by Mark Hebden
‘Besides,’ she went on, ‘I’ve done it before. For a molester.’
‘This isn’t a molester,’ Darcy said. ‘He’s killed four women and there may be others we don’t know about yet.’
‘I’d still like to do it, Patron.’
‘It means walking about the streets. Dark streets. He doesn’t operate where there are lights.’
‘I’m not afraid of the dark, Patron.’
‘Very well,’ Pel said. ‘We’ll have De Troq’ following close behind all the way. He’ll be careful, I’m sure.’ Despite his worry, Pel managed a smile.
Claudie smiled back. ‘I think you should give Jean-Luc Nosjean a go, too, at some point. He’ll be jealous as hell if he thinks De Troq’s having me all to himself.’
Pel smiled again. Everybody smiled at Claudie, for her freshness, her frankness, her cheek even.
‘One of them will be near you all the time. I promise you that.’ Pel paused. ‘But they can’t be near enough to prevent an attack. We can’t guarantee that you won’t get hurt.’
They couldn’t guarantee anything, in fact, he thought. If the Prowler decided for a change to use his knife they wouldn’t have a chance.
‘You’re under no compulsion,’ he pointed out. ‘De Troq’ says he’ll do it if necessary. Put on make-up and carry a handbag. He’s small. He’s done this sort of thing before.’
Claudie smiled. ‘De Troq’ wasn’t after a murderer, Patron. He was after someone who was beating up queers. He didn’t have to look feminine, just effeminate, and friend Prowler might know the difference. No, Patron. I’ll do it. Can I have a gun with me?’
‘Of course. And we’ll fix a bleeper to your clothes so we’ll know exactly where you are all the time.’
‘You’ll also,’ Darcy said, ‘have a radio. Tuned to De Troq’ or whoever’s watching you so you can let him know if you’re being followed.’
Claudie smiled. ‘I’ll be a walking electronic gadget,’ she said cheerfully. ‘Son et Lumière. Wired up for sight and sound. When do I start?’
‘Tonight. We’ll drop you in the Rue de Rouen district and you’ll walk around from eleven o’clock until one in the morning which is when he always seems to strike. You’d better go home now and report back here about 10 p.m.’
‘I’ll be ready, Patron. I’ll wear a white coat, so that whoever’s following me will be able to see me easily.’ Pel nodded approvingly, and she went on cheerfully. ‘And high heels. So that if he can’t see me, he’ll be able to hear me.’
‘Good. Good.’
‘I shall also –’ Claudie smiled ‘ – have on a high-necked sweater in case he tries to use that knife of his to cut my throat, and a pull-on hat with a wad of something thick underneath in case he tries to hit me over the head. Is there anything else?’
Pel beamed at her. ‘I think you’ve thought of everything.’ he said.
Glancing at his watch, Pel telephoned his wife and suggested lunch in the city.
‘It seems a long time since we met,’ he pointed out heavily.
He was warmed by the note in her voice. ‘Hôtel Centrale?’ she asked at once. ‘It’s just behind my office.’
There was a panic on when they arrived and the chef, with a good French instinct for theatricality, was in the process of throwing a fit of hysteria.
‘It was on the menu,’ he was saying in a penetrating whisper to Gau, the manager. ‘Sauce poivrade. They were given sauce chasseur. And they didn’t even notice.’ He slapped his forehead with the heel of his hand. ‘I might as well run a hamburger bar. I might just as well serve Americans for whom, as we all know, a meal isn’t a meal unless it’s between two pieces of bread. I’ve even heard of them drinking coca-cola with pheasant. One day – one day! – someone will call me over and say “This is the wrong sauce”.’
Henri Bayetto, the lottery winner, was still sitting in the bar, still with a large whisky in front of him. As far as Pel could tell, he’d been there since the day he’d first seen him.
‘He must get through a lot of whisky,’ he said as Gau came across to them.
Gau smiled. ‘He decided to stay on a little. He likes our city.’
‘Satisfied with the service, is he?’
‘More than satisfied.’
‘Eat a lot?’
‘He has a good appetite.’
Pel glanced again at Bayetto. ‘Spending much?’
‘He likes to eat and drink well.’
‘Pay cash?’
