When Pel returned to his office there was a message for him to see the Chief. In the Chief’s office was a squarely-built man in a blue suit with his hair cut en brosse.
‘This is Inspector Briand,’ the Chief introduced.
As they shook hands, Pel eyed Briand warily, wondering what was about to appear.
‘Briand’s from Paris,’ the Chief said. ‘From Counterfeit Currency.’
Briand produced a list from his pocket with the masterful dignity of an Italian customs official sorting through a caseful of lingerie. ‘There’s been a sudden rash of counterfeit dollars,’ he said. ‘It started first in Belgium, Holland and Lorraine but since then they’ve started to appear in Alsace and Champagne and now here in Burgundy. I know local Crime Squads usually handle this sort of thing but it’s pretty big so we’re dealing with it. So far it’s merely an enquiry. We don’t know where the notes are coming from but they’re large notes and they’re troubling my department.
‘It’s possible that the money’s made in France,’ he went on. ‘But,’ he added with the sort of shining French honesty that always started a guilt complex among visiting foreigners, ‘we don’t think so. It could also be a deliberate coup by a German or an Italian Syndicate. On the other hand it could be a much smaller affair operated by tourists.’
Pel sniffed. He didn’t think much of tourists either.
Briand frowned. ‘We can’t overlook the possibility and we’re therefore visiting every police headquarters and issuing warnings. If you should spot large quantities of new notes, perhaps you’d inform us because, with the French border touching on Belgium, Germany, Luxembourg, Switzerland and Italy, we have our work cut out.’
‘I think we should have a look at it, Pel,’ the Chief said slowly and without enthusiasm. Like the heads of all provincial forces, he didn’t like people from Paris arriving and telling him what to do. It was always the same. They asked assistance and ended up issuing orders.
‘Perhaps,’ he suggested to Pel, ‘we could arrange to visit the hotels, the tourist organisations, the travel bureaux, the information centres and the exchange offices and banks. I think we’d better have one of your men. Whom can you spare?’
Pel was nothing if not cunning. ‘We’ve got that hold-up at Quigny,’ he said. ‘The Baron de Mougy. It’s a major crime with a lot involved.’ And if they didn’t sort it out, he thought, the Baron de Mougy would start using his influence to make sure that a few heads would roll. ‘I think it’s a gang job and Marseilles or Paris is involved.’ He paused, trying to look helpful when in fact he was just being crafty. ‘Perhaps they could have Sergeant Misset, though. I think I can spare him.’
The Chief caught on quickly.
‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Sergeant Misset. He can keep his finger on things. We can just catch him before he goes off duty.’
Misset couldn’t believe his ears. A free hand! Just walking round the city paying calls at offices which, for the most part, employed women – young women at that!
It didn’t take him long to convince himself that he’d been chosen because of his fine male presence and his gift for getting along with girls. Even Pel admitted Misset’s skill with women.
Besides – Misset grinned to himself – it would provide him with a good excuse to see Madame Vocci again. He’d discovered her gloves in his pocket where he’d stuffed them during his rescue act at the station, and had been looking for a chance to return them.
The receptionist at the Hôtel Centrale fell for Misset’s smile, as they all did, but she was thoroughly confused.
‘Madame Vocci?’ she said. ‘We have no Madame Vocci here. Only a Mademoiselle Vocci.’
Misset adjusted the dark glasses, trying to appear masterful and, looking over her shoulder at the hotel register, managed to catch an interesting glimpse down the top of her dress.
‘You sure?’ he asked. ‘She arrived a few hours ago. She had her husband in a box.’
She stared at him as if he were mad. ‘A little while ago,’ she said. ‘That’s right. Mademoiselle Vocci.’ With a long white finger she indicated the name on the fiche d’hôtel she passed across.
Misset found the woman from the station reading Elle in the lounge. She was no longer in black, and she looked up as he stopped alongside her. A flicker of recognition passed across her face but her expression didn’t alter and he had the feeling she hadn’t expected ever to see him again.
‘Madame Vocci,’ he said.
‘I am Mademoiselle Vocci,’ she corrected him firmly. ‘Lucrezia Desiderata Ada Vocci.’
Disconcerted by the coolness in her voice, Misset adjusted his glasses and pressed on, determined not to be put aside. ‘Nice name,’ he commented.
‘All Italians have nice names.’
It was becoming hard work and his smile was already a little forced. ‘Just happened to be here on duty,’ he explained. ‘Police. Making enquiries.’
‘Oh?’
She turned back to the magazine, trying without putting it into words to suggest she had never seen him before. She was doing very well at it, too, and her unrelenting hostility made Misset feel vaguely insanitary.
‘What happened to er–?’ He gestured lamely. ‘I got the impression you were married,’ he said.
‘I am Mademoiselle Vocci.’
Misset gazed at her expressionlessly. There must be some good reason why she was fibbing and he decided she didn’t wish to be recognised by him. He was fully aware of what she was up to: Deny everything until you could come up with a thumping great lie that was good enough to cover everything. He’d done it often with his wife.
It seemed to be time to twist her arm. Standing there, ignored, Misset was beginning to feel like a piece of discarded soap. She was pretending to read her Elle again. He laid the black gloves alongside her on the arm of the chair.
‘You forgot them,’ he said loudly. ‘Two hours ago. When you were a widow.’
