Four

‘There seems to be a nut about,’ Darcy said.

They stood in the rain outside a battered stone barn. The rain was coming down like stair rods now and they were all soaked to the skin.

They had passed the ambulance on the way up, jolting down the uneven lane and rolling through the puddles to send out waves of liquid mud from the wheels. If anything, the wind was colder than ever and it plastered their wet trousers to their legs, clammy and icy, as they tried to shelter from the weather.

Massu’s constable, Weyl, making a last-minute prowl round in the hope that he might bump into whoever had dumped the body at the calvary, had called at Vaucheretard and found Matajcek lying outside his door in a puddle of water. The doctor he’d summoned from Savoie St Juste, was young, handsome, and cynical, and his report on Matajcek was simple and straightforward.

‘What’s wrong with him?’ he said in answer to Pel’s question. ‘Easy. Fractured skull, old age and dirt. He’s got a fractured skull because somebody hit him with something heavy and hard, he’s suffering from old age because he was born a long time ago, and he was dirty because he never washed.’

Pel listened irritatedly. The only person entitled to be funny when Pel was around was Pel himself. ‘What was he hit with?’ he asked.

‘Spade,’ the doctor said. ‘Plough share. Anvil. Side of a house. Take your pick. Hard, heavy and flat. That’s as far as I can say at the moment. Because he was old, it’s touch and go, and because he’s dirty – and, mon dieu, how dirty! – he’ll probably get gangrene and die of that.’

‘Is he going to die?’

‘Probably not. But it’ll be a long time before he recovers enough to talk.’

Only two of the rooms of the derelict house were occupied, one the kitchen. There was no bathroom, and the cow byre alongside was as tumbledown as the house itself.

‘It must be part of that bank robbery and the murder of those cops at St Symphorien,’ Massu said in a flat voice. ‘They must be working their way north past this district.’

Pel gave him a sour look. ‘This trouble Matajcek had with Piot,’ he asked. ‘What happened?’

Massu shrugged. ‘It was about boundaries,’ he said. ‘He’d pinched a bit of Piot’s land. Carefully, you understand, and in Heurion’s time. In a valley between where nobody goes much. But when he moved the fence, it put the stream on his side so his cattle could use it. He thought he could get away with it but Heurion wasn’t that stupid. I had to deliver a notice to him to remove it.’

‘Did he?’

‘As far as I know, no. But Piot’s taken it to court again since and judgement’s been given for him, so that seems to be that.’

Leaving Nosjean to explore the place, Pel turned to the car. ‘I’m going to Bussy-la-Fontaine,’ he said. ‘This time they might have seen someone. Keep your eyes open, Nosjean. Find out if there’ve been any strangers about.’

Nosjean blinked the rain from his eyelashes and spat it from his lips. He looked about him at the puddled farmyard and the ooze that had once been cow dung but had disintegrated under the rain into a yellow slime. A dejected-looking hen was picking about among the scattered chaff under a broken cart that was short of a wheel.

‘Who do I ask, Patron?’ He gestured at the tumbledown buildings, the mud, the broken gates, and the few cows making snuffling noises as they chewed their cud, mooing welcomes as they stared at them with their big soft eyes. ‘Nobody ever comes here.’

‘You never know your luck,’ Pel said flatly. ‘Somebody might. And we haven’t got the weapon yet.’

There were still policemen by the calvary at Bussy-la-Fontaine with Misset.

‘Patron,’ Misset complained. ‘I ought to be home. Not standing here getting my death of cold.’

‘Why you particularly?’ Pel asked tartly. ‘I’m wet, too.’

‘My wife needs me, Patron.’

‘When’s the baby due?’

‘Three months time.’

Pel grunted. ‘You ought to be home by then,’ he said remorselessly. ‘Have you found anything?’

Misset gave him a bitter look. ‘No, Chief. There aren’t any tracks. If someone brought the stiff up by car to dump him, it must have been done before the snow and while the ground was still hard from frost. There are no footprints – not identifiable, anyway – and just one tyre print down there.’

