by Mark Hebden
‘Somebody did. Hard, too.’
‘Well, it wasn’t me. I never touched him. I never laid a finger on him and if he says I did he’s a liar.’
‘As a matter of fact,’ Darcy said, ‘he didn’t. He said his wife did it. Accidentally.’
‘I bet she didn’t. Not unless she was trying to clobber him for something.’
‘Did she try to clobber him?’
‘They always seemed to be fighting.’
This, Darcy thought, is becoming a bit of a teaser.
‘Ever quarrel with Léon?’ he asked. ‘Apart from this once?’
Roth shrugged. ‘Now and then. He flew off the handle occasionally. I told you.’
‘What about? There must have been something in particular that made him nervous. Your mother makes me nervous, for instance.’
Roth grinned. ‘She makes me nervous, too. She makes everybody nervous. I think that’s why my father took off.’ He paused. ‘Léon was only nervous when this type came in, though.’
‘Which type?’
‘A big type. Dark. Fat.’
Darcy produced the photograph of Maurice Tagliatti again. ‘Would that be him?’
‘Yes, it would. It’s the type who was murdered, isn’t it? I saw the photo in the paper.’
‘What did he talk about?’
‘I don’t know. They didn’t let me hear.’
‘What did they do?’
‘They went into the cellar.’
‘Why the cellar? Why not the office? There is one. A little one. That would be the place to talk business, I’d have thought.’
‘Not if you want to keep it private. You can hear everything that’s said in there.’
‘You think that’s why they went in the cellar?’
‘It must have been.’
‘And what sort of business would Léon be discussing with this Tagliatti type? He’s a crook, this Tagliatti. Was Léon a crook?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Your mother said he was.’
‘She thinks everybody’s a crook. Even my father.’
‘Well, since Tagliatti was a crook, this time she might be right and Léon might be a crook, too. Did he ever do anything that seemed crooked to you?’
‘Not really.’
‘What would he have been crating up in the cellar on those occasions when he worked late?’
‘I don’t know. I know he had this type called Boileau in the south he did business with.’
‘What sort of business was it?’
‘It seemed to be sports goods. This Boileau type seemed to sell things in the Middle East and sometimes Léon supplied him.’
Ten
Returning to the Hôtel de Police, Darcy found Pel had just emerged from a conference with the Chief and was in his office studying the reports on Maurice Tagliatti’s death. Pel was a great believer in going over reports again and again, feeling that in them somewhere there could be a vital clue. Darcy didn’t agree. It worked sometimes, but more often than not it didn’t.
He explained what he had discovered. ‘There’s a connection somewhere, Patron,’ he said. ‘I think Maurice has been in Léon’s sport shop more than once. Why? Were they involved in something together? I think I’d better look up this Léon type and see what his background is.’
The computer didn’t fail them.
‘Jewellery, Patron,’ Darcy said. ‘He did time for fencing. There was a jewel robbery at Nîmes. At the home of some big shot. They found some of the loot in Léon’s shop. He was in antiques at the time and that’s ideal for jewellery, as you know. He seems now to be mixed up in some business with a type called Boileau in Marseilles.’
Pel frowned. Marseilles was noted for its crime. Anything could happen in Marseilles and usually did.
‘Let’s have him in,’ he said.
‘Not possible, Patron,’ Darcy said. ‘He seems to have disappeared. I’d be interested to know where to.’
They didn’t have long to wait.
That evening it turned colder and the sky clouded over. Because of the cloud, the night was dark – particularly under the trees that overhung the road as the police brigadier from Cloux-les-Bains drove home. His name was Jules Renot – like all names ending in ‘ot’, a good Burgundian name. He wore no hat, and a checked jacket clashed horribly with the blue of his uniform trousers. He was off duty and had been having a quiet evening in Cloux-le-Petit.
He enjoyed a game of boules or dominoes and, since his wife’s mother had come from Lyons to stay with them, he had taken the opportunity to get out of the house. His wife’s mother was a Meridionale with an incipient moustache and what Jules Renot liked to call a mouth like a hen’s arse. When she was around it was like living with a cat and dog fight because she couldn’t stand Brigadier Renot.
