Five

Sitting at his desk, Nosjean stared at the papers in front of him. The lady estate agent had seemed more than ever indifferent lately.

Of course, he admitted to himself, there was always the possibility that she didn’t want to see him. After two evenings out together, perhaps she’d decided he wasn’t what she was seeking.

With the sun on his face, Nosjean could see his reflection in the window, because beyond it was the roof of the General Hospital and it acted like a mirror. Staring at himself, Nosjean decided he looked normal enough. Thin intelligent face. Honest. Good-looking in an earnest sort of way. What was wrong with him? Impulsively he picked up the telephone and dialled the number of the Agence Immobilière Lafaye.

‘Mademoiselle Julie Colin,’ he said.

There was a couple of clicks then the voice of Julie Colin came on the line.

‘Jean-Luc Nosjean here.’

‘Oh, hello,’ she said. ‘How nice to hear from you. Where’ve you been?’

Sulking, Nosjean thought bitterly. ‘Busy,’ he said. ‘Look, I’m free tonight. I’m on an art enquiry and it leaves the evenings free. It isn’t one of those cases when you have to be on duty all hours. How about a meal together?’

There was a long silence. ‘Oh, merde,’ she said. ‘I can’t. I have this man to see.’

‘Which man?’

‘He’s from Paris. He’s interested in one of our properties. It’s a big deal. I have to have dinner with him.’

‘To sell him a house?’

He heard her laugh. ‘I’m what’s known as an asset to the office. They say I’m attractive enough to sell houses that people don’t want to buy. It’s something the Old Man fixed up. He thinks I’ll sell the house just by putting on my best smile.’

Nosjean sighed. She could have sold him a house with her best smile, he had to admit.

‘Right,’ he said. ‘How about tomorrow?’

There was another long silence. ‘My mother’s coming over from Bordeaux.’

‘Can’t you put her off?’

‘Have you ever tried putting your mother off?’

Nosjean had to admit he hadn’t and wouldn’t like to. He had a mother who thought the world of him, and three sisters who thought because he was a policeman he was James Bond or someone, and kept buying him what they liked to think was suitable equipment or clothing for a secret agent – thermal underwear for the long winter nights when he was trailing Russian spies, a compass for his car in case he got lost and had to find his way home by the stars. Any time now they’d be buying him a laser gun or a heat-seeking rocket.

‘No,’ he agreed. ‘I haven’t tried to put my mother off.’

‘I can’t even get in touch with her. She left Bordeaux to spend the night with an old friend who lives in the country and doesn’t believe in telephones. She’s a poetess or something. I can’t contact her until I face her on the station when she arrives.’

‘When will you be free?’

‘When she goes home.’

‘When will that be?’

‘I wish I knew.’

It sounded like the usual brush-off. I’m seeing mother. I have to see a client. Any day now she’d be telling him she had to wash her hair.

‘Oh, well,’ he said. ‘Never mind. I’ll try again later.’

He put the telephone down, deciding it wasn’t worth the effort and that he’d better do as Pel suggested and try Mijo Lehmann and get her to go to Avignon with him to have a look at the Rumanian, Cubescu, who’d sold Chevrier his dud painting. He knew she would. Though he’d stood her up more than once she always seemed willing to come back for more. It was one of the aspects of Nosjean’s life, he decided. The women he wanted to see didn’t want to see him; and the ones he didn’t particularly want to see were always more than willing to wait. There had been one who’d waited for him for three years until she’d suddenly grown tired and decided it was easier to marry someone with a nine-to-five job who was better paid and wasn’t in danger of getting shot at by some criminal type, and had got herself hitched to a tax inspector.

 

It was hard to say whether Nosjean’s trip to Avignon was a success or not. It had not been hard to find Cubescu, a small man with bright black eyes whose house was full of paintings. He said he was actually a volcanologist, a student of volcanoes, and one room was full from floor to ceiling of pictures of volcanoes erupting. To Nosjean it was like being in Hell.

