Pel and the Picture of Innocence

by Mark Hebden

  ‘Are you suggesting I attacked Mademoiselle Sondermann?’

  ‘No, doctor, I’m not.’

  ‘Surely to God not my wife? Are you suggesting this awful thing was done by my wife? Because she thought I was having an affair with Mademoiselle Sondermann?’

  ‘You were having an affair with her, weren’t you?’

  Kersta gestured irritably, as if that were an unimportant point. ‘How could it have been my wife?’ he said. ‘She was in her kitchen the whole time. She told me. She was even seen there.’

  ‘No, doctor, she wasn’t. The programme on television she said she watched was on all right, but she wasn’t watching it. She had decided to have it out with Mademoiselle Sondermann. She was determined to protect her marriage. She had found out about you, hadn’t she?’

  Kersta was silent for a while then he nodded heavily. Nosjean tried to imagine the struggle going on in Annabelle-Eugénie’s house. Ground down by the moving feet as they fought, the china gave an indication of how violent the struggle had been. But nobody had heard because the two women had fought in silence, each with her own reason for wishing that nothing should be discovered of the confrontation.

  ‘There was no talking,’ Nosjean said. ‘Just a sudden explosive quarrel. The tea tray was turned over and your wife trod on it. Her foot went through it. It looked as if the poker had made the hole – but it didn’t. It was a woman’s high heel. I expect when she saw what she’d done she was horrified and she ran home at once. She was back within minutes and nobody missed her.’

  Kersta said nothing.

  ‘She tried to kill Mademoiselle Sondermann because, of you,’ Nosjean said quietly. ‘It’s lucky she didn’t manage it. If she had, the charge would have been one of murder.’

  Kersta sighed, deflated, and, picking up the telephone, spoke to his receptionist. ‘Please cancel all my appointments,’ he said. There was a pause. ‘Yes, all of them. For the rest of the day and after that, too. I’m going to be rather busy for some time. I may even retire. It’s a domestic crisis.’

  As he put down the telephone, he looked at Nosjean, a handsome man all concern for his wife and full of remorse for the life he’d led her. ‘I’ll come with you,’ he said. ‘I’d better be with her when you see her. She’ll need me.’

  Madame Kersta sat in a chair in Pel’s office, a damp, crumpled heap barely able to talk through her tears. Her husband stood behind her, all attention, helping her with her statement. Most of his concern seemed to Pel to be false and he noticed that he was always quick to interrupt when she began to talk about him.

  ‘Get him out of here, Daniel,’ he said quietly. ‘I want to talk to her alone with Nosjean.’

  Kersta’s protest was loud but Darcy put a large hand on his shoulder and propelled him from the room.

  Madame Kersta seemed more at ease without her husband, and answered Nosjean’s questions willingly enough. She seemed to have given up hope for the future. The chances were that a lawyer would plead a crime passionnel and she’d probably get away with it, but she didn’t seem to have much faith in a life with her husband.

  She admitted the attack on Annabelle-Eugénie Sondermann. ‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘I did it. She’d wrecked my marriage. I went to see her. But she laughed. I was furious. I picked up that statuette she prized so much. I said, “You smashed my marriage, just as I’m going to smash this” and I dropped it on the floor. Perhaps it was too much. Perhaps she didn’t mind about being found out even. But she thought a lot about that statuette and that’s what started us fighting.

  ‘She called me names and said I was pathetic and always ill. She and my husband made me ill and I was livid. I went for her. She knocked over the tray and we struggled. Then I picked up the poker. I don’t think I realised what I was doing. I think I was really defending myself at first. I hit her with it. More than once, I think.’ Madame Kersta seemed to dissolve, collapsing in the chair in a huddled heap. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t intend to do it but she was so… so…’

  As she became silent, Pel leaned forward. ‘Had this affair been going on a long time?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ Madame Kersta sighed. ‘Ages. I knew about it, of course. But I thought he’d grow tired. He was never very trustworthy, I suppose. I often thought he was involved with things he shouldn’t be, but I was never certain.’

  ‘What sort of things?’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t know anything any more.’

