Pel and the Picture of Innocence

by Mark Hebden

  Dunois nodded. ‘Yes, I did.’

  ‘And the bullet was extracted?’

  Dunois’ head jerked up. For a moment he was silent then he spoke quickly, almost as if he were glad to get the thing off his chest. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘He was given an injection of morphine and the bullet was extracted with scalpel and forceps and the bleeding points stitched up. Sulfa powder was applied as an antiseptic and the wound bandaged and a sling applied. He was given penicillin tablets. He was then taken away. I don’t know where to.’

  ‘Are you prepared to sign a statement to that effect and covering all this?’ Misset asked.

  Dunois seemed much more cheerful suddenly, ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’ll write it all out.’

  ‘In your own hand?’

  ‘Yes, yes. I’ll do it now. How the wound was cleaned, the bleeding stopped and a bandage and sling applied. Is that what you want?’

  ‘That ought to do it,’ Misset said importantly. ‘Let’s get on with it. You realise, of course, you’ll be charged under Section 60, don’t you? As an accessory after the fact. You’re in trouble, old lad, in case you don’t know.’

  ‘Yes.’ Dunois nodded. ‘I understand. What will happen to me?’

  Misset smiled. ‘Probably a thumping great fine,’ he said. ‘Unless you have a record. In which case it could be a lot more.’

  That night the Citroën the assassins had used turned up. It was found parked among the trees in the Forêt de Fougerolles. It was just as Yves Pasquier had said – grey, and its number was 8456-QZ-75. There was nothing wrong with the boy’s eyesight. It had been stolen, of course – from an estate agent in Auxerre who was relieved to learn it had been found but indignant that he couldn’t have it back at once.

  ‘What do I use in the meantime?’ he demanded.

  ‘Haven’t you another car?’ Darcy asked. The estate agent was fat and looked prosperous. ‘It’ll take only a few days.’

  ‘Well, my wife has a little Renault.’

  ‘Won’t she lend it to you?’

  The estate agent pulled a face. ‘I can’t imagine my wife lending me anything,’ he said. ‘She says she needs it to fetch the kids from school.’

  ‘Can’t she arrange with a friend?’

  ‘My wife’, the estate agent said, ‘never arranges anything that might add to my pleasure and comfort.’

  The Citroën, of course, produced nothing. They could hardly expect much. People about to murder their friends and associates by spraying them with bullets from an automatic weapon were usually careful enough not to leave fingerprints around. There were no dropped visiting cards, no cigarette packets with addresses written on them, no smell of specially made after-shave lotion they could identify as belonging to some type who wanted to rule the world. It was easy in detective stories – not so easy in real life.

  Their only real witness was Yves Pasquier and it occurred to Pel that it might be as well to keep that fact very dark. People who were prepared to commit a double murder might well be prepared to commit another to prevent themselves from being identified.

  ‘It must be a gang assassination,’ Darcy said. ‘Maurice must have double-crossed somebody.’

  Pel sat silent. ‘I don’t think it was an assassination after all,’ he said after a while.

  ‘He’s dead, Patron.’

  ‘Perhaps that was just a by-product. Perhaps they wanted him alive. But he was a bit too smart and got to that hut. And since they couldn’t get him alive, they had to have him dead, because by that time he would know who they were and, since I imagine he couldn’t report them to the police, he’d certainly have put his own mob on to them.’

  ‘Why try to take him alive?’

  ‘I don’t know. But if they’d wanted him dead, they’d have directed their fire at him. But they didn’t, did they? He was hit once. Bozon was hit seven times. This was a professional job and professionals don’t miss. They wanted the car stopped and Maurice in it – alive.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because he had something they wanted? That was why Devreux was in the city trying to look like him. So that anybody who might have been watching would have thought Maurice was there, instead of where he actually was. He was probably off to organise this “big thing” he was involved in. Whatever it was. Why otherwise disguise himself as somebody else? Why not go dressed in his normal get-up and in the normal car?’

  ‘So what was this thing they wanted?’

  ‘Loot Maurice had picked up? Information about loot? Perhaps whoever arranged it was a partner with Maurice in something, and Maurice had kept more than his share. In a case like that, they’d want to know where it was, wouldn’t they?’

