At just about the time that Pel was trying to inform Madame Faivre-Perret that a pleasant evening out had come to a very abrupt end, events were taking place in the city which were going to involve him even more.
Maurice Rohard, an elderly draper, who lived over his shop in the Rue Ruffot in the oldest part of the city, was standing with his head cocked alongside the wall which separated the back of his premises from the back of the premises next door. He could hear tapping and that, he knew, was not as it should be, because the shop next door, belonging to his friend, Eugène Zimbach, a jeweller, was normally locked up at six o’clock every night, and unlike Rohard, Zimbach did not live on the premises.
Calling his elder sister, Violette, who kept house for him, Rohard directed her to listen.
‘It sounds like knocking,’ she decided. ‘Hammering even.’
‘Well, that’s odd, isn’t it?’ Rohard said. ‘Because Eugène’s been locked up and gone home two hours now. I think I’d better have a look around.’
He donned his hat, and, because he thought it would look less suspicious, called to the surprised dog, which had already been for its evening walk and wasn’t in the habit of getting two. He returned half an hour later, having strolled quietly past the jeweller’s next door and gazed into the window on the pretence of studying the goods for sale.
‘I couldn’t see anything wrong,’ he said.
‘Well,’ his sister pointed out, ‘they’re still at it. Hadn’t you better call the police?’
‘They’ll be busy. It’s Bastille Night.’
‘There must be one or two available.’
Rohard reached for the telephone and five minutes later the doorbell rang and a young plain clothes policeman appeared. He was from the team of Inspector Goriot who, until a few months before when Pel had been promoted, had been equal in importance and even hoping for promotion because his uncle was a senator and had a great deal of influence in the places where influence mattered. The young policeman’s name was Desouches and he was one of Goriot’s best men. Rohard called him in and they listened together to the tapping sounds.
‘Sounds like drilling now,’ Desouches said.
There was another series of taps then a muffled clattering.
‘That sounds like someone breaking down the brickwork,’ Rohard pointed out.
Desouches frowned. ‘What do you think they’re after?’
‘There’s the jeweller’s next door,’ Rohard said. ‘But I’ve had a look and there doesn’t seem to be anything wrong. Of course, they could be trying to get in through the back from the Impasse Tarien.’
‘What’s in the Impasse Tarien?’
Rohard shrugged. The Impasse Tarien was a shabby cul-de-sac in an area of the city that the city fathers were endeavouring to eradicate. It had no architectural value and insufficient age to be a curiosity – just a group of houses erected in the last century when the city had begun to expand, devoid of beauty and possessing little in the way of amenities.
‘Not much,’ he admitted. ‘It’s due to be demolished.’
Desouches listened again. ‘Where do you think it’s coming from?’ he asked.
‘It seems to be coming from Number Ten or Number Eleven. But it can’t be. They’ve been empty for some time.’
‘Does Zimbach keep much on his premises?’ Desouches asked.
‘He’s got a safe in the cellar.’
Desouches made up his mind. ‘I’ll have a sniff around,’ he said.
Walking round to the Impasse Tarien, he knocked on the door of Number Nine and asked if anyone were working in the yard.
‘No,’ he was told. ‘I think you’ve got the wrong place. It’s next door.’
‘You can hear them?’
‘All the time. I think they’re in Number Ten.’
‘Isn’t Number Ten empty?’
‘It’s supposed to be. If there’s anyone there, they’re squatters.’
‘What about Number Eleven on the other side? Isn’t that supposed to be empty, too?’
‘It’s supposed to be.’
Desouches nodded and tried Number Ten. The shutters were closed and his suspicions were aroused at once as the doorway was opened no more than a slit. ‘I’m looking for Monsieur Rohard,’ he said.
All he could see in the dark interior beyond the door was a blur of nose, mouth and eyes. A hand gestured towards the end of the street, then the door shut firmly in his face.