  That afternoon, Lacocq followed Nosjean in clearing up another of their outstanding cases. Or at least, he was responsible for the arrest.

  As Pel was leaving, he appeared in the entrance hall of the Hôtel de Police pushing a man in front of him. The man was well dressed, clean and in a smart suit, but there was a faint look of a ferret about him; there was blood on his shirt and on his face, and a huge bruise on his forehead. Lacocq looked three metres tall.

  ‘Got him, Patron,’ he said with satisfaction. ‘This is the type who goes round robbing old ladies by pretending to want to buy their property. He reads the papers, finds out what’s for sale, and then goes to have a look round the house.’

  ‘He looks a little battered,’ Pel observed. ‘You, Lacocq?’

  Lacocq grinned. ‘Not me, Patron. He called at 11, Rue Marc-Béguin. The old dear there, Madame Pliat, keeps a large dog and he said he was scared of dogs so she locked it in the kitchen and proceeded to show him round the house. Upstairs, he tried to lock her in the bathroom, but she’s stronger than she looks and she keeps a pick handle handy. She managed to reach it and gave him a couple with it. He went down the stairs on his head, so she let the dog out of the kitchen, and it sat on his chest with its teeth bared while she telephoned us.’

  It was a good end to the day and, in addition, though nobody was aware of it, something had occurred that afternoon that was to set in train a series of events that were to start things moving in the Tagliatti case.

  Yves Pasquier broke the window of the salon. The muddy football, which he had been pounding against the outside wall for an hour, not only scattered shards of glass everywhere, it bounced – complete with mud – across the white carpet, hit the wall of the salon, rebounded on to the adjoining wall, knocked over the standard lamp and finally came to rest on the settee.

  Sixteen

  Deciding that her son at home was far more of a problem than her son at school, Marguérite Pasquier telephoned the Hôtel de Police and asked to be connected to Pel.

  Misset took the call. ‘Who is it?’ he demanded.

  ‘Madame Pasquier. Chief Inspector Pel knows me. I live next door.’

  ‘Is it police business, madame?’

  ‘Yes, very much so.’

  Misset was skilful at listening in to telephone calls and when he heard Madame Pasquier asking Pel if it were safe for her son to return to school, it set him thinking. One night on duty, he had happened to hear the Chief talking to the Procureur. They were both being very cagey in what they were saying but he had heard the Proc’ say something about ‘…we know the car the killers used was seen before the crime…’ It wasn’t much, but it caused Misset to remember something he’d heard a week or so before that. Nobody had told him anything but he’d caught the tail-end of a talk Darcy had been having with Pel when he’d barged into his office. Darcy had become silent as soon as Misset had appeared but he’d caught the words ‘…the boy who saw the car’.

  Misset was an expert at putting things together, and he was always prepared to guess at what he didn’t know for certain, while Sarrazin, the freelance reporter, was always prepared to accept what he offered as gospel, even when he believed it wasn’t. The other newspapermen, Fiabon, of France Dimanche, and Ducrot, of Paris Soir, were more wary, while Henriot, of the local rag, was always far too concerned with his relations with city people to use gossip, Sarrazin, however, never failed to take a chance.

  The day after Marguérite Pasquier’s call, her husband appeared in the Hôtel de Police asking for Pel. He was worried.<
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  ‘I’m a bit concerned,’ he said. ‘Yves is only a little boy and I’m afraid he might say something he shouldn’t. It might slip out. Especially now he’s back at school. And if it did and it became known he was a witness to something that led up to a murder, he might be in danger.’

  Pel took the matter to the Chief who considered it for a while before agreeing that, with the inquiries beginning to build up and with the lead they had received from London, perhaps somebody should be given the job of looking after the boy.

  Pel telephoned Pasquier. ‘If I arrange for a man to be on duty at your house,’ he asked, ‘can you feed him and give him somewhere to sleep? Surveillance’, he explained, ‘usually means three men working in sequence to relieve each other, but three men is a lot when we’ve got so many inquiries on. We’ve already got a man living near Lordy as part of a family. If you could agree, it would also be much more efficient because it would mean the boy was never alone. The man’s name’s Morell and he’s young, well brought up and house-trained. He’ll give you no trouble.’