‘On his bill. He’s done a bit of shopping. I recommended a few friends. Suits. A little jewellery for his wife. I sent him to Merciers’. He’s looking for antiques now.’
‘I hope you’ve seen his money.’
‘I have indeed.’ Gau smiled. ‘Inside the attaché case. He showed me. It’s full of hundred-franc notes. In packets, fresh from the bank. All neatly stacked.’
They ate their meal in silence. Occasionally Pel was aware of his wife glancing at him but she said nothing until they had finished.
‘Are you thinking about the murders?’ she asked.
‘Yes.’
‘You’ve hardly spoken. I don’t think you’re really here, are you?’
Pel admitted that his mind had been far away.
‘I expect you’ll find out who did them in the end,’ she said. ‘You usually do.’
Mellowed by his lunch, Pel sat at his desk and, taking out a large sheet of paper, began to write names on it and attach them to each other with lines drawn with coloured pencils until it looked a little like a genealogical table. It was his way of trying to set his thoughts in order. Some of the males involved in the case – Schwendermann, Padiou, Bréhard, Hélin, Doucet, knew more than one of the victims. Others like Magueri, the salesman Chatry, and Monique Letexier’s husband, who, sure enough, had been with another woman at a hotel at Hyères on the Mediterranean coast, knew only one.
Other lines on the chart indicated alibis. Magueri had been at home but, since the woman he lived with was at work, he was alone and, since his wife was on the streets, it was possible that he, if no one else, had a grudge against prostitutes. Yet, somehow, it seemed an unlikely premise, because Magueri – who, it had appeared, was hardly moral himself – was not really the type to get worked up about immorality. If the Prowler were anybody on their list, it seemed Hélin or Moussia was still their best bet.
They were really still up against a blank wall, however. The Prowler was anonymous and, Pel suspected, would still be anonymous even when they found him – so ordinary in appearance and behaviour nobody had ever really noticed him.
That afternoon Schwendermann turned up at the Hôtel de Police and asked for Pel. Expecting information, Pel saw him at once, but it turned out to be nothing more than the information that Moussia had left the Rue Devoin and moved in with the Tunisian student, Habib, in the Rue Novembre 11.
‘Why didn’t he come himself?’
Schwendermann shrugged. ‘I think he iss afraid,’ he said in his fussy nosey-parker way. ‘He thinks perhaps you watch him.’
‘Why has he moved?’
‘He sleeps out for a long time. How do you say – on and off. Some nights he iss at the Rue Devoin. Other nights he iss with Habib. He leaves late at night.’
‘Was there some trouble at the Rue Devoin?’
Schwendermann gestured. ‘Iss not popular, I think. The girls do not like him.’ He smiled. ‘I do not like him much. I think he does not wish to admit he iss not like. Not to himself even, you understand. That iss why I come on his behalf. I am in the city doing my architecture, looking at the old houses. Are many nice old houses here. So –’ Schwendermann shrugged ‘ – I say I will tell for him.’
It seemed a good idea to have another talk with Moussia and Pel sent Brochard round to bring him in. The Algerian was indignant and tearful by turns.
‘I didn’t know it was an offence,’ he bleated.
‘You’re expected to report a change of address. You could well be needed.’
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‘Am I a suspect or something?’
‘Everybody in the city’s a suspect. And we’ve enough to do without having to search for you if we need you.’
Why should you need me?’
Pel glared. ‘Even if you’re not a suspect,’ he snapped, ‘you could still be a witness. Why didn’t you inform us?’
Moussia made a defeated gesture. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘Schwendermann likes to mind other people’s business and I thought it would be all right.’
It appeared to be just as Schwendermann had suggested. Moussia had been the last of the students in Number 69, Rue Devoin to take up residence there and he had never fitted. Conscious of being frozen out, he had decided to move.
‘They’re all snobs,’ he said. ‘Racists, too. Annie Joulier’s always poking fun at me. Marguerite, too. After what I did for her as well.’
Pel leaned forward. ‘What did you do for her?’
Moussia looked at him, then at Darcy then back at Pel. He licked his lips. ‘All sorts of things,’ he said. ‘Errands. Fetching books from the library. I mended her car. I changed the wheels. That sort of thing. She had too much money, that one.’
