Pel and the Sepulchre Job

by Mark Hebden

  ‘Did you see them?’

  ‘No. I wasn’t born then.’

  ‘Oh.’ It was time, Pel considered, to bring the conversation to a close. He was tired and hungry and he needed a drink. ‘I’ll have to be going,’ he said.

  ‘That’s all right,’ Yves said. ‘So will I.’

  As the door closed behind him, Madame Pel appeared from upstairs. She kissed Pel and headed for the drinks cupboard.

  ‘Next door’s son and heir’s eating us out of house and home,’ Pel observed mildly.

  ‘Oh, that’s normal enough,’ she said. ‘He does it every day.’

  ‘Can’t they afford to feed him?’

  ‘They probably need help. Small boys eat a lot. They have hollow legs, I believe.’

  ‘He’s going to be a frog. In a play.’

  ‘Yes.’ Madame had her head in the cupboard searching for bottles and glasses. ‘I offered to help them with the make-up. I used to be good at it.’

  They went into the salon. Mahler was being exhilarating on the record player but Madame turned him off hurriedly. She’d discovered that Mahler wasn’t conducive to good temper in her husband, who couldn’t tell a tune from a warthog. Though he was prepared for her sake to sit through a few of the more melodious bits of opera, he’d never had much time for Mahler. She poured him a whisky.

  ‘Are you making any progress?’ she asked.

  ‘No,’ Pel said.

  ‘What will they do with the money? They surely won’t be able to spend it.’

  ‘They could. It’s all old notes. Jewellery will disappear to Paris or Marseilles, I expect. But they’ll have to be careful. We’re keeping a sharp look-out. Somebody will slip up eventually.’

  ‘By spending too much?’

  ‘I doubt it. Overspending and not being careful was what caught those British train robbers. They’ll leave it alone for a long time, just spending a little here and there. They might even use it to finance something else so that in the end we’ll be searching for two lots of loot.’

  She nodded and yawned. Time to stop talking shop. Or Pel’s shop at least.

  While Pel’s investigation was proceeding at a minimal pace, Nosjean was suddenly having success beyond his wildest dreams.

  He hadn’t ever expected to turn up Colette Esterhazy again. A girl who was as clever as she was, as beautiful, as kind, as friendly, a girl who seemed to pick up admirers as a sheep in a hedgerow picked up burrs, would surely be at the other side of the world in the time it took to snap your fingers. She had with her two pictures worth over a million francs, which, as he well knew from what Mijo had told him, could easily be disguised as something less interesting and less valuable to get an export licence. With those she could live for some time. And with the skill she had, surely she could set herself up in some place like New York, Berlin, London, Madrid, and become an established painter under a false name? With the looks and charm she quite clearly possessed she could even end up marrying a Californian millionaire and in no time be living it up in San Francisco or somewhere like that.

  Not for a minute did he expect to find her quickly but he had reckoned without the way men notice pretty girls. Thinking about it later, he realised a girl like Colette Esterhazy couldn’t hide. She was too beautiful, too charming.

  With Mijo’s help he had warned dealers to be on the look-out. He had heard a whisper even that the pictures had been seen in Paris and had got in touch with the Art Dealers’ Association and told them he expected their full co-operation. They usually gave it under such circumstances because, when a warning of that sort was put out, it didn’t pay to handle anything even faintly fishy. To his surprise, within a few days he received a telephone call from Toulouse. Dealers were inclined to be secretive about their moves but the suggestion that a thief was involved always put them on the alert. They were not against selling something doubtful but where a charge of handling stolen goods was possible, they preferred to back off. The dealer in Toulouse, by the name of Maxime Havard, had had a Douanier Rousseau offered him two days before.

  ‘A Rousseau isn’t all that common,’ he explained. ‘He didn’t paint all that many and one offered by a beautiful woman stands in the memory.’

  ‘Did she give a name?’ Nosjean asked.

