Pel and the Prowler

by Mark Hebden

  ‘Yes, Patron,’ he said. ‘It is.’

  ‘Lehmann, wasn’t it?’ Pel asked. ‘Marie-Josephine Lehmann – known as Mijo.’

  ‘That’s right, Patron.’

  Pel remembered her well. She looked more like Charlotte Rampling than Charlotte Rampling herself and Nosjean had always had a penchant for girls who looked like Charlotte Rampling. He had met her while checking on the theft of the art treasures. At the time he’d been pursuing a librarian who looked like Charlotte Rampling and it had been a pleasant change to chase an expert on antiques who looked like her instead. She had taken quite a shine to Nosjean, especially when he had cleared the case up, and he had seen a lot of her for a few weeks until, as usual, the affair had faded away, the trouble this time a lawyer’s typist who looked like – have a guess! – Charlotte Rampling.

  Pel nodded. ‘Good luck, mon brave,’ he said.

  Nosjean blushed again and vanished. For a senior sergeant he blushed easily.

  Nosjean hadn’t returned by evening. The weather had broken and the smoky mists of autumn had given way to rain and a rising wind. Listening to it beat against the window, Pel sat in his office, studying reports. It was a pleasant office, much better than the one he’d had before his promotion from inspector: more comfortable chair, better carpet – choice of colour for officers at his level – view of the city rather than the railway track, and a bigger desk because there were more reports to read.

  He had long since been relieved of all other duties so he could concentrate exclusively on finding the Prowler. He was assuming that he was a local man or at least someone residing in the area, because all the murders had taken place within the city boundary. Though they had tried every police authority in the country, no similar series of crimes or mutilations had been reported in recent years in any other part of France.

  Pel’s eyes ran down the list of names he had written out in large letters and propped against his reading lamp. Schwendermann, Moussia, Sergent, Aduraz and all the other students. Hélin and his three postgraduate friends. Doctor Bréhard and Doctor Padiou. Josset, who had permitted Bernadette Hamon to park her car on his premises. Charier, who had found her body. Roussel, the painter who stored his equipment at 69, Rue Devoin. Doucet, who said he had allowed Honorine Nauray to return home alone from the centre of the city at midnight. Magueri, the defecting husband, and Chatry, the stood-up boyfriend. The list was a long one.

  Or was the Prowler perhaps none of the people they’d interviewed, someone they’d never heard of? Someone who didn’t even know his victims? Some stranger from out of town who had chosen them at random simply because he had the urge to kill?

  Pel lit a cigarette without even noticing and started leafing through the dossiers they had gathered on everyone concerned with the case. Did the Prowler know his victims? It seemed very possible. They had taken a long hard look at rejected suitors, but not with much expectation of success because these days young men and women tended to transfer their affections much more readily than in the past, and it had been found that, on the whole, rejected suitors took a much more philosophical view of the business and usually considered there were plenty more fish in the sea.

  In any case, there seemed to be only one of them.

  Honorine Nauray had stood up Chatry, the salesman, in favour of Doucet, the student, but they were unable to find any connection between Chatry and Marguerite de Wibaux, Bernadette Hamon or Alice Magueri. And since they were certain they had all been murdered by the same man, it seemed impossible that Chatry could be the Prowler.

  Stubbing out the cigarette, Pel worked in silence for a while, his mind busy, then, as he tossed aside another file, Claudie Darel appeared. He looked up startled.

  ‘You still here?’

  ‘Just finishing the reports, Patron. I’m going home now.’

  ‘Don’t stop en route.’

  As she turned to the door, Darcy appeared. He cocked a thumb at her. ‘Home,’ he said briskly. ‘Time you weren’t here.’

  As she vanished, he turned to Pel. ‘You, too, Patron. I’m here to take the weight off your shoulders so you can think. What’s keeping you?’

  Pel gestured at the files. ‘Marguerite de Wibaux. Bernadette Hamon. Alice Magueri. Honorine Nauray. That’s what keeps me. They were young. Perhaps the Nauray girl was a bit stupid. Perhaps the Magueri woman was a tart. Perhaps the De Wibaux girl was a snob. But none of them deserved to die.’ He paused. ‘There’s a pattern, Daniel, and it’s in here somewhere. They all occurred around midnight. Why?’

