‘I’m going home,’ Pel said, closing the drawer of his desk. ‘I haven’t seen my wife for two days.’
Darcy fished out a packet and handed over a cigarette. ‘Before you go, Patron,’ he suggested. ‘It’ll be one less you’ll need to smoke around the house.’
Pel nodded. The last cigarette before he headed for home had become almost a ritual. His wife was well aware that his efforts to stop smoking weren’t meeting with much success but she was a tolerant woman who turned a blind eye to his bad habits. She knew he smoked too much, had an uncertain temper and was inclined to be mean with his money, but she was wealthy enough in her own right not to need his money, he was never bad-tempered with her and it was clear he made an effort to cut his smoking down whenever she was around.
He lit the cigarette and drew the utmost enjoyment from it while he could. ‘I’ll really give them up one of these days,’ he said.
Darcy smiled. He didn’t believe a word of it.
For a while they stood by Pel’s car discussing the De Mougy robbery then Pel threw down the cigarette end and carefully placed his foot on it. ‘There’s just one thing,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘De Mougy has a reputation as a gambler and there’s just a possibility he might have lost a lot. Let’s check, shall we, Daniel? It might be he’s in difficulties.’
‘With what he possesses?’
‘A lot of it’s in property, paintings and so on. There might be problems with cash and it’s the oldest dodge in the world to recoup your losses by saying you’ve lost something or had it stolen and then claiming the insurance on it. It’s virtually impossible for an insurance company to prove you haven’t, unless you’re stupid enough to be caught selling it later. Let’s find out how much it was insured for and if he is in difficulties. Let me know what you turn up. Soon as you can.’
Climbing into his car, Pel set off home with a feeling of a day well spent. He hadn’t enjoyed it but, then, he didn’t expect to enjoy his days. Pel never considered things should be easy. Life, he believed, was hard work. Being alive took nerve. If you lost your nerve, you might as well curl up and send for the undertaker. Nevertheless, there was a certain smug feeling of satisfaction at having suffered for the sake of the security of the Republic. Though he complained enough about it, Pel never really objected to hard work done to bring criminals to book. For Pel, being a detective was a crusade. Criminals were a blot on the fair land of France and it was his duty to remove them from circulation – preferably for as long as possible.
He drove slowly, his mind busy with what he’d been doing, enjoying the fact that he was well off enough now to live in a pleasant area outside the city. Since his marriage to Madame Pel, who ran an expensive hairdressing salon in the Rue de la Liberté near the Hôtel de Police and was wealthy beyond the dreams of a normal policeman – whose pay always precluded a life of sybaritic luxury – Pel had actually begun to his surprise to enjoy his leisure. What was more, he no longer had to struggle with a car whose doors might drop off at any moment. Madame had persuaded him it was time he abandoned the ancient Peugeot he drove – despite a lifetime of squirrelling his savings away, he had always considered himself too poverty-stricken to risk it – and he now drove a splendid new one. Modest in size, of course – the wrench of forking out always almost gave him heart failure – but new, nevertheless, so that he no longer suffered the insults of lorry drivers who liked to pull up alongside him at traffic lights and ask what sort of bottled gas he ran on.
Moving from the centre of the road where he’d wandered, deep in thought, he concentrated on his driving. He wasn’t the world’s best driver and had been known to run into ditches when his mind was occupied. Madame Routy met him at the door as he put the car away. Before his marriage, in the house in the Rue Martin-de-Noinville, Madame Routy, who had appeared to be the only bad cook in a country that prided itself on its culinary expertise, had been his house-keeper. She had been addicted to the television, so that even her bad cooking was rushed. Since his marriage – thanks to his wife’s wealth and the new large house at Leu, near Fontaine – by some miraculous arrangement Madame Routy’s television viewing had been restricted to the evenings in the small flat she occupied at the back of the building, with the result that she had amazed Pel by proving she could cook as well as anybody when she tried. He could only assume – grudgingly, mind you, as a good male chauvinist pig – that, since Madame Pel had worked this wonder, there were certain things that women could do better than men.
However, being Pel, he was never prepared to give much away in the way of friendliness, while Madame Routy’s scowl indicated what she thought of him. She would have lain down and permitted Madame Pel to walk up and down her in spiked heels if necessary, but there was no relaxation of her long-held dislike for Pel.
‘Wipe your feet,’ she snapped.
