by Mark Hebden
Pel produced the photograph from the Manoir. ‘How about this one?’
Mariotte stared at it. ‘Who is it?’ he asked. He obviously didn’t know Maurice Tagliatti.
‘Somebody we’re interested in.’
Mariotte began to work his way through a reel of film, holding it up to a spotlight on his desk.
‘Here we are,’ he said. ‘We seem to have only two.’
‘Can you print them for me? Quickly?’
Intrigued by being involved in a police inquiry, Mariotte was more than willing. The two photographs had obviously both been taken at the same time, one from the front of the car, showing Maurice with his head out of the passenger’s window talking to someone not in the picture, the second from the rear of the car showing that the man he was talking to was a cop who was standing near the driver’s door, apparently studying the car’s number plate. In this picture, Maurice appeared to be more angry, but the policeman was stolidly uninterested.
Back at the Hôtel de Police, Pel called Bardolle into his office and pushed the photographs at him.
‘There’s a cop on that one, Bardolle,’ he said. ‘Find him. It shouldn’t be difficult. He’s in uniform. See Inspector Nadauld, of Uniformed Branch. He’ll identify him. When you’ve got him, bring him here. Fast.’
The cop was in front of Pel’s desk within two hours. ‘Brigadier Fourie,’ he announced himself. ‘They said you wanted to see me.’
‘Yes, I do.’
Pel pushed the photograph across. ‘Remember this?’
Fourie took a look at the picture and nodded. ‘Yes, sir, I do. The car was badly parked. They’d been drinking – not drunk, though – and they were noisy. The driver was sober all right, but his pal made a lot of noise. I got his name. All their names. They’re in my notebook.’
‘Still using it?’
‘Yes, sir.’ Fourie started flipping pages. ‘Here you are, sir. Disturbance at the Coq d’Or. Owner thought he’d better call us. There was a bit of an argument. Nothing to worry about. Mostly the passenger. They went quietly in the end. I got their names. I put in a report. ‘No need for police action.’ Passengers: Maurice Target, Naomi Lissac, Julienne-Anne Artois. I know the women, sir. They’re on the game.’
‘Know who Target really is?’
‘Who, sir?’
‘Maurice Tagliatti.’
The policeman’s face fell. ‘Ought I to have pinched him, sir?’
‘Not unless he was doing something worth pinching him for.’
‘He wasn’t.’
‘Then that’s all right. What about the driver?’
‘He was English, sir. Name of Hazard. George Hazard.’
‘Any address?’
‘He said he was staying with Target. That is, Tagliatti. He gave me his name willingly enough. He spoke French. Not good, but adequate. He could understand me all right and I could understand him. He was sober and was behaving himself. It was Target – that is, Tagliatti – who was noisy.’
Pel called Bardolle in. ‘Our friend here, Bardolle,’ he said, ‘very nearly had his hand on Maurice Tagliatti’s collar.’
‘I wish I’d known his real name, sir,’ Fourie said.
‘It doesn’t matter. Don’t worry. Take a look at these pictures, Bardolle. Maurice Tagliatti. Back and front views. Try Enquiries again and ask them if that number you found could be an English telephone number.’
‘Could Maurice speak English, Patron?’ Bardolle asked.
‘No,’ Pel said. ‘But the Englishman seems to be able to speak French.’
It took a long time but Pel’s guess had been right. When Bardolle reappeared, grinning, Pel had a feeling that the small thing he had hoped to find at Lordy had turned up.
‘Harding, Patron,’ Bardolle said. ‘George Harding. G H T Harding. Address: La Rêve, Spinney Lane, Brookside, Kent, England. 6666 is the number. 70421 is the area code.’
Thirteen
Pel was exultant. His hunch that they’d eventually find something at the Manoir had proved right. They hadn’t found much. Just a telephone number and a name. But it could lead anywhere.
What had Maurice been up to in London? What was the business he was interested in with George Harding? Who was George Harding, anyway?
