Pel & The Predators (Chief Inspector Pel)

by Mark Hebden

  ‘Well, there’s less of that around than there is of the other colours.’

  ‘It was done in plaits coiled round the ears. I think they were called “earphones” in those days. Hands – as far as we can tell, in good condition, as if she didn’t do manual work. Even perhaps not much housework. She was married. Or at least on her left hand was a wedding ring – not a very expensive one. But no engagement ring, which is odd because most married women usually wear both, though the engagement ring, being the more valuable, is worn on the outside so it can be removed when washing or doing housework. She also wore no earrings but her ears had been pierced and the holes seemed to have been torn, as if the earrings might have been removed in a hurry.’

  ‘As if she’d been killed for her jewellery? A straightforward robbery with violence?’

  Minet shrugged. ‘Shoes,’ he went on. ‘In good condition. Slight. Neatly built. Probably careful of her appearance.’

  They discussed the possibility for a long time and when Leguyader and Minet had gone, Claudie Darel put her head round the door. ‘That body, Patron,’ she said. ‘Perhaps I could help.’

  ‘You have experience of pathology?’ Pel asked.

  ‘No, Patron,’ Claudie said calmly. ‘But I have a lot of experience of being a woman, and I probably know more about fashion than Doc Minet.’ She gestured at the photographs Leguyader had left. ‘I could check the clothes at the library to get a rough date. It might save a lot of time. I imagine quite a lot of girls have gone missing in the last forty odd years.’

  ‘The most recent,’ Pel pointed out dryly, ‘at Beg Meil a month ago. And by a curious coincidence she’d been to Drax, too.’

  The autopsy on the new body was held in the ante-room of the council chamber where Pel had recently been entertained by the Chief and, since the real work had already been done, it was merely a formality with almost the same dignitaries present as at Pel’s party. They talked about everything but the corpse, then climbed into cars to visit the scene of the crime. They then retired to the hotel at Drax for lunch, and there was a lot of handshaking and hat raising before they finally disappeared, satisfied that duty had been done.

  When Pel returned to his office, feeling remarkably mellow considering the task they’d been performing, he found Claudie Darel had already made progress.

  ‘I think she died around 1944,’ she said.

  ‘Which is what Doc Minet and Leguyader thought,’ Pel pointed out.

  ‘I’m sure, Patron. Her shoes have wooden soles and that places it firmly during the war. Well-dressed women have never worn wooden soles on their shoes except during the Occupation.’

  Pel studied the girl quietly. She was clearly bursting with excitement. ‘There’s more, I can tell.’

  ‘Yes, Patron. The fact that she died during the Occupation makes it harder to pinpoint what class she belonged to, because things were difficult to obtain and everybody wore what they could get hold of. But I think she was different from most women.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘The handbag’s of good quality, and the hat had style. I think she was someone who was fashion-conscious. There were two shades of lipstick in her handbag, together with eye shadow, something which wasn’t much used in those days. In fact, she was carrying quite an array of cosmetics so she was probably keen on her appearance. It therefore follows that she was probably pretty.’

  Pel sat quietly, listening

  ‘I’m checking the hat,’ Claudie went on. ‘It looks as if came from a Paris milliner’s, though there’s so much copying done it could well have been copied locally from a picture. The shoes had labels which indicate they were bought in Paris. Which seems to suggest she moved around a bit, even though she spent some of her time here. Actually the clothing looks almost modern because those fashions are all the rage again now but none of it’s man-made fibres, and that dates it at once. Besides, the underclothes—’ she smiled ‘—they just aren’t modern underclothes. They’re of satin. Nowadays they’d be of nylon. And they’re not brief enough. Nowadays women don’t wear very much underneath. I’d like to find someone who knew her.’

  ‘Try Madame Caous,’ Pel said. ‘She might well have bought her clothes at the same shops.’

  Making a note of the name, Claudie looked up again. ‘I think there was something special about her, Patron,’ she said. ‘The earphone style of hairdressing was out of fashion with young women forty years ago. So I’m wondering if she kept her hair long for a specific purpose.’

  Pel looked at her shrewdly. She was using her brains.

