Pel and the Party Spirit

by Mark Hebden

  Remarque laughed. ‘It’ll be a bit crowded in the square,’ he said. ‘Folk dancing. Kids from the school singing. We thought in front of the tower might give us a bit more elbow room. Not much point now, though. The tower isn’t there any more. I expect we’ll use the square.

  Aimedieu had always been interested in the theatre and wanted to know more. ‘How did you come to be an actor?’ he asked.

  ‘Me?’ Remarque shrugged. ‘We were a large family. There were four of us – two girls and two boys. We used to put on shows for friends. We were all good at it. Then it started to fall apart. One sister married and my brother went to Canada. The other sister–’ He shrugged. ‘–she just left home. Had a row with the Old Man and walked out. They were always rowing. People do. She wanted her own way. That left me. I decided to try my luck on the stage. I worked in Marseilles, Lyons, Bordeaux. Even a crummy little place in Royan that had started up. Then I was ill for a bit and when I got better there was nothing doing. So I did a bit of work in Goillac and a bit for a TV film company – make- up work; I was good at it – then I met Pierre and Gus here and the others and we started making a living putting on little shows.’

  Aimedieu studied them. ‘How do you put on a show with just three of you?’

  ‘Well, actually, there were seven of us originally but two of them – Richard and Eloïse – walked out on us and it just left the five of us.’

  ‘I gather it’s not playlets you’re doing now.’

  ‘No problem. We do anything.’

  ‘And the girls?’

  ‘Odile Daydé and Mercédes Flichy.’

  ‘Where are they?’

  Remarque looked at the other two. ‘They went home for a holiday before we start work. They’ll be back soon, I expect.’

  Four

  Madame Croissard was a sprightly old lady of eighty-odd, not at all the ogre Plessis, her niece’s husband, had made her out to be. Sure enough, her son-in-law was at the end of the street with his rod over the river. The sun had become hot suddenly and Pel wished he could join him.

  ‘It’s August,’ Madame Croissard explained. ‘It’s his holiday and he works hard. So why not? His wife’s out.’

  ‘It’s not your son-in-law or your daughter we’ve come to see,’ Pel said. ‘It’s you.’

  ‘What have I done?’

  ‘Nothing, madame. You just happened to have once been the owner of the Cat Tower in Puyceldome. We want to know something about it.’

  She beamed at them, decided they looked half-starved and made them sit down while she provided brandy, coffee and buns. ‘Now we can talk,’ she said. ‘I always say nobody can concentrate when he’s hungry. What’s the problem?’

  ‘The tower, madame. It’s just collapsed.’

  She gave a little giggle. ‘I always thought it might,’ she said. ‘In fact, I’ve been expecting the whole of Puyceldome to collapse into the river for some time. What happened? Did a lorry hit it? Those places weren’t made for modern traffic.’

  ‘No, madame. A lorry didn’t hit it. The new owner decided to open it up and it didn’t work. It fell down.’

  ‘When I sold the house I said it would. That was one of the reasons I sold it.’

  ‘Unfortunately, the man you sold it to sold it again within five years–’

  ‘I thought he wouldn’t stay. Too self-important.’

  ‘–and he doesn’t seem to have passed on the information about the tower to the next occupant, so that it also doesn’t appear to have reached the present owner.’

  ‘They should have come and seen me.’

  ‘I expect they’re wishing they had. How long did you live there?’

  ‘We took over the property in 1945. My husband was alive then and my children were still at home. They’ve all disappeared now. Two in the south, one in Paris. When my husband died it was too big for me, so I let it.’

  ‘A shrewd move, madame.’

  She smiled. ‘I thought so, too.’

  She had all her records and account books and all the letters that had been exchanged. She had also known everybody who had lived in the house and they all seemed to have been straightforward enough. Only the man Caillas looked doubtful; and that simply because he had taken the place on a mortgage but had suddenly disappeared and never returned. Since it had proved impossible to find out who he was or why he had disappeared so abruptly, and because only a deposit and one monthly payment had been made to the loan company, the house had reverted to the company.

  ‘What was he like, this Caillas?’

