The Provence Puzzle: An Inspector Damiot Mystery
Vincent McConnor
CHAPTER 1
The unmarked black police car moved straight as a bullet up the dark and deserted street.
Chief Inspector Damiot remained silent, seated beside Borell—his leather-jacketed chauffeur—feeling unnaturally calm, as usual, when entering enemy territory.
Nobody knew how many agents de police the Valzo gang had killed. Tonight he must find some clue—anything—that would connect Valzo to the murder of that Laurent woman…
He didn’t usually get involved with types like Valzo, but the death of Nicole Laurent had raised an outcry from the Paris press. Another Valzo murder, one headline had called it, demanding immediate action from the Quai des Orfèvres.
There had been a conference this morning that ended with the Director-General ordering Damiot removed from all other investigations and assigned exclusively to the Laurent murder.
Nicole Laurent had been Valzo’s latest mistress until he handed her over to one of his lieutenants, who in turn had discarded her to a minor member of their gang. Her bullet-pocked body had been found in an alley last week.
Conveniently, Valzo had been in London on business when the Laurent woman was eliminated by one of his faceless killers.
Today a police informer had reported that Valzo was in Marseille. The gang was known to be involved in the kidnapping of some Arab oil potentate from a private jet in Algeria. Valzo, behind the scenes, would supervise the ransom deal. He never permitted his lieutenants to handle anything that important.
The Prefecture wasn’t interested in the kidnapping. For the moment, that was beyond their jurisdiction. They wanted Valzo for murder. Any one of a dozen suspected but unproven murders. Nicole Laurent was the latest…
Damiot had a hunch that he was getting close to the truth. That pimp, Chulot, picked up last week, was about ready to talk. Another day without drugs and he should spill everything. Chulot was known to have bought heroin from the Laurent woman a few hours before her body was found.
“What’s in this warehouse, M’sieur Inspecteur?” Borell asked casually. “Where I’m taking you…”
“That’s what I’m hoping to find out, mon ami. We only know it’s a cover for the Valzo crowd.”
“Valzo?”
He heard the note of fear in Borel’s voice. “Valzo’s in Marseille with most of his gang. Gives me an opportunity to take a look inside the warehouse. I had Graudin watch the place this afternoon, but there was no activity of any sort. It’s used to store motorcycles for a chain of outlets Valzo controls around Paris. I suspect this may be where he keeps a supply of drugs and sends off deliveries with the motorcycles. There’s only one night watchman, an old man who sleeps on the job, and no armed guards. That’s to make us think the setup’s legitimate. We’ve raided it several times, but found nothing. I suspect the narcotics are stored in underground vaults with access from other streets.”
“Am I coming in with you?”
“No. I’ll have a quick look at the place. Nothing more.”
“Yes, M’sieur Inspecteur!” Borell sounded relieved.
“Park here. I’ll walk the rest of the way.”
“Yes, M’sieur Inspecteur.” Borell slowed the police car to a stop, as though for protection, behind a battered truck that looked abandoned.
“And keep alert! This won’t take more than half an hour.” He started up the narrow street, passing a row of shops metal-shuttered for the night.
As he walked, not hurrying, he wondered whether Sophie would be asleep or reading one of her romantic novels.
God only knew where Olympe would be at this moment. His mistress always had friends to see. Singers and musicians. They sat in some favorite cafe near the Comique, drinking and gossiping…
Reaching the cross street and staying close to the high wall, he turned toward the warehouse entrance at the middle of the block.
The double wooden doors were locked, but a small metal door to one side swung in at his touch. No need to use the special device he carried on his key ring.
He went inside, closing the door silently, and waited until his eyes adjusted to the darkness. That watchman must have slipped out for a beer at some nearby bar and left the entrance door unlocked. Reaching an inner door, Damiot was surprised to find that it too was unlocked. With the boss in Marseille, somebody had been careless.
He pushed the door open and slipped inside into complete darkness, closing the door behind him before pulling a hand torch from his overcoat pocket. Its beam revealed a large storage room containing rows of shiny new motorcycles. They seemed to form one monstrous machine with hundreds of wheels.
There was a whisper of movement at the far end of the room.
Damiot snapped off his torch.
He didn’t move, barely breathing, listening… Was someone there? Waiting for him in the darkness… Had he walked into a trap?
Perhaps he only imagined that something had moved. The place would be infested with rats.
He stepped forward in the dark, and struck one of the motorcycles with the toe of his shoe. The unexpected clatter echoed like the crash of a metal gong.
A machine gun blasted and its spitting fire revealed a man’s face. Bullets smacked into metal and plaster, motorcycles clanged and crashed. Something hot burrowed into his left hip.