by Mark Hebden
‘That’s right. I told you.’
‘Why? Why were you early? You must have been catching that bus for years. So why so early? You’d have reached the bus stop at 11.30 to catch the bus at 11.40. You’d have had ten minutes to wait. That’s a long time.’
‘It’s the buses,’ Labbé said.
‘What’s wrong with the buses?’
‘Late at night they never stick to the schedules. There often aren’t any passengers at that time and they sometimes whizz past a bit early because they’re near the end of their shift and want to get home. I’ve thought of complaining.’ Labbé shrugged. ‘But you never do, do you?’
‘No,’ Nosjean said thoughtfully. ‘You don’t.’
Heading for the bus depot near the station, Nosjean found the Traffic Manager, and it didn’t take him long to drag from him the admission that the crews of late buses were inclined to push their schedules as Labbé had said. During the day, they complained that, with old ladies and children, it wasn’t possible to keep to their schedules but late at night, when there were few people about, it was even possible to push ahead a little.
‘Doesn’t that mean that sometimes someone arrives for a bus on time only to find it gone?’ Nosjean asked.
The manager shrugged.
‘What about on the 26th of last month?’ Nosjean said. ‘The bus which passes the top of the hill at 11.40. What time did it arrive?’
‘Bang on schedule. 11.45.’
‘Could it have been early?’
The Traffic Manager indicated a time sheet. ‘It says here 11.45. When they fill their sheets in, you can hardly expect them to admit they’ve been leaving passengers behind.’
‘Would it be worth questioning the driver?’
‘No.’ The Traffic Manager was adamant. ‘He’d never admit it. It’s one of the clauses they have in their contract. Schedules must be kept. Passengers must be picked up. Anyone who fails to do so is liable for the sack. They’ve been warned repeatedly and men have actually been fired. They come down at speed with the doors open – even when it’s cold – because closed doors mean a delay in people getting on and off. We know they do it. But they seem to have an early warning system when the inspectors are out. We very rarely catch them and they’d never admit it. Not even to you.’
As he left the depot, Nosjean glanced at the clock. He was still a little troubled. His watch kept good time and he’d noticed it coincided exactly with the clock in the Bar de la Descente. He’d also noticed that it coincided with the clock above the travel agents near the Porte Guillaume and that clock, he knew, was lit at night. Without doubt, Sous-Brigadier Thibault would have checked with that clock. Somehow, despite what he’d just discovered, it still hardly left enough time for Sammy Belec to get from the Bar de la Descente into the city – however he’d done it. He hadn’t been using his car because he’d been drinking with his boys in the city, so, if he’d stabbed Duche, how could he possibly have got into the city in time to attack Tachenay?
An idea was forming in Nosjean’s mind and on his way to the Hôtel de Police he headed for the travel agency. But the clock in the window was accurate. He checked it carefully but, no matter how much he willed it to be wrong, it persisted in being right. Dead right.
Nosjean stood staring at it, frowning. He’d firmly expected it to be fast. Somehow, the case wouldn’t come out. He’d spent all day on it and it was now growing late, and he was hungry.
At just about the time when Pel was shaving for his dinner date, bathing and applying aftershave as if he’d gone mad, Nosjean was slipping into a brasserie near the pedestrian precinct. He was cold in a way that he could feel even in his bones and, on the point of ordering a sandwich, he changed his mind and ordered steak and chips instead.
‘And make it hot,’ he said. ‘I’m cold.’
‘Who isn’t?’ the waiter replied. ‘Everybody who comes in says the same thing.’
As he spoke, something clicked in Nosjean’s mind and he remembered it had been cold the night Duche had died, too. He remembered how he’d shivered in the Passage Wallieux and how Misset had complained about the wind. For a moment, he frowned at the tablecloth, then he slapped his right fist into the palm of his left hand.
‘Got it!’ he said aloud.
The waiter, just placing glass, knife, fork and bread on the table, looked up.
‘Got what?’ he asked.
Nosjean blushed. ‘Just thinking aloud,’ he explained.
No wonder it had been bothering him for so long! It stuck out a mile when you considered it. It was only because he’d first seen Sammy in Pel’s office that he’d missed it.