  Madame Croissard gestured, wagging a limp hand to and fro. ‘Just a man. Bit odd-looking. Big forehead. Lot of bounce. He started tinkering with the tower straight away. I told him it would collapse but he persisted in making what he called an “exploratory opening”. At the top, just under the slates of the turret. But within a fortnight or so the scaffolding disappeared and the hole was filled in and he vanished. Monsieur Poulex bought it after him. He wanted to put a staircase in. I told him it would collapse, too. He must have decided I was right because he never finished it and in the end he sold to an American – a Monsieur Keitzer. He was in films and had a lot of money. He opened up the salon with a big window that provided a view right across the valley, and had the place replumbed. But then he got bored and sold it and went back to America. A man called Duclose from Paris bought it. He wanted a weekend place but he died two years ago and his widow sold to some Rosbifs.’

  ‘Monsieur and Madame Briddon.’ ‘That’s right. He’s a writer.’

  ‘You know the history of the place well?’

  ‘I ought to. I was born in Puyceldome and lived all my life there until I sold out and went to live in the valley. I still know what goes on because I have a niece who runs the hotel and bar.’

  ‘We’ve met her.’

  ‘She keeps me in touch. She’s always coming to see me.’ Madame Croissard chuckled. ‘I think she’s after my money.’

  ‘Did you attempt to have the tower opened?’

  ‘No. My husband was advised not to. But I believe the people who had it before us tried. They didn’t get far either. Puyceldome’s old and the buildings are ancient and if you start tinkering with them they start falling down. When Monsieur Poulex started on the tower, I believe the man who was doing the job warned him it wasn’t safe and he soon bricked up the hole he made.’

  ‘This Monsieur Poulex? Do you happen to know where he lives?’

  ‘Jouissy. He has a business there. Supermarket. He fancied living in the country, I think, so he went to Puyceldome. But it was too cold for him. He now has a flat over his shop.’

  Poulex was an overweight man with a moustache. His shop was certainly called a supermarket but, in fact, it was nothing but a large general store run on supermarket lines, with plastic baskets for the customers and a check-out desk. It seemed to be prosperous and well run, however, and Poulex was so occupied with it they had to accept his apology that he was too busy and return an hour later when the rush had ceased. He turned out to be a self-important man who liked the sound of his own voice and was convinced that everybody in the world was out to do him down.

  ‘It wasn’t worth what was asked for it,’ he said. ‘They told me there had been an iron staircase inside the tower, but when I started to open it up to put one back in, the bricklayer told me it was dangerous. So I got someone else.’

  ‘Name of Lupin?’

  ‘That’s right. He quoted me a price that was far too high, but when I tried to find somebody else they all wanted the same. I think they get together, these country people, and think they can force us town-dwellers to pay what they ask. We had words.’

  ‘Perhaps it was just a fair price,’ Pel said mildly.

  ‘Never.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘I agreed in the end. But I had to be nasty about it. He started work and managed to get inside the tower through the top. He was in there for some time and then he came out and said it wasn’t possible,
that the stone was too worn or something, and the cement crumbling, and that if he touched it, the whole thing would come down.’

  ‘It seems he was right. It did. This morning.’

  Poulex looked startled. ‘It did?’

  It took some time to get him going again because he seemed to feel the collapse of the tower justified the words he’d had with his string of bricklayers, but they quietened down the complaints in the end and nudged him onwards.

  ‘Go on about Lupin.’

  Poulex drew a deep breath. ‘He finally said he’d have another go from the bottom. We had more words but in the end he opened up a hole. Not a very big one. Just big enough for him to wriggle inside. He was only a little type. Same result. He said it was too dangerous. He filled the holes – put back the stones – both at the top and bottom. Said it looked distinctly shaky. Even worked late into the night to finish it. In case it fell, he said. The next day he asked me to pay him. But you don’t usually pay on the dot, do you? You expect a month at least. He turned nasty and insisted. So I paid. That was the last I heard of him. The next I heard he’d gone to America.’

  ‘And you never heard from him again?’

