The atmosphere at the Chief’s conference was tense. It seemed that as usual, like a juggler, they had half a dozen balls in the air and were trying to keep them all going at once.
‘Think this Rue de la Poésie fire’s got any connection with this deliberate burning of the woods?’ the Chief asked.
‘It might well have,’ Pel said. ‘We’ve been doing a little checking up. Aimedieu got the names of everybody who uses the Bar Emilien. He’s going round them now. Some of them remember this type who made his offer to Corvo but they don’t know his name. He’s a stranger.’
‘It was a damn funny offer to make.’
‘Perhaps he was out of work.’
‘Did he make the offer to anybody else in the bar?’
‘Apparently not. But that’s probably because land isn’t involved. Several others are after homes, but they want flats or city dwellings. You could put three or four houses on the land attached to the one in the Rue de la Poésie that Corvo wanted. Perhaps that was the attraction. Perhaps he knew somebody who might be interested. After all, there seems to be quite an influx of foreigners these days. People are even starting to complain. Maires are refusing permission for the sale of houses to them. You’ve read of Honfleur.’
The Chief had read of Honfleur.
‘They claimed there that when the foreigners arrived there – not in ones and twos but in floods – they started modernising the old buildings they’d bought so that there was a danger of the whole character of the place being altered. It’s happened in other places. Here, for instance. At St-Lazare-en-Bleu we have a colony of Dutch. At Garnier there’s a colony of British. At Etang de Colonne they’re Germans. They’re just the large groups. But there are other smaller ones around – Swiss, Belgians, Americans. Thanks to Monsieur Gorbachev, we can doubtless at any moment expect groups from Russia, Czechoslovakia, Yugoslavia, Poland, Bulgaria, Azerbaijan and Outer Mongolia.’
The Chief sighed. ‘It won’t change either,’ he admitted. ‘If anything, it’ll get worse. The Common Market’s made living abroad easier.’
Pel gestured at Darcy who had been making enquiries of his own.
‘I had a talk with Bernaud’s, the estate agents,’ he said. ‘They filled in the picture a bit. Foreigners like to buy homes close to each other. Where one Englishman or one Dutchman buys, another turns up. The estate agents mention there’s a compatriot there and it becomes a selling point. So it ends up with them gathering their friends around them and another little colony springs up.’
The Chief was a fair-minded man. ‘Surely it isn’t just the foreigners’ fault. After all, it’s French people who’re selling.’
Darcy smiled. ‘Bernaud’s say the farmers are falling over themselves. They sell their property then retire to the nearest town and buy themselves a house in the suburbs with all mod cons, leaving the buyers to deal with the lack of facilities they put up with for generations. It’s big business. Houses are expensive in England; here they’re being offered as bargains.’
‘Are they bargains?’
‘They look like bargains in the British newspapers. Bernaud’s showed me a few. They don’t mention that they have no electricity, no mains drainage and no piped water. And, having landed themselves with a lot more expense than they bargained for, the buyers then find they’re lonely. So they encourage their friends to buy, too, and – houplà! – another colony springs up. In the south they’re actually producing brand-new complexes disguised as Spanish fishing villages. There’s a speculator in London, I gather, who specialises in this sort of thing and he has an associate here in France. It might be a good idea to find who he is.’
The Chief frowned. ‘Building isn’t against the law,’ he pointed out.
‘Burning woodland is,’ Pel said quietly.
‘So,’ Darcy added, ‘is vandalising empty farmhouses.’
Brochard’s father was a small man with bright alert eyes that indicated there wasn’t much he didn’t know and hadn’t seen.
‘That Barthelot,’ he said, ‘is about as straight as a corkscrew. A bent corkscrew. You’ve heard of Sebastien Croquis?’
Full of his mother’s food and his father’s wine, Brochard sat back, lethargic but with his mind in top gear. ‘Who’s Croquis?’
‘Keeps that farm at Valdegil. You know the one. Looks as though it’s been hit by a hurricane. Bad farmer. Had a few of my sheep in his time.’