As the door closed behind Moussia, Pel looked up at Darcy.
‘Daniel,’ he said slowly, ‘I think we’ve just heard another good reason why someone should want Marguerite de Wibaux dead.’
When he reached home that night, Madame Routy met him at the door. Very deliberately he wiped his feet for her, making a lot of fuss about it so that she’d not fail to notice. Madame Pel had arrived just ahead of him and, hearing his car, had poured him a small whisky. Because whisky these days cost as much as uranium, it had been Pel’s custom before his marriage to save it for important occasions like earthquakes or the end of the world, but she was trying to break him of the habit. As she handed it to him, he caught the warmth in her look. He had always thought of himself as an unlovable individual growing wrinkled and wan before his time because of the pressure of work and the number of cigarettes it forced him to smoke, and to see such affection in his wife’s eyes did his heart good. Perhaps, he thought, he might after all be able to struggle on instead of, as he’d often contemplated, giving it all up and going into a monastery or something.
‘It’s nice to see you again so soon,’ he said quietly.
‘It’s nice to see you, too,’ she agreed. ‘Though not to see you looking so tired and worried.’
‘I like coming home,’ he admitted. ‘I never used to before. It seems a long time since we sat down together in the evening.’
‘Perhaps tonight we can listen to some music.’
Pel’s expression faded. ‘Not tonight,’ he said. ‘I have to go out again.’
He was flattered to see the disappointment in her face. ‘Do you have to?’ she asked.
‘I think I do. We’re setting up a bait for friend Prowler. We’re trying to bring him into the open.’
‘What does that mean?’
He drew a deep unhappy breath. ‘It means someone has to walk the streets so that he’ll attack.’
‘A woman?’
‘Yes.’
‘Who’s doing it?’
‘Claudie.’
She looked at him in horror. ‘Not Claudie,’ she said. ‘I hope you’re going to look after her.’
‘That’s why I must go in. I can’t risk something going wrong.’
‘Of course.’ He was glad to see she approved. ‘I understand. It’s surprising how I’ve learned to understand.’ She gestured. ‘By the way, we’ve got a visitor.’
He looked round in alarm. The Chief with a new job? The President of the Republic come to give him the Legion of Honour? One of his relatives? Or, worse still, one of Madame’s, on the point of a heart attack or something? Their courtship had been interrupted again and again by the accidents, deaths and similar crises that had occurred among her relations. Despite their wealth, they all seemed to have a gift for dropping dead at the wrong moment.
‘You know him well,’ Madame said. ‘He’s in the kitchen having something to eat with Madame Routy.’
‘Didier?’
Didier Darras was Madame Routy’s nephew and, fortunately, he didn’t take after his aunt. In Pel’s Rue Martin-de-Noinville days before his marriage, he had been a regular visitor who had brightened Pel’s hours because he shared with Pel a hearty dislike of television and his aunt’s cooking, and a mutual fondness for boules, fishing and eating out. There had been many times when Pel had lived alone that they had infuriated Aunt Routy by letting her cook one of her disgusting casseroles and then disappearing into the blue so that she had to eat it herself.
Scrubbed spotless, his hair brushed down in damp spikes, his shoes shined until he could see his face in them – to his mother a chief inspector of the Police Judiciaire was akin to royalty – he stood up, wiping his mouth, and they shook hands solemnly. Pel was touched that the boy had troubled to look him up when he now lived so far out of the city.
Didier gestured towards the pantry where Madame Routy was clattering around. ‘What’s happened?’ he asked. ‘She’s learned to cook. Did you make her?’
‘Not me, mon vieux. I haven’t that much influence. It was Madame Pel.’ Pel glanced at his watch. ‘It’s a long time before dinner. Do you fancy looking round the garden? It has everything. Even a flat drive that’s perfect for boules.’
Outside, studying the scenery, Didier grinned. ‘I like Madame Pel,’ he said. ‘She’s all right.’
‘I’m glad you approve.’
‘Nice place you’ve got here, too. Have you been making a fortune?’
‘No,’ Pel said, straight-faced. ‘It’s bribes. Corruption. Hand-outs. That sort of thing. You’ve heard of it.’ He smiled. ‘I just happened to marry someone who has a fortune already.’
