by Mark Hebden
But Pel hadn’t. Sitting in his office, like a spider in the centre of its web, he was warily watching, ready to pounce. He had taken to chewing gum in the hope of cutting down his cigarettes. All it did was make his jaw ache.
Because Madame was in Paris at a business conference, Pel had reverted at once to his old habit of taking his breakfast at the Bar Transvaal. Madame Routy’s breakfast coffee, magnificent when Madame Pel was home, had at once changed back to something that tasted as if it had been made from iron filings flavoured with shellac, while the croissants had reverted to the day before yesterday’s.
It was raining when he arrived in the office and Misset, inevitably, was doing nothing apart from telling funny stories. Misset was always telling funny stories and his victim this time was Aimedieu. Aimedieu was coughing over the first cigarette of the morning while, like a hen picking up corn in a farmyard, he laboriously banged out on a typewriter the words of a report he was making on the previous day’s activities.
‘Why are the five continents of the world like the five ages of women?’ Misset was asking.
‘Go on.’ Aimedieu sounded as if there had already been other jokes that morning. ‘Why?’
Misset held up his thumb. ‘Africa: The teenager. Virgin, but unexplored.’ He held up his first finger. ‘The United States: Twenty to thirty. Technically perfect.’ The second finger rose. ‘Asia: Thirty to Forty. Remote but mysterious.’ The fourth finger. ‘Europe: Forty to fifty. Ravaged but still full of charm.’ The little finger rose. ‘Australia: Sixty onwards. Everybody knows of it but nobody’s ever seen it.’
Aimedieu gave him a pained look. ‘Heard it,’ he said. ‘While I was still at school.’
It didn’t put Misset off. He laughed a lot at his own jokes. ‘Wait a minute,’ he said. ‘Have you heard the one about—’
Seeing Pel at last, he abruptly began to sort through the papers on Aimedieu’s desk as if that were what he’d been doing all the time. As Aimedieu slapped furiously at his hands, he turned away in confusion, picked up a file and pretended to peruse it. Pel wasn’t fooled for a minute.
In his office he was met by Cadet Martin with the newspapers, all marked, police cases in red, other items in blue. Claudie appeared soon afterwards, with the mail. Despite her late nights and though everybody who was on the street patrol after dark was given the morning off, she always managed to appear, taking her time off after lunch, which Pel considered a very noble attitude because you hadn’t time to go home when you were coming back again in the evening and most people on split duty merely stayed in the office and hoped they’d be noticed for their earnest attitude towards their work.
He picked up the mail. Claudie never opened it these days in case it contained something that might be a threat and would need dusting for fingerprints. And since a letter bomb had been posted to Pel some time before he had insisted on opening the mail himself, with Claudie standing by to make notes if necessary.
He was just on the point of opening the first letter when Darcy appeared. He was brisk, smart, spotlessly clean and looking like one of the better-class film stars from the Thirties. The three of them were still talking when Nosjean himself appeared in the doorway. He looked flushed and excited.
‘Patron,’ he said. ‘It’s started again! They’ve found another body. In a house in the Rue Fructidor. Rue de Rouen district again.’
‘Strangled?’
‘Not this time, Patron. Knife job.’
Pel tossed down the mail and looked at Darcy. The messy one he’d feared seemed to have arrived.
Seventeen
There were already two police cars in the street. Barriers and tapes had been set up and Nadauld was making arrangements to divert traffic.
‘This way,’ he said, heading down a passage.
Pel followed him, noticing at once that the Prowler had chosen his spot well again. It was once more in the old part of the city, surrounded by crumbling and decaying houses. Near the police cars was a lorry with the name of a demolition firm on its side. Near it a driver and two men waited, looking shaken and bewildered.
In the yard at the back of the houses two policemen, caped against the drizzle, were standing with two more men in overalls.
‘Georges Presnau. Gérard Boulanger.’ Nadauld made the introductions. ‘They found her. Presnau runs a demolition firm and Boulanger’s his foreman. They’re due to work here but they arrived late because the lorry wouldn’t start. They came to the back of the house to have a look-see while their labourers unloaded the equipment. These houses have been locked up for some time, but they found one of the doors forced. She’s just inside.’
Presnau jerked a hand at the open door. The room was empty except for a few broken bottles, a carton full of rags, and a broken chair. The floor was uncovered and in the centre, on the bare boards, was the body of a girl. She was large in stature, well-fleshed and heavy, and lay on her back with her head turned away from them. Her dress had ridden up over plump white thighs and she wore a pink raincoat, while near her head was a plastic triangle she had obviously been wearing against the rain. Her hair was matted with blood and when they crossed the room to look at her from the other side they saw her throat had been cut.