  ‘If she were a model for instance. Perhaps she modelled hair styles. Or else she appeared in front of people. As a performer.’ Claudie smiled. ‘I think, Patron,’ she ended, ‘that we wouldn’t be far out if we looked for a red-haired actress.’

  Ten

  So now they had two females, one unidentified, both young and attractive, and both violently dead, but surely unconnected because there was almost half a century separating their deaths.

  The following morning, they took another step forward in the Pigny case when Bardolle telephoned to say he’d found the man with the cherry marking on his face.

  ‘Gérard Crussol,’ he said. ‘That’s his name. There I was asking questions all over Villiers-sur-Orche. And it turned out to be Villiers-St-Rémy, which is about fifty kilometres from here. North-west of Châtillon.’

  ‘North-west?’ The words came to Pel’s mind at once. Hadn’t Madame Charnier thought her sister, Dominique la Panique, had a boy friend somewhere ‘in the north-west’? Obviously, when Dominique Pigny had mentioned him, she had been thinking of her base around Arne or wherever she’d been staying, so that ‘north-west’ had only been north-west of there and was hardly Brittany. But it was in the right direction.

  ‘And how did you perform this miracle, Bardolle?’ he asked.

  ‘Not very difficult, sir,’ Bardolle said. ‘Had a stroke of luck. A few months back his car broke down. Petrol pump packed up and because they hadn’t one in stock at the garage in Mongy he had to leave it for a day or two. They remembered the mark on his face and they were able to turn up his address. Aged thirty-five, divorced, lives alone. He’s a stonemason and works for a funeral director called Chevallier in Châtillon.’ Bardolle gave a huge laugh that almost shattered Pel’s eardrums. ‘No wonder he was so noisy in Norbert Hilaire’s place that night. Working for an undertaker. All those stiffs. Having to be quiet and respectful all the time. If I had to keep quiet like that, I’d burst.’

  Pel could well believe it. ‘We’d better go and see this Crussol,’ he said.

  Because of the threat from Duche, Darcy was with Pel. There had been a break-in at a restaurant in Chemilly which was on the way, and money had been stolen. Not much, but a 6.35mm Star automatic, owned by the proprietor and fully licensed because of the need for him to keep large sums of money on the premises over the weekend, had also disappeared.

  ‘Our friend, Duche, would have to get close to hit me with a 6.35,’ Pel said.

  ‘Don’t be too sure, Patron,’ Darcy retorted. ‘A 6.35 will kill at ten metres but there’s a case on record of a man being killed by one at eight hundred. Eighty per cent of the shootings in the States are with what we call 6.35s.’

  Crussol’s home looked like a stable, an ugly building with a shabby front garden that seemed to be littered with pieces of broken stone. The gates were of cheap tubular steel covered with what looked like sheep wire, and, like the rest of the building, had obviously recently been decorated in crude red and purple paint that seemed to have been chosen and applied by a colour-blind amateur; the colours shrieked their disagreement and the paint sprinkled the hedge and the trees, and there was a large lavender handprint on the wall.

  Crussol was not at home so they retired to a bar on the other side of the road from which they could watch the house, and sat in the sun drinking beer as they waited. Pel always enjoyed the feel of the sun on his old bones. It was in his nature to
consider himself advancing rapidly through the arches of the years and he had long been convinced that he hadn’t much time left before they carted him off in a box to the cemetery.

  Darcy’s eyes were moving about them all the time, and Pel watched him, amused. ‘Surely you don’t expect to find Philippe Duche here?’ he asked.

  Darcy didn’t smile. ‘Where we find Philippe Duche,’ he said, ‘is where you are and where we won’t expect him to be.’

  They were still there as evening approached so they decided to eat a quick meal. The girl who served it had hair that seemed to have been fried in olive oil and so much mascara on her eyes she looked as if she were a miner fresh from the pit. The meal tasted of old shoelaces and the wine like anti-freeze.

  ‘I often wonder,’ Pel said, ‘why police pensions don’t take into account the damage done to police stomachs in the performance of duty.’

  He lit a cigarette, and studied it gloomily. ‘They say it dulls your sense of smell,’ he muttered. ‘If I stopped, they could probably put me on a lead and get rid of the sniffer dogs.’

