Pel and the Picture of Innocence

by Mark Hebden

  Pel nodded. ‘It seems’, he said slowly, ‘that you were intended to.’

  Four

  It was late when Pel reached his home. It had been a long day and it had now started to rain as if to let everyone know that summer was over. His wife said nothing as he appeared, simply handing him a whisky. He sat down with it, feeling like an early Christian martyr at whom the lions had just turned up their noses.

  ‘I’m not hungry,’ he said. ‘I managed to snatch a sandwich at the Transvaal.’

  ‘There’s a cold collation if you fancy it.’

  Pel didn’t. What he did fancy was about fifteen more whiskies and three packets of cigarettes.

  ‘I had a visitor,’ his wife said.

  Pel looked up. ‘Cousin Roger?’

  Madame Pel’s Cousin Roger was the only one of her whole vast family he could get on with. Cousin Roger was an accountant who had cherished ambitions as a boy of being a policeman. His failure to become one had led him to drowning his sorrows in booze and smoking too much. Pel felt they were twin souls.

  ‘No,’ Madame Pel said. ‘Not Cousin Roger. Madame Pasquier. From next door.’

  ‘What did she want?’

  ‘She says Yves wants to see you.’

  ‘See me? Why?’

  ‘He won’t say. He says he has something to tell you.’

  ‘Well, it’ll wait until morning, I suppose.’

  ‘She says it won’t. She telephoned just before you drove in.’

  Pel frowned. ‘He’ll be having one of his fantasies,’ he said. ‘He has them a lot.’

  ‘She says he’s worried.’

  ‘It must be his exam for the lycée then. He takes it this year. We believe in terrifying our children early in France.’

  The telephone went and Madame Routy put her head in the door. ‘For you,’ was all she said, but Pel knew at once that it wasn’t for his wife. Madame Routy always managed to sound twice as polite with his wife.

  The caller was Madame Pasquier. ‘Chief Inspector,’ she said. ‘I thought I saw your car arrive.’

  Pel wasn’t feeling like talking and couldn’t think of anything to say, so he said, ‘Oh.’ It was hardly snappy repartee but it was better than nothing. It set Madame Pasquier going.

  ‘It’s Yves,’ she said. ‘He wants to see you.’

  ‘Isn’t he asleep?’

  ‘He says he can’t get to sleep.’

  ‘Won’t it do in the morning?’

  ‘He says not.’

  ‘I’m a bit tired. It’s been a long day. You’ll have heard about the shooting?’

  ‘Yes. I’m sorry, but he insists and he’s so fond of you. Could you slip round? I’m sure it won’t take more than a minute.’

  The Pasquier house was similar to Pel’s. On the gate was a notice – Beware. Very enthusiastic guard dog – a compromise between the wishes of a ten-year-old boy who felt that the tatterdemalion mongrel that accompanied him everywhere ought to have credit for something about the house, and those of his father who had been unable to think what.

  Pasquier, senior, was waiting at the door.

  ‘Pel,’ he said. He had caught on to the fact long since that Pel didn’t like his given names and preferred to be called by his surname, with which at least you couldn’t muck about much. ‘Have a drink. I had it ready as soon as I heard you were on your way.’

  He handed over a glass as big as a bucket, full of whisky and water. Pel eyed it warily. It would mean indigestion, he knew.

  ‘Santé,’ he said, taking a nervous sip. ‘I’ll take it up with me.’

  As he went up the stairs he could hear Yves Pasquier debating bitterly about having to be in bed.

  ‘Why can’t I see him downstairs?’ he was asking.

  ‘Because–’ his mother’s voice was low and fierce ‘–because you’re already in bed and you’re going to stay there.’

  ‘I go to bed too early.’

  ‘You don’t go to bed early enough.’

  ‘If I go any earlier, I’ll be going to bed at lunch time.’

  ‘Why don’t you go to sleep?’

  ‘I don’t want to go to sleep. I have to stay alert.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Somebody’s got to stay alert.’

