by Mark Hebden
When Darcy produced it, Pel stared at it, frowning. ‘He never once says in this that he took that bullet out of Sagassu’s arm. Not once. He admits it was done in his surgery and that he was there. But the rest of his statement’s all “This was done” or “That was done”. Never “I did it.” Perhaps he didn’t do it. Get him in, Daniel.’
Dr Dunois looked shabbier than ever and very nervous, and it didn’t require a lot of leaning on him before he changed his story.
‘Yes,’ he admitted. ‘It was done in my surgery. I was there. But I wouldn’t touch it.’
‘Somebody did. Who?’
‘They contacted somebody else and he came and did it.’
‘And who was that?’
‘They paid me to take the rap. I have done. But I didn’t do it. I never said I did it. I was careful not to.’
‘So who did?’
Dunois’ voice could hardly be heard. ‘It was Robert Kersta,’ he said.
Pel sat silently for a moment then he looked at Darcy. ‘Daniel, nip round the corner and see Madame Léon. I noticed as I came in that she’s shifting her stock to the shop in the Rue Général Leclerc. See if she knows who treated her husband’s injuries when he was beaten up. Because somebody did. It might be interesting to find out why.’
It wasn’t far from the Hôtel de Police, and Darcy was there within minutes. Madame Léon was pushing racks of clothes into her husband’s former premises as fast as she was pushing out cartons of sports goods.
‘I hope you’re not expecting to buy any running shoes or a punch ball,’ she said. ‘I’m getting rid of the lot.’
Darcy grinned. ‘Nothing like that. I just wanted to know the name of the doctor your husband saw for those injuries he had. That bruising round the eyes, the cracked ribs, and anything else you noticed.’
She seemed unable for a moment to adjust from her delight in her new premises. ‘The injuries,’ she said. ‘Anything else? Oh! Well, I’m not sure. Kristoff. Kerhays. Kersta. That’s it! It was a Dr Kersta.’
Darcy smiled. ‘I thought it might be.’
Pel hadn’t moved when Darcy returned, but he was suddenly looking very bright-eyed and enthusiastic.
‘Let’s have Kersta in, Daniel. He seems to be in this deeper than we thought.’
A car was sent and Kersta arrived soon afterwards, looking pleased with himself. His wife was in custody and Kersta had made a big show of caring for her, but it didn’t seem to have affected the quality of his life. Doubtless, Pel thought, he had plenty of admiring female patients to offer sympathy.
He sat down, looking handsome and confident of his popularity. Pel didn’t waste time.
‘You know the name Antonio Sagassu?’ he asked.
‘Who’s he?’ Kersta took his time answering.
‘He was shot in the arm. You handled it. You took out the bullet, stitched him up, bandaged him, put the arm in a sling and gave antibiotics.’
There was the faintest flicker of concern in Kersta’s eyes but it didn’t last long. He answered smoothly, indifferently. ‘Sagassu,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Was that his name? I didn’t know.’
‘You did treat him?’
‘Yes. I suppose I did. I certainly treated someone.’
‘Why was it done at Dr Dunois’ surgery?’
‘Because that’s where I was called to.’
‘Why did you treat him?’
‘My dear sir, the man was bleeding and hurt and a doctor takes an oath–’
‘He’s a crook.’
Kersta didn’t pause in his explanation. ‘An oath to succour the injured, no matter who they are. I wasn’t aware who he was.’
‘Didn’t you enquire? Weren’t you interested in how he came to be wounded?’
‘That wasn’t my job.’
‘Why didn’t you inform the police?’
‘That also wasn’t my job.’
‘Not even when a man has been injured in a shooting incident?’
‘It was the job of the people who brought him in.’
‘Why did they send for you?’
‘Why?’
‘Yes. Why you? Why not somebody else?’
‘I suppose because I was handy.’
‘Your surgery’s a long way from Dr Dunois’ surgery. And there are plenty of other doctors – who would have informed the police.’
Kersta still looked sure of himself but Pel thought he could detect a slight worry behind his eyes now.
