by Mark Hebden
‘It wouldn’t have had to be expensive. Gabrielle Muchonne said they didn’t have any money.’
‘Well,’ De Troq’ said, ‘if they were prepared to offer themselves for money the following day, the chances are that they were also willing to do it the night before. Which seems to indicate that they probably tried to find some man who would provide them with a roof and a bed in return for a bit of nooky.’
‘If they were minors no man’s going to admit to doing that.’
‘Perhaps they aren’t minors. Perhaps they just look like minors.’
‘Beaune’s not a big town. Thirty thousand? About that. I bet we could find out if they’d been trying it on. The square’s where all the prostitutes go. There’s a bar they use. The Camion Rouge.’
It didn’t take long. The obvious people to ask if a couple of under-age females had been trying to pick up men were the local prostitutes. There were two of them in the Camion Rouge, sitting at one of the tables, drinking coffee and smoking. Their faces lit up at once when Nosjean and De Troq’ appeared and eyed them. They broke into smiles as they crossed the bar and sat down opposite.
‘Hi, cheris,’ one of them said. ‘I’m Maureen. You looking for a nice time?’
Nosjean grinned and fished out his identity card. ‘Police,’ he said.
Her face fell. ‘Oh, Mother of God! Trust me to pick a flic for the first customer of the night.’
‘Keep your hair on,’ Nosjean said. ‘We’re not the Vice Squad.’
‘What are you into then?’
‘Murder. We’re looking for a couple of kids – girls. We think they might have been around the square here. We think they’re on the game but they’re travelling – and we thought you might have noticed them since you have an interest in anything of that sort that goes on.’
The woman frowned. ‘You sure you’re not going to run us in?’
‘We’ve got better things to do.’
‘On the knock, were they?’
‘We think so.’
‘Two kids!’
‘Two girls. Both young.’
‘Holy Mary, it’s amazing what girls get up to these days.’
The other woman leaned forward. ‘There were two kids outside one night trying their luck.’
‘On the third?’
‘About then?’
‘Did anyone go with them?’
‘They were too young. They didn’t look very clean either. As if they were sleeping rough.’
‘What happened?’
‘We saw them try one or two types, but then they disappeared in the direction of the Ste Marie Youth Hostel.’
‘Which is where?’
‘Montier-les-Bains.’
‘Thanks. You’ve been very helpful.’ Nosjean put some coins on the bar. ‘Let’s have drinks for the ladies, Patron,’ he instructed.
The two women beamed. ‘Next time I’m arrested,’ Maureen said, ‘can I arrange for you to do it, sergeant?’
They could hardly imagine that the two girls they were seeking would have given their correct names at the youth hostel, which, like other youth hostels, would have insisted in its own interest on having names. But perhaps the two girls had been too tired or too tensed up – even too drugged up – to care and had given their correct names for once. The names they got were Fanny Corton and Anne-Marie Sorois and they just had to hope they were genuine.
It turned out that they weren’t, because one of the girls had been heard to call the other ‘Sonia’ and that girl had called the first one ‘Gaby’.
‘So their names are Gabrielle Something and Sonia Something,’ Nosjean said. ‘Well, that’s another step forward. Let’s see if we can find two girls with those names who know each other – at schools, perhaps, in families, in hospitals, in reformatories or prisons.’
De Troq’ gave him a sideways glance. ‘We’ve got quite a job on.’
Nosjean shrugged. ‘Haven’t we always?’ he said. ‘Isn’t that what we’re here for?’
Twelve
If you weren’t Sherlock Holmes – and Pel wasn’t and didn’t even fancy the idea because he thought Sherlock Holmes a pompous ass – police work, you found, didn’t depend on brilliant deductions but attention to detail.
And detail was something he was always pushing at his team.
‘Detail,’ he claimed. ‘The little details that are easily overlooked. Team work. Team spirit.’ It was just what Brisard had suggested, but coming from Pel it was different.
On the whole, with the certain exception of Misset, his team tried to remember his advice. Detail, of course, depended also on one’s ability to spot it and not everybody possessed that valuable asset. Darcy was one who did.
