Death at the Clos du Lac

CHAPTER TWENTY

‘Union leaders, businesses and members across the political spectrum are today calling for a new rationale regarding trade talks with the two Chinas. With opening discussions between French representatives and the People’s Republic of China in Peking now under way, there has already been some dissatisfaction expressed by Peking at the very highest level at the ongoing negotiations with their political rivals in Taiwan. These negotiations were started some months ago at the instigation of industrial leader and magnate, Robert Bessine, and there are fears in Paris and the wider commercial community that these smaller, rival trade discussions, mostly focused around the supply of military and commercial aircraft being built by Bessine’s own companies, could derail any progress on a much wider front in Peking.

General Secretary of the Confédération Générale du Travail, André Pallemart, has expressed concern that greater gains for workers across the industrial and commercial sector in France could be put at risk for the sake of what he called “warmongering production for private profit” — a direct attack on Bessine Industries and its charismatic leader. Elsewhere, Minister of Commerce and Industry Louis Bricusse has reinforced his support for exclusive talks with Peking, while Secretary of State Michel Combray has suggested that the Taiwan talks are “not in France’s national interests”. When asked for his response to these statements, Robert Bessine was reportedly unavailable for comment. A spokesman has said that he is unwell but will respond shortly. In other news—’

Rocco switched off the radio, glad someone else was having a tough day. After checking in by phone to the office, to make sure there hadn’t been an outbreak of gang warfare while he was asleep, he decided to go to Paris. He had two reasons for making the trip: one was to see Santer and catch up with the long-promised lunch, the other was to dig around for whatever information he could find on Ardois — or was it Rotenbourg? Stefan had been very cagey. They were the only names he had, but they were better than nothing. He rang Santer and agreed to meet him at a restaurant within the Clichy area, then set off for the capital.

On the way, he remembered to call in at the village café to arrange drinks for the men putting in the pipes to his house and that of Mme Denis.

The owner, Georges Maillard, greeted him at the door. He brought the smell of last night’s beer and cigarette smoke hanging in the air around him, and a stained roll-up hung from his lip, unlit. He was a large man with uncontrolled hair, a professional beer belly and a two-day beard, and in Rocco’s limited acquaintance with him, seemed to wear a permanent air of disillusion.

‘My licence is all in order, Inspector,’ he grated automatically.

‘Glad to hear it. But I’m not here about that.’ Rocco explained about the workmen Delsaire had hired to connect the water pipes, and handed over some money. ‘If they come in, this should cover a few drinks each.’

Maillard’s eyebrows rose a notch or two, and his expression brightened. ‘That’s very generous of you, Inspector. And there’s no “if” about it; they’ll have smelt the money the moment you took it out of your pocket.’ He peeled off two notes and handed them back. ‘You won’t need that much. This’ll see them happy enough.’ He stuffed the money in his shirt pocket and rubbed his face with a meaty hand. He looked uneasy and glanced past Rocco’s shoulder before speaking. ‘Um … since you’re here, Inspector, there’s something I need to talk to you about. It’s a bit delicate.’ He backed away inside and closed the door.

At the far end of the bar room, a man was setting up a large white screen held in place on wires. A projector stood on the floor by the bar, trailing wires, alongside a stack of film reels. The man nodded at Rocco but said nothing.

‘It’s all right — he’s deaf. It’s film night tomorrow night. You should come — it’s a Fernandel double — his Don Camillo stuff. Supposed to be excellent.’

‘Thanks,’ said Rocco. He’d seen some of the posters on walls and telegraph poles around the village. The idea of sitting here watching a scratchy film on a wobbly screen, surrounded by locals catching up on the latest gossip had its merits, but not right now. ‘Maybe next time. What’s on your mind?’

‘Right. Well, these men have been coming in over the past couple of days. Three of them. Never seen them before, but I don’t think they’re from anywhere around here. They have a few drinks, a laugh, chat, the way customers do. But I’ve always had the feeling they were waiting for something … as if they were checking me out, you know?’

‘You think they’re planning to rob you?’ Rocco had an idea how tight margins were for bar and café owners, many of whom had other lines of business to keep themselves afloat. But he couldn’t imagine Maillard’s place — even if it was the only café in Poissons — being a target for robbers.

Maillard shook his head. ‘I don’t think so.’ He swept a hand around the interior, which was clean, but had seen better days. The decor probably hadn’t changed in three decades and the last coat of paint had been varnished over by years of cigarette smoke. ‘Hell, look at the place. You see cash coming out of the walls?’ He shrugged fatalistically and continued, ‘Anyway, the last time they called, they told me they’d got a whole load of drink going cheap from a restaurant gone bust in St Quentin. Wine, spirits, beer — all good quality.’

Rocco had heard it a hundred times before. ‘Let me guess: no paperwork, no questions asked?’

‘Right. And cash in the hand.’ He rubbed fingers and thumb together.

Rocco was frowning. Investigating the back-door peddling of cut-rate alcohol wasn’t strictly his problem. But living in such close proximity in a small village like Poissons meant he couldn’t simply ignore it as if it didn’t exist, especially if he was being asked for help. ‘It’s a long way to come from St Quentin,’ he said, ‘to sell cheap drink. It must be a good deal.’

‘I know what you’re thinking,’ Maillard sniffed. ‘I must be the only café owner in Picardie to pass up such an offer. Well, don’t get me wrong, I’m not pretending to be a saint, and I’m not averse to making a few francs on a deal if I can. But these three are different; they don’t look the sort to take no for an answer, if you know what I mean.’

‘Have they threatened you in any way?’

‘No. Not as such. But I felt threatened. Is that the same thing?’

‘Near enough. Why — what happened?’

‘One of them had a gun. I saw it under his coat — like I was meant to.’

Armed peddlers of hooch? It wasn’t unknown, but usually in the cities, not all the way out here. Somebody must be desperate to unload it. ‘How did you leave it with them?’

‘They’re coming back this evening about seven — with a van. They said to have the cash ready.’ He shrugged. ‘Like I have any choice in the matter.’

‘Does anybody else know?’

Maillard shook his head. ‘Are you kidding? If I’d told some of the soaks around here, they’d think it was Bastille Day and New Year all in one. I’d have a queue back as far as the Mairie.’

‘Good. Keep it that way. I’ll call in around seven.’