by Mark Hebden
‘You ought to be able to get through there,’ he told De Troq’. ‘I do.’
Shortly afterwards, he left the house in his car and headed in the direction of the city. At Fontaine, however, he turned off and headed back to where Darcy was waiting.
As the sun began to disappear, Claudie Darel was seen in the window of Yves Pasquier’s room, talking loudly to the empty bed as if scolding a child who didn’t wish to go to sleep. Then Morell, still in Pasquier’s suit, called up the stairs as if he were Pasquier chiding his wife. ‘Marguérite de mon coeur,’ he said. ‘Leave the boy alone. He’ll go to sleep eventually.’
It all sounded very realistic.
Sitting at one of the upstairs windows in a darkened room of Pel’s house, De Troq’ watched carefully. Madame Pel stood in the shadows behind him.
‘Do you think they’ll come, Sergeant?’ she asked.
As they talked, De Troq’s radio rasped, as if it were clearing its throat. ‘Claudie here, Patron,’ it said. ‘I think a car’s just stopped down the lane. It has no lights but I heard its engine and a door closing.’
‘Right! Stand by!’ Pel’s voice came back, calling the silent watchers. ‘Daniel! Claudie reports a car. Move in. Are you ready, De Troq’?’
‘Ready, Patron.’
‘Just tell my wife to keep her head down.’
Going downstairs, De Troq’ moved silently into the dark garden and headed for the hole in the hedge. In the next door garden there was a faint brief flicker of a torch. They had no idea whether the kidnap attempt would involve the smashing down of the door or the ringing of the bell. It turned out to be the bell. Faintly, the chimes came over the silence. A light went on in the hall next door, then as the front door opened, a beam of light was flung down the drive. Pel’s voice came.
‘Go!’
There was a yell from the next garden and Morell’s voice. ‘Armed police! Drop your guns!’
Stepping through the hedge, De Troq’ caught sight of figures in the open doorway of the house and light on the puddle of water in the drive, with, beyond them, a glimpse of Claudie Darel, alongside her Morell, holding his pistol with both hands. There was a flurry of shots and the sound of feet on the gravel of the drive, then a dark shape appeared in front of De Troq’, running fast. As he stuck his foot out, the shape went headlong, skating along the ground and throwing up a little bow wave of gravel and mud from the drive. Before he came to a stop, De Troq’ was on to him. As De Troq’ wrenched his arms behind him, he let out a scream of pain.
Somewhere near the gate there was another couple of shots, then silence. De Troq’ hoisted his captive to his feet and dragged him towards the house. Claudie was standing in the doorway, staring at a body sprawled in the puddle in the drive. As Pel appeared out of the shadows, De Troq’ arrived. ‘There’s one here, too, Patron.’
Then Darcy appeared with Lagé. They had Devreux in front of them, and there was blood on his sleeve. ‘Just keep your hands up and think pure thoughts,’ Darcy was saying. He grinned at Pel. ‘Got him as he bolted for the car, Patron. I think one got away.’
The man De Troq’ had nailed turned out to be Peneau and, big as he was, he looked disgusted that someone as small and neat as De Troq’ had taken him.
Pel glanced round him. He seemed unsatisfied. ‘Let’s try Lordy,’ he suggested. ‘We might pick up one or two more. See if you can get through to Brochard.’
Brochard was alert and listening and he answered his radio at once.
‘There are only two cars at the Manoir at the moment, Patron,’ he announced. ‘Cavalin’s white Range Rover and Sidonie’s Citroën.’
Leaving De Troq’ to look after things, the cars went screaming off into the darkness. There were lights on at the Manoir and the front door was open. Prowling warily through the rooms, they found the house apparently empty.
‘Upstairs,’ Pel said.
The first door they came to was that of Vlada Preradovic. The room looked as though she had packed hurriedly and drawers and cupboards stood wide open. On the bed was a small suitcase, with a few items of underwear draped across it. Everything else seemed to have been cleared.
Pel turned and headed for the apartments Maurice’s wife used. To his surprise, he saw the light was on and, as they burst in, Sidonie’s head lifted from the pillow. With her was Cavalin.