‘Stole them? Did you inform the police?’
‘Didn’t bother. I got some red cotton from your mother and threaded it through the tails of twenty or thirty of my animals. You couldn’t see it but it was there if you knew where to look. Then I told the tannery at Engentil to keep a look-out for fleeces that came from Croquis. When they told me some had turned up I got them to put them on one side. Some had the red cotton through their tails.’
‘So?’
‘Croquis is Barthelot’s brother-in-law.’
‘And is Barthelot the same?’
‘I reckon so.’
The following morning, Brochard went to see Barthelot’s neighbour, a man called La Verne, the man he had accused of killing his sheep.
‘He wants to take over my land,’ La Verne said.
‘Would you sell?’
‘Never. My family’s been here since 1850.’
‘He’s accusing you of putting down poison for his sheep. Has he had autopsies done on them?’
‘He says so. I don’t believe him.’
‘They seem to be dead, all the same. Is he insured?’
‘Yes. Guillemard Assurance. One of their people came along asking questions.’
Barthelot turned out to be a big man with a fleshy face and eyes so small they seemed in danger of disappearing. Brochard introduced himself as a representative of the Guillemard Assurance Company.
‘What’s the trouble?’ Barthelot demanded.
‘Just checking,’ Brochard said.
‘There’s no need. You’ve only to ask at the tannery at Engentil. They’ll tell you how many of my ewes they’ve had. Breeding ewes too. Best Larzacs. I paid a fortune for them. That bastard over the hill poisoned them.’
‘Why would he do that?’
‘Because he dislikes me. He thinks I want to take him over. I do, as a matter of fact. He’s a sloppy farmer.’
‘His family’s been at it for generations,’ Brochard pointed out. ‘I thought he wasn’t bad.’
‘What do you know about it?’ Barthelot snorted. Brochard smiled. ‘I grew up on a farm,’ he said.
The following day, by sheer luck, another of Barthelot’s ewes died. Brochard’s father brought the news and Brochard went along to the farm to claim the carcass.
‘What do you want it for?’ Barthelot demanded.
Brochard put on his innocent choirboy face. ‘Just to check,’ he said.
Taking the carcass back to his father’s farm, Brochard and his father opened the animal up. His father laughed.
‘Yew clippings,’ he said. ‘It’s been eating yew clippings. I bet it’s been eating them for ages. They’re enough to knock over any sheep. Especially in this condition. It’s a crossbred and a pretty poor specimen at that. Barthelot doesn’t know anything about farming. He always buys bad sheep.’
Brochard frowned. ‘Where did the yew clippings come from?’ he asked. ‘I bet La Verne didn’t feed them to it. The unmasticated bits look as if they’ve been cut deliberately with a knife.’
That afternoon, Brochard checked that La Verne hadn’t a yew tree anywhere near his land. He then drove over to Barthelot’s farm. Barthelot was at market so Brochard introduced himself to his wife and persuaded her to allow him to look around. ‘Just a formality,’ he said.
He noticed at once that there was a big yew behind the barn, close to the pens where Barthelot kept his lambs and close to where he kept his bales of hay. It had been cut back and there were a lot of fallen needles and clippings among the loose hay and on the ground, and several plastic bags of chemical fertiliser, one or two of them split.
‘You feed hay to the sheep?’ he asked.
‘When the weather’s bad,’ Barthelot’s wife said. ‘We used to keep the lambs and the feed at the other side of the barn but my husband reorganised things. He trimmed the tree and moved the feed nearer, he says it saves him work.’
There was a horse in the paddock and Brochard leaned on the gate, admiring it.
‘Nice animal,’ he said.
‘It’s my daughter’s.
‘Take a lot of looking after, horses. Hay, bran mash, chaff. All that. Have any problems with it?’
‘It was off colour during the cold weather. When it was on hay.’
‘What do you cut chaff with?’
‘There’s a chaff cutter in the stable.’
‘I haven’t seen one of those for years.