  Darcy grinned. ‘I shouldn’t worry, Patron,’ he said. ‘You’ve got a few non-smokers in your team now. Morell’s one.’ He looked pleased suddenly. ‘He called me “Patron” the other day. I suppose now we ought to up you to “Patron of Patrons” or something. “All Highest,” perhaps.’ He looked warmly at his superior. He knew all Pel’s little weaknesses and still admired him. ‘You’ve come a long way, Patron.’

  Pel nodded. ‘The first time I put on uniform,’ he said, ‘I was so dim I didn’t know my back from my front. They sent me out on the streets with a sous-brigadier to show me around but he had a girl friend and after half an hour he disappeared to see her, and I suddenly realised I didn’t know where I was. I was terrified of having to arrest someone and having to ask him the way to headquarters.’

  As he finished speaking, Darcy put his hand on his arm. A battered old Citroën was coming slowly up the street. The front had been pushed in by a collision and it had so much rust on it, it looked as though it had spent some time on the seabed. One of the tyres was almost flat and a headlight was missing. As it passed them, they saw the driver, a large man with the shoulders of an ox. He was bearded and they could distinctly see a cherry-coloured mark on his cheek.

  ‘That’s him,’ Darcy said.

  They watched him open the ugly gates, park the car in the concrete drive, then close the gates after him and disappear into the house. The door slammed so hard it seemed as if he were trying to pull the wall down on top of him.

  They gave him plenty of time to get himself established then they rose, paid their bill and headed for the house. At their knock, the door was wrenched open and Crussol stared out at them, a huge shabby, hairy figure like a bear, his clothes covered with white dust and minute chippings of stone.

  ‘What do you want?’ he demanded. ‘I’m working.’

  ‘So are we,’ Pel said. ‘And we want a word with you.’

  As he showed his identity card, Crussol stared at it blankly. ‘Holy Mother of God,’ he said slowly.

  ‘You were expecting us maybe?’ Darcy asked silkily.

  ‘No.’ Crussol grinned suddenly. ‘It was just a surprise, that’s all. I’ve not been involved with the police before.’

  ‘Only when you were brought before the magistrates on an assault charge,’ Pel pointed out.

  Crussol’s eyebrows came down and his fists clenched. ‘That’s a lie!’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Are you doubting my word?’

  ‘It’s our job to doubt what people expect us to believe.’

  Crussol’s expression changed and he shrugged. ‘Well, it was worth a try,’ he said cheerfully. ‘How did you find out?’

  ‘You have a file, my friend,’ Darcy said.

  ‘You mean they keep records of every little thing?’

  ‘Assault’s not all that little.’

  ‘I was drunk. I don’t go around getting into trouble.’

  ‘How about a little matter of obtaining stone from a quarry at Chantenoy without paying for it?’

  ‘That’s nothing.’

  ‘It was to the man who quarried it.’

  Crussol gestured. ‘I’ve got to have stone. I’m a sculptor.’

  ‘Your record says you’re a mason.’

  ‘I work for a funeral director, that’s all. Chevalliers’, of Châtillon. To earn enough money to be a sculptor.’

  ‘You’ve exhibited?’ Pel asked.

  Crussol scowled. ‘I can’t get anybody interested. The bastards who own galleries all seem to have minds like dwarfs. Things have to be pretty – birds and flowers and baby rabbits. Come in, come in.’ He stepped back so they could enter. ‘I’ll show you what I’m working on. I’m not a criminal. I’ve nothing to be ashamed of. I bet you didn’t find anything else in my file.’

  ‘Only three or four “driving without due cares”.’

  ‘Well, I drive fast.’

  ‘It shows,’ Darcy said. ‘On your car.’

  Crussol laughed. ‘My mind’s often on other things. I have a tendency to wander about the road.’

  As he held the door open, they saw that the interior of the house had been decorated in the same ghastly red and purple as the outside, the paint as liberally scattered on the floor and stairs as it was on the sidewalk and the hedge. The hall was small and seemed remarkable only for the amount of white dust everywhere and the stone chippings that were scattered about.

