye?’ Pel snapped. ‘Don’t tell me he’s been run over.’

  He was being sarcastic but that was exactly what had happened. Delahaye had been struck by a car and was on his way to the hospital.

  ‘Broken leg, patron,’ Nosjean said.

  Pel didn’t know whether to throw in his hand or dance with rage. ‘You’re sure?’ he demanded, not because he doubted Nosjean’s sanity but simply because he just couldn’t believe what he heard.

  ‘Quite sure, patron. I’ve just seen his wife, as I arrived to pick him up. She’s just been told. She’s on her way now to the hospital.’

  There was a long silence as Pel considered what to do. He looked at his watch, certain that it was impossible to replace Delahaye in the time at their disposal.

  ‘Patron–’

  Pel felt like climbing into the telephone and starting a fight with Nosjean. He knew it wasn’t Nosjean’s fault because Nosjean had given Delahaye strict instructions not to move from his house. And, in fact, Delahaye had obeyed the spirit of the order if not the letter of it, because he hadn’t been looking forward to a cold night any more than anyone else and had only been crossing the road to the épicerie opposite his home for a bottle of brandy to fill a small flask. But it had been quite enough.

  ‘Well?’ Pel snapped, chiefly because just then he couldn’t think of anything else to say.

  Nosjean’s voice came back, faintly apologetic. ‘I’ve got Mijo here, patron.’

  Pel was on the point of demanding why. If Nosjean had been going about his business he should have had no time to be with Mijo Lehmann. Then he paused. Nosjean wasn’t a man to neglect his duty or go against orders. There must be some reason.

  ‘So?’

  ‘She’ll do it, patron?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘She knows everything that’s been going on. We brought her into it and she knows the moves we’ve made. She said she’d do it.’

  At first Pel was inclined to say no but the
n he realised that Mijo Lehmann might even be better than Delahaye. She wasn’t a thickset ex-rugby player, just a pretty girl with a crush on Nosjean. But she obviously wasn’t short of courage and he knew she wasn’t short of intelligence and certainly knew the antiques business inside out.

  ‘Bring her in,’ he said.

  Mijo Lehmann looked excited when she appeared, though whether that was because of what she was about to do or because it was Nosjean who had suggested it, Pel couldn’t tell.

  ‘Could you do it?’ he asked.

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘He’s expecting a man,’ Pel said. ‘Delahaye. Suppose he asks questions?’

  ‘I’ll tell him the truth. Or almost the truth. That Delahaye was knocked down by a car and asked me to take over for him. I’ll tell him I was the person who first contacted him after he answered the advert in Antiques et Beaux Arts and that Delahaye, knowing I knew what was going on, asked me from the hospital to stand in for him.’

  ‘Think he’ll accept it?’

  ‘Why not? If he’s in any doubt I’ll tell him to telephone the hospital. They’d confirm that Delahaye’s there. That ought to settle any doubts, surely. And surely he won’t consider me a menace. I’m not as tough-looking as Delahaye and he’ll not expect me to bring him down with a flying tackle.’ Mijo Lehmann smiled. ‘In fact, I’d suggest I’m a better bet for the role.’

  Pel glanced at Darcy and then at Nosjean who was suddenly beginning to look worried, as though only now had he seen the possible dangers.

  ‘You sure you can do it?’

  ‘I’ll need to know everything there is to know about the letters. I know most of it already, but it’ll be as well to know the lot. I know the period. I know the history. I can talk to him, if that’s what he wants.’

  Pel glanced again at Nosjean and Darcy then he gestured.

  ‘You’d have to drive out there and be at the crossroads at midnight. He’ll be there waiting. If not, he’ll arrive shortly afterwards. He’ll want to see the money.’

  ‘Do I give it to him?’

  ‘No. Insist on seeing the letters first and get a good grip on them before the money’s handed over. Once you can identify them – you’ll have to use the car headlights for it, as he will to identify the money – light a cigarette. That’s the signal for us to move in.’

  Mijo Lehmann looked at Nosjean and there was a sudden alarm in her eyes. ‘I don’t smoke,’ she said.

  For a moment there was consternation. Pel stared at her, and was just on the point of saying he wished he didn’t when he controlled it. ‘Never?’ he asked.

  ‘Well, I have done but I gave it up when all the fuss started about lung cancer.’

  ‘Do you think you could manage to light one?’

  ‘I don’t want to. I’m afraid I’ll start again.’

  ‘It’s too late now to change the signal. Everybody up there’s in position. We’ll be in touch with you. You’ll be wearing a microphone so we can hear everything that’s said. Unfortunately, while we can hear you, you won’t be able to contact us. A cigarette’s the only way you can signal us without him being suspicious. You could offer him one, in fact. If he takes it and lights it, perhaps you needn’t.’

  She managed a nervous smile. ‘I think I could manage one,’ she said.

  ‘Right.’ Pel rose. ‘Brief her, Nosjean. Brief her well. Tell her everything we know. Then get her out to the crossroads with the car by a quarter to midnight. What are your arrangements?’

  ‘De Troq’s waiting for me in a farmyard a couple of hundred metres from the crossroads. Delahaye was supposed to drop me there and De Troq’ was to drive me to Chasselis St Pierre from where we were to walk across the fields to the radio van. Brochard and Lacocq are waiting there until we arrive. When we arrive, they’ll take their places where they can see the crossroads.’

  Pel stared at the streaming window. ‘I doubt if anybody at all will see the crossroads tonight,’ he said. A thought occurred to him and he looked at the girl, knowing how ham-fisted some girls were with cigarettes. ‘There’s just one point,’ he said. ‘Can you light a cigarette in a wind?’