Pel kept her waiting while he spent as long as he could at the job. ‘What have you spoiled for dinner today?’ he asked. Honours, he felt, were even.
Madame Routy’s nephew, Didier Darras, was in the kitchen. As Pel appeared he stood up politely, a tall, sturdy boy with the sort of good looks that were going to make him a lady-killer before long. He had been a tower of strength to Pel in the days before his marriage. His grandfather was a sick man whom his mother regularly had to visit, so that for odd meals Didier had tagged on to Madame Routy in Pel’s old house in the Rue Martin-de-Noinville. Pel never minded because Didier disliked Madame Routy’s television as much as Pel did and had a great fondness for boules, fishing, and eating out, and they’d often disappeared into the blue just as Madame Routy finished cooking one of the disgusting dishes she had prepared in those days so that she’d had to eat it herself.
‘I’m going to join the police,’ Didier said.
‘Already?’ Pel was startled.
‘I’m old enough.’
With a little mental arithmetic, Pel had to accept sadly that he was. Which meant that Pel had also grown older and was probably even – Pel was never one to be optimistic – rapidly approaching the period of decline.
‘Louise Bray says she’ll be proud of me,’ Didier went on. Louise Bray lived next door to him and had been his steady girlfriend from the day she’d first hit him over the head with her doll. ‘I thought you’d tell me how to go about it.’
Pel sniffed. He could put a lot into a sniff and this one indicated doubt. ‘Wouldn’t it be better to go to university first?’ he asked. ‘Promotion’s quicker.’
‘You always said experience counted most.’
Pel agreed. He had never been over-fond of the young men who arrived on the force expecting rapid promotion simply because they had a degree. Some of them turned out to be awful and, because Pel had had to struggle to the top the hard way, he was sour enough to think everybody else should too.
‘You’ll need to submit a summary of your background,’ he advised. ‘What you’ve done. Sports. Exams you’ve passed and so on.’
‘I’ve written it out. I’ve got it here with me.’
Pel read the sheet. ‘You could have mentioned you know me,’ he said. ‘It might help.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ Didier said. ‘They said so.’
‘Who did?’ Pel felt miffed.
‘The type I saw. “Why make a fuss,” he said, “when you know everything’s all right? When you’re aiming for something and can reach it easily, just go straight for it.” That’s what he said.’
Madame Pel was in the salon listening to Mahler. Everybody listened to Mahler these days, Pel noticed. He’d been suddenly discovered as if he were an old sock left lying around at the back of a cupboard and had suddenly fallen out. They said the fashion had been started by an English politician. Pel, who didn’t think much of Mahler, decided that the English must have dull politicians.
Madame was looking beautiful. It wasn’t too hard for her, of course, because she owned the most expensive beauty salon in the city. Brave women broke down when they couldn’t afford to use it. Her salon was so successful, in fact, there was a story that a farm sow once wandered in by mistake and came out looking like Catherine Deneuve.
Without letting her see him, Pel poured apéritifs and sat down by the door to wait, not interrupting the music. He regarded his wife warmly. Some cops, he thought, fell for lady cops, some of whom these days managed to be attractive – take Claudie Darel, for instance! Some fell for the typists employed about the Hôtel de Police. Some fell for the lawyers’ secretaries they bumped into in their work, even occasionally for lady lawyers. Misset fell for anything in skirts and Nosjean, it had to be admitted, also found it hard to resist a pretty girl – especially if she looked like Charlotte Rampling. The number of Charlotte Ramplings Nosjean had fallen for, in the guise of librarians, shop assistants, and secretaries, was nobody’s business.
Some cops fell for people they’d interviewed, some for witnesses, some were even stupid enough to fall for women they’d arrested. Pel felt he’d been wise. His wife had her own business – and a lot of money besides, he thought comfortably – and, what was more, knew how to run it in such a way as to make colossal profits. She had her own interests and therefore didn’t feel deserted and resentful when he was busy.
He waited for Mahler to finish. It seemed to go on for ever, but as it drew to a stop Madame looked round, saw him and turned her head so he could kiss her. She wasn’t wearing her spectacles, Pel was pleased to note. Since she was inclined to be short-sighted, he always felt he could be seen to greater advantage without their assistance.
As he handed over the drinks, he described his activities for the last forty-eight hours – with more than a few sharp words about the church bells at Quigny. Madame listened with interest. Though she wasn’t involved with Pel’s work, she always liked to know what was going on. It was, she considered, much more exciting than watching elderly ladies have their hair shampooed and set.