He was cheerful, friendly and willing to answer questions, but when Nosjean asked him about the disputed Soldier With Helmet, the property of Jacques Chevrier, he shook his head. ‘It’s no longer in my possession,’ he insisted. ‘I sold it.’

‘I know,’ Nosjean said. ‘To a man called Chevrier. For what sum?’

‘Three hundred thousand francs.’

‘Have you a valuation or documents to say it’s worth that much?’

Cubescu’s eyes lit up. ‘I have a photocopy. Chevrier has the original, of course. He asked for it because he wanted to raise a loan on the picture.’

‘He did.’

‘I’m pleased.’

‘Unfortunately, it now seems the bank thinks it made a mistake. It’s not genuine.’

Cubescu’s jaw dropped. ‘But it must be genuine. I only sold it because I was making a good profit and Chevrier was very keen to have it. I had a valuation on it from a professor of Fine Art.’

‘Can I see it?’

‘But of course.

The letter had an embossed heading ‘Professor Yves-Pol Solecin, formerly curator of the Fervier Museum of Art, Lyons.’ It stated, ‘This painting is full of the magnificent energy and character of Rembrandt van Rijn (1606-1669), the great Dutch master of the 17th century. Rembrandt felt in nature the expressive qualities of a subject and had the mental power to give him dominion over nature, something which enabled him to isolate and extract the inmost essence of his subject. The outstanding characteristic of oil paint is the texture and the force of the modelling, and Rembrandt set out to make full use of them. After many years he became the supreme master.’

‘It says a lot about Rembrandt,’ Nosjean pointed out. ‘But not a lot about the painting.’

A slightly agitated Cubescu produced another document which stated that the work had previously been verified by one Jerôme Sède, Professor of Fine Art, of Metz. The authentication of Professor Solecin, dated seven months before, valued the painting at 200,000 francs.

‘It seemed a reasonable figure,’ Cubescu said. ‘I had no reason to assume it was anything but genuine.’

‘How did you get this authentication?’

‘I was told about this Professor Solecin. I was told he would give an authentication on works of art at a very reasonable price.’

‘Is that usual? The cheapness?’

‘Well, he was pretty old.’

‘Who told you about him?’

‘I heard of a man called Riault and telephoned him. He recommended him.’

‘And the painting? Where did you get that?’

‘Jean-Philippe Roth. He has galleries in your city. Just behind the Rue de la Liberté.’

 

Nosjean seemed to be getting somewhere at last, especially that night when Mijo Lehmann, who had been checking the galleries, met him at the hotel where they were staying. They ate at a good restaurant, exchanged ideas and discoveries, held hands over the table and drank a little too much wine.

As Nosjean undressed in his room he wondered if Mijo Lehmann was expecting him to make a foray down the corridor after the lights went out. Was it possible, he wondered. Nosjean was a well-brought up young man with a great respect for the opposite sex because of his three older sisters who had made sure he didn’t go off the straight and narrow. It was different these days, through, and he accepted that girls seemed to expect that sort of thing. Yet, if Mijo Lehmann didn’t, it could ruin a beautiful friendship. It seemed to call for courage and a touch of élan. On the other hand, Nosjean’s mind was full of the dire warnings of his sisters.

Though the situation seemed to demand a show of spirit, Nosjean reluctantly came to the conclusion that the spirit of Jean-Luc Nosjean wasn’t quite the spirit that had made France great. He thought about it a lot, feeling the situation required a considerable amount of delicacy, and was just on the point of falling asleep when he suddenly decided to gird up his loins and have a bash. Heading down the corridor, he scratched at Mijo Lehmann’s door.

There was no reply and, deciding he was making a fool of himself, he was just about to turn away when he heard the bolt withdrawn. His heart thumped and as the door opened he saw Mijo’s face staring sleepily at him.

‘I thought you were never coming,’ she said.