  She smiled, a little nervously. ‘I’ve done it often. I was a proper chimney-pot.’

  Pel looked at Nosjean. ‘Bon. We’ll be on our way. Give her a good briefing, Nosjean, then get her out there to where De Troq’s waiting.’ He paused. ‘And don’t forget to make sure she has a cigarette and matches on her.’

  The rain hadn’t stopped and the night was as dark as a cow’s inside.

  Mijo Lehmann’s car drew to a stop and in the dim glow from its sidelight Nosjean could see De Troq’s car waiting for him.

  He turned to the girl. ‘You have everything?’ he asked. ‘Cigarettes? Matches? The money?’

  She patted the deep pockets of the mackintosh she wore and reached behind her to feel the bag containing the money. ‘Yes,’ she said.

  ‘What about the microphone? Comfortable?’

  She touched the open collar of the mackintosh where the microphone was concealed, and nodded.

  ‘Good,’ Nosjean said. ‘I’ll be off then. It’s now 11.45. Don’t move up to the crossroads until midnight. In fact, make it five minutes past. Then perhaps he’ll be in position first. That’ll give me time to be in position. I shall be listening to everything you say.’

  She threw him a nervous glance. ‘You won’t miss anything?’

  ‘Afraid?’

  ‘A little.’

  ‘Don’t worry. We’ve done this before.’ So they had, Nosjean thought, but there had been occasions when their ambushes hadn’t come off.

  He touched her hand and immediately her fingers grasped his and squeezed them. He wasn’t sure if it was because she was afraid, but he liked to think it was more than that. Abruptly, he leaned over and kissed her cheek. It felt icy, and he knew her fears had hold of her. But he also knew she had courage and wouldn’t let them down.

  She looked at him but in the poor light from the dashboard he couldn’t see her expression. He touched her hand again and, climbing from the car, closed the door softly. She hadn’t stopped the engine because there was no wind to drown noises and an engine starting might be heard at the crossroads and could well make a nervous Donck suspicious. Why had the car started? Were there police around? He might well have guessed the police would be involved, and they could only hope that all the manoeuvrings between himself and Delahaye would seem to have been on behalf of some dubious buyer who, for his own sake, would want no contact with the police.

  As he walked to De Troq’s car, he looked back and saw Mijo Lehmann sitting still in the car, staring forwards. Climbing in alongside De Troq’, he closed the door quietly and De Troq’ let in the clutch, allowing the slope to carry the car forward. Turning on to the road, he continued to allow the car to run forward under its own momentum until eventually he felt it safe to put the car in gear. The engine caught and De Troq’ gently applied the accelerator. Eventually, he swung off the main road and turned towards Chasselis. Ten minutes later, he and Nosjean were reporting to Pel and Darcy in the back of the radio van. Considering them the two most intelligent and active members of this group, Pel was using them as his flying squad, ready to leap forward and grab their quarry.

  He looked up as they appeared. ‘Bardolle’s just reported in,’ he said. ‘He’s on the Auxerre road and he thinks Donck’s waiting in a car a bit ahead of him.’

  As they waited outside the van, their collars up against the drizzle, every minute or two Nosjean glanced at his watch. At a minute after midnight, the radio came to life. It was Bardolle’s voice.

  ‘Car’s started, patron,’ he said. ‘He’s moving. He has only sidelights. Do I move forward?’

  ‘As near as you can get,’ Pel said. ‘But don’t let him see you.’

  Faintly through the drizzle, they saw two dim lights appear by the crossroads.

  ‘He’s there!’

  Another four minutes passed then they saw the beam o
f headlights appear, lifting through the drizzle as a car came up the hill. They couldn’t see the car, only the headlights’ beam, and eventually the twin red spots of the tail-lights.

  ‘That’s the girl,’ Pel said.

  ‘I’m moving forward, patron,’ Nosjean said.

  ‘Wait!’

  ‘I’m moving forward,’ Nosjean insisted.

  Pel glanced at him, aware that in his knightly way, he considered himself responsible for Mijo Lehmann’s safety. It was Nosjean who had brought her into the scheme in the first place and Nosjean who had involved her in that night’s work. So he said nothing, and Nosjean vanished out of the glow from the open door at the back of the van.

  Pel was still staring into the darkness after him when the radio caught his attention. It was a harsh male voice that was unfamiliar, and they knew it was Donck.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I think you’re the man I’ve come to meet.’ The voice was Mijo Lehmann’s.

  ‘What in God’s name do you mean? Who are you?’

  ‘My name’s Marie-Joséphine Lehmann. I’m the dealer who first wrote to you about the letters.’

  ‘I was expecting a man.’ Donck’s voice was harsh and angry. ‘A lecturer from the university.’

  ‘He was knocked down by a car this afternoon outside his house. He contacted me and asked me to take his place.’

  ‘How do I know?’

  ‘You could ring the hospital.’ The girl’s voice had been nervous but it was growing stronger and more confident with every exchange.

  ‘How in God’s name do I ring the hospital from here?’ Donck was demanding.

  ‘You could try from the bar at Chasselis.’

  ‘It’ll be closed.’

  ‘Tell them it’s an emergency. They’ll open up. Tell them you’re a relative.’

  Pel listened with fascination as the girl handled what was clearly an irritated, angry and suspicious Donck.

  ‘In any case, you’re late,’ he snapped.

  Mijo Lehmann’s voice came back coolly. ‘Only a minute or two.’