  The boy was sitting up in bed. His hair was on end and there were dark circles under his eyes. As usual, his face was covered with scratches, as if he had just been pulled backwards through a hawthorn hedge. It was a strange fact about Yves Pasquier. He always looked as if he’d just had a fight with a roll of barbed wire. He also had a plaster on his forehead. He usually had a plaster somewhere. For a small boy, he seemed to live a very violent life.

  The ‘very enthusiastic guard dog’ was lying beside the bed. As Pel appeared, it rose shaggily to its feet and for the thousandth time Pel realised he’d greeted the wrong end.

  He pulled up a chair. ‘I understand you’ve got something you want to tell me,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, I have. That is…’ Yves glanced at his mother and made disapproving signs.

  ‘I’m staying here,’ she said. ‘I want to know what this is all about.’

  ‘Well…er…’ Yves looked uncertain. ‘It’s that business we talked about – you know – about chewing gum in your trouser pocket. It’s a bit messy when it gets tangled up with string and things. What’s the best way to get rid of it? You said you’d ask the Laboratory if they had any suggestions.’

  Pel paused. The boy was obviously fencing for time, not wishing his mother to be present. What he had to say he wished to keep between himself and Pel. He was determined to make it important, even if it wasn’t. Pel tried to go along with him.

  ‘They suggested the best thing was to throw the trousers away,’ he offered gravely. ‘Or burn them. Taking care, of course, to take them off first in case you incinerated yourself.’

  Yves giggled and his mother frowned. ‘Is this what you’ve brought the Chief Inspector round for?’ she snapped. ‘Don’t you know it’s pouring with rain?’

  Yves looked up, shining with cleanliness, his face solemn and troubled. ‘I’d like a drink of water,’ he said. ‘Iced water – from downstairs.’

  She looked as if she’d happily strangle him. Pel rose and edged her towards the door.

  ‘Leave it to me,’ he murmured. ‘Never mind the water. He’ll talk as soon as you’ve gone. I’ll tell you when I come down.’

  As the door closed, the voice from the bed piped up again in a final attempt to delude. ‘Boules,’ it said loudly. ‘Did you think to ask about them?’

  As the door closed, Pel sat down and took a swig at his drink. ‘Right,’ he said briskly. ‘Never mind the boules and the chewing gum. Let’s have it. What’s worrying you?’

  Yves stared at him for a moment and drew a deep breath. ‘I saw it,’ he said.

  ‘Saw what?’

  ‘That shooting.’

  ‘What!’ Pel sat bolt upright so suddenly he spilled the whisky.

  ‘At least, I didn’t. Not quite.’

  ‘Did you or didn’t you?’ Pel brushed at his trousers with a handkerchief. ‘Don’t act the goat. Let’s have the truth. I’m busy. I have a couple of murders on my hands.’

  ‘I know. I saw it on the television.’

  ‘But you didn’t see it happen?’

  ‘No. Well, yes. Not really. It’s like this–’

  ‘You’re not making it up?’

  ‘No. Honest. I was on my bike. It’s a BMX. You can do things on it. I’ve learned to spin round on the back wheel and come down facing the other way.’

  ‘Never mind that now. Have you really got something to tell me?’

  ‘Yes. Honest.’

  ‘About that shooting?’

  ‘Yes. Truly.’

  ‘Let’s have it in a straightforward manner, then. You know how to behave in court, don’t you? I’ve told you about it often enough.’

  ‘Yes, I know. I saw Perry Mason on the television last week, too. It was an old one bu
t it was in court as usual.’

  ‘Right, then. No more fooling about. Let’s have it in a straightforward Perry Mason fashion.’

  ‘Yes, Chef.’ Yves sat bolt upright. ‘I was on my bike. I was going to see Jean-Pierre Luxe. He lives at Lordy. His father keeps the garage there. But he wasn’t in. It was hot, you’ll remember.’

  ‘I do. No frills.’

  ‘They’re not frills. Because it was hot I bought a bottle of Pschitt at the épicerie before I set off home and I was sitting on the seat in the Place de Paris opposite the Mairie and was drinking it when I saw this car.’

  ‘Which car? That’s no way to give evidence.’

  ‘Oh! Well, no. It was a Citroën. One of the big ones,’

  ‘Number?’

  ‘I didn’t get it. I couldn’t see it.’