 

It had been a long night and, feeling twice the man he had been, Nosjean drove back at his usual lunatic speed, Mijo Lehmann asleep beside him with her head on his shoulder. His chest swelled with pride. Nosjean wasn’t a promiscuous young man but he also wasn’t a virgin and he was feeling proud of himself. He had always thought of Mijo Lehmann, with her brains, her skill with antiques, the salary she commanded at the gallery where she worked, as being quite beyond him, but she had fallen into his arms, all warm with the scent of perfume and soft flesh, and stumbled with him to the bed. He could see it leading to better and more wonderful occasions.

Then he shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Did she expect marriage? Nosjean wasn’t sure he wanted wedlock. He was too young to die and he had an uncle whose wife had always been held up in the family as an example of what could happen to a marriage. She had gone for the bottle, had men friends and had eventually hit her husband over the head with a kitchen stool and kicked him out of the house. She might well even have been the reason why Nosjean’s sisters had never married.

On the other hand, he couldn’t imagine Mijo Lehmann going for the bottle or hitting him with the kitchen stool. Especially after last night when she’d been all softness and warmth and murmured endearments. As they turned off the motorway into the city, he decided to take a chance and let things follow their own course. Mijo Lehmann had an apartment and he enjoyed her company. Whatever happened, it surely couldn’t be too bad.

 

Jean-Philippe Roth was in his gallery talking to a customer when Nosjean arrived. He had dropped Mijo at the end of the street where her apartment was situated. ‘I’ll expect you,’ she had said quietly.

Roth was contemplating a single painting set on an easel below a strong light. Nosjean was not an expert but he had learned a lot about art and the painting seemed to be an interior in the manner of Jan Steen.

‘We have only the picture to go on,’ Roth was saying. ‘And, of course, there are always doubts. But there are little touches’ – a limp hand fluttered over the painting – ‘here and here – which you as an expert must recognise. That figure there on the right, for instance. It could well be Steen himself and we know a lot of artists went in for self-portraiture when they were short of models. It came into my hands from Lombards’ in Paris. I paid 25,000 for it, though there was no proof, so I examined it carefully and decided to take a chance. But I can’t tell you if it’s a genuine Steen.’ Roth stared at the canvas. ‘Of course, there is this little group here. Very interesting, that.’

The plump pink-faced man who was examining the picture with him smiled. ‘You were always on the cautious side, Roth,’ he said. ‘The brushwork round those trees very much suggests Steen to me.’

‘Or a pupil, of course.’

‘A pupil?’ The plump man stared at the canvas and shook his head. ‘Not a chance!’

‘I can find no mention in the catalogues of any picture at all like this.’ Roth shrugged. ‘But, let’s face it, in those days people were never very accurate.’

‘I think I’m going to back my own judgement.’ The plump man made up his mind. ‘Put it aside for me.’

When the business was finished and the pink-faced man had gone, Roth turned to Nosjean who had been waiting quietly in the background. When Nosjean produced his identity card with its red, white and blue strip, Roth stepped back and Nosjean noticed he looked nervous.

As Nosjean knew, Roth was careful never to sell fakes as authenticated works of art, but he was also not averse to encouraging buyers to believe they were genuine by suggestion. As Nosjean had just seen, his line was always ‘Well, this isn’t authenticated, but it looks sound to me.’

‘Surely you don’t think –?’ he began.

Nosjean smiled and gestured at the painting. ‘That? I’m not interested in that. I’m interested in a painting called Soldier With Helmet. A Rembrandt. I believe you sold it to a man called Cubescu. Can you tell me about it?’

Roth looked relieved. ‘Of course. Perhaps you’ve seen a photo of it. No? Well, no matter. It’s a handsome picture. Not to be confused with another I’ve seen like it, called Farmer with Sickle.’

‘Oh? Where?’

‘At the home of a man called Riault. It was very similar. In fact, I suspected it was a copy, with the soldier’s helmet changed to a hat, and the sword to a sickle. That sort of thing’s done sometimes by copyists. So they can put them out as originals.’

‘And this one we’re talking about? The helmet one.’