Neither Cavalin nor any of the others offered any help. He guessed they were all lying but, apart from thumb screws, he couldn’t drag it out of them, because they were all accomplished at it. Sidonie Tagliatti didn’t know either, and Vlada Preradovic seemed so dim she probably believed Maurice had been honest. He saw he would have to go elsewhere for his information and decided to try a contact he had in London, Inspector Goschen of New Scotland Yard. Pel knew Inspector Goschen well. He had had to travel to London a few years back and Goschen had put him up for the night. He had learned a lot about the English then. Despite what he’d thought, they knew how to cook, had as many cheeses as the French but didn’t talk about them, and ate something called Yorkshire pudding which was served covered with a sauce that was used on everything and was known as gravy. In the hope of getting the dish on the menu at home, he had tried to explain it to his wife but she had attempted it only once.
Calling Cadet Darras, he sent him out for a couple of bottles of beer and a sandwich. What he was going to do was likely to take time and he was going to need all his strength. ‘I’m going to telephone England,’ he explained. ‘And I shall be talking Rosbif.’
In fact, he spoke better English than he would ever admit to, but he still found it hard work. The English were a funny lot. They regarded Paris as the French nation’s consolation prize for not being English and had the strange idea that going there meant living dangerously. Their view was about as accurate as their command of French which they failed to understand even when it was shouted at them. Nevertheless, Pel had got on famously with Goschen who not only had a sense of humour but had managed to extract what little Pel possessed, so that they had passed an entertaining hour or two amicably pulling each other’s country to pieces.
When the beer arrived, Pel poured himself a glass, took a bite at the sandwich – like most French sandwiches, it was made of ham, lettuce and baguette and needed a very large mouth to encompass it – then, picking up the telephone, dialled the international dialling code, the country code, the zone code, and then the number he required. There was a series of clicks and buzzes then he heard the ringing tone and eventually an English voice. He drew a deep breath, summoning up all his knowledge of the English language, to ask for Goschen. There were more clicks then a wary ‘Hello’ and Pel asked, ‘Is that Inspector Charles Goschen?’
‘Superintendent Goschen.’ The voice came back stiffly.
‘Congratulations. This is Chief Inspector Pel.’
‘Who?’ Apparently Pel’s accent wasn’t as good as he’d thought.
‘Pel.’
‘Sorry.’
Pel sighed. ‘Evariste Clovis Désiré Pel, Brigade Criminelle, Police Judiciaire. I speak from France.’
There were times when Pel’s name had its advantages. Normally, it sat on his shoulders like a lead cloak, but at least you couldn’t mistake it and the man at the other end of the line in London caught on at once.
‘Got it! Hello! How are you?’
‘I am well. And you?’
‘Suffering from what you call the English sang-froid habituel. What we call a permanent bloody cold.’
The joke was beyond Pel but he struggled on.
‘Something I can do for you?’ Goschen asked.
‘I think there is something. It might be difficult to explain. The language, you understand.’
‘I speak a bit of French. You speak a bit of English. I imagine we can manage with Franglais. What’s the trouble?’
‘George Harding,’ Pel said. ‘G H T Harding.’
There was a long pause. ‘I know that name,’ Goschen said.
‘In connection with what?’
‘He’s a villain.’
‘Would he go in for mur
der?’
Goschen paused again. ‘You bet your life he would,’ he said. ‘He probably has. But we’ve never been able to pin anything on him. What’s he done?’
‘One of our villains has just been murdered. It was an assassination, you understand. Car to car. We have no knowledge of who did it. But we have this name, George Harding. He has a telephone number in Kent.’ Giving the telephone number and address, Pel went on. ‘It may be nothing, of course. But the name has cropped up. Our man, Maurice Tagliatti, employed as secretary a girl called Vlada Preradovic, who had been au pair to the family of your man, George Harding. They appear to have met while Tagliatti was doing business with Harding. I am interested to know what business your man Harding is in.’
‘Everything you could think of.’
There was a long pause as Pel summoned up his courage.
‘I think’, he said, ‘that I need to come and see you.’
To his surprise, Goschen sounded delighted. It always surprised Pel when someone was pleased to see him. He personally wouldn’t have given himself house room.