‘Who was it?’ she asked.
‘The Baronne de Mougy. She’s one of your clients.’
Madame’s salon didn’t have customers. It had clients and they were so proud to be allowed to use it they happily paid not prices but fees.
‘Road blocks were set up at once,’ Pel went on. ‘We stopped and searched cars but nothing turned up. I expect the gang were already clean away with the loot.’
‘Unless,’ Madame commented, ‘it’s still there.’
‘Still where?’
‘In the area where it was stolen. Perhaps they had someone waiting nearby they handed it to. Someone who knew the woods, for instance. Isn’t that the way they work?’
It was indeed, Pel had to admit, and it might be an idea worth following up. Madame hadn’t been married to a policeman for long but she was already catching on to the methods of criminals.
They had just settled down to enjoy their drinks when the telephone went. It was Darcy, and Pel exploded at once.
‘You didn’t have to telephone me tonight!’ he snorted. ‘De Mougy will keep until tomorrow!’
‘It’s not De Mougy, Patron,’ Darcy explained. ‘There’s been a shooting.’
Pel sighed. ‘Where?’ he asked.
‘Montenay. I’ve informed the office of the Public Prosecutor. Judge Polverari will be out there.’
‘Casualties?’
‘Two, Patron. One serious. Name of Huppert.’
‘Do we know who did it?’
‘No, Patron. I’m going along there now. It’s that little metalwork factory just off the main street. The house adjoins the yard. Bardolle’s out there.’
‘I’ll join you there.’
Madame raised only a token protest when Pel announced he was going out after he’d eaten. ‘What is it?’ she asked.
‘Somebody’s been shot at Montenay.’
‘Just be careful.’
‘I’m always careful,’ Pel said. ‘Especially with guns around. When I was a young cop, whenever guns were involved I always used to utter up a little prayer. “Don’t let me get shot, Lord, because of my mother.” I never was.’
She laughed and reached out to hold his hand for a moment. ‘Don’t stay out too late, Pel,’ she said.
She was so easy-going about his disappearances, he felt it was about time he suggested they had a holiday. He hated holidays but he was unselfish enough – but only just – to be aware that his wife might feel differently.
‘One day,’ he said, ‘we’ll have a day or two off. Get away from things.’
She smiled. ‘You’d die of boredom. That’s why I’ve never done anything about that weekend house in the Jura.’
Pel was faintly shocked. In addition to the splendid new house at Leu, she had already converted rooms over her salon in the city so they could use it as a flat if anything big cropped up to keep Pel in the city too long. But she’d also talked of a weekend house by a lake so he could do some fishing and the idea of owning not two but three properties had appealed to Pel. He’d always fancied being a plutocrat.
‘I like fishing,’ he said indignantly.
‘But not in the Jura,’ she said placidly. ‘On the River Orche. You’d die if something happened and you weren’t involved.’
It was late when Pel reached Montenay. Fabrications Metaux de Montenay occupied a set of old buildings in the Rue Bucha, and all the lights were on. Alongside was the house belonging to the owner, an ugly red-brick building with a small and very formal front garden surrounded by a high fence and a gate which could only be opened by a key or by pressing a button inside the house. In effect, however, it was valueless because the small metalworks could be entered via two large red-painted wooden gates which filled an arch in a blank wall through which vehicles had to pass, and these led to a yard which backed on to the house. As Pel arrived, one of the gates was ajar and nearby, the pressmen, Fiabon, of France Dimanche, Henriot, of Le Bien Public, and Sarrazin, the freelance, were waiting. Sarrazin moved forward at once.
‘Got anything to tell us, Chief?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know anything myself yet,’ Pel snapped.
A policeman was standing by the gate. ‘Look out for the dog, sir,’ he advised.
It was a timely warning. As Pel stepped through the gate, a lean-looking young Alsatian, attached to a ringbolt set in a wall by a long chain that gave it the run of a large part of the brick-paved yard, hurtled from the shadows at him, to be stopped only a metre short with a neck-breaking jerk. The clamour as it leapt up and down with bared fangs made Pel jump back into the forge. The desire to take a flying kick at it was only restrained by the fear that it might have his leg off. Pel had no high regard for dogs, not even police dogs, which, he felt, did little more than fight every other dog they came across.