As he turned away, Desouches noticed a man standing in a nearby doorway. He appeared to be watching because, as the policeman turned, he swung away and vanished round the corner. Deciding not to use his radio at once but to go into the next street where he couldn’t be seen, by this time Desouches was convinced that something underhand was taking place. Turning the corner, he pressed the switch of his radio and spoke.
‘Stay where you are,’ he was told. ‘We’ll have a car round there at once.’
Three minutes later a police car drew quietly to a stop. Desouches knew both the men inside because the driver, Emile Durin, was his cousin and had joined the police after his military service for no other reason than that Desouches had. The brigadier commanding the car was a burly Meridional called Randolfi. Desouches explained what he’d been doing and Randolfi reached for the door handle.
‘We’ll go together,’ he said. ‘Did you get a look at them?’
‘Not much. Just a blur. It was dark inside. They didn’t turn on any lights. I think he was a foreigner.’
‘Why do you think that?’
‘Because he didn’t say anything.’
‘He might have had his mouth full,’ Randolfi observed dryly. ‘It’s rude to talk with your mouth full.’
‘He could have waited till he’d emptied it,’ Desouches retorted. ‘But he just gestured and shut the door in my face.’
It didn’t take long to find out that Number Eleven had been officially empty for some time and Randolfi decided they ought to have Inspector Goriot in on the affair. Within a few minutes, another car drew up behind the first. Inside were Goriot and two more detectives.
Goriot gestured to them. ‘You, Aimedieu, and you, Lemadre,’ he said, ‘go round into the Rue Ruflot. The yards in the Impasse Tarien back on to the yards there. It’s quite obvious it’s a break-in and if we appear at the front they’ll probably try to go that way. Get over the wall and pick them up as they come out.’
As the two men vanished, Goriot gestured to the others. ‘I’ll leave it to you, Desouches,’ he said. ‘It’s your case.’
Marching boldly up to Number Ten, with Goriot, Randolfi and his cousin, Durin, just behind, Desouches tapped on the door. As before, it opened slightly and a dark face appeared.
‘We’ve had complaints,’ Desouches said. ‘About noise. Have you been working or knocking inside there?’
The man behind the door stared.
‘Did you hear what I said?’ Desouches went on and when the man still didn’t answer, he pushed the door further open. ‘You a foreigner?’ he asked.
There was still no answer and Desouches decided it was time to put on the pressure. ‘I’d like to see your papers,’ he said.
Immediately, the door was pushed to but Desouches got his foot in the gap.
‘Open up,’ he shouted. ‘Or we’ll come in!’
Thrusting the door open, he stepped inside and found he was in a small hall, with a room off to his right. As he looked round him, Goriot pushed in, too. ‘Anybody working here?’ he asked.
The man spoke at last. ‘No,’ he said.
‘I’d like to have a look,’ Goriot said. ‘Show us the way.’
The man pointed down a passage to the rear of the building and Goriot glanced at Desouches. The hall was crowded now because Randolfi and Durin had also pushed their way in. As they turned towards the rear of the house a door opened and a man appeared, holding a pistol in each hand. Goriot heard the sound of the shot and felt something tug at his sleeve. Immediately there were more shots and Desouches staggered back and, collapsing against the half open door, fell over the doorstep. Alongside him, Randolfi was hit as he reached for his pistol and, stumbling over Desouches, fell into the street. As he rose and staggered away, he was hit again and as Durin ran to help him a bullet shattered his thigh bone. Struggling with the man who had opened the door, Goriot had also been hit.
As the policemen who had gone into the Rue Ruffot appeared at the other end of the hall, Lemadre was in the lead and as he came through the rear door, the man with the pistol whirled and fired. Lemadre grabbed him but the pistol was against his body and the trigger was being pulled repeatedly so that his legs finally buckled and he fell, dragging with him the man with the pistol. Aimedieu, who had been just behind, was about to grab for the gunman when there was a terrific jolt that seemed to shake the house and he was whirled aside by a hurricane of air. A ball of orange flame swept out of a room on his right and there was the roar of an explosion and a gust of black smoke. A tremendous clamour beat against his ears and his mouth seemed to be full of cinders so that he felt as if he were looking into the muzzle of a gigantic blowlamp. Figures were staggering about in the smoke and flame, then the ceiling fell on him and he went down covered in plaster and laths, while whirling fragments swung about above him like frenzied glittering bats.