Wolfing his food down, he headed back to the Hôtel de Police and telephoned the prison. ‘Sammy Belec,’ he said. ‘What was he wearing when he was brought in?’
There was a long silence. ‘Clothes,’ he was told.
‘What clothes? Was there an overcoat?’
There was a rustling of paper. ‘According to the list here, no.’
‘It was a cold night. A damn cold night.’
‘There’s no overcoat on the list.’
Satisfied, Nosjean headed for the bus station once more. The Traffic Manager looked up.
‘You again?’ he said.
‘The 26th,’ Nosjean said. ‘The bus that arrived here at 11.45.’
The manager sighed. ‘Don’t let’s start that again, mon brave. The time sheet said it arrived at 11.45. They always arrive dead on time. Didn’t you know?’
‘I’m not interested in the time,’ Nosjean said. ‘I want to know if anything was found on the bus?’
‘That’s not my job. That’s Lost Property.’
Directed to the lost property office, Nosjean found the woman in charge still on duty and willing enough to help.
‘Yes,’ she said, checking her lists. ‘An overcoat. Some drunk, I expect.’
‘I’d like to see it.’
She passed it over. It was heavy and square-shouldered and of a thick mottled material. There was no name in it – that would have been too much to expect – but it reeked of perfume.
‘Is it yours?’ the woman asked.
‘No. But I’m taking it away with me.’ Producing his badge, Nosjean slipped into the coat.
‘It’s too big for you,’ the woman pointed out.
It was. Much too big.
He removed the coat and laid it on the counter, examining it minutely. On the front were several dark spots. He tried them with his fingers, and found them dry and encrusted.
The woman peered with him, her head in Nosjean’s way. ‘Is it blood?’ she asked.
‘We’ll soon find out.’
Carrying the coat to headquarters, Nosjean took the coat round to Leguyader who fortunately was still in his lab. ‘I want to know what this is,’ he said, indicating the spots.
Leguyader frowned. ‘Why is it,’ he demanded, ‘that you always come just when I’m going home?’
Nosjean was not put off. ‘Since you haven’t taken off your overall,’ he said, ‘perhaps you can have a look.’
Leguyader glared at him but he laid the coat on a bench, turned a light on to it and peered with a magnifying glass.
‘It’s blood,’ he said.
‘You sure?’
‘I’m always sure.’
‘You haven’t tested it.’
‘I don’t need to test it. I’ve seen it too often. Nevertheless–’ Leguyader took a knife and scraped one or two of the spots into an envelope ‘ – I can give you proof if you can be patient. I can also tell you the group.’
Pel was grateful. Perhaps, he was thinking, after a lifetime of neglect, he was coming into his own. For the first time, he felt, God was looking on him with favour. He was eating far more than was good for him, but thanks to Madame Routy’s indifference to his diet, when well-prepared food was put in front of him, he was inclined to damn the consequences and make the most of his opportunity. Madame Faivre-Perret was not only a good cook, but it seemed
she even enjoyed it. She was dressed in a décollété dress which did unbelievable things to Pel’s nervous system, and seemed eager to please him. If only, he thought, the whole of life could be like this. If only he had the Chief’s job.
While he waited for Leguyader, Nosjean made a few enquiries and came up eventually with the name and address of the manager of the travel agency near the Porte Guillaume.
Sitting at his desk, he pulled the telephone forward and dialled the number he’d been given. The answer came warily, and as Nosjean identified himself and put his question there was a long silence.
‘Do you realise what time it is?’ the voice asked.
‘Yes, I do,’ Nosjean said. ‘But it’s important. On the night of the 26th, was the clock in the window of your office fast?’
‘Why?’
‘Never mind why.’
There was another long silence, then the voice came again, still wary. ‘Yes, it was. It’s something we don’t like to admit because people think it’s station time. It was gaining five minutes every twenty-four hours. We got Merciers’, the jewellers, to attend to it.’
‘When?’
‘On the 28th.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Is that all?’
‘It’s all I need.’
