by Mark Hebden
‘Hello, Patron,’ he said. ‘Lost something?’
Pel tried to pretend he was endeavouring to extract a straying lash from his eye. It always irritated him to be caught out in one of his imperfections and, in any case, he always felt there was only one person permitted to be funny at that time in the morning – Evariste Clovis Désiré Pel himself.
‘You look like a cat that’s been locked all night in a dairy,’ he growled. ‘You’re sex mad, of course, we all know that.’
Darcy grinned. ‘I know. I don’t seem able to fight it off. But I suppose sin needs working at to be successful.’
The sparring soon ended because Pel’s ration of humour never lasted long.
‘We’ve found the point of the messages,’ he said as he explained what Claudie had discovered. ‘If nothing else, it fixes the time of Marguerite de Wibaux’s death. The Prowler telephoned us just after he’d done it, while he was still scared and in an emotional state, and probably as he was leaving the place.’
Darcy frowned. ‘Why, Patron?’
‘A cry for help? That’s what this sort of thing usually amounts to. In the same way that suicides are really begging for assistance and suicide notes are appeals for them to be understood.’
‘“Cursed French,”’ Darcy mused. ‘Surely that indicates he’s not a Frenchman. A Frenchman wouldn’t say that. So does it mean he was a foreigner? There are plenty around. There are plenty of people who came from Algeria, for instance – native Algerians among them who had to flee from Algeria when they got independence and might have a grudge against us for the mess we made of it. Algerians who feel that the army was too tough. Something like that.’
‘There’s no reason why it shouldn’t be a Frenchman,’ Pel argued. ‘He could have some obsessive hatred for France. People like that exist. People who’ve not got the pensions they feel they ought to have. People who dislike the government they’ve got. People who feel the Police bear down too hard. There are a thousand reasons why a Frenchman should want to curse Frenchmen. Some of them even become traitors and sell secrets. If nothing else, it means we can’t ignore the other messages.’
‘“1940” then,’ Darcy said. ‘What’s that mean? Some Frenchman who feels he was let down then? A few did. My father’s one. He was a prisoner of war for five years after 1940 and when he gets on the subject of the politicians of that period, he froths at the mouth.’
‘That sort of thought would make the Prowler a man as old as your father, then,’ Pel pointed out. ‘Because 1940 can’t mean much to anyone much younger.’
‘We have a few on our list who aren’t all that young, Patron. Charier, for instance. He’s old enough to remember 1940. Josset – he must have been a small boy.’
‘And “Stras-St D Nov 9?” What’s the significance of that? And why does it mean he has to take it out on women?’
Darcy frowned. ‘Whatever it means, we’re ready for it. I’ve got Lacocq, Morell and Aimedieu watching in shifts. And Nadauld has his men all over the place. In cars. In houses. In the grounds of the Ecole St Dominique. We’ve got the whole area covered.’
‘How much longer have we to go?’
‘November 9th’s the day after tomorrow.’
They were still discussing the possibilities when De Troq’ appeared. He had a brown envelope in his hand.
‘I’ve just come from the Faculté des Médecins, Patron,’ he said. ‘I was checking on Marguerite de Wibaux.’
‘And?’
‘Not much about her. She had only one boyfriend and that was Hélin. Everybody thought she was mad to go around with him because she was pretty and moneyed and there were several young doctors who’d have been pleased to be seen with her. There was something, though.’ He fished into the envelope and produced a photograph. ‘While I was there, I spotted this on the notice board. It was taken at the Medical Faculty Ball last month. The newspaper covers the occasion, of course, and so does a photographer who sticks up a selection of prints in case anyone wants one for the mantelpiece or to send home to Mamma. They’re numbered and they can order them. They were taken this year by Photogay of the Rue Amiral-Blanchard.’
He placed the picture on Pel’s desk. Like all group photographs taken by artificial light, the faces in the foreground were clear and bright, a lot of happy young people with their arms round each other. Those further back where the flash had failed to reach were more blurred and seemed to be in shadow.