  ‘Not a word. It was a very unpleasant business. He simply disappeared. I didn’t even get a receipt. When I tried to contact him by phone there was no reply. I even went to see him. But the house was empty and the neighbours didn’t know where he’d gone to.’ A thought occurred suddenly to Poulex, breaking through his feelings of martyrdom. ‘Why? What’s all this about? Have you found him? Because if you have I’d like to insist on that receipt. The money I paid is tax-deductible – preservation of ancient property – and I’ve never been able to claim.’

  Darcy glanced at Pel. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘we’ve certainly found someone.’

  ‘I could soon recognise him,’ Poulex said. ‘I’d like to see him. Where is he?’

  ‘Well,’ Darcy said cheerfully. ‘At the moment he’s in the morgue. But he was in the tower.’

  ‘In the tower. What was he doing in the tower?’

  Darcy shrugged. ‘He wasn’t doing anything,’ he said. ‘He was dead.’

  They had just reached the car again when the radio started squawking. It was headquarters.

  ‘The Chief thinks you ought to call in,’ they were informed. ‘There’s been another one.’

  ‘Another what?’

  ‘Another body. They’ve just reported finding it.’

  ‘Where? In the tower?’

  ‘No, Patron. In a wood off the N6 at Garcy-le-Noir. Sergeant Nosjean’s on his way. No identification yet. It’s a stabbing. Doc Minet’s deputy’s gone with Nosjean, and the Lab and Fingerprints have also sent someone.’

  Pel pondered on his staff. He could trust Nosjean because he had trained him himself. He would never be the policeman Darcy was because he wasn’t ruthless enough, but he used his brains. ‘Tell De Troq’ to join Nosjean for the time being,’ he said. ‘He’ll need help and De Troq’s free.’

  In fact, De Troq’ was anything but free.

  Feeling he was going to get nowhere with his informant, Marceau, he had gone home, put on his scruffiest clothes and a hat he’d bought to keep the sun out of his eyes in Tenerife the year before, and had started to follow the boy everywhere he went. It was nothing new. It was something he had been doing on and off for some time until he’d got to know not only the boy’s habits but also the habits of quite a few drug addicts. Then he’d noticed they were beginning to grow restless, visiting bars, talking in groups, and he had realised a new supply must be on the way. Marceau had confirmed it.

  Following him in his old clothes, he noticed Marceau and the other youngsters were congregating near the bandstand in the Parc de la Colombiere, and could only imagine they were waiting for Speedy Sam, their friendly neighbourhood pusher, to turn up, so he had recruited Brochard and Debray to help him, as Pel had instructed. He would need someone handy in case Speedy Sam ran for it.

  It had been raining and when he arrived at the bandstand, the paths and pavements were greasy with damp. He noticed at once that there were two or three youngsters hanging around, sitting on benches. They were all trying to look nonchalant and as if they were just enjoying the weather, but they were all nervous and he knew they were waiting for their pusher.

  Speedy Sam, when he arrived, was a surprise. He was a thin pale man in his forties, carrying his jacket over his arm. As he stopped by the bandstand to light a cigarette, one of the boys rose and went to meet him. They spoke for a second and something changed hands. De Troq’ moved forward, his hat pulled down, his hands in his pockets. Speedy Sam didn’t take alarm until he was within twenty metres of him, then he suddenly stared hard at De Troq’ and, with the highly-developed instinct of the guilty, guessed what he was and started to run. Out of the corner of his eye, De Troq’ saw Brochard stopping the boy who had bought from him, then he was after the pusher at full tilt.

  Speedy Sam was well named. He ran like a hare. De Troq’ was no mean sprinter, though, and he was fit and slim. Speedy Sam was older and couldn’t throw him off. As they reached the entrance to the park, twisting and turning, Speedy Sam dived into the crowd waiting to cross the road.