‘Didn’t you realise that the man was a crook and that something fishy was going on?’ he asked.
‘No. I didn’t.’
‘Not even with a bullet in his arm?’ Pel was touching on the point again and again, as if probing a painful wound, and it was beginning to bother Kersta. For the first time he hesitated.
‘I suppose I didn’t think,’ he said.
‘Not at all?’
‘Well, I suppose it must have crossed my mind.’
‘So why did you go ahead? You could have refused.’
‘I’m a doctor.’
‘Even doctors can refuse if the police aren’t informed. Why didn’t you refuse?’
‘Well…’
‘Well?’ Pel leaned forward.
The worry behind Kersta’s eyes had increased. ‘They threatened me.’
‘Ah, now we have it! That would explain it, of course.’ Pelwas all smiles and reassurance, as if he understood completely. ‘A threat can explain a lot,’ he said. He leaned forward again. ‘A threat with a gun?’ he asked silkily.
‘No.’
‘What then?’
‘Well…’ Kersta was growing distinctly nervous now. ‘They just made threats.’
‘What sort of threats? To do what?’
‘They threatened to harm my wife.’
‘And are you suggesting to me that would have worried you? Are you sure the threat didn’t concern a plaster of Paris pot you put on the leg of a man called Gilbert Deville in Belgium?’
It was only a guess but it was obviously a good one. Kersta looked startled, then shocked.
‘Who…?’
‘Who told us? Never mind who told us. But it’s true, isn’t it? They knew, didn’t they? Perhaps they were involved. And they said they’d tell us if you didn’t help out with Sagassu’s wound.’
It had taken them a long time and the route to their goal had been slow and convoluted. But they’d got there in the end.
‘Let’s go over and see Deville,’ Pel suggested. ‘There’s a definite link between Maurice, Kersta, Léon and Deville. By his inability to stay in his own bed, Dr Kersta seems to have opened a few doors for us.’
Darcy was careful to make a clandestine inspection of Deville’s place for the operation they were planning. After the first few metres, its long drive was surrounded by foliage which had been allowed to become overgrown so that there was no room for two cars to pass. Lagé, who had been watching Rac, the other clay modeller, because Rac had seemed a better bet than Deville for a sojourn in Number 72, had been moved from Jouanot-le-Petit to Perrenet-sous-le-Forêt, and had established himself at the Hôtel des Beaux Arts, a place with bat-haunted outbuildings almost opposite the entrance to Deville’s property. He was trying to appear to be a salesman covering the district for a seed firm from Lyons and sat in the bar studying catalogues, pamphlets and small mysterious packages, or outside under the umbrella, a beer at his elbow, with a large notebook in which he kept making notes. When asked by the landlord why he didn’t go out and sell, he said he was new to the job and was still getting his act together. It didn’t take him long to notice activity at Deville’s.
‘He went off early,’ he reported. ‘And returned with a van. He’s been loading statues all morning.’
‘He’s bolting,’ Pel said. ‘With the loot.’
‘He’ll be seeing himself sitting in a bar in the States,’ Darcy grinned. ‘With a luxury flat just down the road and a bird ready to jump into bed with him.’
‘He’s going to get
a nasty surprise.’
‘If we block up that drive of his, there’s no way he can drive the van away.’
‘What about if he tried running away. On his own two feet?’
Darcy grinned. ‘I’ve thought of that. Behind the house there’s a big meadow that stretches across to the N74. You get into it from the N74 by a broken-down gate, but there’s a newish hedge at the back of the house and Deville could climb through and make his way across the field. He might even manage it – except that I’ll make a point of being ready for him if he tries.’
As they turned into the winding drive that led to Deville’s house, they saw a dark blue van parked by the door. It contained several of Deville’s ugly statues, and Deville, his beard trimmed and no longer in the clay-covered blue smock but wearing a smart suit and a butcher’s apron, was just emerging with another as they appeared. He stared at the two cars packed with cops for a moment.
‘Moving, are you?’ Pel asked.
‘I’m taking this lot to Marseilles,’ Deville explained. ‘They’re being sea-freighted to Singapore. They’d cost a bit going by air, after all.’