  ‘Why not, Patron? It’s the safest time for a type like the Prowler. Dark. Nobody about. It’s the obvious time and strangling isn’t instantaneous. Sometimes it makes a noise.’

  ‘The Boston Strangler didn’t worry about noise. He watched, and went after his victims. He got into their apartments by posing as an electrician or something like that. After all, it’s the easiest thing in the world to say you’re the concierge’s brother and she’s sent you up to check the heating. Most women don’t argue. They’re too trusting.’

  ‘Patron!’ Darcy sounded patient. ‘Ours aren’t like the Boston thing. Ours have all been outside. On the pavement. And on the pavement there’s nothing special about midnight – only ghosts and the fact that it’s dark.’

  Pel nodded. He felt old and tired and defeated. He closed the files and rose. ‘I’m going home,’ he said.

  Darcy offered a packet of Gauloises. ‘Before you go, Patron. It’ll help get through the evening without having one at home.’

  Pel studied the cigarettes. After all the smoking he did, he felt his lungs must be in tatters. But he needed a cigarette and after only a pause he took one and lit it, deciding his nerves came first and that his lungs would have to look after themselves.

  He blew out smoke and gestured. ‘It’s a humiliation every time I light one of these,’ he admitted. ‘Cowardice. Lack of moral fibre. What sort of person is it who doesn’t have the will to give it up? Not much. I think I’m a waste of space.’

  He drove home slowly, feeling dyspeptic and tired. Life seemed to have lost some of its flavour. It puzzled him a little because he knew it wasn’t the Chief’s complaints or even their lack of progress. He’d been involved in police work long enough not to let that sort of thing worry him. These days it wasn’t even his car or the traffic jams in the Place Wilson.

  And it certainly wasn’t his home because he no longer lived in the dog kennel he had called a house in the Rue Martin-de-Noinville. He lived at Leu with a woman he loved whom he looked forward to seeing every single day as he drove his car out of the car park at the Hôtel de Police.

  To his surprise, the door of the house was opened not by Madame Pel but by Madame Routy, who had seen him coming.

  ‘Madame’s not back yet,’ she said sharply, and he remembered then being told by his wife at breakfast that she had to go to Lyons on business. Immediately, he felt bereft and the thought of being at home with only Madame Routy to look at suddenly seemed so appalling he almost turned round, climbed back into his car and headed back to the office. But then Madame Routy changed it all in a moment.

  ‘Wipe your feet,’ she said.

  It was something she’d never have dared say if his wife had been around but it was like a revelation and immediately he knew what was wrong. There wasn’t enough conflict in his private life. His marriage was happy and there were no harsh words between him and his wife. But he had the sort of personality that thrived on conflict. Writers always insisted that soured relationships were easier to write about than sweetness and light, because contention stirred the blood. His wife had been protecting him too carefully and he responded to Madame Routy’s challenge with spirit.

  ‘I’ve wiped them,’ he snapped. ‘Twice.’

  ‘Well, just remember I’ve done this floor.’

  ‘Badly, I suppose.’ Pel glared. ‘What’s for dinner?’

  ‘Casserole.’

  ‘One of your burnt offerings?’


  ‘Madame herself prepared it.’

  ‘And you ruined it?’

  ‘I take my orders from Madame, not you.’

  Pel had noticed. While he counted for nothing, Madame Routy would have lain down and let his wife wipe her feet on her chest.

  ‘I could do with a drink,’ he said. ‘That is if you haven’t finished it during the afternoon.’

  As she gave him tit-for-tat, he began to feel better. Even Madame Routy seemed to feel better. Perhaps it was because there had been no spirit in their exchanges for some time and, with harsh words producing the adrenalin, they both felt more alive.