‘Mostly doctors and their wives and girlfriends,’ De Troq’ said. ‘I had them identified where possible. There are also nurses, of course, because doctors and nurses go together like bread and cheese. There are also medical students of both sexes, staff from the hospitals, and others involved in medicine such as radiographers, dentists, opticians, ambulance people and so on. In addition, all sorts of odds and ends go as guests because the ball’s to raise funds for the Home for the Little Children of the Poor and other medical charities. The tickets are sold mainly in medical institutions of one sort or another.’
He passed across a magnifying glass. ‘I thought I saw someone I knew,’ he said. ‘Take a look, Patron.’ His finger jabbed. ‘About there.’
Pel studied the photograph carefully, knowing perfectly well it would indicate something. De Troq’ was no fool and if he produced a photograph there would be something on it of interest to Pel.
‘I see the Hamon girl,’ he said slowly. ‘Arm-in-arm with Bréhard. Alongside is Doctor Padiou.’ He looked up. ‘Isn’t that girl with him Marguerite de Wibaux?’
‘It could be, Patron. But you’ve not seen it all yet. Look just behind Nurse Hamon.’
Pel peered. There was a group of men, all laughing, and as he studied them he suddenly bent closer.
‘That’s Hélin,’ he said sharply. ‘He’s right behind her. He’s saying something to her and she’s got her head back as if she’s listening.’ He straightened up. ‘He did know her.’
‘That’s the way it looks, Patron.’
Pel frowned. ‘How did he manage to get to an affair like this?’ he asked. ‘I’d have thought it would be too expensive for a student on a grant.’
‘It is, Patron,’ De Troq’ admitted. ‘But some of them go all the same. Medical students especially. A few like Marguerite who have money and can afford it. She paid for Hélin incidentally, not the other way round. And a few girls who are asked by doctors they know.’
‘How about Number 69, Rue Devoin? Did any of that lot go?’
‘All of them, Patron.’
Pel looked startled. ‘I wouldn’t have thought they were that wealthy, or that the girls all knew doctors.’
‘They didn’t, Patron.’ De Troq’ smiled. ‘But it’s a big affair and it needs a big staff to run it, so the organisers employ a number of students every year to help. Because it’s for charity and students are willing to work for less money. Some work in the bar. Some in the buffet. Some merely keep the dining room clear of plates and glasses. The girls work in the cloakrooms. There are perks, of course. Food and drink and, later, a chance to slip into the ballroom.’
‘You found all this out?’
‘I got it from Annie Joulier. The organisers are aware of what goes on but they turn a blind eye because they need the students’ help.’
Pel rubbed his nose thoughtfully. ‘What about the boys at Number 69? It’s the boys I’m interested in.’
‘They were there, too. Marguerite, whose father’s well known at the city hospitals, helped them get the jobs. Sergent and Aduraz worked in white coats in the dining room clearing the debris, Schwendermann and Moussia in the car park. They all seem to have enjoyed the evening, though, because there was plenty to drink and they were well fed. They also got paid. Not much, but enough to make it a good evening out.’
‘And did they join the dancing, too?’
De Troq’ smiled. ‘Sergent and Aduraz did. Under their white coats they wore their best trousers, white shirts and bow ties and they had their jackets with them. Schwendermann
and Moussia didn’t. Perhaps they didn’t intend to. Moussia says it’s because it was raining and they got wet through but Annie Joulier says he didn’t have a good suit and that’s just his excuse, and Schwendermann’s hardly the type to join in something of that sort. Instead they had a few drinks behind the bar and went up to the balcony to watch the dancing from there.’
Pel nodded with satisfaction at De Troq’s efforts. ‘But,’ he said, ‘only Hélin, of those we’re interested in, was, as far as you know, in the ballroom by virtue of possessing a ticket. And he was talking to Bernadette Hamon whom he claimed he didn’t know.’ He looked at Darcy. ‘You and I’ll go and see him, Daniel,’ he said. ‘Early in the morning before he’s properly awake. That way he might let something slip.’