  Darcy frowned. ‘It must have been big to risk tangling with Maurice, Patron,’ he said.

  ‘It isn’t all that hard if you’ve got a traitor in the organisation. And Maurice had. Somewhere. The type who telephoned the bar at Lordy where the killers were waiting. That call told them Maurice was on his way. That’s why they ran to the car – to make sure they were ready – and why they drove away slowly, so he could pass and they could pick him up.’ Pel paused, thinking. ‘But Maurice was too quick for them and after that there was nothing they could do but kill him.’

  Darcy gestured. ‘Well, it doesn’t look as though they found out where whatever they were after is hidden. Unless Maurice gave up and told them and then they killed him.’

  Pel shook his head. ‘He didn’t tell them,’ he said. ‘If he had, they’d have taken him away with them and held him until they found it.’

  ‘So what happens now, Patron? Do they give up?’

  Pel shook his head again. ‘If it was as big as it seems to be,’ he said, ‘I suspect that that’s the last thing they’ll do.’

  Six

  The following day, Pel’s wife announced that she had to go to Paris. Stocks at the boutique were running low and she had to see a collection at one of the Paris fashion houses. She also had to see her stockbroker – to arrange to stuff away, Pel imagined, a few hundred thousand spare francs where they would do most good. He was always impressed by the way she handled money and had long since handed over his own affairs to her. Not that they occupied much of her time. A cop’s salary hardly made him a financial tycoon, but it was nice to know that what there was of it was being properly dealt with.

  She was packing a briefcase by her desk when he sat down alongside her.

  ‘How long are you staying?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m not staying. I’ll be back in the evening.’

  ‘Ah!’ Pel didn’t like Paris and this altered the situation. ‘In that case, I’ll come with you.’

  Madame looked delighted. ‘We’ll have lunch together,’ she said. ‘I’ll treat you.’

  Pel’s heart had thumped a bit at the mention of lunch. Paris restaurant prices were enough to make a man have a heart attack and he had had a feeling she wouldn’t welcome a suggestion that they ate at one of the drugstores where he would normally have eaten. The knowledge that his wife would be paying out of the profits she made lifted his heart with joy. He had an excellent wife in full working order whom he loved, but he was still Burgundian enough to enjoy a bargain.

  Madame Pel looked at him from the corner of her eye. ‘I don’t suppose you’d be interested in visiting a fashion house,’ she said hopefully.

  Pel avoided her glance. ‘I’m on business,’ he said.

  ‘I thought you might be. Who is it this time?’

  It was Pépé le Cornet.

  Pépé was getting on in years these days and, wishing to appear legitimate, conducted his affairs with decorum and a minimum of guards – and then only to make sure someone with an old grudge didn’t manage to get near enough to stick a knife in his back or drop a bomb in his soup. These days, however, the number of people with grudges against Pépé had diminished considerably. Most of them were in prison, dead or drawing the old age pension. Trying for a peaceful retirement, he was even willing to help an old enemy like P
el from time to time.

  Feeling he had to make sure the Hôtel de Police hadn’t fallen down during the night and that nobody had kidnapped the Chief or run off with the police funds, Pel was up early to drive to the city. His wife picked him up an hour later after he’d dealt with the major paper work and they set off for Paris where she dropped him outside the discreet set of offices Pépé le Cornet ran near the Luxembourg. It looked like a lawyer’s chambers but it wasn’t. The name on the polished brass plate was Pierre Lamotte et Cie. Pierre Lamotte was Pépé’s real name. The old gangster greeted Pel cheerfully.

  ‘You look well, Chief,’ he tried.

  Pel scowled. ‘It won’t last long,’ he said.

  ‘We’re seeing too much of each other these days. People will begin to talk.’

  Pépé gave a little laugh to indicate it was intended as a joke but Pel didn’t respond. ‘You’ll have heard about Maurice,’ he said.

  Pépé tried hard to put on a doleful expression, as if Maurice Tagliatti were an old colleague. In fact, Maurice had troubled him many times by trying to muscle in on his territory, and it suited Pépé well that he’d been forcibly removed. He was even thinking of sending a wreath.

  ‘Sad,’ he said gloomily.