As they were examining the rockery, the boy turned and looked at Pel. ‘I’m thinking of joining the Police,’ he said.
‘Oh?’ Pel was barely listening. ‘When?’
‘Any time now.’
Pel’s head jerked round and he stood staring at the boy, unable to believe he was that old. Yet he was tall and straight and Pel had long since noticed how sturdy he was becoming. He did a few sums in his head. Didier had been about to enter his teens when he’d first met him. And that was how many years ago? Now he must be – Name of God, Pel thought, he was a young man. Which meant that Pel was ageing rapidly. He would soon be reaching retirement, old age and, without doubt, approaching senility. He would very soon – he stopped hurriedly before he had himself dead and buried.
‘I’m glad to hear it,’ he said. ‘I’ll give you a strong recommendation. It’ll help. Then, before long, I can have you on my squad.’ If he hadn’t dropped dead in the meantime, he thought with alarm.
‘Cadet Martin’s about due for normal duties,’ he went on. ‘You’d have to run the errands, attend to the mail and fetch the beer when we were thirsty. But it would be good experience and stand you in good stead.’
‘I’d like that,’ Didier said. ‘Louise Bray says she’d like me to be in the Police.’
Pel nodded. Didier had been paying court to the girl next door from the day she’d first hit him over the head with her doll. ‘A woman’s approval’s always a good thing to have,’ he agreed.
It occurred to him that from now on he’d have to regard Didier as a grown man, not a boy, and there was a moment of awkward silence as he wondered how to continue.
‘How did you get here?’ he asked.
‘Bike. I’ve got a new one.’
‘It was kind of you to come and see us.’
Didier shrugged. ‘There wasn’t much else to do,’ he said. ‘Louise has gone to stay with her grandfather.’
The visit, it seemed, had been no more than a last-minute decision to fill in an hour or two, and not, after all, because Didier’s heart was breaking at not having seen Pel for some time.
‘He lives in Spain,’ Didier continued, solemn-faced. ‘He bought a flat
there. Sitges. Would you like to live in Sitges?’
‘I’d rather live here.’ To Pel anything beyond the borders of France was outer darkness.
‘Me, too,’ Didier agreed. ‘I think the Spanish are a pretty awkward lot, anyway. Cause a lot of trouble down there in the Pyrénées. Not like us.’
Pel smiled. This was French chauvinism at its best. Didier was growing up in the right way. Perhaps he could join Pel’s Society of Bigots now he was old enough to appreciate what a bigot was.
‘Mind you,’ Didier went on, ‘I believe they play a sort of boules down there, too.’
‘That would undoubtedly make them more bearable. How’s the fishing?’
Didier shrugged. ‘They’re a bit short on rivers, I think,’ he said. ‘And the ones they have are all too big or too deep. Tidal, I believe. They’re a stupid lot, these foreigners.’ He grinned, knowing Pel well and teasing a little. ‘You just can’t trust them, can you? They even speak a different language.’
Fourteen
Claudie Darel walked slowly along the Rue des Charbonniers in the old part of the city. It was 11.45 p.m. and her feet were beginning to ache. Normally, she wore heels such as she was wearing now only for special occasions when it was worth having tired feet. High heels didn’t go with too much walking.
She had started her lonely patrol an hour before when the bars had begun to empty. Now, close to midnight, the streets were emptying, too, and only an occasional car appeared. One of them had slowed up alongside, the driver with his head out of the window making suggestions, and it had startled him more than a little when she’d snapped at him. ‘Push off,’ she had said, ‘or I’ll have you arrested. I’m a police officer.’ He had bolted like the proverbial rat up a drainpipe.
She had arrived in the sergeants’ room in the Hôtel de Police to find everyone there, all of them ready to take their turn on the streets: Lagé; Misset – complaining as usual about the hours he had to work; Aimedieu with his choirboy’s face; Bardolle, looking like an amiable drayhorse; Debray and Brochard, like twins staring out of an old faded photograph; Lacocq; Morell; even Cadet Martin, roped in with the others because on occasions like this nobody was spared. She was grateful for their concern. It helped to reassure her now that she was on her own.