Affecting interest as a collector of old farming machinery, Brochard got permission to inspect the machine. Its four geared blades whirled at speed to the slow swing of the handle. Brochard admired it effusively. ‘We had one of those when I was a boy,’ he said. ‘Why we didn’t cut our fingers off I don’t know.’
He moved round the machine, peering closely. Among the chaff on the floor he found yew seeds and needles, some of them chopped into small fragments.
He decided he had all the evidence he needed. All it required now were a few enquiries into Barthelot’s background. But for the time being he had other things to do. Charlie Ciasca wasn’t all that far away.
Driving to Lyons and joining the east-west motorway, he climbed out of his car by Charlie’s flat, watched with interest by all the other girls with whom she shared accommodation. There seemed to be dozens of them.
‘Come on in,’ she said, grinning at him.
‘With that lot?’ he retorted indignantly. ‘Why not somewhere alone?’
‘I think you’re after me.’
Brochard affected innocence.
‘Most men are. And I know what they want.’
It was Brochard’s turn to grin. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘it’s not a bad idea.’
‘Haven’t you got a girl?’
‘I had. I broke with her.’
‘Why?’
‘She was too possessive. She said she’d shame me by taking an overdose of sleeping pills.’
‘Did she?’
‘No. But she said she’d set her brothers on to me. She has two.’
‘So have I.’
Brochard was startled.
‘And like me, they’re part-Swiss, part-Italian, part-French. Mostly Italian. And you know what the Italians are like. And, though the Swiss seem pretty placid people, they have hidden depths. They’ve been known to shoot at each other from time to time.’
‘Even club each other with cuckoo clocks?’
‘Even that. They have riots in Switzerland these days. Not many. But some. My brothers protect me. Gabriel and Jean-Jacques. They’re tough.’
When Pel reached his office the following day, Darcy was waiting for him.
‘We’ve had a dental report on the woman at Vieilles Etuves,’ he said. ‘The amalgam in the fillings isn’t French. So, in view of the sweater she was wearing being British, the amalgam’s probably British, too. We’ll try the police there.’
As Darcy left there was a telephone call for Pel from Lyons. The line was bad and the accent was English. It turned out to be Superintendent Goschen, of Scotland Yard. He had helped Pel on previous occasions, and their respect was as mutual as the assistance they offered each other.
‘Charles Goschen,’ the ghostly voice said through a symphony of crackles and bangs. ‘I’m in Lyons and I’ll be passing through your patch.’
They had no difficulty talking because Pel spoke some English and Goschen some French and the extra bits they filled in with Franglais.
‘I’m on my way north from Provence,’ Goschen said. ‘I’ve been on a little job down there and I thought it would be nice to call in and see you. You might even be able to help me.’
Remembering the magnificent hospitality he had received from Goschen and his family on his rare visits to London on duty, Pel was immediately eager to respond in kind.
‘You must stay with us,’ he said. ‘You mustn’t think of anything else.’
When he telephoned his wife, in a panic at the shortness of notice, she received the news as calmly as she received all news of imminent disasters. He arrived home to find she had left her office early and was pottering in the kitchen. She was even singing, one of the strange little songs she seemed to enjoy so much.
Chez nous, il y a trois petits chats,
Chaton, Chaton, Chatonette,
Chez nous, il y a trois petits chats—’
‘He’ll be here soon,’ Pel urged.
‘We’re all ready,’ Madame pointed out calmly.
Half an hour before Goschen was due to arrive, Pel was in the garden wearing the suit he kept for levees, meeting film stars and the President of France, or in case they ever gave him the Légion d’Honneur.
‘Who’re you looking for?’ The speaker was Yves Pasquier, the small boy from next door. As usual, judging by the scratches and bruises on his legs, he’d been having a fight with a motor mower. He was accompanied by his dog. It resembled a dirty mophead and was so shaggy it was hard to tell which was the end that bit.
The boy obviously wanted to chat but, worried that his hospitality wouldn’t measure up to what he’d received in London, Pel wasn’t in the mood to bandy politenesses just then. Mornings, through a hole in the hedge, were the time when he usually held his conversations with Yves Pasquier.