  He hadn’t even had a fight with Judge Brisard for ages, he recalled. He’d have to try to arrange one. Judge Brisard was Pel’s bête noire, pompous, hypocritical, clever; and claiming a hot line to God. In the old days Pel had bullied him unmercifully but, with experience, he had begun to fight back and now detested Pel as much as Pel detested him. It made for a comfortable relationship from which each knew what to expect – nothing! – with Pel holding the advantage because he’d discovered that, despite the photograph of his wife and children on his desk and his mealy-mouthed references to marital happiness, Brisard had a woman, the widow of a policeman, in Beaune. It was something to be saved in case he ever became too difficult.

  It was late when Darcy left the Hôtel de Police. Just as he was putting on his coat, Nosjean turned up from Chagnay. He looked a little sheepish and Darcy who, like everyone else, knew about Marie-Josephine Lehmann, guessed he’d been taking her out for a meal. He was dead right. He had.

  He’d been a little nervous but Mijo Lehmann had not been bitter about Nosjean’s neglect of her, and had asked no questions, though Nosjean had guiltily supplied a few answers, claiming that with his work – all those criminals, you know! – he’d not been able to get to Chagnay in months. He had hoped it had convinced her but Mijo Lehmann was more intelligent than he realised and, a good-natured, gregarious girl, had simply been pleased to see him again because Nosjean was good-looking, clever and articulate, even if his heart tended to drift where it shouldn’t. Nosjean had enjoyed himself, promised to see her again, and moreover had got a line on his quarry into the bargain.

  When the woman with the tankard had bolted from the first antique shop in Chagnay she had tried two days later at the shop where Mijo Lehmann held office and had been persuaded to leave a name and address.

  ‘Florence Remaud,’ he told Darcy. ‘Rue du Vieux Pont, Chatillon. I’ll look her up tomorrow.’

  To celebrate what might be a solid lead and the chance to clear something off the book, Darcy and Nosjean went for a drink at the Bar Transvaal and it was late when Darcy climbed into his car to go home. He deliberately drove via the old part of the city, miles out of his way, his eyes alert and flickering about him, because Darcy was the sort of man who never worried about time off.

  Stopping at a bar near the Ducal Palace in the vague hope of bumping into Hélin, instead he bumped into Doctor Padiou and they stood talking and drinking for a while, Darcy dropping carefully primed questions at intervals into the conversation. To his surprise he learned that Padiou had known Marguerite de Wibaux ever since they’d been children.

  It came out quite by chance as they talked. Suddenly it seemed that Padiou knew a great deal about her and, since they had so far not associated him with her, Darcy probed.

  When it finally emerged, Padiou made no attempt to hide the fact. ‘I was born in Belgium, too,’ he said.

  ‘So you’re a Belgian, in fact?’

  ‘Technically, yes. But only because my father happened to be working on that side of the border at the time and he and my mother were living there. Later he practised medicine in Mezières like Marguerite’s father, and we ended up in the same village. Her parents had money. My parents had money. It was inevitable we should know each other.’

  ‘Have you seen much of her here?’ Darcy asked. ‘Since she arrived at the university?’

  ‘Occasionally. But not much socially. I wasn’t interested in her.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell us this before?’

  Padiou smiled. ‘Simple. You didn’t ask and I always understood it was wiser to volunteer nothing in case it got you into trouble.’

  Darcy glared. It might be worth looking more closely into Padiou, he decided. He was a likeable young man who had always been helpful, but there was just a possibility that his likeableness was put on, and the fact that he had hidden his association with Marguerite de Wibaux might well be because he preferred to keep it quiet rather than that he was attempting to stay out of trouble. Even at best, it could be regarded as obstructionism and Article 63 of the Penal Code, which related to non-assistance to a person in danger, might well be stretched to fit this case, because holding back facts could be regarded as endangering the woman the Prowler had selected as his next victim.

  Leaving in a sour mood, Darcy reflected that however much they claimed to support the Police, people always seemed to have the wrong idea about them. Assuming they existed for no other reason than to harass them, they never appeared to notice that they protected them from thieves, muggers, terrorists and various other kinds of wrongdoers, or that while they were snug in their beds or the arms of their beloveds, the Police were braving not only guns, knives and bombs but also the bitter weather and the rain that could come down off the Plateau de Langres into the city as if it came direct from Siberia. Perhaps the trouble lay with the few bent policemen who gave the organisation a bad name, and with the media who loved to make much of them when they appeared. After all, thanks to the Police, a few people ended up behind bars, a few frauds were halted in their tracks, a few young girls were saved from – Darcy’s thoughts stopped dead.