Pel’s eyes narrowed. ‘Nosjean,’ he said. ‘Get someone on to checking dry cleaners and laundries straight away. And let’s have the clothing of everybody so far involved in the case examined for bloodstains. Put Misset on it. He’s surely capable of that.’
‘Daniel –’ as Nosjean vanished, Pel turned to Darcy ‘ – have a search made for the weapon. This time there is one. Get Bardolle to run it. And let’s have everybody we can on it. Everywhere in the yard. Everywhere in the building and the neighbouring buildings. In the street outside.’ He bent closer to the body and, though at first they were difficult to spot because of the blood splashes, he saw the same marks of mutilation on the cheeks.
‘Same as before,’ he said. ‘An H or an M or a W or an N. Something with two up-strokes and a straight or crooked cross-stroke.’
The photographers had arrived now and were busy with the routine of lights and flash bulbs. Another man was making a drawing.
Doc Minet appeared, and placed his bag on the floor to bend over the body. ‘No need to tell you how this one died,’ he said.
‘Any attempt to strangle first?’ Pel asked. ‘Like the others.’
‘Well, she wasn’t dead when he did that,’ Minet indicated the mutilated throat. ‘Or there wouldn’t be so much blood. I’ll tell you later.’
Leguyader’s men arrived, chattering to themselves. They were still discussing a football result but they all became silent as they saw Pel. He didn’t encourage light-heartedness at the scene of a crime.
Prélat, of Fingerprints, was dusting the plastic triangle but he looked up and shook his head. ‘I expect the dabs are hers,’ he said.
‘Keep at it,’ Pel said. As Darcy reappeared he turned to him. ‘Press appeared yet?’
‘No, Patron. But they will.’
He was right. They arrived within the hour. First Sarrazin, then Henriot, then the others. Pel went into the street to talk to them. ‘We have no name yet,’ he said. ‘You’ll be given it as soon as we get it.’
‘Is it the same as the others?’ Henriot asked.
‘At the moment it’s impossible to say. It could be, but the method’s different so it might not be. Keep it as quiet as you can. We don’t want a mass exodus from the city.’ Once again, he made no mention of the mutilation of the cheek.
By this time, Darcy had a line of men moving slowly up the street. There were others in the yard, covering every inch of space, another group going over the building itself, another man investigating the contents of the carton.
Doc Minet rose, wiping his hands. ‘The wound to the throat is what caused death,’ he said. ‘There is an indication on her neck of the marks of a cord, which seems to suggest he grabbed her with it. But they’re not pronounced enough to suggest anything beyond a gr
ab. She has a broken nose, several displaced teeth and bruises round the mouth. It’s my view that he grabbed her and dragged her in here to finish her off, but somehow – perhaps because she’s big and was probably strong – she wriggled free. So he hit her in the face with his fist and knocked her unconscious. Then, while she was on the floor, he grabbed her hair, jerked her head back and cut her throat.’
‘And the mark on her cheek?’
‘Done after she was dead. It looks like an H.’ Doc Minet looked at Pel, an old man suddenly weary of his job. ‘It’s another one, isn’t it?’ he said.
Eighteen
This time there was no message. The surroundings where the body had been found suggested there might have been one – scrawled or scratched on the crumbling plaster, on an old door, in the dust on the floor. But, though they searched the whole area, they found nothing. It puzzled Pel because he felt there ought to be one.
Then the letter arrived. It came in the afternoon post. It was the envelope which first attracted Pel’s attention. It was cheap, the sort that could be bought in any supermarket, and the address was written in a red felt-tip pen. The sheet inside was part of a notice about old age pensioners receiving an increase in their weekly emoluments and the message had been written on the back – like the address on the envelope, in blunt computer lettering. Finding an excuse to send Claudie from the room, Pel quietly handed it to Darcy.
‘I am back,’
it read.
‘Do not forget your Friend. This City needs a Clean-up. And Evildoers must face the Musik and on their Faces have the Brand for all Men to see. You think I have been on Holiday. I have not. I am on the Streets all the Time. French Morals are the blackest. 1940 was the start. Your friend, the Prowler.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with French morals that I’ve ever noticed,’ Darcy said, frowning. ‘And what’s this about 1940?’ He studied the message again. ‘It’s genuine, Patron. He knows about the mark on their faces and nobody else but us does. Not a word of it’s appeared in the media.’