‘What sort?’

Misset shrugged. ‘Looks exactly the same as the ones on my own car,’ he said. ‘Michelin ZX 145-15.’

‘Have you taken a cast?’

‘Too wet at the moment, Chief. And that clot, Massu, put his foot on it. “Look at that, Massu,” I said. “Where?” he said. “Right under your damned great hoof,” I told him. There’s enough to get a cast, though. I’ve covered it and taped it off. I’ll get it as soon as the rain stops.’ Misset brushed the rain from his face. ‘It won’t tell us much, though. That tyre’s fitted on every small car in France – Renaults, Citroën Dianes, the lot. They have ’em on the vans of every police sub-station in the country.’

Pel stared about him. There was still snow on the northern slopes but it had turned to grey slush now and inside the taped-off area there wasn’t a single footprint. Pel frowned. He’d been a policeman long enough to know there was something odd about this case – that was, if you didn’t call a man with his head almost blown to shreds and stripped to his underclothes odd already. It had a feel about it. As if somehow it weren’t anchored in anything he understood.

‘No signs of black magic?’ he asked.

‘Patron?’ Misset looked startled.

Pel sighed. ‘There’ve been some funny cases lately,’ he said. ‘People going in for the occult.’

Misset caught on. ‘I’ve found nothing you could remotely connect with that sort of thing,’ he said. ‘They go in for feathers tied in a bunch, fires and so on, don’t they? There’s nothing here but pine cones and snow. And no fires.’ He stamped his feet. ‘I wish to God there was a fire.’

‘You could always put a match to the barn,’ Darcy suggested.

Pel frowned at the flippancy. ‘Let’s see if we can make a start by getting our man identified,’ he said. ‘Round the hotels. See if anybody’s missing. Push it. Put Krauss on it. His chicken stealer’s not been busy lately. Check as far south as Châlon-sur-Saône. As far north as Bussy-Rabutin. East to the Jura. West to Sémur. That ought to be enough. If the man was a commercial traveller – something of that sort – I doubt if he’d have come from further away than that. Not in one day. Not in this weather. He ought to come out of the woodwork somewhere.’

On the way back into the city, Pel sat silently. Darcy said nothing, waiting for him to speak. The rain lashing against the windscreen was swept away in miniature tidal waves by the wipers. Pel stirred at last, fiddled with his cigarette roller for a moment or two, put it away, dragged out a Gauloise, lit it and drew guiltily on it.

‘See any connection?’ he asked.

‘Between Matajcek and our faceless friend?’

Pel nodded, his eyes dark and sad.

‘Well, Matajcek was a Czech, and Czech timber workers have worked at Bussy-la-Fontaine.’ Darcy’s shoulders moved. ‘Massu thinks it was those four who killed the cops at St Symphorien.’

Pel grunted. ‘Massu’s got solid stone between his ears,’ he growled.

‘Well, it’s too big a coincidence to ignore,’ Darcy said. ‘And Matajcek’s place is just the sort they look for. One occupant. No woman to gossip. Perhaps they turned up after we left yesterday.’

They stopped at Val-Suzon for a coffee and roll. Darcy suggested a brandy to warm them up and Pel didn’t say no, because he liked brandy. On the other hand, he didn’t say yes, either, because brandy didn’t like him, so he merely grunted and let it roll over him.

Back at the office there was a message to call the Chief. Pel sighed and picked up the telephone. The Chief was worried.

‘There’s been a cry for help from St Etienne,’ he said. ‘Have we seen four bank robbers?’

He seemed to be urging Pel on to greater efforts and Pel frowned. ‘I think we have enough troubles of our own,’ he said, and recounted what had happened at Orgny.

There was a long silence. ‘Could there be any connection with the St Symphorien shootings?’ Encouraging noises came down the telephone. ‘Keep your eyes open. If there’s the slightest chance we’ll have to call in St Etienne.’

As Pel put the telephone down, Doctor Minet rang. He sounded cheerful.

