Pel and the Party Spirit

by Mark Hebden

  ‘Everything’s my business. I’m a cop.’

  ‘Ah!’ She grinned at him. ‘Pity I’m not staying. I always got on well with the fuzz.’

  By dusk, Puyceldome was more than ready. The folk dancing and the chorus singing by the children from the school had been going on during the afternoon as a sort of curtain raiser and there were people in the square all day. The folk dancing had been a little confused, and, while the parents of the children had undoubtedly enjoyed hearing their offspring perform, nobody else showed much excitement. The high spot was the medieval evening.

  As it grew dark the kitchen of the hotel became red-hot with the cooking and the oaths of the chef, one of the maids had had nervous hysterics and was being offered extra pay not to let the side down, while old Le Pape, lechery all over his face, was trying to persuade the landlord to get the girls to undo the buttons of their blouses and show a little more bouncing bosom in the best free and easy medieval style.

  The tourists were already in position behind the tables. The sky was dark and the floodlights that had been erected and the torches flaring in their niches in the ancient walls gave the scene an air of unreality as the maids streamed out carrying the wine and the bread and the boar stew.

  ‘But it’s wonderful,’ Ellen Briddon said as she arrived with Aimedieu. She was delighted to be there – if only as a spectator among the villagers and the noisy children – and delighted with his company. She had fed and watered him and was in a romantic mood and hoping to enjoy the evening.

  She was excited as she pushed with him into the square. It was packed with people, the arcades crowded, the four entrances, one at each corner, jammed tight.

  ‘It looks medieval,’ she crowed.

  It did look medieval, Aimedieu had to admit. The atmosphere was right and the ancient houses against the deep purple of the sky looked like a film set. But, he reminded himself, these were real houses, not wood and plasterboard constructions, and they were inhabited by modern people who were actually hanging out of their windows to watch the spectacle. The only artificial note, apart from the tourists at the tables armed with video cameras and flashlights, was the screen of canvas and wood in the doorway of the Mairie which, in addition to obscuring the modern furnishings inside, also hid the electronic gadgets and modern instruments of the group which was to play for dancing when the medieval entertainment finished.

  The boar stew went down as well as Le Pape and Serge Vitiello, the artist and only other active member of the entertainments committee, had expected. Nobody questioned that it was cheap to produce, though it was costing them a small fortune, and the wine helped. A few pieces of bread were thrown and one of the older tourists tried to kiss one of the maids. Le Pape seemed to have had his way about the buttons and the girls had entered into the spirit of the thing and there now seemed to be acres of bouncing flesh on display.

  As the plates were cleared, the tourists sat back expectantly and, as he pushed through the excited children, Aimedieu bumped into De Troq’. Aimedieu had already seen Didier Darras chasing Le Bernard’s granddaughter and it seemed that all of that half of Pel’s squad which wasn’t deployed around Guinchay and Treffort was on hand.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ he asked.

  ‘Following a hunch,’ De Troq’ said. He was with a girl Aimedieu recognised from the Palais de Justice and he seemed to be studying a young man near the bar.

  ‘Following somebody?’ he asked.

  ‘Might be.’

  ‘Gangster?’

  De Troq’ smiled. ‘No. Just a carpenter.’

  As Aimedieu found Ellen Briddon a seat, Mercédes Flichy climbed to the top of the boarded-up well. She was dressed in gaudy red and yellow, in a wimple, a spire-like head-dress and a long gown. Odile Daydé took up a position alongside her, in her hands not a guitar but what Aimedieu assumed was a lute. As she began to play, Mercédes Flichy started singing. She had no voice and she seemed to be flat all the time, but the song was a typically tuneless medieval ballad and the tourists, full of food and wine, didn’t care anyway.

  As the song finished, Remarque appeared, turning somersaults and walking on his hands in the manner of medieval tumblers. He was dressed as a jester. Béranger, dressed as the Devil, wandered along the fringe of the crowd, whirling two blazing torches made of tarred rope wound round pieces of broom handle, the flames sharp against the old stone. To the beating on a long drum played by Odile Daydé, Mercédes Flichy ran into the square again, now wearing a medieval mask with a long pointed nose, padded trousers and festoons of floating ribbons, and started to dance.