  ‘Pity.’

  ‘But I got a bit of it. It was a Paris number. I saw the 75 and there was a 4 and a 6 in it.’

  ‘That helps. Why did you bother to look at the number?’

  ‘I’m training to be a policeman.’

  ‘Formidable! Was that the only reason?’

  ‘No. They were acting suspiciously.’

  ‘Who were?’

  ‘The men in it. There were two. It was parked near the bar and they were at the counter.’

  ‘That’s suspicious behaviour?’

  ‘Not that. But what happened was. While I was watching, the telephone on the counter of the bar rang and one of the men picked it up. He must have been waiting for a call because the barman didn’t try to pick it up. This type from the car did.’

  ‘Did you hear what he said?’

  ‘No. But he said something then they both came out of the bar in a rush and got in the car and it drove off – slowly.’

  ‘Slowly? There’s something strange about a car moving slowly?’

  ‘There is these days.’

  Pel admitted the fact. Most people liked to set off as if they were a posse after Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid.

  ‘Perhaps’, he offered, ‘he was having trouble with the engine.’

  ‘He didn’t seem to be. He just seemed to be going – well – slowly.’

  ‘It doesn’t seem to be much.’

  ‘Just a minute–’

  ‘There’s more?’

  Yves sat up in bed, his eyes shining with excitement. ‘Yes. Then this other car came.’

  ‘Which other car?’

  ‘This big Peugeot. It came down from Lordy.’

  Pel was leaning forward again. ‘Go on.’

  ‘It passed, going fast. As it did so, the other car – the Citroën – speeded up. As if it was chasing the Peugeot. As if they’d been waiting for it. They both went round the corner towards the city, and then I heard this shooting.’

  ‘You didn’t see it?’

  ‘It was round the corner and down the hill. But I heard it.’

  ‘You’re sure it wasn’t just a car backfiring?’

  ‘Cars don’t backfire these days.’

  Pel had to admit that it was a long time since he’d heard a vehicle backfire.

  ‘It made this noise.’ Yves made a violent noise with his mouth ‘Like a machine gun.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘I heard a bang. Tinny. Like you hear when a car hits something. Then more shots and a bang. Then nothing.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘I didn’t do anything. I went on sitting there. I wondered what it was all about, but then I thought maybe these two types in the car were crooks and had noticed me sitting there and might think I’d noticed them, so I thought I’d better be going home. Then – I nearly missed it because they were trying to force me to go to bed too early as usual – I saw it on the television. There was even a sort of plan to show where it had happened. It was only round the corner and down the hill from where I’d been. I thought I’d better tell you. It looked to me like a set-up. These two types in the bar. They were strangers. I’ve never seen them in Lordy before. Then this telephone call came and they came out to the Citroën. In a hurry. They ran. They got in the car. I thought they’d shoot off – like the cops do in Starsky and Hutch on television. You know – tyres screaming and all that. But they didn’t. They went ever so slowly. I wondered why they’d run to the car as if they were in a hurry and then driven off slowly as if they weren’t. Did I do right?’

  ‘You’ll make a good policeman,’ Pel said, and the boy beamed with pride. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘No. That’s all.’

  ‘It’s enough. We know to look for a Citroën with a Paris number with a 4 and a 6 in it. What colour?’

  ‘Grey. They make a lot of grey ones.’

  ‘What about the men inside it?’

  ‘They wore caps.’

  ‘What about the men in the Peugeot? Did you see them, too?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Both of them?’

  ‘All of them.’

  ‘What do you mean, all of them? How many were there?’

  ‘Three.’

  ‘There were only two in the car. There were only two when we got to it.’

  ‘There were three when it passed me. That seat at Lordy’s up on the bank. I could see into the car. One in front. Two in the back.’

  Pel frowned. ‘That’s interesting,’ he said.

  And so it was because, although Cavalin must have known there were two men in the car with Maurice, not one, he hadn’t bothered to say so. He wondered why.

  ‘What about the men in the Citroën?’ he asked. ‘Could you describe what they looked like? Noses, for instance? Chins? Colour of hair?’

  ‘The one nearest me – the passenger – had a big nose.’