His first efforts with the lists provided by Hubards, Passonis and Hotners were not very successful. A lot of the men were retired, a lot were even dead. And nobody seemed to remember a large beefy man with red hair and a big nose. Working painstakingly through Hubards’ list and Passonis’ list, he was beginning to despair of getting anything from Hotners’ list when a man called Aloïs Mauff came up trumps.
‘I remember a chap like that,’ he said. ‘Big. Red hair. A beak of a nose. Worked at Orvault.’
‘It sounds like him,’ Darcy said. ‘What was his name?’
‘I don’t know. I was only about nineteen when I was working for Hotners. I was still an apprentice bricklayer. I didn’t know the older people there.’
Charming, Darcy thought bitterly. But, at least, he seemed to be on the right track. There had been a big man with red hair and a large nose.
Then Mauff lifted his heart. ‘My father would have known him though,’ he said. ‘He worked there too. He’d be about the same age.’
‘I’d like to see him.’
‘It’ll be a bit difficult.’
‘Don’t say he’s dead?’
Mauff grinned. ‘No. He’s not dead. He’s in Sicily.’
Darcy was eager to get in touch with the older Mauff. ‘Got his address?’ he said.
‘No. He’s on a bus tour with a lot of golden oldies. Pensioners. Women mostly. It’s some club he belongs to. He’s seventy-three and a widower and he likes the ladies. He says that one of these days he’ll be back with a new wife and this time, he says, he’ll pick one with a lot of money.’
‘When will he be back?’
‘End of the week.’
‘Where does he live?’
‘Two doors away from me. Just down the street. Me and my wife are keeping an eye on the house till he comes back. I’ll give you a ring.’
It meant containing their souls in patience until Mauff senior returned from his old folks’ outing. But there was plenty else they could do in the meantime. Le Bernard, basking in his importance as consultant to the police, kept contacting Aimedieu and the local cops with wild theories, while efforts were also being made to find the address of the bricklayer, Lorick Lupin, who had gone to America and made himself a fortune.
Then Leguyader produced a new angle in the shape of a coin. He appeared in Pel’s office, dancing about like a poodle wanting to be let out.
‘Well, go on,’ Pel said. ‘You’d better tell me before you burst.’ Leguyader produced a small plastic bag and emptied its contents on to the desk. ‘Coins,’ he said mysteriously.
‘I can see that,’ Pel said. ‘I assume there’s something special about them or you wouldn’t be here with them.’
‘Found under the body in the tower,’ Leguyader said. ‘All normal coins. Cleaned up, of course. All in circulation thirty years ago. No modern coins like the ten-franc piece, for instance. And–’ He fished out another plastic bag. ‘–this.’
The second bag contained a single coin which he laid on Pel’s desk as reverently as if it were the Holy Grail. It was yellow and wasn’t any coin Pel had ever seen before.
‘Sorry I took so long.’ Leguyader was uncharacteristically friendly and Pel immediately suspected an attempt to score off him. ‘It was encrusted with dirt and took
a long time to clean. And we’ve been a little busy lately, of course. Two stiffs in one day and then another – poor Burges – to follow.’
Pel leaned forward, pulling his spectacles down off his forehead so he could see through them.
‘What is it?’
‘It’s not a modern coin. Nor is it thirty years old. Much older. It’s not even French.’
‘So?’
‘It’s a Maria Theresa.’
‘What’s a Maria Theresa?’
‘An Austrian coin. It’s worth a lot of money.’
‘It has some significance?’
‘Oh, yes,’ Leguyader said cheerfully. ‘It has a lot of significance. To you.’
‘Why?’
‘It came from the Cat Tower. We found it with the others.’
‘It was in his pocket?’
Leguyader was enjoying himself. ‘Where else would it be? But this one’s rather different, isn’t it? It’s gold. I’ve checked.’
‘Gold?’ Pel looked at the coin as if it might leap off the desk and punch him on the nose.