  Snatching people from his path, De Troq’ kept after him, closely followed by Debray. He saw the pusher on the pavement edge trying to halt his headlong rush, but his feet slipped on the damp paving. There was a scream of brakes and a heavy lorry swung violently and mounted the pavement. There were shouts and women’s shrieks; when De Troq’ arrived a girl was lying on the pavement in a dead faint, and the driver of the lorry, a man in his early twenties, was leaning against the wing of his vehicle, vomiting his heart up. There were a lot of blood splashes and what looked like brains, a pair of legs lying at strange angles under the wheels, and a running shoe in the gutter. The driver looked up as De Troq’ appeared, his eyes streaming, a string of bile hanging from his mouth.

  ‘He ran straight into me,’ he said.

  De Troq’ had just seen Speedy Sam off to the mortuary when Pel’s message arrived.

  It had been a revolting job digging him out from under the truck and, though De Troq’ personally hadn’t had to do it, he had had to be there to check the contents of his pockets. What he had found had provided clear and conclusive evidence that he had been carrying on a profitable business supplying the youth of the city, but it had taken a long time and De Troq’ was looking forward to a beer and a rest.

  He soon saw he wasn’t going to get either.

  In fact it looked like being a long night.

  By the time Nosjean reached Garcy-le-Noir it was already late. A constable was waiting to escort him to the scene of the incident but it was beginning to grow dark when they arrived and the trees were already shadowed and a mist was creeping between them. A police brigadier was waiting for them with another man who looked nervous and ill at ease. Other policemen had arranged a screen round the body and were erecting lights.

  ‘When I got here,’ the brigadier said, ‘there were five carrion crows going at him.’

  ‘I had to wave a blanket from the car to drive away the flies,’ the other man said. ‘So the brigadier could examine him.’

  ‘This is Alexandre Méline,’ the brigadier said, indicating his companion. ‘He found him. I’m Brigadier Varin. I’ve covered him with a plastic sheet. He’s been either stabbed or shot. Several times. I haven’t touched him. I thought you’d better get a look at him first.’

  Within a few minutes three more cars had arrived. They contained Doc Minet’s assistant, a young man with spectacles and a long neck with a very active Adam’s apple, called Cham; Du Toit, Leguyader’s assistant from the Lab; and Minoli, Prélat’s deputy from Fingerprints. Nosjean nodded, satisfied. They were all deputies, because the boss men were occupied at Puyceldome – even Nosjean was a deputy – but everything was well under control.

  He stared down at the body. It was that of a young man, dressed in trousers and shirt-sleeves. The sleeve
s were rolled up. The shirt had been saturated with blood which had soaked into the ground beneath him and dried. There were slashes on his cheek and forearms. He was lying on his back, dead ruined eyes staring upwards at the trees, and his possessions were scattered around him with the contents of the car – maps, dusters, registration papers and a few personal things from the glove pocket. The car wheel was in a pothole and the door hung open.

  ‘You’d better get the area staked off,’ Nosjean told the brigadier. ‘Have you taken a statement from Monsieur Méline?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘With his address?’

  ‘Everything. Home address and the address where he’s heading. He was on his way to see his mother, I understand. I had the office check with her by telephone. She’s expecting him and she vouches for him.’

  ‘Then we’d better let him get on his way, so long as he’s prepared to hold himself in readiness to be questioned again.’

  ‘Of course.’ Méline was beginning to enjoy himself now and was aware of the sensation that would be caused by his arrival in Clermont Ferrand. Half the family would be there waiting to find out the meaning of his brush with the police.

  A constable was assigned to drive him to the police station in Garcy where he had left his car, and Nosjean turned to the brigadier.

  ‘What have you found out so far?’ he asked.

  ‘I’ve been through the car. The registration papers were on the grass. They indicate that the owner – whom I’m assuming is him–’ The brigadier nodded at the dead man. ‘–is a Michel Vienne. Aged twenty-nine, Apartment 6, 8 Rue Plivier, Lyons. I think someone had started to drive the car away but it dropped a wheel in the pothole there, and they couldn’t get it out so they beat it, leaving the door open.’

  As soon as the photographers had finished, Du Toit’s Forensic boys started going cautiously through the dead man’s belongings.

  ‘Identification card,’ one of them said, holding the document out to Nosjean.

  There was no mistake. The picture on the identity card was that of the dead man, and the thumb print was identical to one they obtained from his limp thumb, and others which they found on the car.