‘I sold it to this type called Cubescu. For 150,000.’

‘Was that its value?’

Roth shrugged. ‘I thought it was fair. I didn’t say it was a Rembrandt.’

‘But, like the Steen, you suggested it might be?’

‘In this case, not even that.’

‘Have you seen it since?’

‘As a matter of fact, I have – or one like it. That was in Riault’s home, too. He valued it at 1,800,000 francs. He’d had it verified as a genuine Rembrandt.’

‘Was it?’

Roth pulled a face and shrugged again.

‘Who’d verified it?’

‘An expert. I’m not involved, of course. I’m a straightforward dealer. I don’t deal in fakes. I buy paintings, have them cleaned and restored and sell them again. If people choose to think they’ve found a bargain, that’s their affair. You could see Charles Vacchi. He’s bought from me and he’ll verify what I say. He’s Vacchi et Bonet. Actually the firm’s just Vacchi nowadays. Bonet’s retired. Vacchi has a large collection. You won’t find it easy, of course. He’s busy and a very wealthy man and he doesn’t give interviews all that easily.’ Roth smiled. ‘Models himself on something out of Dallas, I think. Tough. Very macho. He has the paintings in his office to impress his customers.’

‘And?’

‘I believe he bought a painting called Farmer with Sickle.’

‘What was the name of this expert who verified Riault’s picture?’

‘Professor Solecin. Curator of the Fervier Museum at Lyons.’

Same Professor Solecin, Nosjean noticed. This was becoming interesting.

 

It was hard to arrange an interview with Vacchi. His secretary was all for putting Nosjean off but Nosjean was insistent.

‘Tell Monsieur Vacchi that I’m making a police enquiry and that refusal to assist the police can be interpreted as an unwillingness to assist, and that can be assumed to be caused by a variety of reasons, none of which would seem good.’

There was a long silence and the secretary looked nervous. ‘I’m supposed to protect him,’ she said.

‘Not from the police,’ Nosjean snapped.

There was a long silence while the secretary disappeared.

‘Monsieur Vacchi will see you now,’ she said as she returned.

Vacchi was waiting by his desk as Nosjean opened the door. He was a tall, grey-haired, hard-faced man in a suit that looked as if it had been built round him. He clearly didn’t like having to give an interview and was obviously used to having his own way.

‘I understand you’ve been bullying my secretary,’ he snapped.

‘Hardly bullying,’ Nosjean said calmly. ‘Just pointing out that I’m a policeman investigating a fraud and that I have reason to believe you can help me sort it out.’

‘I don’t go in for frauds. Sit down. What do you want?’

The room, Nosjean noticed, was full of paintings. He recognised none of them but he noticed the style of Van Gogh, Picasso and several others.

‘I’m making enquiries into a series of art sales,’ he said.

‘I can’t help you. I don’t sell paintings.’

Nosjean gestured at the walls. ‘You buy them, Monsieur Vacchi.’

Vacchi frowned. ‘So how does that help you?’

‘I believe you buy these paintings to improve your office.’

‘It’s necessary to make it look important and cheerful. Clients judge a businessman by his taste. They also judge his success by his possessions. That’s why I run an English Rolls Royce.’

‘I see. Where do you buy your paintings?’

‘Through a man called Riault. He’s a lawyer really and does it as a sideline. He’s cheaper than the galleries and he seems able to make more finds. Paintings of value that interest me. Claude Barclay, the Deputy for Yorinne – you’ll know of him; he’s a great collector – is a friend of mine and recommended him.’

‘Does Riault provide provenances, verifications and authentications?’

‘Always. He has a man called Solecin. He’s a professor of Fine Art who was formerly a curator of the Fervier Museum of Art near Lyons.’

‘Do you buy originals?’

Vacchi looked indignant. ‘My paintings are all originals,’ he snapped. ‘I pick them up here and there and have them restored. I get them through Riault who finds them in all sorts of weird places. They’re all verified by an expert, of course, but they usually need work on them to give them back their original beauty because they’re often dirty, scratched or faded through neglect.’ Vacchi gestured at the paintings on the wall. ‘These, as you can see, look at their best.’