He took a packet of cigarettes from his drawer, studied it for a long time as if afraid it might leap up and bite him, then very slowly took one out, put in in his mouth and lit it. Never allow yourself to be in a position of stress when you might feel the need of a cigarette, all the stop-smoking articles said. There was a fat chance of that ever happening to a cop, he thought as he applied a match.
‘We now have a possible connection,’ he said. ‘If he knew the Hamon girl and the De Wibaux girl, perhaps he also knew the Magueri woman. I think it calls for a beer at the Bar Transvaal.’
They were just about to leave when Lagé appeared. He was getting close to retirement and because he was slow he was beginning to run to fat. But, though he was slow, Lagé was a willing slogger, always agreeable to helping with other people’s work – something Misset was never slow to take advantage of – and he came in now, peeling off his coat in a state of great excitement.
‘Boss,’ he announced. ‘I might have picked him up!’
‘Who?’
‘The Prowler.’
‘Oh?’ Pel was startled because Lagé wasn’t given to triumphs of this nature. ‘Inform me.’
‘Type called Henri Guillon. Caught in the early morning mist at the General Hospital outside the resident nurses’ block trying to see into their rooms. They knew him. They’ve seen him before but this time, in view of Le Rôdeur, they thought we ought to know. I took the message.’
Pel looked at De Troq’ and Darcy. A moment before they had been thinking they were on the track of the man they were after but now here was Lagé with a new name altogether.
He took a quick drag at his cigarette. ‘You’re sure of this?’ he asked.
‘Yes, Patron. I picked him up.’
Well, it could happen. A cop stopping a man for a traffic offence could find he had arrested Public Enemy Number One by accident.
‘I questioned him and found he went to the same school as Alice Magueri,’ Lagé went on. ‘And that later he attended a school for retarded children at Hautville. He’s below waiting for you.’
They let him stew for a while as they made enquiries about him in Longvic where he lived. It seemed he was well known for making suggestions to women and had long been in the habit of inviting strange girls to go for a walk. One woman they spoke to, blunter than the rest, told them that if they let him go they were failing in their duty because he was obviously the man they were seeking. ‘Don’t let up on him if he argues,’ she said. ‘He was always good with his tongue.’
As it happened there was no need to bring pressure to bear. As soon as they started questioning him, Guillon immediately offered the information that he knew Alice Magueri.
‘At school,’ he said. ‘I wanted her even then.’
‘You wanted her?’ Pel said. ‘How?’
‘In bed. On the back seat of the car. Anyhow.’
‘So what did you do?’
‘I asked her. She wouldn’t let me.’
‘So you killed her?’
‘Yes.’
‘How?’
‘I stabbed her.’
‘Where?’
‘Chest. Stomach. Everywhere.’
‘What sort of knife did you use?’
‘It wasn’t a knife. It was a bayonet – an old one from the war. It was my father’s.’
‘How many times did you stab her?’
‘It must have been twenty or thirty.’
‘Which hand?’
Guillon lifted his hand. ‘This one. I’m left-handed. Could you tell?’
‘Where was the body?’
‘In the Rue Constance.’
‘Where exactly?’
‘In a shop doorway, wasn’t it?’
‘You tell me.’
‘Yes. Shop doorway. I dragged her there to do it.’
‘Why didn’t she cry out? Nobody heard her.’
‘I stuffed a gag in her mouth.’
‘What did you use?’
‘My handkerchief.’
‘What else?’
‘Nothing. Then I had her.’
‘In the doorway? After you’d stabbed her?’
‘Yes, yes.’ Guillon gave them the story in intricate and gleeful detail.
‘You must have got a lot of blood on you,’ Pel observed.
‘Yes, I did. All over my trousers and shirt.’
‘Where are they now?’
‘I burned them. While I was doing it, she tried to cry out. She wasn’t dead. I put my hand over her face.’
‘I thought you’d gagged her.’