  Pasquier agreed at once. ‘It’ll please Marguérite,’ he said. ‘She’s been a bit worried about the possibilities. We’ll look after him. He can have the bedroom next to Yves’. It’s not very big but it has everything he’ll need, and we’ll put the portable television in there.’

  ‘No television,’ Pel growled. ‘He’ll be there to keep an eye on the boy, not on the television.’

  That evening, Pel drove Morell to the Pasquier house. Pasquier was all for offering him a drink but Morell caught Pel’s eye and stoutly refused.

  While his room was being inspected, Pel slipped to the bedroom next door to explain matters to Yves Pasquier.

  ‘You’ve got a guard on you,’ he said.

  ‘Me?’ The boy’s eyes shone.

  ‘You’re an important witness.’

  ‘Will I have to appear in court?’

  ‘It’s possible.’

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘His name’s Morell. Patrice Morell. He’s young. He’ll probably play boules with you. He’ll escort you to school, remain there waiting for you, and bring you home in the evening. You’re to do exactly as he tells you.’

  ‘Does he have a gun?’

  ‘He has a gun.’

  ‘Can I see it?’

  ‘So long as you don’t touch it. I don’t want him shot by you.’

  With the Pasquiers’ fears quietened, Pel left Morell with orders to telephone at once if he had any doubts.

  The following afternoon, Brochard appeared in the office on one of his regular visits to report. He was still occupied with his surveillance of the Manoir de Lordy, and he was thoroughly enjoying himself. Normally he shared a flat with Debray in the city but they were neither of them good housekeepers and both hated cooking, so that they had to live on odds and ends of frozen food. At the Roblais farm Brochard was fed like a fighting cock. Old Roblais knew what he was up to but, like all hill folk, he kept his mouth shut and didn’t ask questions, and since Brochard continued to mend fences that hadn’t been touched for years, he saw that he was well fed and watered.

  The only snag was the Roblais’ daughter, Héloïse. She had noted Brochard at once. Brochard was a good-looking youngster with a sly sense of humour and Héloïse Roblais liked to follow him around, showing him the stables and the quiet corners at the back of the haystacks, offering to help him with fences that were well away from the house. She wasn’t bad-looking and had a good figure, but she had knee caps like house bricks and Brochard already had a girl in the city.

  From time to time he appeared in the office, on what were accepted by the people of Lordy as his days off. He had been passed off as a cousin and, like the Roblais family, nobody asked questions. When he appeared in the office, nobody asked questions there either, except to comment that he was getting fat. Misset, of course, was always interested.

  As Brochard left to return to Lordy, Misset looked up. ‘You still on surveillance?’

  ‘Yes. It’s infectious. Morell’s at it now.’

  ‘Where’s he?’

  Brochard didn’t answer but that evening when Morell reported by telephone, Misset took the call. It was short, to the point and gave nothing away. But Misset was intrigued and tried to probe. Morell’s orders were to keep his mouth shut, however, and like everyone else in the Hôtel de Police he knew Misset well enough to say nothing.

  All the same, a few cog wheels started churning in Misset’s mind. Son. School. ‘The boy who saw the car…’ ‘We know the killers’ car was seen before the crime…’ Madame Pasquier. All the little snippets Misset had heard began to add up.

  When he reached home, he waited until his wife was out of the way, then dialled Sarrazin’s number. Sarrazin represented half a dozen newspapers round France and was naturally always eager to be first with information. They talked for a while, exchanging opinions, and Sarrazin sat on the information for a couple of days. He knew Pel and was wary of him, but in the end he telephoned La Torche, one of the periodicals he represented, and began to indulge in a long-winded conversation.

  Pel was feeling gloomy as he appeared downstairs next day. He was never functioning on all cylinders until he had smoked his first cigarette of the morning.

  Finishing his breakfast, he kissed his wife and, clutching his briefcase, headed for his car. He had hardly sat down in the chair in his office when Darcy appeared and tossed down a periodical on his desk. It was La Torche and the first thing Pel saw were the headlines.