He made threatening noises at the animal – having first made sure that the chain didn’t allow it within reach – and, advancing warily round it, headed for the door. Darcy appeared.
‘What happened?’ Pel asked.
Darcy shrugged. ‘Hard to tell, Patron. A major battle. We’ve already picked up seven or eight ejected cartridges.’
‘Seven or eight? Who was hurt?’
‘Owner and his wife.’ Darcy glanced at his notebook. ‘Jacqueline Huppert. Jacques Huppert. He says he heard someone in the yard and, because he found an intruder there three or four weeks ago, he went out. He says he was shot at on the other occasion – one shot. Tonight he was shot at several times and this time he fired back. When things had quietened down he turned round and found his wife lying in the doorway – with a bullet in her back.’
‘Dead?’
‘No. The local doctor – guy called Lachasse – sent her to hospital. He’s still here.’
‘Have someone sit alongside her bed, Daniel. In case she saw something. I’ll see the doctor.’
Just inside the house, the owner of the yard was sitting in a chair. He looked deathly white and clutched a crimsoned towel. His jacket was on the chair back and he was wincing with pain. His shirt was stained with blood and the doctor was standing over him with cotton gauze, bandage and plaster. Judge Polverari was with them.
Pel introduced himself, and the doctor gestured at the wounded man. ‘Huppert,’ he said.
‘Is it serious?’
‘No. Slight. A flesh wound. Painful but not much more. He’ll be using it more or less normally in a few days. It’s his wife I’m worried about.’
‘Is he in a fit state to tell me what happened?’
‘Oh, yes. Bit of shock, that’s all. He’s all right. Good as new now.’ The doctor patted Huppert’s shoulder and moved away.
Huppert rose and with his good hand hung his jacket behind the door.
‘Inform me,’ Pel said.
‘Well–’ Huppert drew a deep shuddering breath ‘–my house adjoins the metalwork factory, as you can see, and I was sitting in the office going through the books when I heard a noise in the yard. So I grabbed my gun. I have one–’
‘May I see it?’
Huppert fished one-handed in a drawer and produced an automatic in a holster attached to a belt. The dull blue gunmetal of the barrel was dark against the paler leather. ‘FAS Apex 6.35,’ he said. ‘I’ve had it a long time. I’m allowed one because I have money on the premises occasionally. I bought it some years back from the owner when he left the country.’
Pel studied the gun. ‘Only you ever touch it?’ he asked.
‘That’s right. My wife’s frightened to death of guns.’
‘I’d better keep it for the time being.’
‘Why? That’s my gun. What if he comes again?’
‘You’ll be all right. There’ll be one of my men handy. For a while, anyway. Until we’ve reassured ourselves that you’re safe.’ Pel gestured. ‘Please continue.’
Huppert drew a deep breath. ‘Well, as you know, someone shot at me about a month ago. Same sort of thing. I heard a sound and went out and a shot was fired.’
‘At you?’
‘Yes.’
Pel glanced at Darcy who nodded. ‘It was reported, Patron,’ he said. ‘We have the details at the office. Nothing was found and we had to assume that it was somebody who’d let off his gun by accident. A bullet mark was found on the wall above the back door. It could have come from outside and that’s what we had to assume. Nothing turned up. Nosjean went over it carefully. It was put on the file.’
Pel turned to Huppert and gestured to him to continue.
‘It must have been someone shooting at me, mustn’t it?’ Huppert said. ‘It frightened me. That’s when I dug out the pistol. I haven’t had it out of the safe for years but after that I thought I’d better. Then when I heard this noise tonight–’
‘What sort of noise?’
‘A sort of clink. As if something in the foundry had been moved. Something like that. I called to my wife to come down because there was somebody in the yard. She was reading in bed. Then as I went outside I was fired at from the darkness – more than once. I fired back at the flash. I thought he’d gone into the forge so I went after him. It was then he hit me. I staggered to the house and that was when I found my wife lying in the doorway with a wound in her back. I telephoned the police and the doctor.’
‘Where did the bullets that were fired at you come from, do you think?’
‘Near the forge.’
‘How near?’
‘Near the old pump.’
‘This intruder. What do you think he was after?’
‘It could only be money. Wages. That sort of thing. He wouldn’t want to cart away lumps of iron or metal sheeting or strips of brass, would he?’
‘When do you pay your people?’
‘Tomorrow.’