  ‘Shape?’

  ‘I don’t know. Just big.’

  ‘Never mind. I think you’d better go to sleep now. I’ll come and see you again and get you to make a statement. I’ll send someone along.’

  ‘I’d rather go down to the Hôtel de Police and make it there.’

  ‘All right. Hôtel de Police it is. We’ll get you to describe what you saw of these men and have the artist draw it.’

  ‘Will they give me a lie detector test?’

  ‘We don’t have lie detectors in France. We prefer to get at the truth by more subtle methods.’

  ‘A punch on the nose?’

  ‘It’s not a method I advocate.’

  ‘Will there be a reward?’

  ‘At this moment there isn’t. But something might be done. Even if it’s only a ride in a police car.’

  Yves looked up and gave a beaming smile. ‘I could probably find out about boules while I’m there,’ he said. ‘Somebody might know.’

  Five

  The Manoir de Lordy stood on a small knoll, almost like a fortress, and, like a fortress, it appeared to be well guarded. Barbed wire in three strands had been newly strung along its boundaries, and at the lodge gate there was a man with a shotgun who looked like another of the types Maurice had employed to make sure he wasn’t bothered by hawkers, itinerant preachers or gangland enemies who wanted to kill him.

  ‘Open up,’ Pel said.

  ‘You can’t come in here,’ the guard said.

  Darcy flashed his identification card. ‘We’re the police.’

  ‘You still can’t come in.’

  ‘If you don’t open this damn gate,’ Darcy snapped, ‘I’ll arrange to have it smashed down! With artillery if necessary.’

  The guard looked a little bewildered. Clearly his orders were precise but he had never had to refuse admission to the police before. ‘You’re trespassing,’ he offered in rather more conciliatory tones.

  ‘We’re on duty.’

  Reluctantly, the gate was opened. Darcy stopped the car inside the drive and climbed out.

  ‘Got a licence for that gun?’ he snapped.

  ‘It’s all right. Maurice said it was all right.’

  ‘Let’s have a look at it.’

  Reluctantly, the guard handed over his
shotgun.

  ‘Anything else?’

  A Luger appeared from under the guard’s armpit. Darcy studied it.

  ‘Regular little armoury, aren’t we?’ he said, opening the door of the car and tossing the two weapons inside.

  ‘You can’t do that!’ the guard yelled.

  ‘I’ve done it.’

  ‘They re mine!’

  ‘Not any longer. You obviously haven’t a licence so they’ve been confiscated. We seem to be doing it a lot lately. What’s your name?’

  ‘Edouard Shapron.’

  ‘Live here?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’ll arrange to have you charged with threatening police officers with an offensive weapon. Now get out of the way.’

  Climbing back in the car, he drove past the startled guard, who stared after them, his mouth open.

  ‘That’s a good way to deal with armed men, Daniel,’ Pel said admiringly.

  Darcy shrugged. ‘Sometimes it doesn’t work,’ he said. ‘Then they shoot you.’ He glanced in the mirror. ‘He’s gone inside the lodge. I expect he’s telephoned the house to warn them we’re coming.’

  He had.

  Cavalin was waiting by the door as the car crunched across the gravel.

  ‘I’m sorry that idiot threatened you,’ he said.

  ‘He’d better not threaten any more of my men,’ Pel said. ‘There’ll be a few around here from now on.’

  They got down to business quickly and Cavalin made no attempt to dissemble.

  ‘Of course there was another man in the car,’ he admitted. ‘Maurice often had two men with him.’

  ‘Why?’

  Cavalin shrugged, a hint of amusement in his eyes. ‘Maurice lived rather an exciting life. Things had a habit of happening.’

  ‘I want to see this other man,’ Pel snapped. ‘Why didn’t you report it?’

  They sat in the library of the Manoir, Cavalin smooth, immaculate and ready with the answers, as they had known he would be. The man who had been in the car when the shooting had occurred, another of Maurice’s minders, was fetched, a thickset black-haired man called Antonio Sagassu who looked as though he originated from Corsica. He sat in an armchair with his arm in a sling, his face grey under its tan, a brandy alongside his good arm.