‘Indeed they do. Who did the restoration work? Do you know?’

‘I leave it with Riault to arrange it. He uses a man called Ugo Luca. He’s an Italian, I think.’ Vacchi was looking at his watch impatiently. ‘These are trivial questions. Do they affect my paintings?’

‘They might,’ Nosjean admitted.

‘Is there anything else?’

‘Nothing, Monsieur,’ Nosjean said. ‘You’ve been most helpful.’

Vacchi grunted. ‘A waste of my time,’ he growled. ‘Your questions could have been answered for you by Riault or Luca.’

Nosjean smiled. ‘I prefer’, he said, ‘to have them answered by you, Monsieur Vacchi, because I have reason to suspect that there is something very odd about this man Solecin whom Riault uses for the verification of the paintings he sells.’

Vacchi gave a sour smile. ‘I think, young man,’ he said, ‘that you’ll find you’re very wrong so I should be very careful of any accusations you might make. Deputy Barclay has a name for honesty and straightforwardness and, as a junior minister in the government, he would hardly recommend someone dubious to an old friend.’

No, Nosjean thought as he headed for the door. But, on the other hand, Barclay might also have been taken in by friend Riault, whoever he was. He had clearly been taken in by somebody over a Vlaminck and he might well have been taken in over other things, too.

It might be well worth seeing Claude Barclay. On the pavement outside, Nosjean looked at his watch. It was late and Mijo Lehmann had said she’d wait at her flat for him. He remembered the previous night with a little shudder of pleasure. In the big bed they had done unmentionable things that had left him feeling he had been wasting his time for years over all those other girls like the estate agent and the librarian and the girl who worked in a travel agency, simply because they looked like Charlotte Rampling. For years he’d had a thing about girls who looked like Charlotte Rampling but he felt he’d got over it now and Mijo Lehmann was worth ten of them. He had never realised she was as enthusiastic as she had been, always assuming that with her knowledge of antiques, she was cool and self-possessed. And – the thought gave him some pleasure – she looked like Charlotte Rampling, too! He felt a little tremor of what he had to admit looked remarkably like lust run through him and decided that perhaps he could leave Deputy Barclay and his picture until the following day.

While Nosjean had been busy with the paintings, Darcy had been on the telephone to the War Ministry about Jules Arri, and they had put him in touch with the regimental historian of the 179th Regiment of the Line, currently billeted in one of the big yellow barrack blocks at Metz. The regimental historian, an ex-major called Leroux, ran a small museum there and he was more than willing to help.

Well, Darcy thought, Metz wasn’t all that far away. Only far enough to leave him worn out for his date in the evening. As Darcy left the city heading east and north, Pel was with the Chief. The Chief was angry.

‘Judge Brisard complains that the body at Suchey was removed before he arrived,’ he was saying ‘And that, as you know, is not the usual practice. The juge d’instruction should see it in situ.’

Pel’s hackles rose. Brisard, he felt, was a powerful argument for euthanasia. He was all for a heart attack crippling him for a while. Nothing permanent. Just something to stop his pious rattle.

‘The body remained exactly where it was found until as late as possible,’ he rapped back. ‘The Palais de Justice was informed immediately the message about the discovery came in. Doctor Minet was there when I arrived and everybody else arrived about the same time. Judge Brisard had ample time to visit the scene of the crime before the body was removed.’

The Chief frowned. ‘He says his department wasn’t informed,’ he growled.

Pel scowled. He didn’t have a lot of time for the Palais de Justice where, he considered, they spent all their time thinking up ways to advance their own ends at the expense of the police. And Brisard was an old enemy. Tall, pear-shaped, setting himself up as the acme of righteousness with a deep love for his family – though Pel knew very well that he had a woman in Beaune who was the widow of a police officer – he and Pel had hated each other from the moment they had met.