  ‘Yes. Angelique Leroux, with an address in Albi. I don’t think either was genuine because she had a bag with her with the initials CE on it and an old airport label which gave a different address in Beauvais.’ Havard had obviously been suspicious and, knowing the police were interested, had decided to take no chances.

  ‘Albi being the home town of Toulouse Lautrec and a bit paintable round the cathedral,’ he said, ‘it seems to breed artists and dealers like bad habits breed mice but I was still a bit startled by the offer when she mentioned that she might also be able to produce a Paot if I were interested. I was told you’re looking for a Rousseau and a Paot. The Rousseau’s A Scene Near Enghien, she said. The Paot’s a woodland glade with lots of reds, yellows and blues. Ring a bell?’

  ‘They certainly do. Is she coming back?’

  ‘I persuaded her to come with the pictures tomorrow afternoon. I expect you’ll want to be here.’

  It didn’t take long to persuade Pel to give permission for the journey to Toulouse.

  ‘I’ve found the paintings, Patron,’ Nosjean told him on the phone and during the night he roared down the motorway, driving like a maniac.

  Havard’s shop was situated close to the Basilica of St Sernin whose Romanesque architecture could be seen from the window. Havard was looking indignant. ‘She’s not coming,’ he said. ‘She rang first thing this morning to say she’d found another buyer. She said she was leaving Albi.’

  Nosjean frowned. ‘Where for?’

  ‘She didn’t say.’

  Nosjean’s enquiries led him nowhere and he set off home in a bad temper. He decided to try Colette Esterhazy’s old apartment. It was just possible that someone there might know of some other address she’d mentioned where she might possibly be hiding out.

  The door was opened by the daughter, Eloise Sadon. Through her glasses, her eyes shone with excitement. ‘But she’s here,’ she said. ‘She came back.’

  ‘What?’ Nosjean was amazed. ‘When did she come?’

  ‘Last night. She seemed upset. I think she’s been crossed in love. There was certainly a man in her life. I know that. I think he’s let her down.’ She had clearly been raised on copies of True Romance.

  He set off up the stairs at a run. There were a lot of them and he was panting as he reached the top, still unable to believe in his good fortune, and knocked on the door of the studio. There was no reply so he tried the door. It was unlocked and he eased it open slowly.

  Colette Esterhazy was sitting on a low stool. He knew at once it was her. He’d never met her but there couldn’t be two women as beautiful as she was. She lifted her head as he appeared and he knew at once why it was that Eloise Sadon had such a crush on her, why men like Distaing, Lepic and Leygues had been putty in her hands. She was one of the most striking women he’d ever seen. He’d gone through the usual crushes himself, moving from Brigitte Bardot to Charlotte Rampling to Catherine Deneuve. He’d been in love with them all and, taking them as his standard, he’d fallen in love with a whole series of girls who’d looked like one or another. He’d even been in the habit of classifying girls – as astrologers classified their subjects: an Aries, a Pisces, et cetera – as Deneuves, Ramplings or Bardots. Mijo Lehmann was a Rampling as Colette Esterhazy was a Deneuve. He realised that, but for Mijo Lehmann, he could just as easily fall in love with Colette Esterhazy

  Her features were exact and her nose was small and straight. Her mouth and chin were wonderfully chiselled and she had that great gift of God, huge brown eyes with naturally blonde hair. And when she stood up he saw her figure was as near perfect as it could be.

  He sighed.

  She looked straight at him and he could see she had been weeping. Unlike most girls,
however, weeping didn’t seem to detract from her looks. Almost the contrary.

  ‘Colette Esterhazy?’ he asked, though he knew the question was pointless. She was quite obviously Colette Esterhazy.

  She nodded. ‘Yes,’ she said and her voice was as good as the rest of her, low and melodious.

  ‘I think we need to talk.’ Nosjean flipped open his identity card with its red, white and blue stripes. ‘I’m Jean-Luc Nosjean. Sergeant. Brigade Criminelle.’ He didn’t know why he gave her his full name. He didn’t normally when faced with wrongdoers. It just seemed to make things gentler and he had a feeling he needed to be gentle. ‘I have good reason to believe you have here two pictures, one a Rousseau, one a Paot, the property of the Musée des Arts Modernes.’