  TAGLIATTI CASE SENSATION. BOY WITNESS INDANGER. SAW KILLERS’ CAR.

  The roof almost lifted.

  Sarrazin and La Torche had worked hard. Most of the details had come from the records, from the street directories and the office for the registration of births, deaths and marriages. They were short on facts about the reason for the danger Yves Pasquier was in, but they had his name, age and address, his parents’ names and what his father did for a living. It was clear from the story that Yves Pasquier had been a witness to something important – although La Torche remained vague on exactly what it was – and the facts were being lapped up all the way across France.

  Almost before Pel had finished, Henri Pasquier was in the entrance hall demanding to see him. He was livid and it took a lot of diplomacy to calm him down.

  ‘He’s my son,’ Pasquier said. ‘Nothing should have been given to the press!’

  ‘Nothing has been given to the press,’ Pel insisted. ‘But newsmen have their own means of finding out things – not always honest, I’m afraid. Have no fear, I’ll look into it and Morell will be told to be even more alert.’

  The news flew round the Hôtel de Police and within minutes Pel was having everybody in and questioning them. Though La Torche knew remarkably little, what they had published was enough to direct the limelight on to the Pasquiers’ house. Only Pel, Darcy, the Chief and the Procureur knew the full facts, but nothing had been committed to paper so it was impossible that anyone could have seen anything. Those who had discussed the matter went over the conversations they’d had and none of them had said anything to anyone who might have provided La Torche with the story. Unable to accuse anybody of anything, Pel called the pressmen into his office but they all blankly denied any knowledge of where the story had come from, and all La Torche would say when he spoke to the editor was that the story had come from ‘sources’.

  They had Misset in, behaving like a dog threatened with a bath. He didn’t look them in the eye – Misset believed in never looking authority in the eye in case authority noticed him – but no papers had been lost, no files had been switched or gone missing, no telephone calls had been tapped. Misset had covered himself well and, though Pel had his suspicions, there was nothing they could accuse him of.

  There were only two airfields within the city area. One, on the flat land to the south, was partly military with a few Mystère and Mirage jets, but took an occasional short haul liner from other parts of France. The other field was
on the N71 beyond Talant, on a flat stretch of land high above the city as you climbed out towards St Seine l’Abbaye.

  Darcy had drawn a blank at the southern airfield. All flights were logged and there had been no flights from England. The airfield towards St Seine l’Abbaye was different.

  ‘Sure,’ the controller said after a long silence while he looked up the log books. ‘There were three that day. A Nord 262 from Luton. Twenty-five passengers. Some sort of archaeological society from Dijon who hired it to take them to England and back. A Cessna F172 from Shoreham. It landed at St Malo and refuelled, then came on here. It dropped a passenger and left for Toulouse. There was also a Centre Est 350 from Gatwick. That’s bigger. Short haul, light cargo.’

  ‘That’, Darcy said, ‘sounds like the one I’m interested in. Is it fast?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  ‘What time did it land?’

  ‘Late. We normally close down after dark here, but we’d had a request to stay open. We do if we’re asked. It was flying machinery for Métaux de Dijon. They said it was urgent and we arranged for it to be met. They had a van waiting. The machinery wasn’t too big but it was heavy. It was transferred in no time and the van left. The machine took off for St Etienne.’

  ‘Who was the pilot?’

  ‘What’s he done?’

  ‘Never mind what he’s done,’ Darcy said. ‘I’d just like to talk to him.’

  The controller shrugged. ‘The log gives Pierre-Paul Genin. He lives in the city. Rue Joigny. He divides his time between here and St Etienne. He’ll fly anything.’

  Pierre-Paul Genin was tall, handsome, hawk-faced and grey-haired. He was no longer young but Darcy suspected that he was younger than he looked.

  ‘Sure,’ he admitted cheerfully. ‘I flew the Centre Est.’

  Darcy studied him. He had spent some time on the telephone because, like a good barrister, he preferred to know some of the answers before he asked the questions. ‘Why?’ he asked.