For a while he lay still, then, realising he wasn’t dead, he lifted his shoulders and straightened up, the plaster, dust and bits of broken wood falling from him to the floor. His face was black with the soot the explosion had brought down the chimney and there were little flecks of blood on his face and hands and small rents in his clothing where flying fragments had caught him.
The shooting had stopped and there was a dead silence. A few dazed people had appeared and a woman in the street started screaming that she’d been wounded, in a harsh nerve-wracking way that spoke of hysteria. Another lay dead.
Desouches was sprawled in the doorway with a wound in his neck. Goriot was lying in the hall, groaning with a bullet in his hip. Maurice Rohard was supporting Brigadier Randolfi, who was clearly dying. Durin sprawled near the stairs and Lemadre was struggling on hands and knees. As Aimedieu pushed through the debris to help him, he heard the wail of a police siren.
At Vieilly Pel was struggling to explain what had happened to Madame Faivre-Perret. She didn’t look any too pleased but was trying hard to put a good face on it. Romance with Pel was sometimes a little trying.
‘I’ll arrange for a police car to drive you home,’ Pel was saying.
Madame Faivre-Perret touched his hand. ‘My dear Evariste,’ she said. ‘I’m quite capable of driving myself. I’ll take your car.’
‘There aren’t many cars about like my car,’ Pel said, faintly ashamed. It was probably a good job, too, he thought; nothing on it seemed to work and he had been wondering for some time how he could afford a new one, because he was terrified the door would fall off as they went round a corner and deposit Madame Faivre-Perret in the gutter. ‘We’ll attend to it.’
He spoke quietly with Brigadier Soulas and a car – not the official one but Soulas’ own, which, Pel noticed bitterly, was newer than his – appeared within seconds.
‘Perhaps it’s better this way.’ Madame Faivre-Perret squeezed his hand. ‘It can’t be helped,’ she said, a trifle disconsolately. ‘Telephone me as soon as you can.’
To Pel’s surprise, she kissed him gently on the cheeks and turned away. A policeman waved the car off and it slipped through the shadows towards the main road. Pel stared after it for a moment then drew a deep breath. But he made no complaint. Crimes committed in his spare time usually raised a bleat of protest, but children were different. He hated crimes involving children.
From the other side of the canvas screen the band was still pounding away, its beat thudding inside Pel’s head like a metronome. Soulas looked worried.
‘Should we send everybody home?’ he asked.
‘What good would that do?’ Pel asked. ‘No, leave it. But get the names of everybody here.’ He turned to Nosjean. ‘Have you contacted Darcy yet?’ he asked.
‘Not Darcy,’ Nosjean said. ‘I got hold of Misset. He’s just got back from Paris.’
Misset was Pel’s bête noire, the one man on his team he felt he could never trust.
‘I hope he got the message correctly,’ he growled. ‘Where’s Darcy?’
‘He’s been called out on something.’
‘Right,’ Pel said. ‘Let’s go.’
The woods at Vieilly were dark but Brigadier Soulas had rigged up lamps and canvas screens. The body was clad in a red, white and blue jersey and Doctor Minet, who had just appeared, was bent over it, while the lab men prowled around with tape measures, their noses to the ground, looking for anything that might help.
‘Who is he?’ Pel asked. ‘One of the local children? From the procession?’
‘Soulas doesn’t know him,’ Nosjean said. ‘And he’s been here seven years and reckons he knows them all. I think he’s from the city. He’s got a membership card in his pocket for a youth gymnasium near the Place Wilson.’
‘Check with whoever runs it. Find out where all their members are supposed to be.’