  She gazed at him with her huge eyes. ‘No,’ she whispered. ‘They’re not here.’

  ‘They’re not?’ Nosjean’s heart sank. He looked about him. Beyond the girl and the small overnight bag alongside her, there was nothing more in the room than there had been when he had last seen it. ‘Then where are they?’

  ‘I haven’t got them.’

  ‘That seems clear. But you had them the day before yesterday. You offered them to a dealer called Havard in Toulouse.’

  ‘Yes. But I haven’t got them now.’

  ‘Why did you break your appointment to take them to him?’

  ‘Because I hadn’t got the pictures any more.’

  ‘So where are they?’

  ‘I…’ She paused. ‘He said…’

  ‘Who said?’

  ‘He’s a friend.’ She sighed. ‘That’s all. Just a friend.’

  ‘And what did he say?’

  ‘I…’ She paused again. ‘I can’t tell you.’

  ‘Has he got the pictures?’

  ‘I can’t say.’

  ‘Why not?’

  She didn’t answer.

  ‘Did you let this friend have the pictures?’

  ‘I…I suppose so.’

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘I can’t tell you that.’

  ‘You were hoping to sell the pictures, weren’t you? To Havard.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why did you change your mind?’

  ‘He said…’

  ‘Who said? This friend?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, come on. What did he say?’

  ‘I…I’ve forgotten.’

  ‘Why did you come back here?’

  ‘I’ve nowhere else to go.’

  ‘I think you’ll have to accompany me to the Hôtel de Police. Do you realise that?’

  Her expression was so forlorn Nosjean felt a brute. ‘Yes,’ was all she replied.

  ‘I’ve got a car. You’d better bring your bag.’ In addition to her personal belongings there might be an address book, a letter, something to indicate the identity of the friend who, Nosjean was certain by this time, had the missing pictures. She nodded and picked up the bag.

  ‘It’s not much. Have you nothing else?’

  ‘Not here,’ she said. ‘They’re all at my friend’s.’

  ‘Hadn’t we better go and collect them?’

  She was too clever to fall for that. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I’ll manage.’

  As they walked to the car, followed by the agonised eyes of Eloise Sadon, Nosjean found he was carrying the bag for her. She gave him no trouble but walked quietly alongside. As he unlocked the car, she climbed into the front passenger seat and sat silently.

  ‘You did take those pictures from the Musée des Arts Modernes, didn’t you?’ Nosjean asked as he climbed in beside her, very conscious of her presence and the perfume she wore.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I took them.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because…I…he said…’ She stopped. ‘I don’t know.’

  There was obviously a story behind the theft and Nosjean was intrigued to find out what it was. He felt he was in the presence of a tremendous personal tragedy, small enough against the evil that existed in the world but to this girl clearly world-shattering in its importance. She was shocked, broken, disillusioned by treachery, but she could offer nothing in exchange except loyalty. She was saying nothing.

  ‘You realise you could go to prison, don’t you?’

  She gave him a frightened look that touched his heart. ‘Prison?’

  ‘You’ve committed a felony. You stole two pictures worth a great deal of money. Did you know they were worth a lot?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ she whispered. ‘I knew.’

  ‘Where are they now?’

  She studied him for a moment, then she shook her head and looked away. ‘I can’t say,’ she repeated.

  When Pel returned to his office an exhausted Nosjean was waiting for him. He looked worried.

  ‘Let’s have it, mon brave,’ Pel said.

  ‘I’ve picked up Colette Esterhazy,’ Nosjean reported.

  ‘And the pictures?’

  ‘She hasn’t got them. I’ve just brought her in. I think she’s been made a sucker by some type she was in love with.’

  ‘It happens.’ Pel spoke from experience. He’d been made a sucker by girls many times in his youth and he still remembered the inadequacy he had felt.

  ‘She was obviously persuaded to make the copies as a means of walking away with the originals. Or else she just happened to be making the copies and was persuaded to switch them.’