‘That will be all right?’ he asked.
‘Of course. I’ll meet your plane. You must stay with us, naturally. The family will be pleased to see you again.’
Would they indeed? Pel began to think there was more to himself than he had ever imagined.
Deciding he needed support, the Chief sent Pel off to Paris in his own car driven by a police chauffeur and clutching an overnight bag and a briefcase containing photographs of the prints taken by Prélat of the car that had been used in the Tagliatti killing, and the artist’s drawings of the men who had been inside it. As promised, Goschen was waiting and, as expected, the weather was awful. Goschen welcomed him with a grin.
‘Superintendent!’ Pel greeted him with what passed with him as a smile.
Goschen gestured. ‘For God’s sake, let’s get rid of this “Superintendent” thing. My name’s Charles. What do I call you? Evariste?’
‘Not if you wish to remain alive. My wife calls me Pel.’
Goschen grinned. ‘Okay, Pel it is.’
They stopped at New Scotland Yard to drop the prints Pel had brought.
‘If they’re anything to do with Harding, we shall find them,’ Goschen said. ‘We know all his friends.’
Goschen’s family seemed to be looking forward to Pel’s arrival. The place was bright and colourful and Goschen’s children were intrigued to have a Frenchman in the house again.
‘Perhaps if I had two heads it would be even more interesting,’ Pel suggested.
The meal, as last time, was better than he had ever dreamed the British could produce, and included the famous Yorkshire pudding.
‘I seem to remember you liked it,’ Goschen’s wife said.
‘Indeed,’ Pel admitted. ‘I even tried to persuade my wife to make it. It came out like cake.’
The wine was also better than he had expected and was served in splendid glasses.
‘The English’, Goschen said, ‘can afford to drink wine so rarely, they make it an occasion.’
Pel shrugged. ‘Up to their necks in wine, the French swig Romanée Conti in glasses like cut-down bottles.’
The following morning, Pel accompanied Goschen to New Scotland Yard. He wore what he always wore and felt like something the cat had dragged in alongside Goschen with his smart suit and bowler hat.
When they arrived, Pel was left in a waiting-room while Goschen went ahead; then, eventually, he was waved into another room by a uniformed sergeant with a marked Scottish accent.
‘Aye…’ Pel caught the tail-end of his announcement before the door closed. ‘The wee Frog disnae speak English sae weel.’ The sergeant, he decided, didnae speak it sae weel either.
He was shown into an office where a huge thickset man sat at a desk as big as a billiard table. Despite his size, he seemed a little awed to be talking to a Frenchman.
‘Chief Superintendent Murray,’ Goschen introduced.
Murray sat behind his desk like the Rock of Gibraltar, regarding Pel with suspicion, because for a policeman Pel was small. He was obviously different from Goschen, and regarded the French as quaint, with their strange foreign habits of eating horses and carrying loaves of bread under their arms. He thawed after a while, however. Although he understood some French he wasn’t very good at it and, as they started shouting at each other, it required Goschen’s smoother approach to get them on each other’s wavelength.
The fingerprints and drawings Pel had brought with him had produced no problems. With the name of George Harding already in the air, the officer in charge had known exactly where to look.
‘We have them on our files,’ Murray said. ‘Wayne Braxton, aged thirty-eight, Flat 4, Fulham Buildings, Martlesham. And Thomas Bryan Coy, thirty-one, of Enfield, Middlesex. Both known criminals with records for violence and the use of firearms. Both known to associate with our friend, Harding.’
‘And Harding?’
Murray’s message was short and simple. ‘Harding’s a crook.’
‘I thought he might be. Maurice Tagliatti didn’t associate with people who weren’t crooks.’
Murray’s report, pushed across the table, had it all. George Henry Tyrell Harding. Aged forty-six. Address: La Rêve, Brookside, Kent. Second address, London. Married. Two children.
Pel’s eyes slipped down the list of activities. Harding’s record was remarkably like Maurice Tagliatti’s. He had driven lorries after he left school, but had somehow got into the property market and made a small fortune and had since gone into haulage and owned a string of shops and land. He had a record which included shoplifting, assault on a policeman, and possessing a gun without a licence.