Alongside him was one of his constables, Arthur Martin by name. They had served together a long time and often went together to the bar at Cloux-le-Petit in the evening. At that moment, however, they were both scowling and the atmosphere inside the car could only be called ‘stiff’. The evening had been a disaster. Martin’s interest at Cloux-le-Petit wasn’t boules or dominoes but the landlord’s daughter, and Renot didn’t like her and thought that Martin spent too much of his time thinking about her. To Renot she seemed a little too solid between the ears and too much of a gossip for a cop’s girlfriend and he had tried to persuade his constable of this fact.
‘She’s too slow on the uptake for a chap like you,’ he said, trying to put it as gently as he could.
It had started an argument which had grown progressively more bad-tempered as they had neared home. It was even beginning to seem to Renot that visits to Cloux-le-Petit with Martin were likely to occur a great deal less frequently in the future.
The following morning the two men had to go to Maillac. There was a big wedding on there and they were supposed to be keeping an eye on the traffic but, as they sat together in the little white Renault van that belonged to the substation at Cloux-les-Bains, this time wearing their uniform jackets and képis, there was still a great deal of hostility between them. Renot had thought about what he’d said during the night and had come to the conclusion that he’d spoken too hastily. He liked Martin and, after all, it was none of Renot’s business whom he fell for. He could marry Dracula’s daughter if he wanted, and Renot realised he had been too rude and wanted to put things right.
The morning was cool and the lanes round Cloux-les-Bains were full of early mist which hung about in the hollows, white and milky and thick enough in parts to be dangerous.
‘Look–’ Renot tried.
‘No thanks,’ Martin shot back.
Renot lost his temper. ‘I haven’t said anything yet!’ he roared.
‘Well, don’t bother.’
Renot had just turned his head for a furious retort when he saw Martin’s eyes suddenly open wide. A yell like a train coming out of a tunnel escaped him and, switching his attention ahead, Renot saw in alarm that a large estate wagon was stuck with a wheel in a drainage ditch, its rear end half across the road. With the mist and Renot’s attention absorbed by the argument, but for Martin’s yell they would have run smack into it.
Drawing the van to a halt, he climbed out. All thoughts of enmity had gone and they spoke as normally as they always did to each other.
‘Some bastard had one too many last night,’ Renot said.
‘It must have been late,’ Martin pointed out. ‘It wasn’t here when we came back from Cloux-le-Petit.’
Renot was on the point of making another attempt to put things rights about the argument they’d had but he changed his mind and commented on the car instead.
‘Out with a bit of fluff, I expect,’ he said.
‘Boss’ wife,’ Martin added.
‘These whiz kids. Must be a whiz kid. Only whiz kids can afford these estate wagons. They guzzle petrol.’
Martin was just ahead of Renot as they approached the station wagon and he suddenly looked alert. ‘I think there’s
somebody still in there,’ he said.
The vehicle was an Audi and its awkward position made it difficult to see into it. But it was just possible to see a jacket sleeve, with an arm in it above the edge of the door.
‘Still drunk,’ Renot said.
‘Hang on!’ Martin’s voice was suddenly crisper. ‘He’s hurt, I think.’
Then, as they moved nearer, Renot noticed the line of holes in the car door. ‘Holy Mother of God!’ he said. ‘It’s another!’
Pel had just appeared when the news arrived. He was never at his best early in the morning and his wife had dropped a hint at breakfast that the garden might need his attention at the weekend. She looked after Pel well but she had her standards. Her view was that boys would be boys and men would be men, but it was a good thing there were girls and women to sort things out after they’d finished making a mess of them; and giving them an occasional spell in the garden was a good way of doing it.
Before leaving home, he had slipped into the Pasquiers’ house to check up on Yves Pasquier’s silence. The boy had been digging into a tin of dog food and ladling it into a bowl. It had been harder when Pel had been young, he had reflected. Even for cats and dogs. How had they managed to live before all that cat and dog food had been invented?