Leguyader smiled. ‘It’s surely strange for a common or garden labourer or bricklayer to be wandering around with gold coins in his pocket,’ he said. ‘Especially coins as old as that. It seems to need explaining. It’s very valuable.’
As Leguyader marched out, satisfied at having given Pel something difficult to think about, Pel called Darcy in.
As he entered, Pel gestured at the coins Leguyader had left. ‘From the Cat Tower,’ he said. He pointed to the single coin resting on its own away from the others.
‘This one,’ he went on. ‘It’s a Maria Theresa, Leguyader says. Know anything about Maria Theresas?’
Darcy shrugged. ‘Nothing, Patron. Austrian, I suppose. Didn’t they have an empress of that name?’ He peered at the coin. ‘But she was a long time ago. Gold, I’d say.’
‘Leguyader says it is gold. He tested it.’
‘Is it important?’
‘It might be. It was found with these others where our unidentified friend had been lying. They must have been underneath him and we decided they’d fallen from his pocket as his overalls rotted. Remember? This one seems to be different, though. Leguyader says it’s very valuable and I expect he’s right. He usually is. If so, what was our friend in the Cat Tower doing with it in his pocket?’
Darcy frowned. ‘Perhaps it wasn’t in his pocket,’ he suggested. ‘Perhaps it was in the tower when he was put inside. Or when he climbed inside of his own accord. Perhaps that’s why he climbed inside.’
‘For one coin?’ Pel looked very sceptical.
‘It would be worth a bit to a collector, I imagine, but on its own it doesn’t constitute a fortune. So, if that’s the reason our friend was in the tower, perhaps there were more than one. Perhaps some had been hidden there.’
‘I wonder if there’s something special about it. Think Nosjean’s girl friend, Mijo Lehmann, would tell us?’
‘She’d certainly know.’
‘Give her a ring and ask her if I can call on her.’
Darcy grinned. ‘Why don’t you take her out to lunch, Patron? She’s attractive enough.’
Pel nodded and decided he might.
Mijo Lehmann was small and dainty, with the sort of face that could never be called pretty but had a sort of elfin charm that touched Pel. It had certainly touched Nosjean. She grinned at Pel.
‘Come to look me over, Chief Inspector?’ she asked as he ordered aperitifs.
‘Should I?’
‘Jean-Luc Nosjean and I are thinking of getting married.’
‘Oh! Congratulations.’
‘But not just yet.’
Though she wasn’t a numismatist, she knew all about Maria Theresas.
‘It’s a special sort of coin,’ she said. ‘The sort governments use to pay other governments with when they want a favour.’
‘What sort of favour?’
‘Political. Changing sides or defecting. In wartime. There are Maria Theresas, American silver dollars, British sovereigns, Napoleons, Louis-d’or, reis, guineas, and a few others. They’re well known for use as bribes when it’s an advantage for some rebel colonel to take over and topple an awkward government. The British used them in North Africa during the war there to keep the North African tribes quiet during the desert campaign. The Austrians used them in Italy at the time of Garibaldi to bribe his followers to defect. We used them in Morocco and Algeria at the time of independence. I expect we used them in Indo-China when it belonged to us, to try to get their leaders to support us when the Vietcong were getting organised. I’m surprised you’ve got hold of it.’
‘Why?’
‘They’re pretty closely guarded on the whole. There are a few in private collections but most of these things – like silver dollars and Napoleons – are in banks, and belong to governments, who keep them for such emergencies as I’ve described. Where did you get it?’
Pel looked puzzled. ‘In a tower in Puyceldome,’ he said. ‘A tower which was built in the thirteenth century and hadn’t been opened for thirty years. It was found under the body of a man we found there.’
Mijo gave him a quizzical look. ‘It isn’t worth much on its own,’ she said, repeating Pel’s own words. ‘But a lot would be worth a fortune. If somebody found them I reckon they must have asked around to see what they were worth – at museums, numismatists, antique shops. If I were you, Chief Inspector, I’d ask around, too – to see who it was.’