‘Aren’t you doing your homework?’ he asked.
‘Done it.’
‘Shouldn’t you be taking the dog for a walk?’
‘He’s been. Who’s coming?’
‘How do you know somebody’s coming?’
‘They are, aren’t they? I saw Madame Routy going off. She came back with a package that had obviously come from the butcher. I know the way he ties them up.’
‘You’d make a good detective.’
‘It wasn’t just that.’
‘Oh? What else?’
‘You. You’re in a state.’
Pel sniffed. ‘It’s a policeman,’ he said.
‘Do you usually put your best suit on for a cop?’
‘He’s an English cop.’
‘Famous?’
‘Oh, yes,’ Pel said proudly.
‘Would he give me his autograph?’
‘I suppose so if you asked.’
‘I’ll get my autograph book.’
The boy was back within seconds and he and Pel stood in the garden watching the road with all the intensity of stout Cortez about to discover the Pacific.
It was not to be. Just as Pel spotted a car with a British number plate approaching, Madame Pasquier appeared and yanked her son indoors.
‘You shouldn’t let him bother you,’ she said to Pel as she hauled him away.
‘I want to stay,’ her son screamed. ‘It’s a cop who’s coming! He’s famous! I want his autograph!’
‘If you say any more I’ll lock you in a cupboard full of spiders.’
The threat was greeted with derision. ‘I like spiders. Their legs fall off when they’re scared.’
Goschen reacted as Pel expected him to react – with British calm and British good manners. He admired Madame Pel – which wasn’t very difficult; was pleasant to Madame Routy; gave his signature to Yves Pasquier who, having sneaked out while his mother wasn’t looking, appeared at his side; even admired Pel’s garden. On that point, of course, Pel knew he was just being polite. Pel had almost swooned over Goschen’s garden in the London suburb where he lived. Goschen’s lawn was like velvet and there were flowers, because Goschen was a gardener. Pel invariably found he had files to read or a stiff leg or a bad back when Madame mentioned his garden in the spring and autumn.
Madame surpassed herself with the meal and they didn’t talk business until the following morning, when Pel insisted on Goschen’s seeing the Chief, who was flattered enough to bring out the brandy bottle. Then he took him to lunch at the Relais Saint-Armand and they got down to talking shop over the liqueurs. ‘I’m investigating a chap who’s involved in a bit of shifty speculation,’ Goschen explained and Pel’s ears pricked up at once. ‘He’s been buying up land in England,’ Goschen went on. ‘Now we learn he’s doing the same in France. He’s a builder and he’s working along the south coast near St Tropez.’
Pel wondered if he were someone he might be interested in. ‘Name?’ he asked.
‘Cornelius. Dirk Cornelius. We’re not sure what nationality. He has a British passport but we think he might be Dutch.’
‘Does he put up the money?’
‘We think he’s just the front man and there’s somebody behind him. Some Spanish woman. Name of Carmen Vlaxi.’
Pel sat up sharply. ‘It’s not a she,’ he said. ‘It’s a he.’
‘You know him?’
‘Half-Spanish, half-Arab. Came up from Spain. Worked things round Toulouse for a bit. Then he got ambitious and came north. Pretends to be Castilian. Known as Carmen the Bullfighter.’
‘Is he now?’
‘He tried to get into the Paris rackets but they were already pretty full and he hadn’t enough clout to make himself stick, so he came here. We used to have a type called Maurice Tagliatti, but you’ll remember he was bumped off. You were involved. This Vlaxi took over his rackets, his territory and what was left of his troops. After we’d finished with them, there weren’t more than one or two.’
Goschen grinned. ‘That’s what I like to hear. Does he go in for this building business?’
‘What sort of building are you thinking of?’
‘Well, this Cornelius acquires land. Usually cheaply because he puts the frighteners on the owners. Then he develops it. Leisure centres. Beach villages. You know – two hundred rabbit hutches painted white with a few trees and a swimming pool chucked in. Is that his scene?’
Pel was thoughtful. ‘It might well be,’ he said.