The vow of silence was still holding. Pel, had walked in the garden a little, making sure that it was well remembered, and set off for the Hôtel de Police more than satisfied. There was the usual skirmish with a heavy lorry hurtling down the hill where it joined the main road near Talant, and he had to stand on his brakes and watch the lorry hurtle past like a charging tank, the driver mouthing futile oaths that were soundless above the din. Pel paused to get his breath back. That junction was always tricky – especially to someone who was as indifferent a driver as Pel was. Reaching the office, he laid down his briefcase, smoothed his ruffled feathers and was just trying to avoid lighting a cigarette when the telephone went next door in Darcy’s office.
‘What!’ He heard Darcy’s voice rise and, guessing something had happened, gave up the struggle and reached for the packet of Gauloises in his pocket.
‘What do you mean, another?’ Darcy was saying. ‘There’s a man out there now? Right. I’ll be there.’
As Darcy replaced the telephone with a crash, Pel lit the cigarette and drew a deep gulp of smoke, blew it out, waved it away from his head, had a spell of coughing, then started reaching for spare packets of cigarettes, notebooks and pencils. Darcy appeared in the doorway.
‘We’ve got another, Patron,’ he said.
‘Another what?’
‘Another shoot-up. Estate wagon in a ditch near Cloux-les-Bains, just off the N27. Other side of the bridge. Body inside behind the wheel. Sounds like the same pattern as Maurice’s.’
The Audi was tilted at an angle, one wheel down. All the doors were closed and the windows were starred, but they could see a body huddled in the driver’s seat. It had slipped forward – they assumed with the jolt as the car dropped into the ditch – and was half under the steering wheel. There was blood about the head and neck and there were bullet holes in the car. Standing nearby was Brigadier Renot from the substation at Cloux-les-Bains.
‘We’ve touched nothing, sir,’ he pointed out. ‘It seemed pretty obvious the guy was dead, so we decided to leave it to you. We thought of telephoning Traffic with the number of the car to get a name but I decided you’d better handle everything your own way. There are ten bullet holes I can see. I reckon three of the bullets are in the driver somewhere – head and neck, I imagine – and there must be around three more somewhere in the car. Four of them seem to have gone straight through. You can see the exit holes on the passenger’s side. It looks to me as if another car came up alongside and fired – like the one at Lordy – and the car ran into the ditch.’
Pel was sniffing round cautiously as the cars containing the Forensic boys and Prélat, of Fingerprints, arrived. Doc Minet appeared soon afterwards, to be followed by Judge Brisard. Brisard was itching to ask questions, but, with Pel in a sour mood, he deemed it wiser to wait until he felt like making a statement.
After Minet had pronounced the man behind the wheel dead and the Photographers had finished their work, they eased the body out onto the grass.
‘Rigor mortis still present,’ Doc Minet announced. ‘I’d say some time after ten o’clock last night. It looks as if our little friends who shot Maurice Tagliatti had a vendetta with this one, too. Who is he? Another of Maurice’s lot?’
‘No, he isn’t,’ Darcy said bluntly. ‘At least, not officially.’
‘Do you know him?’ Pel asked.
‘Yes, I do. It’s Fernand Léon.’
They were still standing in a group staring at the car, listening to Brigadier Renot.
‘What the doctor says must be about right,’ he announced. ‘We came down here at around eleven last night and there was no sign of any car then.’
‘Dark, was it?’ Pel asked.
‘Yes. With the trees, very dark. We’re always careful on this corner because sometimes the kids walk home to Cloux-les-Bains from Cloux-le-Grand. They have a disco there and they come from all the villages around. It’s always very dark.’
‘Then’, Pel asked, ‘why aren’t the car’s lights on? If he was driving through here after 11 p.m. he’d need lights, wouldn’t he?’
‘Perhaps they were on,’ Darcy said. ‘But headlights would run the battery down in no time.’
‘Check them, Daniel.’
Scrambling into the ditch, Darcy reached into the car. The headlights flared, the horn barked, then, as Darcy tried the starter, the car jerked and stalled.
‘Battery’s not flat, anyway. And the engine was switched off.’