‘What in God’s name!–’ Sidonie screamed.
‘Get up,’ Pel snapped. ‘Get dressed.’ He looked at Cavalin’s clothes piled neatly on the chair alongside the bed. They were tidy, clean and with no sign of mud on the shoes.
‘How long have you been here?’
Cavalin managed a slow smile. ‘Just as long as it needed,’ he said.
Eighteen
This time they found out how Léon was involved and why his cellar had been so important; why, in fact, he had cuffed Julien Claude Roth about the head.
In the cellar at the Manoir they found the devices that on the previous search hadn’t seemed to Misset to have any connection with what they were investigating. There was the crucible and the ladle, and, when they found traces of what looked very much like gold on them, they sent at once for an official from the Banque de France to come and give them information.
They had no sooner set that operation in motion when Darcy appeared with a set of rusting boules, a heavy plaster cast in two halves, which had obviously been taken from one of the boules, and a wooden box – clearly specially made – into which everything fitted neatly.
Pel stared at them as they were placed in front of the expert from the Banque de France. ‘Is that how they make them?’ he asked.
‘I wouldn’t know about real boules,’ the expert said. ‘But it’s a good way to disguise gold.’ He was a lean spectacled individual called Munoz and he seemed to be knowledgeable not only about gold but also about all metals and about every kind of metallic process ever invented. ‘They must have been nickel-plating them,’ he said.
‘How?’
‘Electrolysis. You learn it in physics at school.’
Having spent most of his physics lessons at the back of the class reading detective stories, Pel had not learned as much as most, and he had to admit it showed.
‘Inform me,’ he said.
‘Well,’ Munoz said, ‘it’s the same as electro-plating table silver. If you connect a spoon made of brass – or a fork, or whatever – to the negative terminal of a battery, and a piece of sheet silver to the positive terminal and immerse them in an electrolyte, the current passes through the silver and out through the spoon or whatever it is. The spoon, the negative electrode, is the cathode and the piece of silver the anode and, as the current flows, the silver is – to put it quite simply – transferred in particles to the spoon, which becomes coated with it until it looks like pure silver. All you have to do then is polish it. It’s the same with a bar of nickel and a boule made of gold. Immerse them in the correct electrolyte – nickel sulphate or nickel chloride with a touch of boric acid – apply four volts d.c. and set the appropriate ampage and – hé op! – you have a nickel-plated gold boule.’
‘And Maurice,’ Pel said thoughtfully, ‘having been apprenticed as a youth at an electro-plating plant, would know exactly what to do, while Bozon, who was driving him when they were shot, was a burnisher and would know how to polish up the result. Simple, when you have the facts at your fingertips.’
Munoz gestured at the thick moulded glass tank Misset and Didier Darras had found and discarded. ‘They must have been using that. It’s about the size they use in schools and laboratories. Manufacturing firms use enormous ones, of course, made of zinc or something. It’s quite normal, of course, to electro-plate real boules. They make competition ones of treated steel or special strip steel and build them into a ball and grind them until the weight’s right. The ones that aren’t stainless they plate.’ He gestured again at the tank, then lit a cigarette and offered the pack round. ‘We’ve come across this sort of thing before: casting gold into diff
erent shapes and painting it or plating it with nickel or copper. Normally with gold you’d have to plate with copper first because pure metal isn’t a good subject, but I don’t suppose they bothered because they were only doing it to deceive people for a while.’ Munoz smiled. ‘Of course, the result would only look like chromium-plated boules because the weight would be totally wrong. The atomic weight of iron and steel is 55.85. The atomic weight of gold is 197.2, so that a gold boule would be around four times as heavy as a steel one. You couldn’t possibly play with them – not unless you were Superman.’
‘Would it be difficult to cast a boule of gold?’ Pel asked.