The Chief knew all about the feud and for a lot of it blamed Pel with his eccentricities and inexplicable dislikes – though, it had to be admitted, he disliked Brisard even more. If he could have got rid of Brisard he would happily have done so for a bit of peace, because he had no intention of getting rid of Pel. For all his irritability, his eccentricity and bigotry, Pel was the most valuable member of his staff and the Chief intended keeping him until he retired or descended into senility. All the same, he thought, the little bugger had to be brought up sharp at times because he always liked to work without a juge d’instruction looking over his shoulder which, as he well knew, was not permitted by the system.

‘It’ll have to go in your file,’ he said.

Pel was quite indifferent. Complaints dropped into Pel’s file like confetti at a wedding, but it didn’t stop him doing his job and the Chief mostly took no notice of them or immediately countered them by putting in commendations to balance them.

‘All right,’ he said. ‘Let’s forget that now.’

Pel nodded, but he was spiteful enough to decide to do nothing of the sort. If Brisard wanted war, he thought, he could have it. He knew the message had been passed on and that somehow he’d find proof. He drew a deep breath and turned to the case of Jules Arri.

‘We’ve established his identity,’ he said. ‘Now we have to establish where he went to at night. We have his car but there were no useful fingerprints on it and I’m having it returned to the spot in the supermarket car park where it was found with a notice on it, “Have you seen the owner of this vehicle?” We’ll also have it photographed; with the number prominent, and let the press have it. They’ll be on to it like a lot of vultures and it will give them something to write about and keep them out of our hair for a bit. I’ll have a word with Sarrazin, the freelance, because what he does the others always do, too. Same sort of thing. “Have you seen the owner of this car? Did you see it on or around the 16th of the month and, if so, where?” Somebody may have noticed what he did when he left it.’

 

Somebody had.

When he returned to his office, Inspector Pomereu was waiting for him. Pomereu was a humourless individual but he ran Traffic efficiently. Not, Pel thought contemptuously, that it required more than a third-rate brain to run Traffic. You only had to know the difference between right and left and be able to wave your arms. Anybody could keep vehicles moving and hand out parking tickets.

Pomereu was not in a very good temper and he was quick to notice Pel’s scowl. ‘Something troubling you?’ he asked sarcastically.

‘That ass, Brisard.’

Pomereu brightened up. He’d had a few passages of arms with Brisard himself. ‘What’s he complaining about this time?’

‘He says his department wasn’t informed about Arri. They were. He just failed to turn up. I expect he was somewhere he shouldn’t be.’

‘He tries it on,’ Pomereu agreed. ‘It’s a pity his right arm can’t drop off.’

Pel brightened. He hadn’t realised Pomereu’s dislike of Brisard was as strong as his own. ‘Or that he could be paralysed all down one side,’ he suggested.

Pomereu grinned. It was unusual in Pomereu, whose pale face was normally totally without expression. For the first time since he’d known him, Pel warmed to him and for a while they contemplated with pleasure the things that might happen to Judge Brisard. Then Pomereu remembered why he was there.

‘We’ve found someone who noticed Arri’s car,’ he said.

‘Who?’

‘The attendant of the car park in the Place de la Liberation, opposite the Palais des Ducs.’

‘Here, in the city?’ Pel had been expecting someone from Varagne.

‘It’s the only Palais des Ducs I know,’ Pomereu said. ‘He’s pretty indignant. He says it shouldn’t have been in the supermarket car park at Varagne. It should have been in his car park outside the Palais des Ducs.’

Pel looked puzzled and Pomereu explained.

‘There’s no full-time attendant,’ he said. ‘Just an old boy who goes round from time to time to make sure people who park their cars there are doing their stuff. It’s a pay-and-display park with a machine on the wall by the bar-tabac. You put your money in, receive a ticket and stick it on the windscreen of your car. The attendant wanders round to make sure nobody’s in there without paying. He’s often noticed the Peugeot 1111-AR-41 there, but always only for a short while.’

‘Why only for a short while?’