Pel nodded. ‘Got them insured?’
‘No. I didn’t think they were worth it. The arrangement’s that they were bought at a good price as originals and, if it’s required, they’ll be cast in bronze when they arrive. I’m going with them in case.’
Pel mused. ‘But they themselves have no value?’
Deville laughed. ‘It’s only modelling clay. It’s only because the Chink in Singapore wanted them I did so many.’
‘You were lucky to find your Chinese.’ For a while Pel stared at the statues. He was thinking of the one Nosjean had found at Annabelle-Eugénie Sondermann’s. Deliberately dropped, it seemed. Well, perhaps it wasn’t a bad idea. ‘Are they heavy?’ he asked.
‘A bit.’
‘Pick one up, Misset. You’re a strong type and you don’t use your muscles much.’
Misset got his arms round one of the statues and lifted. It seemed to be of a large toad and was as ugly as most of Deville’s models.
‘Heavy, is it?’
‘Yes, Patron.’
‘Lift it higher.’
Deville was watching nervously. ‘Take it easy,’ he said. ‘Those things are valuable.’
Pel eyed him. ‘I thought you said they weren’t.’
‘Well…’
Pel turned again to Misset. ‘Go on, Misset. Higher.’
Deville’s fists were clenched and he was struggling not to protest as Misset fought to lift the statue higher. ‘What is all this?’ he asked.
‘Don’t you know?’
‘I think you’re up to something.’
Pel smiled. ‘Yes,’ he admitted. ‘We are. Come over here with it, Misset. On to the stone patio.’
Misset struggled to do as he was told, watched by Deville in silent and terrified fascination.
‘Suppose you dropped it?’ Pel said.
‘It’d break, Patron.’
‘So it would. Right, drop it.’
‘Drop it, Patron?’
‘Drop it. Taking care that it doesn’t fall on your foot. You’re stupid enough.’
Misset scowled and, as a strangled cry was wrenched from Deville, he let the statue go. The base shattered and pieces flew in all directions. As the fragments scattered, Deville stared furiously at Pel then, spinning on his heel, bolted for the back of the house, where he ran straight into the arms of Darcy who had just crossed the field and stepped through the hedge into Deville’s garden.
‘Merde,’ Deville said bitterly.
Darcy beamed. ‘It’s a sentiment that’s often expressed when I appear,’ he said.
As he marched Deville back to the front of the house, he found Pel examining the statue Misset had dropped. A large piece had broken off the base. Concealed among the broken clay were two golden-yellow boules.
Misset stared at them and raised his eyes to Pel’s. ‘Boules?’ he said.
‘Boules,’ Pel agreed. ‘Now pick up another.’
Misset did so, frowning.
‘Drop it.’
This time the broken base revealed a bar of the same golden yellow metal. Along the edge of it were the letters NR and a number, and a stamped seal with the words, Johnson Matthey, Refiners, Melters, London.
A glance into the van revealed three wooden boxes containing chromium-plated boules.
‘I expect the boules trick was taking too long,’ Pel said, ‘and some of the stuff was still in its original form that day when we called on them. Maurice must have decided it was safer to get rid of it. I think we’ve found Murray’s bullion.’
That night they contacted Goschen and, without advising him – or anyone else either, for that matter – that they had found the missing bullion, asked him to warn them if there were any signs of activity round Harding’s house.
‘I take it you’re still keeping an eye on the place,’ Pel said.
‘Oh, yes. Not half.’
With what they’d discovered, they felt they were in a better position to handle Cavalin’s request.
‘That deal you were after,’ Pel announced when he appeared in his office. ‘It’s a dead letter. We’ve got the gold and we’ve got you.’
Cavalin gave a hoot of laughter.
‘You knew Deville had it, didn’t you?’
‘I was the only one apart from Maurice who did know. I was the only one Maurice trusted, and I think that fact will finally have dawned on Ourdabi. He’s not a fast thinker. That’s why I’m probably safer in jail than out. He doesn’t know where the gold went and I expect he’s looking for me to tell him. It would have been God help me if I’d still been free. I’d have been short of a few fingernails in no time.’ Cavalin paused and looked seriously at Pel. ‘I could still get Harding over here for you, Chief. And I would if you’d make it easy for Sidonie.’