  ‘Who was after Maurice?’ Pel asked.

  Pépé lit a large cigar and pushed the box across. Pel managed to refuse.

  ‘Nobody I know,’ Pépé said.

  ‘That Belgian chap, Rykx, we sent down–’

  Pépé looked alarmed. ‘Not we, Chief,’ he said hurriedly. ‘Never say that. I had nothing to do with it.’

  ‘You gave me information that was useful.’

  ‘It would be more than my life’s worth for people to know that.’

  ‘Right, let’s start again. Rykx – could one of his lieutenants have been after Maurice?’

  ‘Rykx’s sidekicks were small-timers, Chief. Rykx was a small timer, too, who tried to be big but hadn’t got what it takes.’

  ‘So who would want Maurice dead?’

  Pépé shrugged and Pel probed again.

  ‘So who’s on the up and up, Pépé?’

  Pépé considered. ‘Type called Pierre Rambi. Calls himself Peter the Ram. But he’s not big.’

  ‘So who is big?’

  Pépé considered for a moment. ‘Ever heard of Carmen Vlaxi?’

  ‘Who’s she?’

  ‘He isn’t a she. He’s a he. Mixed breed. Half Spanish, half Arab. Came up from Spain. Worked things round Toulouse for a time then got ambitious and came north. He’s trying to forget his background these days and pretends to be Castilian. The boys call him Carmen the Bullfighter. He’s building up. Operates across the east end of the city, out towards Lille and down towards the south.’

  ‘As far as Burgundy?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Tell me about him.’

  Pépé shrugged. ‘Thirty-eight. He’s done time. That was fifteen years ago, though, and he’s kept out of trouble since. That doesn’t mean he hasn’t had trouble. It’s just not been made public, that’s all.’

  ‘Powerful?’

  ‘He took over Rykx’s organisation when you sent him down.’

  ‘Why didn’t you?’

  Pépé looked hurt. ‘I’m legitimate these days, Chief. That ulcer I had. I thought it was cancer. It made me think. I decided I’d play it straight from now on.’

  ‘Or was it that this Vlaxi, being younger, moved faster and had it organised before you got off your backside?’

  Pépé scowled. ‘The little bastard must have been tipped off,’ he growled. ‘I expect one of Rykx’s boys told him. There’s a type called Theophile Corro. I expect it was him. When he decided to move in, Vlaxi was there already. Everything worth going for.’

  ‘I thought you’d gone legitimate.’

  Pépé gave a weak smile. ‘Well, you know how it is, Chief. The boys don’t like just dropping everything. Not everything. They like to keep their hand in.’

  ‘Had this Vlaxi ever crossed with Maurice?’

  ‘Once or twice. But he always managed to hold Maurice off and Maurice never managed to put anything across him.’

  ‘Nothing that might have made Vlaxi want Maurice dead?’

  Pépé considered for a while. ‘It’s my opinion,’ he said finally, ‘that Maurice had come to the conclusion that Vlaxi was too smart and too young to tangle with. Maurice was one of the old school, like me.’

  It was a protest Pel had heard before.

  ‘Assassination’, he pointed out, ‘is a nasty business. Messy. Causes repercussions. What was Maurice into, that someone had to knock him off?’

  Pépé shrugged.

  ‘He must have been into something, mustn’t he?’

  ‘I reckon so.’

  ‘But you’ve not heard what?’

  ‘No idea. When I heard about it I thought of Vlaxi straight away, but I’ve had my ear to the ground and there are no whispers. Vlaxi wasn’t interested in Maurice.’ Pépé allowed himself a small smile. ‘Of course, he might be now. Like he was with Rykx. Now that Maurice isn’t around any more, he might muscle in.’

  ‘It would make him pretty powerful, wouldn’t it?’ Pel said. ‘Wouldn’t you be interested in keeping him out?’

  ‘I’m not ambitious these days, Chief.’

  ‘He might be. And if he takes over Maurice’s territory, he’d then be powerful enough to take over yours.’

  The point had obviously not escaped Pépé. ‘I’m keeping my eye on the little con,’ he said sourly. ‘But Maurice was being careful. He’d decided to stay on his own patch, and leave me in mine and Vlaxi in his. I think he’d got a new bit of fluff.’