‘The regulations don’t come into force until 8a.m. which is when the attendant comes on duty and they finish at 7p.m. when he goes off. He’s noticed the car often but it always arrived just as he was packing up to go home and disappeared just as he was coming on in the morning. So Arri never needed a ticket, because none’s required to park there during the evening and night.’

‘Go on.’

Pomereu made himself comfortable on the corner of Pel’s desk. Apparently Arri had arrived every evening about the time the car park emptied, and reappeared to collect his car just about the time it opened the following morning. Then, it seemed, he went into the bar nearby which opened at 6.30, took a café rhum, ate a roll and finally drove off. ‘Mind you,’ Pomereu said, ‘the old boy admits there were occasional short periods when the car didn’t stay there overnight. When, he thought, Arri must have been on holiday from whatever job it was he did.’

‘What did he do? Does he know?’

‘No. He didn’t talk much.’

‘Not even to the proprietor of the bar where he bought his coffee and rolls?’

‘He seems to have been a bit tight-lipped.’

‘Does your car park attendant know where he went after he left the car in the evening or where he’d come from when he returned?’

‘He says no. Arri never spoke to him: simply nodded good evening and good morning.’

Pel frowned. ‘He seems to be a laconic type, this Arri,’ he said. ‘We’ll see the proprietor of the bar; he should know something.’

 

But he didn’t.

He was no more help than the car park attendant. Sergeant Lagé, who was growing slow and deliberate as he neared the age of retirement, was offered a cup of coffee because he’d been around a long time and was known by everybody in the city as a fair and responsible cop, but there was no information for him.

‘Same as the car park attendant, Patron,’ he reported to Pel. ‘He never spoke. The first few times – about five years ago, they reckon – he asked for a coffee with rum and a roll and butter, but after that they got used to him and he didn’t bother to ask. They just handed it over, and he took it, sat down at a table with a newspaper, got rid of it, got up, nodded and left.’

‘Every morning?’

‘Every morning.’

‘Had they no idea where he came from? Or where he
went to?’

‘Apparently he never spoke to anyone.’

‘Where did he buy his paper?’

‘The tabac next door. It’s part of the same premises. Always the same one – Le Bien Public. He also bought cigarettes – one pack of Gauloises – and occasionally fuel for his lighter.’

‘Man of routine, eh?’

‘Seems to be. They knew him and just handed the paper over. Then he went next door, to the bar, looked at the front page over his coffee and roll and left.’

‘Never saying a word?’

‘Never more than just “Thank you”.’

‘Didn’t anybody ever notice where he went when he left his car in the evening, or where he came from when he arrived to pick it up?’

Lagé had the answer. The bar had usually just opened when he arrived in the morning, he said, and the owner, who stood outside when it was fine to have his first cigarette of the day, used to see him turn into the Rue de la Liberté from the Rue de Bourg, then walk down to the Place de la Liberation and into the newsagent’s. By the time he reached the bar, his coffee, rum and roll were on the counter waiting for him.

Pel frowned. ‘Rue de Bourg,’ he mused. He crossed to the wall and studied the map there. ‘The Rue de Bourg leads to the station, the General Hospital, the canal port, the Lycée, the Arsenal, and the Zone Industrielle.’

Lagé managed a smile. ‘It also leads to the Hôtel de Police, Patron,’ he said. ‘Here.’

Pel treated him to an icy look. Pel’s sense of humour usually lasted until his first cigarette, by which time it had all been expended. ‘He doesn’t work here,’ he said. ‘But he might work at the station, the hospital, the port, the Lycée, the Arsenal, or anywhere in the Zone Industrielle. As a night-watchman.’

Lagé frowned. ‘So why didn’t he leave his car in the car park where he worked, Patron? Those places all have them.’

That was a puzzler, to be sure.

‘That’s something that will be explained when we learn where he worked. You’ve got a job, Lagé. Find out. Try that area first.’