  Like the song, which hadn’t been much of a song, it wasn’t much of a dance, and to Aimedieu the Flichy girl seemed to be making it up as she went along. It involved a little hip-wiggling and the pointing of toes, though there wasn’t a lot of rhythm. But Odile Daydé knew how to play a lute and it made the dance seem better than it was, especially with Remarque and Béranger prancing round the fringes, whirling torches.

  As the long tables of tourists broke into applause, Béranger began to ignite magnesium flashes which filled the square with bright light and rolling white smoke. In the glare, with the prancing figures in the middle, it all looked a little mad, and the excitement set the children screaming.

  The bar was doing a roaring trade and the tourists and the campers started leaping about with flash cameras, taking pictures of the performance. Fireworks were being thrown and already the local police had picked up two pickpockets who had journeyed from Goillac specially for the performance.

  Then Gus Blivet appeared, walking on high stilts, dressed in black and white, his hair jelled into a high coxcomb. A spotlight was directed on the third-floor window of the Mairie from which hung a long knotted rope, and Remarque began to climb out. With one leg over the sill, he lifted a bottle to his lips and blew a long jet of flame across the front of the old building. As he wiped his mouth, tucked his bottle of spirits into a pocket and continued his climb to the ground, Odile Daydé dropped her lute and began to skip with a burning rope. Béranger’s Devil gave shouts of mad laughter and started to juggle with three burning torches.

  The show went on for a good hour and was, everybody felt, well worth the money, though a few of the tourists had noticed by now that the square was full of townspeople who had got in for nothing to see something for which they had just paid through the nose. Nevertheless, everybody was happy. The tourists were sated with drink, food and medieval happenings and Ellen Briddon was trying hard to inveigle Aimedieu into her bed. He was pretending to be a bit dim and she wasn’t making a lot of progress.

  She had her camera with her and was taking photographs as if there were no tomorrow, snapping the Molière group, the buildings, even the unbosomed maids carrying away the dirty crockery and glasses – but always including Aimedieu in the corner. He suspected that whatever happened afterwards she would enjoy showing them to her friends in Surbiton and weaving a few spicy stories round them. It didn’t worry Aimedieu. He’d had women admire him before and it didn’t go to his head.

  She was still taking pictures as the performance finished and the performers gathered in the corner by the bar and began thirstily to swallow beers. Aimedieu could understand their need. If he’d been filling his mouth with a mixture of paraffin and methylated spirits half the evening, he’d have needed something to take the taste away. As Ellen Briddon took another picture of him, he gently took the camera from her.

  ‘Oughtn’t I to take one of you?’ he asked and she gave him a happy smile.

  ‘Any special background?’ he asked.

  ‘Just the square and the people. Against the bar perhaps. Something real and French.’

  He took the picture against the background of the bar where the Molière Company were drinking. They had stripped off their jesters’ clothes, their masks and the Devil’s costume, and wiped the make-up from their faces. He used the flash and she turned on a radiant smile for him.

  ‘Shall I wind it on?�
� he asked.

  ‘You can’t. That’s the last of the film. I can’t wait to get them developed. How long do they take?’

  ‘Here, five days. At the supermarket at Goillac three. If I handle them, one.

  ‘How?’

  ‘Police photo lab. They’re at it all the time. I can get them done tomorrow morning, printed and dried, and back here tomorrow evening. If they ask questions I’ll tell them they’re pictures I need as evidence.’

  ‘Can you do that?’

  ‘Easy.’

  She beamed at him and kissed his cheek.

  The noise in the square was extraordinary by now. People were shouting, a group singing. At one end a man with a guitar was playing ‘Je suis fier d’être Bourguignon’. At the other end half a dozen old men were singing ‘Madelon’ at the tops of their voices. A band that seemed to contain everybody in the town sober enough to play an instrument was hard at it under the arcades. Le Bernard was booming away on the trombone. Bernard Bis Bravo, his cheeks like balloons, was pumping away at a bassoon. Even Bernadette, his sister, was playing a flute. They were obviously a very musical family.

  A few people were putting on an ad lib act of melodrama by the bar and a few stalls had been set up under the arcades by commercially-minded villagers eager not to miss the opportunity. Among them was Serge Vitiello. For fifty francs he was drawing the faces of anybody who would sit for him. He had done quite well and the two girls from the Molière Company were haggling with him over the price.