Thirteen
The holiday period progressed. It was well into its stride now. Indeed, though the party spirit was still going strong, the period was almost past its best. The tourists were beginning to show a jaded look and were belting about with less enthusiasm, especially since it was now very hot indeed. There were even complaints about the loudspeakers planted in towns and villages, and the heat was beginning to get on the nerves. For the young and those unencumbered with responsibilities, however, it was a good period because every resort was working at full blast and in the countryside where, once the cold came, they sealed up everything for the winter and people often didn’t see their neighbours for days, they were taking every advantage of the warmth to throw their village parties.
Didier had duly met Bernadette Buffel at the fireworks at Gonne and plucked up courage to ask her to go with him to the disco at Argentre. There, he asked if she’d go to the sardinage at St Just. She would.
Ellen Briddon’s warmth towards Aimedieu was also beginning to progress beyond mere friendship to something a little deeper – deep enough, in fact, for Aimedieu to start to worry about it and realise that something would have to be done soon about pulling out before George Briddon returned from England.
It rained the day before the sardinage at St Just but on the day of the event it miraculously brightened up and the heat came back, but with a fresher feeling brought by the downpour of the previous day.
Tables had been set up under the trees in the valley by the river. A carousel and swings had been erected for the children, a bar and ice cream stall had been established, and three men with accordions were bashing out romance on a raised dais.
As it grew dark, coloured lights were switched on and the smell of grilling fish began to drift across the valley. Men and women with baskets containing mountains of bread appeared, followed by more with plates of melon and bottles of port wine. To his surprise, Didier found himself sitting opposite Aimedieu who was accompanied by Mrs Briddon. Her husband was still in England attending to the last of his business and she was flattered to have been invited, feeling she was at last being allowed into the closed community of the countryside.
The melon was followed by tuna fish on rice and bottles of local wine.
‘“Black” wine,’ Aimedieu explained. ‘The growers are supposed to send all they make to the co-operative but a few keep a bit back for their friends. That’s where this came from. It’s cheaper. Le Bernard fixes it. He fixes everything.’
Mrs Briddon w
as in transports of delight, not only to be there but also because Aimedieu was handsome and the lights and the wine were making her feel romantic. As the plates of smoking sardines appeared she beamed around her.
‘Why sardines?’ she asked. ‘We’re hundreds of miles from the sea.’
Aimedieu shrugged. ‘Sardines are cheap just now,’ he explained. ‘That’s all.’
A few people began to dance to the accordions and Ellen Briddon looked appealingly at Aimedieu. As they danced she clung to him as if she’d fall down if she let go and he broke off as soon as he could. As they regained their seats, Le Bernard was sitting next to him and, to break the spell, he turned to the old stonemason.
‘Heard any more of the ghost?’ he asked.
‘Last night,’ Le Bernard said. ‘I expect he was cold. It was chilly after the rain.’
‘It’s the wind.’
‘There wasn’t any wind last night.’
‘Maybe a cat trapped in one of the underground tunnels.’
Le Bernard obviously didn’t agree.
‘Has it happened before?’
‘Oh, yes. When we were having the 700th anniversary celebrations. Somebody told the Minister who came. He thought it was funny. It turned out to be a lost dog.’
Le Bernard fished in his pocket and produced a battered wallet. ‘I’ve still got a photograph.’
‘Of the ghost?’
‘No. The celebrations.’
The photograph was an old snapshot and it was cracked and bent but it clearly showed the square at Puyceldome. It was packed with people, all grimacing at the camera beneath banners floating from the walls in the breeze.
‘That’s the Minister,’ Le Bernard said. ‘He made a speech. That’s me standing next to him.’
Aimedieu peered at the picture. The Minister, fat and pompous-looking, was obvious. A younger Le Bernard was peering round his elbow, obviously determined to be in the picture. In the background, just visible, was the Cat Tower, complete with ladder and, at the top, what looked like scaffolding. Aimedieu passed the picture to Ellen Briddon.
‘That’s your tower thirty years ago,’ he said.