‘No.’ Munoz was in no doubt. ‘Gold’s soft. Even a primitive gold beater can beat a gold bar into a film-thin sheet easily enough. They’d grease the boule with soft soap or petroleum jelly.’ He fingered the rusty boule Darcy was holding. ‘There are still traces on it, I notice. Then they’d pack plaster of Paris round it in the box you have there – a lot of it, to make a thick case. They’d first make a cut-out of the boule, of course, and insert it round the centre of the boule so the plaster would set in two separate halves. When the two halves were hard, they’d fix them together without the cut-out and pour the melted gold into the cast through a hole they’d have made in the top.’ Munoz’s hand moved to the mould. ‘The hole’s there. There’s another at the side here to let the air out so they wouldn’t get a bubble. When the gold set, they’d remove the two halves of the mould, file down the odd bits, cut off the spikes left where the holes had been, and they’d have what appeared to be a boule made of brass.’
They tried their discoveries on Cavalin. He was quite willing to admit they had got their facts right.
‘They made several sets,’ he said. ‘They even plated some of them. But then you turned up to see Maurice and he decided it was too dangerous and shifted it all to Léon’s cellar.’
He volunteered nothing else, however. ‘I kept well out of it,’ he said, urbane and cheerful and with his usual amused smile.
He was sitting at the other side of the table from Pel in the interview room while Darcy stood by the door. ‘I wasn’t one of Maurice’s tame thugs,’ he went on. ‘I never was. I was office manager and financial adviser. That’s all. Chief of Staff, you could say.’
‘To a crook.’
Cavalin shrugged.
‘Involved in conspiracy, accessory before and after the fact. Before and after a lot of facts.’
‘All I did was handle Maurice’s business.’
‘And his wife.’
Cavalin smiled. ‘Maurice had the sexual habits of a stoat. He lost interest in Sidonie years ago. He was only interested in Vlada Preradovic.’
‘Where is she now?’
‘Ourdabi’s set her up in a flat in Marseilles somewhere. What did you expect? She’s anybody’s – a regular plat du jour.’
‘Did Ourdabi set up Maurice’s murder?’
‘I shouldn’t be surprised. He speaks a little English.’
‘Honour among thieves?’
‘There’s no such thing.’
‘And Sidonie?’
‘She wasn’t involved. You should let her go.’
‘We shall at the right time. You know we have Devreux and Peneau? Shapron’s dead.’
Cavalin shrugged. ‘I warned them something would happen,’ he said. ‘I happen to have noticed, Chief Inspector, that you’re no fool.’
‘Where are Guérin, Sagassu and Ourdabi?’
‘I haven’t the slightest idea. I wasn’t involved in that. Ourdabi was told to get the boy. I told him not to be a damn fool. But he fancies Maurice’s job. Unfortunately, he doesn’t have Maurice’s touch. He has no patience. He’s clumsy.’
‘Did he kill Léon?’
‘I expect he did. They thought he was about to go to the police.’
‘Did Ourdabi know Léon had the gold?’
‘No. He thought he was just being used to set up the route to Dubhai because he had a contact in the south who could work it. They’d have liked to know where it was hidden.’
‘Who did know?’
‘I did.’
‘So where is it?’
Cavalin smiled.
‘What about the bruises on Léon’s face?’
‘Devreux. Maurice told him to work him over. Not too much. Just enough to put some spine in him. Maurice had the gold at Lordy but then you turned up, asking questions, and he got the wind up and decided it would have to be moved. He and Bozon had changed some of it into boules but it had turned out to be a bigger job than they’d expected and they transferred everything to Léon’s cellar, some of it untouched. But then the kid who worked for Léon somehow managed to get involved and Maurice got the wind up again and Léon began to panic. Maurice told Devreux to give him one, and it was decided to move the stuff again.’
Cavalin smiled. ‘That one was a proper balls-up. There was that fire in the dress shop two doors away and for the next day or two there were cops and firemen all over the place. Then the night Maurice decided to do it, one of the uniformed flics turned up and Maurice had to disappear in a hurry and leave it to Léon. Léon almost died of fright. After Maurice was killed, I expect Ourdabi decided he was best out of the way.’
‘Did Ourdabi know what Maurice was up to?’
‘He knew who to contact to let them know Maurice’s plans.’
‘What were his plans?’