  ‘He had.’

  ‘Well, I think he was all for a bit of comfort and preferred to stay where he could handle things – in the south.’

  ‘So,’ Pel asked, ‘what was he doing back in Burgundy?’

  There was time to put in a telephone call to Darcy.

  ‘I’m wondering’, Pel said, ‘if somebody connected with that Belgian chap, Rykx, we sent down over the Barclay kidnapping is involved. Some sort of revenge. Something of that sort. Pépé says not but we’d better look into it. Contact Brussels and see if you can get a list of Rykx’s associates.’

  Meeting his wife for lunch, Pel found himself eating at a restaurant where the prices took his breath away. He was surrounded by elderly businessmen with high belly-holding trousers who looked set for the rest of the afternoon, and young whiz-kid types wearing with-it clothes that all seemed to be yellow, pink or pale blue. There were also one or two faces Pel had seen on television, and his wife enjoyed pointing them out.

  ‘Everybody eats here,’ she said. ‘I always come here when I’m in Paris. Everybody knows me.’

  Pel was touched by a whiff of jealousy but by this time he’d polished off the best part of a bottle of Fleurie and he was feeling pretty mellow. Since his wife barely drank and had expressed her intention of doing the driving, he went mad and had a brandy as well. It turned out to be the father and mother of all brandies. A tulip-shaped glass as large as a plant pot was produced and brandy was poured over it and set alight. When the flames had died, more brandy was poured inside. The aroma made Pel’s head swim.

  There was enough of it for him to fall asleep as soon as they set off and he didn’t wake until they were turning off the motorway as the sun started to sink. Getting his wife to drop him at the Hôtel de Police where he’d left his car, he went to his office to make sure that the Police Judiciaire was still functioning as it ought. He noticed that Nosjean was back from wherever it was he’d been and was talking to De Troq’ in the sergeants’ room. The two of them had been as thick as thieves since they’d first met.

  Claudie Darel followed him into his office with a report on what had happened during the day. A police car had been sent to the Pasquiers’ home to convey Yves Pasquier and his mother to the Hôtel de Police where the boy had been interviewed. Plied with Coca Cola and lollipops, he
had thoroughly enjoyed himself, especially the session with the police sergeant artist who had endeavoured to draw what he thought he had seen. The sergeant was still around, and appeared with Darcy just behind.

  ‘It isn’t much, Patron,’ he said, offering Pel his sketch pad. ‘Nothing that could be put on Photofit, because he only saw them in profile. They never seem to have looked in his direction and the driver appeared only as a dark silhouette.’ A page was turned over. ‘That’s him. We had several tries. All he could tell me was that he was a plump chap with a big chin and a fleshy neck. Do I have them printed and put out?’

  ‘Let’s make sure he’s got them right first. I’ll find out this evening.’

  Immediately he arrived on the Pasquiers’ doorstep, Pel was offered another large whisky. He feigned horror but he drank it just the same.

  ‘Did he go to bed all right tonight?’ he asked.

  ‘No trouble,’ Madame Pasquier said.

  ‘Has he told anyone?’

  The Pasquiers eyed each other. ‘Only us.’

  ‘What about at school? Has he told anyone there?’

  ‘He didn’t go,’ Madame Pasquier said. ‘He seemed a bit overexcited so I kept him at home.’

  ‘Good. Anybody else?’

  ‘His friend, Jean-Pierre Luxe from Lordy, telephoned. He wanted to come but I put him off.’

  ‘Anybody here he could have told? The daily help, for instance.’

  ‘Madame Rouot from Leu. He might have told her.’

  ‘I’ll see her.’

  Madame Pasquier looked worried. ‘Is it important?’

  ‘It could be very important.’ Pel explained the way he had been thinking and the Pasquiers’ eyes locked.

  ‘Is he in danger or something?’

  ‘It was a double murder. And he’s our only witness.’

  Madame Pasquier began to look alarmed. ‘Are you suggesting they might try to get him?’

  ‘They don’t know anything about him. And I shan’t let it out. Just make sure he says nothing, that’s all. I’ll be keeping an eye on things, and you’ll be the first to know if there’s danger. I think I’d better have a word with him. Or is he asleep?’