As Nosjean turned away, Pel lit a cigarette. Under the circumstances he felt he could be forgiven and, with a case on his hands, he knew it was a losing battle, anyway. He looked at Doc Minet who had just straightened up and was stretching his back.
‘What happened to him?’ he asked.
‘At first glance – strangled.’
Pel said nothing, conscious of a pulse beating in his head as he thought of the boy’s terror.
‘I don’t think he was killed that way, though,’ Minet said in a strained voice. He was a cheerful little man who enjoyed teasing Pel, but the murder of a child changed everybody. ‘I’ve still to make certain – and that’ll take time – but I think he died from suffocation.’
‘Scarf? Coat?’
‘Neither. The ground’s soft here. His face was pressed into it. If you look closely you can see the impression it made – nose, chin, mouth, everything. There’s soil in his eyes, nostrils and mouth.’
‘Sexual? It is a sexual attack?’
‘Doesn’t look like it. His clothing’s not been disarranged, except in the struggle that must have taken place. Nothing else, though. I’ll tell you better when I’ve examined him.’
‘Anything in his pockets?’
‘A few coins and–’ Minet opened his hand to show three blue and yellow capsules – ‘and these.’
‘What are they?’
‘They look like diazepam.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Tranquillisers. Vallium based. These’ll be five-milligram doses.’
‘For a boy his age?’
‘I’ve heard of kids taking them. God knows, they’re prepared to try anything these days for a kick.’
Pel tossed away his cigarette and fished for another but, because he’d come out that evening intending to cut down his smoking, he found he’d finished what he’d brought. Minet saw his look and pulled out a pack of Gitanes.
‘I thought you were trying to stop,’ he said.
‘This sort of thing doesn’t help,’ Pel growled.
He prowled about, studying the ground about him. One of the lab men lifted his head.
‘Anything?’ Pel asked.
‘Not much, Patron, beyond a few cigarette ends. None of them particularly new.’
When Nosjean came back, Pel was standing with his hands in his pockets, his shoulders hunched.
‘I’ve contacted the type who runs the gymnasium, Patron,’ he said. ‘Name of Martinelle – Georges Martinelle. It’s only a small one, with about fifty boys. He’s an ex-major. Not a fighting man, it seems, but a physical training instructor who ended up in charge of all recruit training at Clermont-Ferrand.’
‘What about the boy?’
‘He couldn’t say. He’s promised to take a list of his members round to the Hôtel de Police. I let them know to expect it.’
‘Who? Darcy?’
‘Cadet Martin was on the desk. He said everybody was out.’
‘Everybody?’
‘Well, there’s no one in Goriot’s office and there seems to be nobody in ours.’
‘What’s happened to Misset?’
‘He seems to have disappeared too, now, Patron.’
‘He would. What in God’s name is Darcy doing? He should be here by this time.’
Leaving Nosjean to look after things, Pel signed to Brigadier Soulas, who drove him to the substation where his car was parked. By this time, the celebrations had a worn look. The band was still thumping out its beat but the bar had run out of drink and only a few youngsters were still dancing. Everybody else had gone home. Pel glanced at his watch. It was past midnight.
‘What in the name of God’s Darcy up to?’ he growled again.
With every policeman in the village suddenly on duty, the telephone was being attended by Madame Soulas.
‘I have a message for you,’ she said. ‘Inspector Darcy rang. Will you ring in at once?’
Pel glared. ‘Will I ring in?’ he growled. ‘Who does Darcy think he is?’
He picked up the telephone and dialled the number of the Hôtel de Police. The operator answered at once but it seemed to require a long time to get hold of Darcy. When he finally answered, he sounded breathless and in a hurry.
‘I think you’d better get back here, Patron,’ he said immediately before Pel could start asking questions.
‘What do you mean, I should get back there?’ Pel snapped. ‘You should be out here. We’ve got a murder on our hands.’
There was a moment’s silence. When Darcy’s voice came it sounded tired and deflated. ‘So have we, Patron.’ He spoke slowly and clearly so there should be no mistake about what he was saying. ‘Four! Three of them cops!’