‘And you have the money in the house?’
‘No. I pick it up tomorrow from the bank and pay it straight out. It’s not a lot anyway. We only have twenty employees.’
‘Could anybody think you’d drawn it today?’ Huppert looked puzzled. ‘Have you been to the bank, for instance? Have you been out and come back carrying a bag that might seem to contain money?’
‘Not today.’
‘Who knows when you pay your people? Apart from them.’
‘Only the bank. And Connie Gruye.’
‘Who’s Connie Gruye?’
‘She comes here to do the accounts. She does the wages.’
Pel was silent for a moment. ‘This intruder,’ he said. ‘Did you see him?’
‘No.’
‘Could your wife have? From her bedroom?’
‘I shouldn’t think so.’
They went upstairs and, looking from the window, decided it was unlikely. The bed was disturbed and the book Madame Huppert had been reading was still open alongside the telephone on the bedside table.
‘Do you have much occasion to use the telephone at night?’ Pel asked.
Huppert shrugged. ‘Not much. Just once in a while. But it saves coming downstairs if the bell goes. Sometimes a customer telephones late to save money. You’d be surprised how mean some of them are.’
Returning downstairs, Pel stared about him. ‘Did you hear the intruder himself at all?’ he asked. ‘His footsteps, for instance.’
‘Not really. I thought he was in the forge but I didn’t see anything and I didn’t hear anything after the first clinking sound until he started shooting.’
‘Any indication where he got in?’
‘Through the gates. They’re secured by a chain and padlock but the chain’s been cut.’
As Huppert passed a hand over his forehead and seemed to sway, Pel gestured. ‘I think that’ll do for the time being,’ he said. ‘I’ll see you when you’re over it a little. And you’ll be wanting to see your wife, I expect.’
‘Is she bad?’
‘She’s not good,’ Doctor Lachasse admitted.
As Huppert disappeared, Pel turned to the doctor. ‘How soon after it happened did you arrive?’
‘Within minutes. Quarter of an hour at the outside.’
‘On your own?’
‘Of course.’
‘I’m surprised the dog didn’t bite you.’
‘I was aware of it. I’ve been here before.’
‘It nearly bit me,’ Pel said. He turned to Darcy. ‘Let’s have enquiries made at the hospital,’ he suggested. ‘For dog bites. If there was a man in the yard he’s probably in hospital minus a leg.’ He turned back to the doctor. ‘Where was Madame Huppert when you arrived?’
‘She was lying in the hall. On her side. The wound was in her back, just below the shoulder blade. The bullet’s in the upper abdominal region and I think it’s perforated the liver. Huppert told me he found her lying on her face and was going to turn her on to her back when he saw the wound, so he propped her up on her side. It couldn’t have been easy with only one hand.’ Doctor Lachasse indicated a pile of bloodstained cushions lying in the corner of the kitchen. ‘Then he telephoned – for me and the police.’
‘Was she unconscious when you arrived?’
‘Yes. But she rallied a little. She opened her eyes.’
‘Say anything?’
‘She muttered something I couldn’t hear. Then she called for her husband. “Jacques,” she said.’
‘Anything else?’
‘No. Just “Jacques”. Twice. “Jacques”, then a pause and “Jacques” again. She tried to say something else but then she became unconscious.’
‘Know anything else about them?’
‘They’ve been my patients for some time. Huppert’s a hardworking man. His wife’s probably the brains, though. There’s also Madame Gruye – Connie Gruye – who comes in to do the books. She’s a widow who lives next door.’ The doctor gestured. ‘That side. The other side’s Arthur Démy. I gather he’s just gone to Paris. He goes a lot. He’s a computer expert. A bit of an odd type.’
Judge Polverari interrupted. ‘What’s this Connie Gruye like?’ he asked. ‘Young?’
The doctor gave a sad smile. ‘I can see the way your mind’s working. But I doubt if there was anything between her and Huppert.’
‘Why do you doubt that?’
‘Because I know her. She’s older than Huppert and hardly ever speaks. What you’d call solid. Good with figures, though, I believe. She worked for the original owner and I think she was once hoping to be taken into the firm as a director. But he let her down, sold out to Huppert and went to live in the south. She got over it, though, and stayed with Huppert. She comes in two days a week to do the accounts and type letters. I expect she’ll be around before long. I can’t imagine her missing a thing like this. This place has been her life.’