Pel called Leguyader over. ‘Bullet holes,’ he said. ‘There are exit holes on the passenger’s side. Four, I make it. Where did they enter?’
Leguyader looked quickly at him then moved back to the car. With a long rod he began probing. A few minutes later he returned. ‘The exit holes’, he said, ‘are directly opposite the entrance holes.’
‘In that case,’ Pel observed, ‘it would seem that it isn’t the same as Maurice’s killing and it might even be that he wasn’t killed here.’
Pel’s guess was a good one.
‘There were two extra bullets in the body’, Doc Minet announced, ‘that can’t be accounted for.’
‘There were five altogether,’ Leguyader said. ‘Three more are embedded in the car and four passed clean through. But only ten shots were fired into the car. So where did the extra two come from? Certainly not from the same gun that made the holes in the car. Those were made by a Kalashnikov AK 47 semi-automatic rifle. The two in the victim’s head were from a 6.35 Apex probably. He was shot before the car reached Cloux. It was a put-up job made to look the same as Maurice’s.’
They were occupied at Cloux-les-Bains for most of the day, managing on beer, cigarettes and sandwiches. As they returned to the city, the sun had gone down and it was growing chilly. Darcy noticed they were close to Madame Roth’s address.
‘I think we ought to have another word with that kid, Patron,’ he said. ‘He seems to know more about Léon than anyone.’
Unfortunately he was out dancing.
‘He likes dancing,’ Madame Roth snapped. ‘Why shouldn’t he? He’s a healthy boy. It’s only just up the road. And they don’t dance any more, anyway. They just wiggle their behinds. It’s a birthday party for Yvonne Hoss.’
The noise could be heard a couple of kilometres away. The older members of the Hoss family all seemed to be cowering from it in the kitchen of the hired hall. The room where the dancing was taking place was full of enough flashing lights to give the strongest character migraines for a month. Darcy stepped into the middle of the din and, snatching a boy out of it, dragged him into the kitchen.
‘Roth,’ he roared above the racket. ‘Julien Claude Roth. I want him. Find him.’
‘He won’t come,’ the boy said. ‘I k
now. I’m his friend.’
‘And I’m the police,’ Darcy yelled. ‘And I have the power to stop this disco if I have to. Find him, or I will.’
A few minutes later, Julien Claude Roth appeared, blinking in the lights of the kitchen. ‘Who wants me?’ he said.
They took him out to Darcy’s car and pushed him inside. ‘Am I being arrested?’ he bleated, trying to adjust his eyes to the light.
‘No, you’re not,’ Darcy said. He produced the photograph of Maurice Tagliatti. ‘This type you saw in Fernand Léon’s shop. Tell us some more about him. When did he start appearing?’
Roth considered. ‘June. About then. Then later about the end of July. He came in once with some other types.’ The descriptions seemed to match Cavalin and Bozon.
‘Anybody else?’
‘Yes. Once there was this tall thin chap. Good-looking, with grey hair. He looked like some character out of one of the American soaps on television. They all seem to have grey hair these days. It’s fashionable, I think.’
‘What did he want?’
‘I don’t know. I was told to get on with my job and they went to the back of the shop.’
‘Did you hear what they were talking about?’
‘No. They went into the cellar. You couldn’t hear a thing when they were down there. The shop used to be a jeweller’s and they had the strong room down there. It wasn’t a very good one, mind you. Not like a bank’s. Perhaps in those days they didn’t rob jewellers as they do today.’
‘They’ve learned a lot since then,’ Darcy said. ‘When was it a jeweller’s?’
‘1937. About then. Then the jeweller died and the shop changed hands. It was a shoe shop until recently, then the shoe shop moved next door and Léon took the place over for sports goods.’
‘Why did he keep boules in the strong room?’
‘I don’t know. He just did. We used it as a store room really. But he never kept it locked. Not until lately.’
‘You didn’t tell me he kept it locked.’
‘You didn’t ask. He started about August some time. But the day the punch-up occurred he happened to go out and when this type came in asking for something special, I thought I’d have a look downstairs. So I unlocked it.’