‘He was going to pick up Léon and the gold from where they’d moved it and go down the motorway to this pal of Léon’s in Marseilles who was going to arrange to get rid of it. That’s why he fixed that elaborate alibi with Devreux in his car. Unfortunately, he let Ourdabi know his route.’
Pel lit a cigarette and pushed the pack across. Cavalin accepted one and nodded his thanks.
Pel held out his light. ‘Did Ourdabi turn up at the Manoir after the attempt to kidnap the boy?’ he asked.
Cavalin drew on his cigarette. ‘He’d have been a damn fool if he had,’ he said. ‘He’s gone to ground somewhere.’
‘One dead,’ Pel reported to the Chief. ‘One in hospital with a bullet in his arm. Two in the cells. If nothing else, we seem to be whittling down Maurice’s gang. Ourdabi and two others have disappeared, but I dare bet they’re not far away and they’ll turn up again, because they’ll think Cavalin’s disappeared, too. They don’t know we’ve got him. We’ve tried to make it seem as if he’s holed up in a hotel somewhere with Maurice’s wife. In the meantime, we let Cavalin stew in Number 72 for a while. He’s the sort who won’t take easily to prison.’
‘Does anyone?’
Pel shrugged. ‘He’ll worry about Tagliatti’s wife,’ he said. ‘I think he’ll try to do a deal.’
Pel’s guess turned out to be a good one. Within forty-eight hours a message came from 72 Rue d’Auxonne that a prisoner, one Georges Cavalin, wished to have a word with Chief Inspector Pel.
Pel looked at Darcy. ‘I’ll see him,’ he said.
Cavalin appeared during the afternoon. He was handcuffed to two policemen but he was properly dressed and looked clean. The only indication that he might not be enjoying himself was the fact that he hadn’t shaved. He didn’t waste any time getting down to business.
‘I know who murdered Maurice,’ he announced.
‘So do I,’ Pel said. ‘Now.’
‘They’re English.’
‘So I understand. I’d like to meet them.’
Cavalin paused. ‘I could get them over here for you,’ he said.
‘How?’
‘By telling them where the gold is.’
‘Where is it?’
Cavalin gave a small smile. ‘I want a deal, Chief.’
‘What sort of deal?’
‘Immunity for Sidonie. Just leave her be.’
‘Is that all? What about you?’
‘I’ll take what’s coming.’
Pel’s eyebrows lifted and Cavalin smiled. ‘You’re looking at a touch of honour, Chief,’ he said. �
�It’s terrifying when you come up against it face to face. Sidonie’s not involved and I’ll tell the court so if necessary. She made a mistake marrying Maurice when she was young, but that’s all she’s ever done wrong. We were hoping to disappear. We were trying to scrape up enough money. When Maurice was shot the coast seemed clear.’
Pel was still considering what Cavalin had said when Darcy appeared.
‘Patron,’ he said excitedly. ‘We’ve got a lead! Brussels has come up with a list of Rykx’s pals at last. One of ’em’s called Deville. Gilbert Deville.’
‘Deville? That old lunatic?’
‘He’s not so old and he’s no lunatic. He’s a plasterer. He handles plaster. And plaster’s not all that different from modelling clay, I suppose. I made inquiries. He had ambitions to be a sculptor. It seems he became one.’
‘Go on. There’s more, I suppose?’
‘There certainly is. Gilbert Deville did a stretch in Belgium for smuggling heroin into the country inside a pot leg. He claimed he’d broken it skiing and wore a plaster of Paris pot on it. Unfortunately he was knocked down outside the airport by a car and rushed to hospital and they checked his leg while he was unconscious and found the heroin.’
Pel was sitting up straight now and Darcy went on. ‘The police questioned him about his pals and where the heroin was going. He wouldn’t tell so they asked who’d put the pot on his leg. He said he’d put it on himself but the police doctor said it wasn’t possible. He couldn’t have done it. It was too difficult and too expert. It had been done by a medical orderly, or a nurse or a doctor.’
Pel was deep in thought. ‘Which doctor?’ he asked.
‘They never found out.’
Pel was quiet for a little longer then he gestured. ‘Let’s have a look at that statement Dr Dunois made,’ he said.