L'Affaire Peugeot

It was the crime that had everything. The cast of characters, including beautiful, amoral women and recklessly brutal men, seemed right out of the nouvelle vague French films. One of the nation's greatest fortunes was involved. Best of all, the crime itself was inspired by what Frenchmen believe to be the fountainhead of criminal violence, the U.S.

Smuggled Pinballs. It began last year when a small-time Parisian hoodlum named Pierre Larcher, 38, got in trouble. Stocky, heavy-featured Pierre, known to the police derisively as "Pretty Boy," specialized in stealing cars and smuggling pinball machines into France. On the run and out of money, Pierre hid out in an abandoned farmhouse near tiny Grisy-lesPlatres, 30 miles from Paris. There he read the French translation of an obscure 1953 novel about kidnapers, by Lionel White, called The Snatchers. Hurrying back to Paris, Pierre sought out his friend, Ray mond Rolland, 24. Tossing the book on a table, he said: "Here's a good way to make money. This would solve our problems." In his own way, handsome and dashing Raymond was in nearly as much trouble as Pierre. Born in Brittany -- France's economic and cultural equivalent of the Deep South -- Raymond longed for money, social position, fast cars and dames. On his discharge as a French army commando, he adopted the aristocratic-sounding name of Raymond de Beaufort. Calling on his mother, a factory worker in a Paris suburb, Raymond turned up in new U.S. cars (rented), airily told his childhood pals he was going to build a factory and give them all jobs. "No matter how high I rise, I shall never forget you," Raymond would say, as he drove off in a Thunderbird.

Reality for Raymond, however, was a third-floor walk-up in Paris. Occasionally, he would drop in on his pretty exwife, Ginette, or drink in bistros with a few old army buddies. He traveled about Europe, supporting himself by small-scale smuggling and illegal currency deals. In Copenhagen, one of those entranced by his tall tales was a stunning, 20-year-old blonde, Ingelise Bodin, who was Miss Denmark in London's 1960 Miss World contest.

Delinquent Girls. Pierre and Raymond leafed through the social register, Bottin Mondain, to find a victim, settled on four-year-old Eric Peugeot, heir to one of France's greatest fortunes (autos, appliances, heavy machinery). After studying the habits of the Peugeot family, Raymond kidnaped little Eric on April 12 last year from a sandbox at the exclusive St.-Cloud country club, left behind a typewritten note to the boy's father, demanding $100,000 ransom. Bundling the boy into a stolen Peugeot 403 sedan, Raymond and Pierre drove to the farmhouse at Grisy-les-Platres. Pierre Larcher's mistress, 19-year-old Rolande Niemezyk--who had twice escaped from a school for delinquent girls--watched over the child, and a TV set kept him amused. The kidnapers sent ransom instructions to the Peugeot family.

Three nights after the kidnaping, Raymond waited nervously in a dark alleyway near the Arc de Triomphe. Eric's father approached, carrying a satchel containing $100,000 in small bills. When he heard the password, "Keep the key," he dropped the satchel, turning just in time to catch a glimpse of Raymond as he made off. Next morning, young Eric was found, unharmed, in front of a cafe near home.

10,000 Missions. The kidnapers disposed of all clues by burning the kidnap car and dropping their typewriter into the Seine. Pierre and Raymond decided that life was, at last, loverly. Pierre got a Studebaker and a small Fiat; Raymond bought a Peugeot, a Chevrolet Impala and a Thunderbird. Their girl friends, Ingelise and Rolande, blossomed out in new clothes.

The police, with little to go on, still plugged away at solving the kidnaping.

Detectives made 10,000 checkups, ranging from France and Spain to Turkey and the U.S. Some 1,500 persons were questioned, 1,500 Peugeot sedans were searched, 2,000 tips investigated. The international police organization, Interpol, sent out 100,000 lists of the bank-note numbers on the payoff money.

Six months after the snatch, a tipster went to Interpol's Paris headquarters and told of two men with no visible means of support who were rolling in money. The two: Pierre Larcher and Raymond Rolland. Investigating, the police called on Raymond's ex-wife and learned that early last April, Raymond had borrowed her Hermes typewriter and never returned it.

The Six Children. Three weeks ago, police tailed the two and their girl friends to Megeve, a fashionable ski resort near the Swiss border. Raymond rented a picturesque eleven-room chalet, and they all moved in. Along with them was Medical Student Jean-Simon Rotman. who once lived in the same rooming house as Raymond. He. too. soon found a girl: a Franco-Japanese stripper named Mitsouko. The three couples lived it up in bar and bistro. When Ingelise Bodin was chosen "Miss Courcheval" at a nearby resort, they celebrated with a restaurant party. Raymond was amused to discover that among fellow vacationers at Megeve were little Eric and his parents. They frequently passed in the street or sat near one another in bars. (Larcher smirked later: "I've always had a taste for risks.")

Declined Wager. In Paris, the methodical police finally tracked down some letters that Raymond's ex-wife had typed on her missing Hermes. They matched exactly the ransom notes sent the Peugeots. Last week the police moved in on the chalet and arrested Raymond Rolland and Ingelise in bed. Their companions, who had already set off for Paris, were picked up on the road. After 45 hours' interrogation, Raymond Rolland fainted, was revived with smelling salts, and then confessed. Pierre Larcher soon confessed too. Frogmen dove into the Seine and recovered the Hermes typewriter where Raymond said he had thrown it; the last $11,500 of the ransom money was found locked in the trunk of Larcher's Fiat.

In almost any country but France, the crime would now have been considered solved and the police inundated with congratulations. But L'Affaire Peugeot, like most French affaires, promptly became more tortuous at the moment of its seeming solution. Was it coincidence, asked the press, that the kidnapers and the Peugeots were holidaying at the same resort? Why did Peugeot not recognize Rolland? And why had Rene Floriot, France's No. 1 criminal lawyer, decided so quickly to defend the accused when there seemed no chance of a fee?

At week's end, the police added that "a third man'' was also involved in the kidnaping. His name would be divulged shortly, said the police, and added that it was a name which would "shock the French public."

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