  But not all! There were four women in this city – his city – who hadn’t been saved and the fact that Padiou had known Marguerite de Wibaux most of her life but hadn’t admitted it rather changed the complexion of their attitude to him.

  It was after midnight as he drove home through the Rue de Rouen district. The streets were deserted and everything was silent, the flat-fronted houses dark. Every now and then he stopped and waited. He wasn’t sure why. Just that it seemed a good idea. On one occasion, he heard a group arguing in an upper room. It sounded like an Italian street riot. The window was open and their voices came out, loud, clear and apparently very angry, as if they were about to snatch up knives and attack each other. He waited for a scream of anguish but it turned out that they were merely discussing where to go on holiday the following August.

  Ten minutes later he was watching the last customers drift from a bar, eyeing them as they vanished into the dark and the landlord hauled down the metal-slatted shutters with a roar like a bomb going off. Setting the car in motion again, he drove slowly away. Then, as he stopped at the end of the Rue des Fosses to join the main road, he suddenly heard the clatter of heels and there was something about the noise that indicated urgency – and fear.

  Pulling the car across the road, he waited and, sure enough, a woman appeared round the corner, running as fast as she could. She looked young, with good legs and long white-blonde hair floating out behind her. Putting the car into gear, he drove after her as she vanished round a corner. Her head turned and, seeing him following, she ran faster, casting terrified looks over her shoulder all the time. Catching her up, he slammed the car in front of her, the front wheels mounting the pavement to block her path. Half-fainting, she backed against the wall, her eyes large and frightened.

  ‘No,’ she gasped. ‘No!’

  Darcy had scrambled from the car.

  ‘No,’ she begged. ‘No, please!’

  ‘I’m a police officer,’ he said, whipping out his identity card with its red, white and blue strip. ‘What’s the trouble?’

  She seemed to sag against the wall, almost melting into its contours. ‘Oh, thank God,’ she said. ‘I wasn’t sure. Are you certain you’re a policeman?’

  ‘Well, I’ve been told so. Darcy’s t
he name. Inspector Darcy. You can telephone the Hôtel de Police if you’re doubtful. Why were you running?’

  In the reflected glow from the headlights he could see she was pretty and scared.

  ‘This man—’

  ‘Which man?’

  ‘He tried to grab me. He got his hands on my neck. He came out of a dark passage. I thought at first he was a drunk. Then I realised he didn’t smell like a drunk. I kicked his shins. He let go and I ran. I thought he was following me.’

  ‘Where was this?’

  ‘Back there. Near the corner by the garage.’

  ‘Get into the car,’ Darcy snapped.

  ‘You sure – ?’

  ‘Get into the car! Let’s see if we can find him. Show me where it happened.’

  She seemed uncertain of him but she got into the car. Darcy swung it round with screeching tyres and they headed back down the Rue des Fosses.

  ‘Round here,’ she said.

  Darcy swung the car into the next street. It was empty except for a prowling cat, the shadows from the street lamps dark against the old brickwork.

  ‘Where did it happen?’

  She indicated an alley and he stopped the car alongside it and took a torch from the glove pocket.

  ‘Stay here,’ he said. ‘Lock the doors and don’t open them to anyone.’

  Heading down the alley, he found himself in a yard. There were one or two small outbuildings but they all seemed to be locked and empty. The torch flashed over stacked planks and old motor tyres. Standing on the planks to look over the wall, he found he was staring into the yard at the back of the garage. There were several locked cars there, with one or two wrecks that looked as if they’d been hauled in by a breakdown truck. Turning, he shone the torch on the building behind him and realised at once that it was empty. He tried the doors but they were all locked and the sound of his hammering fist echoed hollowly in empty rooms.

  Returning slowly to the car, he found the girl peering nervously through the window, her face framed by the pale blonde hair.