Guillon didn’t pause. ‘She spat it out.’
‘Tell us about this doorway.’
‘There was plenty of room. It belonged to an ironmonger’s. There were flat irons, electric irons and electric mixers in the window.’
‘What happened then?’
‘I went for a drink. I needed one.’
‘Still covered with blood?’
‘No, no. I changed first and had a bath. Then I went for a drink.’
‘Is that all?’
Guillon gave him a sly look. ‘What more do you want?’
‘Did you do anything to her cheeks?’
‘Only kiss them.’
‘Do you have a knife?’
‘I told you. I did it with the bayonet.’
Lagé placed an old-fashioned bayonet on the desk. It was blunt and streaked with rust. ‘That’s it, Patron. It’s not been tested for blood or anything.’
‘I doubt if it’ll show any,’ Pel said.
His eyes bright, a feverish look of triumph on his face, Guillon watched him as he sat back and lit another cigarette from the stub of the old one. For once Pel felt it was justified because he felt faintly nauseated.
‘For your information,’ he said, ‘she wasn’t stabbed. She was strangled. She hadn’t been gagged and there had been no sexual interference. And the shop where you say you did it, is in fact an empty premises. It closed down some time ago. You’re telling me a whole load of lies.’
Guillon stared at Pel for a moment, then his eyes filled with tears. ‘Holy Mary, Mother of Jesus,’ he whispered. ‘I did it, I promise you! I did it!’
‘Take him away, Lagé,’ Pel said. ‘You’ve been troubled for nothing. He’s making it up from what he’s read in the papers.’
‘What do we do with him, Patron?’
‘I should think he’s a case for the psychiatrists. Better ask Doc Minet. Just take him out of my sight.’
The beer at the Bar Transvaal seemed more than ever desirable – if only to take away the taste of the interview. But, as they reached the door, the telephone went. This time it was Inspector Nadauld, of Uniformed Branch. He sounded agitated.
‘I’m in the Cours de Gaulle,’ he said. ‘One of my men’s just reported finding a body on the railway track alongside. It’s another girl. She’s been strangled.’
Nine
The Cours de Gaulle was a wide avenue running from the Parc de la Colombière up to the Place Wilson, which was a wide circular open space with an island round which the traffic revolved. It was surrounded on two sides by railway lines and in the centre was the Monument de la Victoire. The avenue had originally been built in 1920 to celebrate the victory o
ver the Germans in 1918 and, because it had wide stretches of grass and bushes on either side and two rows of sycamores, it was popular in summer with young people, especially in the evening when there was plenty of shadow which allowed them to go into clinches without being seen. Pel knew the district well because it backed on to the Rue Martin-de-Noinville where he’d lived until his marriage.
Halfway along, between the Monument de la Victoire and the park, Inspector Nadauld’s car was stationed by the curb, and Nadauld was waiting for them on the grass verge. As they braked to a stop, he came forward.
‘In here, Chief.’
They followed him under the trees and he led the way into a thick row of closely planted bushes.
‘They’re all on their way,’ he said. ‘Doc Minet. The Lab. Photography. Fingerprints. Pomereu’s sending a couple of cars. Goriot knows.’
Pushing through the last of the bushes, they found themselves close to the railway line. Standing by a wire fence were three track workers, in dark overalls and fluorescent orange jackets.
‘She’s alongside the line,’ Nadauld said. He indicated one of the railwaymen. ‘This is Nicholas Denais. He’s the foreman.’
Denais gestured. ‘We got a call from the yard,’ he said. ‘The stationmaster at Dampierre picked up a message from the driver of the 8.30 a.m. to Besançon. He’d seen something alongside the up line and thought it ought to be cleared. He thought it was a suicide. You’re always getting them, and we’re always having to clean up after them.’
Pel said nothing and Denais went on.
‘Dampierre informed the city depot and they passed the message to the yard, who passed it on to us. It’s a girl. She’s been hit by a train.’
Pel glanced quickly at Nadauld. ‘I thought you said—’