Pel studied him in silence for a moment. There was something oddly attractive about Cavalin. He’d been aware of it all along. At first he’d thought it was just his good looks, his intelligence, that set him apart from the rest of Maurice’s boys, perhaps just his smile. But there was more to it than that. There was a kind of courage that enabled him to accept punishment so long as Maurice’s wife, for whom, it seemed, he had been carrying a torch for a long time, could go free.
He leaned forward. ‘Why’, he asked, ‘would Harding be inclined to listen to a promise from you to tell him where the gold is?’
‘Because I went with Maurice to London to make the arrangements.’
‘You’re guilty as hell then.’
‘I didn’t touch the gold.’
‘Suppose you did get in touch with the London end. How would they know it was you? They’ll need more proof than just a voice.’
‘There were code words.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I used them. We always used them when we talked on the telephone.’
‘Would they come if they thought you could lead them to the loot?’
‘You bet they would.’ Cavalin smiled. ‘There’s a hundred and fifty million francs’ worth of gold bullion. They’d surely take a risk for that. Especially as I expect they’re beginning to worry by now that it’ll disappear altogether if they don’t get their claws on it soon. They offered Maurice fifteen million francs to hide it but he decided he preferred the whole lot. If I told them I knew where it was, they’d come all right – if only to grab me. They’ll decide I know where it is and they’ll try to snatch me, as they tried to snatch Maurice, as a guarantee of getting it.’
Pel sat brooding. He would have liked to get Harding and his associates to France. He had a feeling that there weren’t many people close to Harding. Perhaps just the two who’d done for Maurice. A tip would certainly bring them across the Channel, but he didn’t trust Cavalin and he was not unaware that several of Maurice’s much-battered gang were still around – Sagassu, the Corsican, Bernard Guérin and the Humphrey Bogart type, Ourdabi. Two
of them weren’t much more than heavies, but Ourdabi had the look of a man with a cold ruthlessness who wouldn’t miss a trick.
Cavalin watched him. ‘I’d need protecting,’ he said. ‘Harding and his friends aren’t going to enjoy it.’
‘You’d be protected all right,’ Pel said grimly. ‘Have you got any ideas? They won’t walk into a trap.’
‘I could arrange to meet them on the road from Leu to Perrenet-sous-le-Forêt on the corner below Lordy. I could be waiting there. In my car. They know it. It’s the Range Rover you’ve got. I’d be alone. I’d suggest that I arrange for them to drive past me and then that I start up and follow them, pass them, and lead them to the gold at Deville’s where I assume you would already have made arrangements.’
‘Do you think they’ll fall for it?’
‘Yes. The way they’ll see it, there’ll be no waiting, and the road from Lordy to Perrenet’s open all the way and no place for an ambush. The way I’ll suggest, there’ll be no hanging around and, if they’re suspicious, all they’ll have to do is keep going. Besides, they’ll think they’ve got me. Me, Chief, not the gold. Me. Once they’re round the corner, they’ll stop and try to grab me.’
‘How do you propose to avoid that?’
‘By moving fast. Round the corner, the road widens into a sort of lay-by and they can’t block it if I don’t give them time. And if I get in front they won’t be able to pass me because the road twists too much. All they’ll be able to do is follow, and before they know what’s happening, I’ll be turning down the drive to Deville’s place. They’ll not notice they’re inside it until it’s too late. It starts as if it’s a road but then it narrows suddenly and once in you can’t turn round without going to the end. They’d have to follow.’
‘And then?’
‘Then it’s up to you.’
Pel studied the man at the other side of the table. ‘What about you? How do we know that once you’re behind the wheel of the Range Rover, you won’t bolt?’
‘You can have a man in the back. An armed man. That ought to be enough to guarantee I’ll do as I’m expected to do.’
‘Suppose Ourdabi’s around to make sure you don’t get away with it?’