‘I’ve finished with your stiff,’ he said.

‘Anything that might identify him?’

‘Just the tattoo. And the old bullet wound in the right calf. You know about them.’

‘Go on. There’s more, I know.’

‘Yes.’ Minet laughed. ‘He’s no smoker by the look of him. There were no traces of nicotine in his lungs, and his fingers weren’t yellowed. Yet there were traces on his teeth, which is odd. He’d been shot six times by a .38 calibre revolver. Three times in the face and three times in the back of the head, with the angle of the bullet moving upwards from the base of the spine.’

‘Classic execution angle,’ Pel observed.

‘Except that his throat was cut first.’

Pel frowned and the doctor went on. ‘From behind,’ he said. ‘They usually do it that way. Grab the hair and hold the head back with the left hand, to expose the throat, then sweep across the jugular with the knife in the right.’

‘And the bullets?’

‘He was dead when they were fired. Thrown forward, I expect. He was on his knees when he was killed – there are mud and grass stains – and as the blood flowed from his throat he was flung on to his face. Then the gun was placed against the base of the skull and fired. There are burns. Two more shots were fired. They smashed out through the forehead and cheeks. Then he was turned over – by a foot, I imagine, to avoid the blood – and three more shots were fired into his face – into the area not already smashed by the bullets fired from behind. They completed the mess.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know. One other thing – he’d been hit on the head before he was shot, and there were marks on the wrists and round the mouth that indicated he’d been bound and gagged. I think he was hit on the head, tied up and gagged, then put in a car and taken away – but not to the calvary, because there isn’t enough blood there. He was made to undress and forced to kneel. His head was jerked back and his throat was cut, and his features demolished with a gun. Then his head and shoulders were wrapped in a blanket – there are traces of it in his hair – and he was removed to the calvary and dumped.’

As Pel put the telephone down thoughtfully, it rang again. This time it was Nosjean.

‘I’ve found the weapon that was used to hit Matajcek,’ he announced.

Pel sat up. ‘What is it?’

‘A spade, Patron. It has blood and hair on it. It was lying inside the stable, under some straw. I’ve got the photographers out and they’ve taken pictures. It’ll have to go to Fingerprints, so can I come in now and bring it with me?’

‘Do you need to come in?’

‘Wouldn’t mind a decent meal, Patron. There’s nothing up here and it’s cold. And the chickens keep wandering into the house. The old fool had let the wire come loose and there’s a hole big enough to drive a bus through. They’re good ones, too. Marans.’

‘How do you know?’

‘My father kept chickens. I know a bit about them. I’ve made arrangements for the Heutelets to keep an eye on the cattle. They’ll have to come indoors soon, anyway. The grass is already a bit sparse and it’s cold.’

‘How about milking?’

‘They’re bullocks,’ Nosjean said. ‘You don’t milk bullocks.’ Pel detected a note of sarcasm in his tone.

‘The Heutelets are going to shift the pigs to their place for the time being,’ Nosjean went on. ‘They say the best thing with the chickens is just to leave them to find their own food. There’s plenty of grain lying around and plenty of water. I’ve informed the Animal Rescue people.’

‘You’ve done well, Nosjean,’ Pel said.

‘Can I come in then, Patron?’

Nosjean sounded like a shorn lamb and Pel gave way. ‘Yes. I wouldn’t want you to catch cold and die. I’ll send a relief up. Get him to look around, too. Until he arrives you can carry on.’

‘What am I looking for, Patron?’ Nosjean sounded as if he’d been orphaned.

‘Think of drugs, for a start. It might be drugs. I’ll send out a sniffer dog with your relief.’

He had no sooner put the telephone down once more when it rang yet again. This time it was Judge Brisard. He sounded nasal and thick-voiced.

‘You got a cold, Judge?’ Pel asked cheerfully.

‘Yes,’ Brisard snapped.

Pel beamed at the telephone. ‘I’m sorry to hear that. Best thing for a cold is a collar of garlic round your neck and a day or two in bed.’