‘Also suspected of the murder of a police informer,’ Murray said. ‘But we have no information. It was a long time ago, and these days he tries to look respectable.’
Like Maurice Tagliatti, Pel thought.
Harding’s line had covered everything you could think of. He had started as a builder’s apprentice and had ended up with an estimated five million in the bank. And that wasn’t in francs but in pounds and needed to be multiplied by ten to produce a French figure. This was not certain, of course, because nobody really knew. He had a house in Kent worth five hundred thousand pounds, with a swimming pool, a squash court, and all the rest. He enjoyed playing the role of lord of the manor.
Perhaps, Pel thought, that was where Maurice Tagliatti had got the idea.
He skated Maurice Tagliatti’s record across. Murray studied it for a while before he made a comment.
‘Twin souls,’ he said. He sat back in his chair and lit a pipe that filled the room with acrid smoke. In defence – but only in defence, he persuaded himself – Pel lit a cigarette.
‘We knew Harding went to Dijon on business in May,’ Murray went on. ‘And that he was in France about the time your man was murdered. We’ve been having him watched and he’s known to have taken a flight to Paris where he had a hire car waiting. We think his associates were in France, too, at the appropriate times. He’s also had some heavy telephone bills lately and seems to be making calls to France. We had a tap put on his telephone and his contact now’s a chap called Ourdabi. Know him?’
‘We certainly do.’
‘Well, whatever they’re up to, it isn’t finished yet because they’re still talking. They’re very guarded, of course, and let nothing drop.’
‘So what are they involved in?’ Pel leaned forward. ‘What’s this Harding been dealing in? Drugs?’
Murray sat back in his chair and eyed Pel for a long time as if wondering if he could keep a secret. ‘No,’ he said eventually. ‘Not drugs. Gold.’
‘Gold?’ Pel spoke in awed tones. He had never dealt in gold before. ‘Bullion?’
This was big enough to explain Maurice Tagliatti’s attempt at an alibi with the disguised Devreux. It was big enough to explain why he was dead.
‘You remember the Brinks Mat robbery?’
�
�Yes.’ Everybody had heard about the Brinks Mat job at Heathrow when the crooks had got into a security warehouse near the airport. They’d probably heard of it in China.
‘They poured petrol over the guards and threatened to set them on fire unless they handed over the combination numbers of the vaults. They handed them over. They got away with twenty-six million pounds’ worth of gold, diamonds and other things.’
‘Was Harding behind it?’
‘Not that one. Harding set up his own operation. Hung a hand grenade round the security man’s neck and threatened to pull the pin and run unless he handed over. He also handed over. They got away with fifteen million pounds’ worth of gold bullion. It wasn’t discovered until the following morning.’
‘What happened to it?’
‘We don’t know. We’ve been watching the banks and these days they have to tell us if they get unexpectedly large sums of money that might be from drugs or things of this sort. But there hasn’t been a whisper. Perhaps it’s in Switzerland. Or in the Middle East. We’ve checked Germany, Holland, Belgium, Italy and France, and we’re working on Scandinavia. Nothing’s turned up. We searched Harding’s house and we’ve had surveillance on it ever since, but there’s no hint that he’s even interested. We have no proof and the gold hasn’t been heard of since. We feel Harding masterminded it but he’s the sort who doesn’t get his hands dirty and he’d arrange for a quick disposal of the loot.’
‘With Maurice Tagliatti,’ Pel agreed. ‘How was the gold moved?’
‘It was taken from the warehouse in an airport food van, transferred at some point to another van, and driven out of the airport by one of the service gates and more than likely taken out of the country.’
‘By air?’
‘We thought of that, of course, and made the necessary inquiries.’
‘I expect Maurice fixed it. He’d been to the Middle East and the States. He must have been trying to set up the route.’
‘And did he?’
‘I don’t think so. Or why would he be killed?’
Darcy’s reaction was the same as Pel’s. He laid down the report Pel had brought back and looked up.