Strange Images of Death

Chapter Eight

Marseille, Monday lunchtime

Commissaire Francis Jacquemin of the Paris Police Judiciaire, lean, attractive and gallantly moustached, was enjoying a rare moment of unbuttoned ease. Two buttons to be precise. It was as far as decorum would allow. He had released his waistcoat to this extent under cover of the voluminous table napkin that defended his white shirt from the unctuous saffron-coloured sauce of the dish he was just finishing.

He ran a finger round his starched collar to release a surge of body heat created by the spices and sighed. ‘Bliss! Utter bliss, my friend! Damned good idea to take ourselves off the hook and come out and celebrate. This is my first taste of bouillabaisse and-I’m sure you’re right-the best in Marseille. Nothing like this to be had in Paris!’ He took another sip of his chilled champagne.

‘All the same, I think you’re glad to be going back to the capital?’ his companion said carefully.

The men grinned. Each was quite aware that the Parisian’s departure was welcome on both sides. Inspector Audibert had been accommodating and polite when presented with the unrequested assistance of the big noise from the Paris PJ. Many would have objected. It was a fact that the authority of the Paris Brigade Criminelle ended with their geographical boundaries and technically Jacquemin had no jurisdiction whatsoever down here in the south. Only the local force had the authority to slip on the handcuffs and haul the miscreants off to court.

The criminal fraternity knew this too.

In his clean-up of the Paris underworld, the Commissaire had torn through the gangs formed with the release of men after the war. Modelling themselves on the vicious ‘Bande à Bonnot’ they’d rampaged through the streets, robbing and murdering with a callousness and skill acquired in four years of killing.

In the end, virtually wiped out by Jacquemin’s tenacity and his ruthless methods, they had succumbed. But one gang, more astute than the rest, had survived and moved on. Had moved south in fact. Had learned to steal fast motor cars and use them effectively to get away from the crime scene. And get to the next. They’d discovered that there were richer and easier pickings on the Riviera coast. After centuries of peace, the roving plunderers were back in business and based in Marseille.

Jacquemin the pitiless had pursued them.

Working under the aegis of the Marseille police, he had located, lured into a trap and confronted the gang in double quick time. He’d shot three of them dead and the rest had been scooped up by the Inspector’s force. Neither officer spoiled the occasion by mentioning the assistance they’d had from a local underworld boss who’d infiltrated the newcomers’ set-up and served them up on a plate.

The Commissaire and the Inspector were taking all the credit that was going and treating themselves to a celebratory lunch to close the case. The morning had been spent very agreeably dictating their experiences to a reporter from Le Petit Journal and offering their better profiles to his artist. A considerable triumph for both forces.

‘So, what now, sir?’ Inspector Audibert asked dutifully.

He received the answer he was hoping for from this smarty-pants intruder with his well-barbered hair, neat moustache, hand-made shoes and unfathomable grey stare: ‘An earlier than expected departure! The train to Paris tomorrow morning and two weeks’ leave.’ And then, with unexpected camaraderie, Jacquemin leaned across the table and confided: ‘To be spent in Brittany with my wife’s mother.’

‘Ah? I find the northern seaside most uncongenial,’ said the Inspector tactfully.

‘I find my northern mother-in-law most uncongenial.’

They exchanged rueful smiles. Jacquemin’s faded as he remembered that his current mistress also had plans for him-and Rachel’s plans threatened to pull him in a different direction. He sighed. Rachel was beginning to behave more like a wife these days. Always a disappointment. And then there was that promising girl he’d taken to tea at the Ritz … That little vendeuse from the tie counter at the Printemps. Adèle? That was it! Adèle would be expecting a follow-up. And he wouldn’t be averse to making a further move.

‘Nothing much happening in Paris in August,’ Jacquemin summarized lugubriously. ‘Lost pugs, defaulting gigolos, false insurance claims … The silly season, you know. And you?’

The man from Marseille shrugged. ‘I only wish I could say the same. You’ve seen my schedule. Up to my ears. I blame you! You’ve made it too tough for the villains up north. All your riff-raff comes down here to get into trouble. Our serious problems come from Parisians and wealthy foreigners-not so much home-grown crime around these days. Foreigners! Huh! I was feeling so elated at getting that gang of yours behind bars I did something really regrettable the other day …’

He reached under the table for the briefcase which never left his side and took out a notebook. ‘Here we are … three murders, no-that’s five after last night … several robberies on my plate and what did I hear myself expansively agreeing to do? Take a day off up in the Lubéron to investigate the hacking to bits of a young lady.’

He enjoyed the surprised lift of Jacquemin’s expressive eyebrows and added: ‘I deceive you! The lady is … was … of alabaster and not so young-six hundred years or there-abouts. Why did I agree to go?’