Although she kept her eyes on her magazine, she was sitting as still now as the statue on the lid of a stone coffin. Misset saw one of the waiters watching them.
‘The police in France take a poor view of the falsification of documents,’ he continued loudly and she finally put down the magazine.
‘What are you after?’ she asked. When he didn’t answer, she stared at him a moment longer, then she picked up her belongings and rose abruptly. ‘Perhaps you’d better come to my room,’ she said. ‘We can talk better there.’
She had a suite at the back of the hotel overlooking the garden where it was quiet and there was a warm air of luxury about it that appealed to Misset. As she put down her bag, he moved about the room, trying to look sinister behind his dark glasses. The settee was large and wide and the bed, which he could see through the open door to the next room, looked big enough to hold a circus in.
She stared at herself in the mirror, giving a few casual pushes at her hair. She was tall, built like Sophia Loren, and she wore a contemplative expression as she turned towards him, as though she were weighing up how to approach him.
‘Nice little place you’ve got here,’ Misset said.
She stared at him for a moment and he noticed how cold the green eyes were, then she turned to the sideboard.
‘I expect you’d like a drink,’ she said.
‘I’m not often known to refuse.’
She poured two whiskies. ‘Sit down,’ she said.
Misset sat on the edge of the settee.
‘Now, Monsieur–?’
‘Misset. Detective Sergeant Misset. Police Judiciaire. You can call me Josephe if you want to.’
‘Most people call me Ada. You deserve an explanation.’ She tried a smile. ‘My name really is Vocci,’ she explained. ‘All I’ve done is change my title from Madame to Mademoiselle.’
‘To make the running easier?’
She smiled properly for the first time and immediately the room seemed warmer. ‘I suppose so,’ she agreed. ‘After all, I’m young and not unattractive.’
Misset nodded in acknowledgement of the fact.
‘You know how Italians regard death,’ she went on. ‘I see no reason why I should be treated as though I’ve got a disease. I was never in love with my husband and his death doesn’t mean much to me.’
‘So why bring him home in a box?’
This time she laughed. ‘There’s a little trouble over a will. A lot of money is involved and I am the sole beneficiary.’
‘And you like to have him around to make sure of getting it?’
She nodded. ‘His family are being difficult, you understand. They want proof of death. I went to Poland to bring his body home, together with the documents that prove he’s dead.’
‘What was he doing in Poland?’
‘He was on business there. I got permission to bring his ashes out. The Communists were helpful and an American friend at their Embassy in Warsaw made all the arrangements.’
‘And now?’
She opened her handbag for a cigarette. ‘I’m going to enjoy myself.’
‘Marry again, for instance?’
She shrugged. ‘First of all, I’m going to have some fun. So, as the Italians have such a depressing attitude towards widowhood, I prefer to be unmarried.’
‘It certainly improves your chances.’ Misset looked about him. There was no sign of the brass-bound box. ‘Where’s Himself?’ he asked.
‘Serafino?’ She smiled and, crossing to the mantelpiece, indicated a small decorated urn.
‘Is that him?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is that all there was in that damned great box?’
‘There were marble chippings.’
‘To make him feel more cosy?’
She laughed again. ‘You are not respectful, Sergeant Josephe Misset,’ she said.
Misset was staring at the urn, fascinated. ‘Seems funny to think he’s in there,’ he said.
She picked up the urn and crossed to him. ‘Take a look.’
There appeared to be nothing inside but grey dust and a few crystals.
‘I didn’t know they could crystallise them,’ Misset said.
She laughed again. ‘The crystals provide perfume,’ she explained. ‘They use them for embalming. Smell.’
Misset sniffed, then stared, interested. ‘And which is Himself?’
‘Serafino is just – among them.’
Misset studied the contents of the urn thoughtfully, then he looked up. ‘You’ll have to be careful you don’t use him in mistake for bath salts,’ he said. ‘It’d be awful to think he’d gone down the plughole.’
She laughed again and the slanting green eyes lost their chill. Putting the urn back in its place, she sat down opposite him and crossed her legs, so that he had a view of a handsome slice of thigh.
‘I like you,’ she said impulsively.
Misset wasn’t neurotic about having friends.
‘Now that we have cleared up my little mystery, what are you doing here?’
‘Job I’m on.’
‘May I know?’
Misset put on his 007 face. ‘Can’t tell you. Secret.’
She smiled at him again, this time warm and encouraging. ‘We should see more of each other.’
Misset was all in favour of that. ‘I have a few small trips to make. But otherwise–’
She changed her seat on the settee, moving against him so that he felt his arteries swell disconcertingly. ‘Serafino was a wealthy man,’ she said. ‘His solicitors have already paid out something on account. Can one enjoy oneself here?’
Misset gestured. He never seemed to. ‘Bit dull,’ he said. ‘They take the sidewalks in at ten-thirty. But you can get around if you’re with someone who knows the place.’
‘Would you like to show me, Sergeant Josephe?’
Misset hesitated only for a moment. A quick whip round the night clubs, he thought, then oops into bed.
‘Be my guest,’ he said.
She smiled. ‘Do I seem wicked to you?’
Misset gave what he considered to be a modest smile. ‘I’m a bit of a specialist in the more subtle varieties of sin myself,’ he said. ‘How about tonight?’