Satisfied, Nosjean rang Leguyader, listened to what he had to say, then he took out the file on the Duche case and checked the late Edouard-Charles’ blood group. Finally, borrowing one of the suitcases that were always kept handy in case someone was called away without warning, he emptied it, put the overcoat inside and headed for the car park. Halfway there, he stopped, looked at his watch, changed his mind and headed for the bus station instead. Catching a bus out towards Talant, he dropped off at the Bar de la Descente and, walking down the Passage Wallieux, headed for Sammy Belec’s apartment. Sammy’s wife opened the door.
Nosjean placed the suitcase on the floor and took out the overcoat. ‘Seen this before?’ he asked.
The wary eyes became shuttered at once. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Should I have?’
‘Is it your husband’s?’
‘No’
‘It’s about the same size.’
She shook her head. ‘It looks too small to me. And he never wears that colour.’
‘Has he any other overcoats?’
‘One.’
‘I’d like to see it.’
When the overcoat was produced, Nosjean spread it facedown on the floor and laid the one he’d brought on top of it, face-upwards. Shoulders, collars, sleeves, hems all matched.
‘It looks the same size to me,’ he said.
Madame Belec shook her head. ‘It’s too small,’ she insisted. ‘This one was his brother’s and he gave it to Sammy. Sammy never wore it.’
Nosjean didn’t believe a word of it. ‘What did he wear in winter then?’ he asked.
She was at a loss for a moment then she changed step quickly. ‘Normally he never wore an overcoat,’ she said. ‘He wasn’t thin-blooded. He always said he could stand the cold.’
Nosjean indicated the coat she’d produced. ‘I’ll take this one with me, too,’ he said.
‘Suppose he needs it?’
‘He won’t where he is. They keep them quite warm. Even in this weather.’
With the two coats in the suitcase, together with one of Sammy’s suits for Leguyader to find examples of Sammy’s hair and compare them with any hairs found on the overcoats, Nosjean headed for the Bar de la Descente. Ordering a beer, he produced the overcoat he’d obtained from the bus station.
‘Seen this before?’ he asked.
The proprietor stared. ‘Why, that’s—’
‘That’s what?’
‘Nothing.’ The proprietor’s face was suddenly as shuttered as Madame Belec’s and, remembering how forthcoming he’d been on the night of the murder, Nosjean could only assume that one of Sammy’s boys had been in and dropped a warning hint in his ear. ‘I thought I recognised it but I didn’t.’
A man in the corner of the bar spoke. ‘It looks like the one Sammy wears,’ he said.
Nosjean turned. ‘You sure?’
‘It looks like it. It’s an unusual check, isn’t it?’ In a mirror advertising Pernod, Nosjean saw the proprietor making signs behind his back and the speaker dried up suddenly. ‘On the other hand,’ he said, ‘perhaps not. No, perhaps not.’
‘Sammy’s check was bigger,’ the proprietor said.
‘Yes, much bigger.’
‘And darker.’
‘That’s right. Much darker.’
Nosjean didn’t argue. He put the overcoat in the suitcase, finished his beer and left, aware of a noisy argument starting behind him across the zinc.
While Nosjean was busy with Sammy Belec’s overcoat, Pel was stretching his legs out in front of a roaring fire. No question of the angoisse française this time. He had the best chair in the room and the television was firmly switched off. The room glowed with colour and warmth.
Colour and warmth were in De Troquereau’s mind, too. But for a very different reason. De Troquereau was walking up and down under the trees in the Cours de Gaulle, hatted with Yves-Pol’s English deerstalker crash helmet, and wearing pink trousers, Yves-Pol’s purple overcoat with a wasp waist and a pale green scarf, which, in view of Armoire à Glace’s murderous inclinations, was carefully tucked inside the overcoat so it couldn’t be used to strangle him. In his hand he swung the male handbag he’d borrowed from Yves-Pol.
The wind coming down the Cours de Gaulle was like a wild animal, and Yves-Pol’s clothes were designed more for show than utilitarian warmth. Because of the cold, there weren’t many people about even in the Place Wilson. Round the monument and down at the Parc de la Colombière it was as silent as the grave, though he knew there was a police car down there, its lights out. There was another near the Place Wilson, while Lagé, who was always willing to help someone else do a job, was waiting in the shadows further up the road.