  As the singing stopped, the drinking started. The bar disappeared in a haze of blue cigarette smoke and shouted orders. Among the crowd at the zinc, the Molière Company, their duty done, their pay in their pockets, were making heavy inroads into the stocks. Remarque was drinking brandy as if he were afraid of seeing the dawn and was already unsteady on his feet.

  As the town band ground to a halt, everybody trooped to the battlements to watch the fireworks which had been set up in a field in the valley below. For the next half-hour the place echoed to the ‘Oohs’ and ‘Aahs’ as the black sky was filled with soaring lights, then they all trooped back to the square and the bar, where the staff had collected all the dirty glasses they could, drawn breath and were prepared for the next assault.

  By this time the town band had been replaced by the rock group which had set up their instruments and microphones in the doorway of the Mairie, and people started dancing. Among them was Le Bernard clutching a stout lady Aimedieu assumed was Madame Le Bernard. Didier Darras was clutching Bernadette Buffel far more closely than modern dancing normally allowed. Aimedieu grinned. As a young man who, despite his angel face, had passed through the agonies of first love and beyond, he was pleased to see the tortured expression had gone from Didier’s face.

  He didn’t realise it, but Didier had taken a chance by being there. He had left the city late, turning over the telephone at headquarters to the reluctant Misset and arriving flat out on his scooter. He knew he had to be on duty again at six the following morning and would probably be going to Treffort, but he had decided it was worth missing his sleep to be in Puyceldome this night with Bernadette Buffel. In fact, missing his sleep was something he was growing used to.

  As he circled dreamily with her, she turned her head. ‘That actor’s coming,’ she said.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Didier said, all protective police force. ‘I can handle him.’

  Remarque appeared alongside them and tried to separate Didier from the girl. She looked scared and clung tighter.

  ‘Dance?’ Remarque’s voice was slurred. He’d drunk too much too fast.

  ‘I’m dancing.’

  ‘Why not with me?’

  ‘Because–’ Bernadette nodded at Didier. ‘Because I’m dancing with him.’

  Bernard Bis Bravo had watched the exchange. ‘That’s my sister,’ he said as Remarque drifted away.

  ‘I know,’ Didier said.

  ‘You’ve met?’

  ‘In the shop.’

  Didier danced for a long time with Bernadette Buffel, then he took her down the alley to the ramparts and kissed her under the trees. He was beginning to feel more like his old self. As they returned, he saw Aimedieu still arm in arm with Mrs Briddon and, envying his confidence, wondered what he was up to. In fact, Aimedieu was growing more and more nervous. Ellen Briddon was still trying to get him into her bed but just didn’t have the nerve to spell it out for him.

  Then he saw Remarque appear from the bar once more. He seemed very drunk now and as if he were looking for trouble. He went straight up to Didier and Bernadette Buffel and tried again to push between them. There was a scuffle and Didier, who was far from small, shoved him away.

  Aimedieu saw what happened and, gently putting Ellen Briddon aside, he excused himself quietly. She came to earth out of a pale pink romantic cloud with a bump to see him striding through the crowded couples in the square. As Remarque moved forward again he found Aimedieu in his way then, as Sous-Brigadier Lefêvre, stiff with authority and on the look-out for wrongdoers and mischief-makers, arrived, Remarque sat down abruptly, not because of Didier’s push but because his feet no longer seemed to belong to him. A girl screamed and the dancers in the immediate vicinity of the incident drew back, halting their steps, the men protective, the women nervous. Round the edges of the square, a few people glanced over their shoulders but most went on dancing.

  Aimedieu yanked Remarque to his feet. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Shove off. Go and sleep it off. You’ve done your stuff – and very well too – but don’t make a nuisance of yourself on the strength of it.’

  Lefêvre moved forward importantly. ‘Orders are, no arrests,’ he said. ‘Not tonight.’

  ‘I’m well aware,’ Aimedieu said coldly.

  ‘All the same–’ Lefêvre liked to feel important. ‘–let’s have a note of it. This is my patch and I believe in doing things by the book.’