  ‘Either way, she still walked away with them.’

  Nosjean sighed. ‘Yes.’

  Pel eyed him sideways. He’d known Nosjean a long time, from the days when he’d been a nervous young cop bleating about his expenses and not having enough time off. He’d grown up a lot since then but there was still a part of him that hadn’t changed much. He could have been a marvellous cop but for that. Pel remembered the procession of Nosjean’s girlfriends and the crushes he’d had.

  ‘I hear she’s very beautiful,’ he murmured.

  ‘She is, Patron.’ Nosjean paused. ‘And from what I’ve learned about her, the rest of her goes with it. Everybody likes her – even women. Men fall for her. She’s kind, gentle, clever – all the rest. And a bit disingenuous. I think she’s had a raw deal and I’m wondering if I can’t make it a bit easier for her.’

  ‘The law won’t look at it that way, mon brave.’

  ‘No,’ Nosjean agreed. ‘But I’d like to find the type behind it. I might, if only I could persuade her to give me his name.’

  Pel nodded. But he wondered how difficult Nosjean was going to find that.

  Eleven

  The weather grew colder and more snow came so that the city looked pretty under its white mantle. It was an old city of solemn buildings and odd angles that belonged to the Middle Ages so that you tended as you rounded a corner to expect a woman in a wimple or a man in coloured hose carrying a sword. It was known as the city of a hundred belfries but at the moment the bells sounding for Mass sounded eerily muffled and anybody in wimples and coloured hose would also have needed to wear fur hats and galoshes.

  There was a partial thaw and a sprinkle of rain, then finally the frost came down, solid and hard.

  Because much of the country was surrounded by sea, the climate of France was normally temperate. The summers were gentle as a rule and, apart from in the Alps, Pyrenees and the mountainous areas of the Massif Central, the winters were not usually harsh. Every now and then, however, maverick conditions occurred and when they did so at the end of the year the weather came straight from the Russian Arctic. This year was an example.

  Under leaden skies, cars skated about and refused to start in the morning. Motorcycles slipped from between their riders’ legs as they turned corners. Plumbers found themselves in great demand as pipes were blocked solid with ice, and house owners trying to thaw them out found water coming through ceilings and under doors. And, incredibly, for the first time in years the canal froze: good, solid, thick ice that brought the barges to a standstill, roped alongside each other, the iron chimneys protruding
from their cabin roofs, red hot with the stoking of the stove in the cabin below.

  Nosjean was still trying to get Svengali’s name from Colette Esterhazy. She was in the women’s wing of 72, Rue d’Auxonne and it was obvious her charm had worked on her jailers. She had been given one of the better cells and was left alone.

  ‘She does what she has to do without complaint,’ the Matron told Nosjean. ‘She tidies her cell and keeps herself clean. She’s even a help in some ways because she asked if she could have a sketching pad and she entertains some of the other women by drawing their faces. Half of them have their portraits hanging up in their cells now. She’s good.’

  ‘Given a chance,’ Nosjean said feelingly, ‘I think she could one day be great.’

  Despite his sympathy, however, he got nowhere with the girl. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘why protect this man? He’s got you into a whole heap of trouble. Let’s have his name and we’ll pick him up. He deserves to be where you are.’

  ‘What will they do to me?’

  Nosjean suspected that when she appeared before the magistrates, she’d have the same effect on the red robed splendour on the bench that she had on him and everyone else. They’d be influenced by her simplicity and her beauty, as he was, as her landlady, her landlady’s daughter, Distaing, Leygues, everybody, had been, and deal leniently with her. After that, if she could only forget the bastard who’d led her astray, there was every chance she could pick up where she had left off.

  But it had obviously caused her suffering and Nosjean’s heart – a very soft heart where pretty women were concerned – bled for her.

  ‘All we want is a name,’ he said.

  ‘I can’t give you one,’ she insisted.

  ‘You know his name?’

  ‘Oh, yes. I know his name.’

  ‘Did you live together?’

  ‘On and off.’

  ‘Where?’