‘Send one of your chaps. Any of them would welcome a drive into the country,’ said Jacquemin comfortably. ‘Why not reward one of the bold fellers who assisted the other night? What about the young lieutenant who risked life and limb when I was pinned down on that fire escape? He was impressive, I thought.’

‘Martineau, you mean? Yes, he’s keen. But it’s not possible, I’m afraid. Big gun required to deal with the crew up there at the château. Here, look.’ He opened his book at a page of pencilled notes and passed it over. ‘For a start-note the address-it’s the seat of some local bigwig-one who still clings to his aristocratic title. Recognize it? Yes, that Count! Known to you up there in Metropolitan circles, is he? I’m not surprised. Doesn’t cut much ice with me but-they’ve all got friends in the real world, these musical-comedy types. Political mates in high places and they’ll get you a kick up the bum or the sack if you upset them. And, to go on-half the people swanning about the place are foreigners. Half are artists. Some must be both!’ He quivered with distaste.

‘Silmont? Le Château du Diable, does this say?’ Jacquemin pointed and gave a bark of scornful laughter. ‘Aristide-they’re having you on!’

‘No, I checked. It’s actually plain old Château de Silmont and the other rubbish is a nickname. A little local joke that stuck. I’m wary of jokes that stick-there’s usually a good reason for it.’

‘Romantic though? You have to say it has a certain allure.’ The Commissaire smoothed down his moustache and placed his napkin on the table. His mind already moving ahead to Paris, he caught the eye of the waiter who came forward to clear away. ‘I’m not surprised you agreed to go.’

‘You could say romantic, I suppose. The château is full of summer guests according to the maître d’hôtel with whom I spoke …’ He paused. ‘Funny-the chap sounded quite capable of sorting out any nonsense himself without dragging in the Brigade … Army type, you’d say. Authoritative. Economical with his words. Used to getting his way. I can only imagine he’s been put up to calling us in by all those foreign women he’s got up there twisting his arm.’

‘Foreign women?’

‘It’s some sort of artists’ colony. Half the number are young ladies … models, mistresses, Russian dancers-posers of one sort or another. Intoxicating substances freely available, no doubt. You can imagine the squabbling and hair-tugging that goes on … the bed-hopping … Too much time on their hands and not enough clothes on their backs-you know the sort of thing.’

‘Mmm … sounds interesting.’ The Commissaire focused his iron gaze on the Inspector. ‘Lucky old you!’ He called for cigars. ‘Tell me more about these Lubéron hills of yours. Rushing streams? Shady green forests full of game?’ he mused.

‘Sportsman?’ asked the Inspector.

‘You’ve seen me shoot! And I’m better with a shotgun than a pistol,’ said Jacquemin with relish.

‘Ah! I guessed as much,’ muttered the Inspector. ‘It has no charms for me, I’m afraid. Homme du peuple that I am, I wouldn’t know which way up to hold a sporting rifle. I expect they’ve got whole shooting rooms equipped with the very best game guns from London-wouldn’t you agree? Purdeys-would that be what they call them? Holland and Holland? Thought so. There’s probably wild boar running around up there. I’m just surprised these idiots haven’t taken to knocking each other off, out in the chestnut forest. Oh, yes, we get a dozen or so of those “accidents” every hunting season!’

He murmured on about the attractions and dangers to be experienced in the Provençal hills but Jacquemin was no longer listening.

‘Aristide!’ The Commissaire finally called a halt to the monologue. ‘My friend, Aristide! You have been good to me … no, no! Hundreds would have resented my presence on their patch and attempted even to foul up the case. But you-you have been efficiency itself with nothing in view but the common cause. Look-you must let me, in some small way, repay you.’ He brandished the notebook under the Inspector’s nose and in one dramatic gesture tore out the pencilled sheet. ‘I relieve you of this piece of idiocy! It’s the least I can do. I’ll attend and report back. This place is on my way north. Look-give me a car and a driver from the Brigade and we’ll set off into the hinterland. There’s bound to be a hostelry of some sort in the village-I don’t mind slumming it. I’ll poke about in the rubble, declare the destruction to be the result of a narrowly focused freak earthquake and send the driver straight back to you with a report when he’s dropped me off at the railway station in Avignon. Let me ease your burden as you have eased mine, though to this very small degree.’

The men regarded each other dewy-eyed, exclaimed with mutual delight, protested and conceded and called for cognac.

The Commissaire’s mind was already devising the wording of three telegrams. The phrases were grave and regretful: unavoidably detained … case of international concern … reciprocity of fraternal assistance an imperative … Monique (and her mother), Rachel, Adèle-they could all make what they liked of it.

The Inspector was asking himself how on earth he’d managed to pull it off so easily. Should he warn them up there at the château? No! Let the buggers find out for themselves!