  He fished in Remarque’s back pocket and pulled out the actor’s wallet. ‘Let’s have a look at your papers.’

  Remarque scowled. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because it’s usual.’ Lefêvre looked up as he perused the documents. ‘I thought your name was Remarque,’ he said.

  Remarque’s words were slurred. ‘Stage name,’ he said. ‘Who’d want to be called Pierre Dupont? Can you imagine it in lights? It’s as exciting as a pile of sand. Parents don’t think of what their children might become when they christen them. Mine thought I’d become a clerk or a lawyer or something and Pierre Dupont’s not very memorable for an actor. It’s not even memorable for a lawyer. Pierre Dupont. Who’s he? I can just imagine Carlo Ponti saying that when I apply for a part in his next epic.’

  ‘I’ll get him home,’ Aimedieu said. He gestured to Mrs Briddon. ‘You go home. I’ll join you.’

  Lefevre gave Remarque a little push. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘Go and sleep it off and think yourself lucky that I haven’t run you in.’ He turned to Didier as Remarque slunk away. ‘Remarque, indeed,’ he said. ‘His name’s Dupont like any other Dupont.’

  When Aimedieu returned to the square, he passed Vitiello sitting by his easel.

  ‘Draw you?’

  Since the proceeds were going to charity, Aimedieu submitted. The result was recognisable but not distinguished by much style.

  ‘Getting much business?’ Aimedieu asked.

  ‘No.’

  Frowning, Aimedieu studied two drawings on the easel. They were of Odile Daydé and Mercédes Flichy.

  ‘Didn’t they want them?’

  Vitiello shrugged. ‘They beat me down to twenty francs then said they were no good. Well, I suppose they’re not all that good. I’m not Picasso. But they could have given me the twenty francs.’

  He looked low in spirits and Aimedieu smiled. ‘I’ll give you twenty francs for them,’ he said.

  Vitiello looked up. ‘You got a thing going for them?’

  Aimedieu grinned. ‘Not me. But it’s for charity, isn’t it?’

  Seventeen


  Kidnap was always the crime the police liked least. It was a growth industry these days and to a certain extent left the police helpless. There was no body, no blood – no splashes of red from which they might determine facts – no weapon.

  It usually consisted of nothing more than a snatch into a car – leaving nothing to work on or with, and the relations of the victim more than willing to co-operate with the criminals. Invariably they were rich enough to go their own way – why otherwise a kidnap? – and were often willing to delude the police as to their intentions because they were afraid police intervention would prevent the return of the victim.

  Pel often wished he had some of the skill of the great fictional detectives he read about. Private eye loners always seemed to do better than the police, as indeed did the elderly maiden ladies to whom the police were obliged to go for advice. Pel never knew how they produced their deductions without the facilities of police computers, the Lab, Photography, Fingerprints and the rest. Even the setting up of a central organisation to handle the statements was beyond them.

  Inspector Goriot, who had once been senior to Pel, usually did the job of going through statements, analysing them and marking points in them for further enquiry. Pel never left it at that, though, and always went through them again himself, looking for points that needed further action, further investigation. It kept him in the office more than he normally liked but somebody had to do it and, with two murders, a mummy and a kidnap, he had to leave the field work to his team.

  Nothing had changed. Nosjean was still following up the N6 murder cases, De Troq’ was continuing to keep an eye on the drugs on the side, and Aimedieu was pursuing his enquiries in Puyceldome. But his squad wasn’t elastic. It couldn’t be stretched indefinitely and Darcy had had to put aside the business of Alfred Fouché and the interesting involvement of Lorick Lupin for the time being.

  He had been in contact with the Los Angeles police department and, promised unqualified support, was hoping for information before long. But the Atlantic was wide and so was America, and it meant possessing their souls in patience for a while. In the meantime a young girl was in danger and that was of far greater importance, and they had their men everywhere that Sybille Junot might possibly have been, enquiring of her friends and acquaintances and checking girls who were at school with her – not an easy job because a lot of them, in the manner of youth, had vanished into the blue after adventure, money or marriage. The Lycée at Guinchay had responded at once to their request for a list of pupils and had come up with the names of all who had passed through its doors during the last ten years. The Lycée at Vonnas was still hanging fire.