The night seemed endless and appeared to be growing colder, and De Troquereau had just decided that perhaps he ought to wait for a warmer spell when he heard a sound behind him. It wasn’t a foorstep, rather more like the slither of a shoe across stiff winter grass. As he turned, a hand grasped his neck before he could cry out and he began to see stars as the life was throttled out of him. Bringing up his left hand, he tried to chop his assailant across the face with the edge but as he felt it thump against flesh, the other man brought up his knee with a jerk. It clonked against the aluminium measure tucked into the jockstrap inside De Troquereau’s trousers.
Out of the corner of his eye De Troquereau saw a great fist like a maul coming from his right side. Turning his head, he took the blow on top of Yves-Pol’s crash helmet. It was enough to drive his head down into his shoulders, and as he staggered away, dazed, he heard his assailant yell and saw him clutch his hand. Recovering, De Troquereau swung his handbag at the other man’s groin.
There was a yelp of pain and, as his assailant bent forward, De Troquereau lunged forward with his head down. The top of the crash helmet caught the big man in the face and he stumbled back. As he did so, De Troquereau swung the handbag again. This time it caught his assailant at the side of his head and he rolled over on the grass. For a moment, he remained there, on hands and knees, dazed and stupefied, and, dragging his handcuffs out, De Troquereau wrenched at his right arm. As he jerked it away, the big man fell forward on his face. Wrenching the other hand behind his back, De Troquereau snapped on the handcuffs and stood back.
He was still dizzy from the blow on the head and had a feeling the aluminium measure in his trousers had been driven up into his stomach. But he was still on his feet and as far as he could make out, more or less unhurt. He fished for his whistle and blew.
Immediately, a flashing blue light went on near the Place Wilson. Turning he saw another start up near the park. He also heard pounding feet and a moment later Lagé appeared, anxious as always to help.
‘You all right?’
he asked.
De Troquereau nodded with his head towards the shadows and Lagé clicked on a torch. The man on the ground was writhing in pain. As Lagé stared, the two police cars screeched to a halt and men poured out.
‘You got him?’
‘Yes. Let’s have the headlights on him.’
Lagé bent, then he straightened up and stared at De Troquereau. ‘Nom de Dieu,’ he said. ‘It’s Rodsky. What’s he doing here?’
‘What do you think he’s doing here,’ De Troquereau said sharply. ‘He was trying to beat my head flat. He must be Armoire à Glace.’
‘But he’s supposed to —’
‘Never mind what he’s supposed to do. What he did was beat up a police officer. He was always talking about beating people up. It seems he believed in what he said.’
‘But – ’ Lagé was shocked ‘ – he’s twice your size. He used to be a boxer. What happened?’
‘I hit him.’
‘What with?’
De Troquereau gave an angelic smile, unzipped his handbag and held it upside down. With a clunk, half a brick thumped to the pavement.
On the main road near the Bar de la Descente, Nosjean waited on the corner where the buses halted. The late bus was just on its way down. At 11.33, it appeared, slowing down for the corner. The door was open and, as Nosjean swung aboard, the conductor turned. ‘You’re not supposed to get on when the bus’ moving,’ he said.
‘Nobody’s going to worry,’ Nosjean said. He pushed his money forward and the conductor accepted it without question and Nosjean noticed there was no ticket forthcoming. He took a seat, deciding there was another little racket being worked on the late buses that might need looking into.
The bus was moving fast now, rocketing about as it hurtled down the slope. Nosjean looked at his watch. 11.34. There were no passengers to pick up, unless you included a man who ran out of a doorway, shouting, then dropped behind as the bus failed to stop. Nosjean smiled. If the Traffic Manager needed proof, he could supply it.
There were practically no cars on the streets at that hour, especially with the cold weather, and the lights were all green. As the bus slowed to turn right to the bus station, Nosjean dropped off and hurried towards the Porte Guillaume. The illuminated clock in the travel agency said 11.36.