  As Crussol opened another door they found themselves in the garage. In the centre of the concrete floor stood an enormous chunk of white stone, with what appeared to be two feet carved in one of the bottom corners. Crussol left them staring at it while he slopped beer into glasses from one of a number of bottles on a table by the wall.

  ‘What is it?’ Darcy asked.

  ‘Jesus raising Lazarus from the dead.’

  ‘What happened to Lazarus? He looks as if a house fell on him.’

  Crussol gave a hoot of laughter. ‘That’s good,’ he said. ‘I must remember that.’ He swallowed his beer in one huge draught. ‘Have a drink,’ he suggested. ‘There’s plenty. What can I do for you? I bet you didn’t come to watch me at work.’

  Pel fished out the photographs of Dominique Pigny from the brown envelope. ‘I think you know this girl,’ he said.

  Crussol’s glance at the photographs was casual. ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘It’s Dominique la Panique. What’s wrong? Has something happened to her?’

  ‘She’s dead. Her body was recovered from the sea in Brittany fifteen days ago.’

  Crussol hurriedly sloshed more beer in his glass. ‘Poor old Panique,’ he said. ‘I wondered what had happened to her.’

  ‘How well did you know her?’

  ‘As well as you know someone you’ve lived with. She modelled for me for a bit. She wasn’t much good. She wouldn’t sit still and when she didn’t want to do something she didn’t. She could be tough. But she had a good body. Nice tits. Well-shaped feet. I like feet.’

  ‘Where were you on the night of the 16th of last month?’

  ‘In the bar across the road, I suppose. That’s where I usually am in the evening. You can ask them. They’ll have noticed me. People do when I’m in a bar.’

  ‘Was she with you?’

  ‘No. I was on my own.’

  ‘You were with her in a bar about a month ago. In Mongy. The Bar Giorgiou. You had a meal.’

  Crussol nodded. ‘That’s right. It cost me a fortune. She could always eat. They didn’t have much on the menu so she had two helpings. Big ones. It always amazed me where she put it because she wasn’t all that big. I felt a bit responsible for her.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘We met at art school. She was studying art, too. But she wasn’t much good at it. Most of them aren’t and most of them never earn a living at it.’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘Yes. As a mason.’ Crussol paused and went on slowly.
‘She could never handle feet, and feet are important. You can get away with hands. Shove ’em in pockets. Stick ’em behind backs. But you can’t disguise feet, and most people get them looking like waders.’ He paused, his eyes distant. ‘We were younger then and life seemed hard for people of our age. It does sometimes. We got on to drugs. Me first. Then old Panic. Fortunately, we got off them again quick and I don’t think it did either of us a lot of harm. Certainly not La Panique. She went in for jogging instead. She had the constitution of a wild horse and about as much sense. Just when she was at her most affectionate, she’d disappear for weeks at a time. In the end it got me down and I got this job in Châtillon. Carving gravestones and headpieces. Crosses. Weeping angels. Broken columns. That sort of thing. People haven’t got much imagination. You should see the cemeteries in Italy. There’s one in Genoa with a tomb of black marble shaped like a coffin with the lid open and a white marble hand hanging out. Limp. Dead. As if the corpse had tried to escape and failed. Superb. All we go for here is cherubs and angels and that sort of thing. Still—’ he smiled and gestured with his glass ‘—cherubs and angels have feet. I also get my stone cheap. It’s not bad stuff either. A bit like English Hoptonwood. And the money’s all right, and I pick up a bit extra now and then because they get me to give a hand with funerals. Carrying the coffin. Only they can never find anyone the same size and, with me at one end, the coffin’s always up-ended and when you’re carrying it with your head up close you can hear the stiff sliding down inside.’

  ‘Dominique Pigny,’ Pel prompted, feeling they were drifting off the subject a little. ‘What was she like?’

  Crussol shrugged. ‘Good type. Warm-hearted. Full of life. Always good for a laugh. She became a fitness fanatic, did you know? After the dope jag. Walked everywhere. Round shops. In parks. In fields. On the hills. She exhausted me. Name of God, you aren’t given feet for walking. You get them to press accelerator pedals.’