Pel watched Lagé leave. Lagé was no longer young and he was slow but he was a hard worker and was willing to help others, something of which Misset, who wasn’t, was always quick to take advantage. Lagé never jibbed at long slow enquiries and he was painstaking. It was an ideal job for him because what he lacked in imagination or inspiration he made up for in dogged concentration. If Arri had worked in the area he seemed to have worked in, then Lagé could be trusted to find out where.

Darcy arrived back from Metz in the early evening just as Pel was about to leave.

‘We’ve got a picture, Patron. The regimental historian found it for me.’

‘In uniform? Complete with képi? It’ll be hard to recognise him as a civilian.’

Darcy grinned, showing his splendid white snappers. ‘No, Patron. Not in uniform. No képi. Not a single brass button. Standing with the regimental rugby team. He played with them for years, and, after he grew too old, he acted as trainer-coach. Very respected.’

He had been fishing in his brief case as he spoke and he laid on Pel’s desk a photograph of a group of men in shorts and shirts, all heavily built and looking the essence of determination. ‘That’s him,’ Darcy said. ‘On the right. In trousers.’

Arri had been a good-looking man, tall, strong, and with a ruggedly handsome face.

‘Is it like him as he was just before he died?’ Pel asked.

‘They said so, Patron. He’d been to regimental reunions and I gather he hadn’t changed much. However, for confirmation, I came back via Valoreille – it’s not far out of the way – and showed it to those two old Ponsardin biddies. They picked him out at once. So did Brigadier Foulet and the type at the garage. I think we can use it.’

‘Right. Lagé has a lead to where he might have worked. But it might not come off because he seems to have been a secretive type.’

‘That’s what Major Leroux said. A bit of a loner. A good soldier but not the chummy type.’

‘Right, then. Let’s have the picture copied and get the boys showing it round. They might turn him up.’

Darcy paused. ‘Patron,’ he said. ‘There’s another line on him I found. He was wounded at Dien Bien Phu, and Claude Barclay was his officer.’

‘The Deputy for Yorinne?’

‘The very same. He was alongside him when he was hit and risked his life to drag him to shelter. He got him aboard one of the last planes out so that he survived. If he hadn’t he might have died. Major Leroux told me all this. It’s in the regimental history. Barclay was captured, in fact, but he escaped and got to the coast and finally to Saigon. The Major had an idea that Barclay might eventually have found Arri a job here somewhere.’

‘It might save us a lot of time,’ Pel said, ‘if we found out where. Get in touch with Barclay. He might be at Courtois or he might be at his office here.’

But Barclay was not available. He had gone to Paris and wasn’t expected back until late. ‘He’ll be in his office tomorrow,’ Darcy said.

‘Right.’ Pel rose, took the cigarette Darcy offered and headed for the door. ‘How about a beer in the Bar Transvaal? I think we’re making progress. We’ll see him tomorrow.’

 

Pel was barely awake when the telephone went the following morning. He was unshaven, in his dressing gown, his hair standing on end, staring at his stomach in the bathroom mirror and wondering where it had come from.

His wife regarded him with a smile. ‘Something wrong, Pel?’ she asked gently.

Pel studied his face. ‘I’ve decided it’s never going to improve much,’ he said. ‘The lines are deeper every day. They’re no longer just on the surface. They go right through to the back of my head.’

As his wife laughed, the telephone went and he snatched it up. It was Darcy and Pel knew at once that something had happened.

‘Sorry to disturb you, Patron,’ he said. ‘We’ve got trouble.’

‘Let’s have it.’

‘A kidnapping.’

‘A what?’

‘A kidnapping.’

‘That’s what I thought you said.’ Pel’s eyebrows rose. He’d been involved in most things but kidnapping wasn’t normally part of the Burgundian scene. ‘Who’ve we lost? The Baron de Mougy’s son? His wife? Somebody with money, I expect.’

‘Somebody with money all right, Patron. But it’s not a child or a wife. It’s Barclay. Deputy for Yorinne and junior minister. They collared him as he arrived at his office half an hour ago.’