Brisard put on a martyred tone. ‘There’s too much to do,’ he said, ‘for me to wallow in self-sympathy. I hear we’ve got a second murder now.’

‘Not a second murder,’ Pel corrected. ‘This is only an attempted murder. The man’s still alive.’

‘Well, there’s obviously someone around up there who needs bringing in, don’t you think, Inspector?’

‘Yes, I do.’

‘Got any suspects yet?’

‘Yes. But there’s no reason to bring any of them in at the moment.’

Brisard digested that one for a while. Pel could almost see his small eyes glittering as he looked for some way he could menace Pel. In the end, he appeared to decide he wasn’t going to get anywhere and had better save his big guns for later.

‘Right,’ he said. ‘I’ll expect to hear from you as soon as possible.’

Pel put the telephone down and scowled at it, hoping that Brisard’s cold would produce complications such as bronchitis, pains in the back and, if possible, congenital leprosy, so that Judge Polverari would be put on the case. He got on well with Judge Polverari, who was small and shrunken but was still a man who enjoyed his food. The few cases Pel had worked on with Polverari had turned out to be picnics because, if nothing else, Polverari insisted on eating regularly and at a good restaurant. And, because his wife had money, he invariably insisted on Pel joining him – at his expense.

Knowing Brisard would doubtless come back later with some trivial enquiry, he decided to get out of the office. Picking up Darcy, he went to see Leguyader.

Leguyader was made in the same mould as Pel, small, dark and fierce, and they had been enemies for years and were always likely to be, because they were both efficient, dedicated and short on good temper. His laboratory was enormous, with a squad of white-coated pathologists busy at the benches.

‘This tattoo mark on his right forearm,’ he said. ‘It looks to me as if he had it put on as a youth and spent the rest of his life trying to get it off.’

He indicated a jar in which there was a small square of skin in spirit and Pel studied it with a magnifying glass.

‘Could be anything,’ he said. ‘What about the bullets?’

‘Walther-Mathurin .38. Ballistics have sent pictures.’ Leguyader passed them across. ‘They’ll be useful when you find the gun that did it.’

‘But not until. Go on.’

‘His undershirt was bought in Brussels. The store mark’s on the label.’

‘I didn’t know there was a label.’

‘Perhaps you didn’t look hard enough.’ Leguyader enjoyed baiting Pel. ‘It was hidden under a crust of dried blood. But it’s there all right. Vemelaers: That’s the name. They might remember him, but I doubt it, because it’s a supermarket and self-service. I checked. There’s also a laundry mark. A new one. Like the label, it was obscured by dried blood.’

‘Is it local?’

‘No.’ Leguyader pushed over a photograph. ‘That’s it. I expect you can get it checked.’

Pel frowned. ‘Doesn’t tell us much, does it?’ he said.

‘It tells us a bit.’ Leguyader wore an air of triumph. ‘Since most men have wives to do their laundering, I’d say your dead friend’s either single or was en route somewhere. And that he had a bit of cash. Otherwise, he’d have done what most people do in hotels: Washed his underwear himself and dried it out on the radiator.’

Pel turned. ‘Get it round the districts, Darcy. Fast.’ He stared at Leguyader. ‘What else?’

Leguyader looked smug. ‘Some people would be satisfied by this time.’

‘I’m greedy,’ Pel snapped. ‘And there is more. I can always tell. You’re dancing about like a poodle wanting to be let out.’

Leguyader scowled and lifted up the bloodstained undershirt from the top of his table. ‘Smell that,’ he said coldly.

Pel sniffed. The garment had lost all the odour of the man who’d worn it and the blood on it had dried to a cardboard stiffness. But there was an acrid smell about it that Pel caught at once.

‘Cigars,’ Leguyader pointed out.

Pel nodded. ‘Supports what Minet said,’ he agreed. ‘Teeth stained but not his lungs. Cigar smokers don’t inhale as a rule.’

Leguyader nodded. ‘Exactly. If we can identify the brand we might be able to identify him.’