Pel nodded and Darcy continued. ‘He’s spelled “Musik” phonetically with a “k”, so he must be somebody like Magueri or Josset – that type – and we can rule out the students and the people at the hospitals and the Faculté des Médecins. Whatever else, they know how to spell.’ He studied the message again. ‘And what’s so special about 1940? We all know what happened then, God help us. It’s printed on our hearts. But what’s the significance to him? There’s one thing, Patron, this also seems to rule out the students because if you asked them half of them wouldn’t know what happened in 1940. They’re too young. Even their fathers would still have been in short trousers then.’
They took the message along to the Chief, who was older and had, in fact, been a youth at the time. The date had a lot of significance to him, but nothing that connected it to the Prowler. They also brought in Judge Polverari, who had been a young soldier in 1940, and even Judge Brisard, and they discussed the message for a long time.
‘Does it go to the press?’ the Chief asked.
‘I should say not,’ Pel said. ‘We don’t know yet what it means – and it might not mean anything. It might just be part of his obsession and of no special significance. But it’ll be as well to keep it to ourselves. It’ll just be one more detail that might trap him into a confession when we get him.’
They discussed for a while just who should be informed about the message and in the end decided to let it go no further. Pel was in favour of showing it to trusted members of his squad but Judge Brisard felt it should not be shown and the Chief backed him up.
‘Too much’s leaked from this headquarters to the press,’ he said. ‘I think we should keep this one to ourselves. It’s a long message and we might find it has a real meaning.’
Back in his own office, Pel studied the message again. ‘It’s a taunt,’ he said. ‘He thinks we can’t catch him.’
‘We can’t,’ Darcy pointed out flatly.
‘We will, Daniel. We will.’ Pel reached for his cigarettes, lit one, drew the smoke down and pushed his spectacles up on to his forehead. ‘You’d better let Fingerprints have this to see what they can make of it. Nothing I expect. These days every eleven-year-old boy who watches television knows you mustn’t leave fingerprints. In the meantime, we’d better start a check on post offices. One of them’s lost that sheet from its wall and someone might have noticed who took it. The felt-tipped pen won’t get us anywhere. They can be bought in packets of ten at a time at the Nouvelles Galéries. You’d better handle this yourself, Daniel. If the Chief wants it kept quiet, you can’t put anyone else on it. But it might be worth while finding out who handled these notices at the central post office, who sent them to sub-post offices and, when they arrived, who stuck them up on the wall. It might give us a lead.’
Pel didn’t get home that night at all, so he was glad his wife was in Paris at her conference. He managed eventually to contact her at her hotel.
‘I’ve been trying to get hold of you,’ she pointed out. ‘Madame Routy said you were probably enjoying yourself in the city.’
‘She would,’ Pel said. ‘I’ve been busy. There’s been another.’
There was a long silence then her answer came quietly. ‘I saw it on the television. Is it the same as the others?’
‘This time it’s worse.’
‘Oh!’ There was another silence. When she spoke again her voice was worried. ‘People here are talking about the murders. They’re saying unpleasant things about the police. They say there must be incompetence.’
‘I suppose they’re bound to.’
‘They commented on it because your name’s in the paper and it’s the same as mine. They don’t know you’re my husband, of course.’ The voice became angry. ‘They don’t know…’
‘Geneviève!’
She stopped dead. ‘Yes?’
‘This sort of thing always happens. The police are always accused of incompetence at times like these. Sometimes, I suppose, they are incompetent. But most of the time they’re giving it everything they’ve got. Don’t let them upset you.’
There was another silence. When her voice came again it had a different, stronger note to it. ‘Yes, Pel. I’ll do as you say.’ She paused. ‘Will it cause a lot of trouble, this new one?’
‘Yes,’ Pel admitted. ‘It’s started a bit of a panic already.’
It had indeed. The big boys from the Paris newspapers, who had gone back to the capital after milking the story dry, had come screaming back down the motorway and, instead of the informal chat they liked to have with the local boys, they’d had to lay on a big press conference. Pel left it to Darcy who was careful to hand out nothing more than they wanted to give.
‘Name: Gilbertine Guégan. Aged twenty-one, 19, Rue Joliet.’
‘Married?’ someone asked.
‘Married. But separated.’
‘Same as the others, Inspector?’
‘Same as the others,’ Darcy said. It was an outrageous lie because it wasn’t, but she was dead like the others so it was fair enough.
‘Any suspects?’
‘We have our leads but they all have to be followed up.’
The usual stuff. All the delicate tightrope-stepping round awkward questions. All the clinging to the points they wanted kept secret – especially the message and the facial mutilations. But the press were satisfied and went howling back to their hotels, in search of telephones.
Gilbertine Guégan was known to the police. She had a record for shoplifting which went back to the days when she was only fifteen, had married at seventeen because she was pregnant and had promptly abandoned both husband and child to go on the streets. It might have been a reason for murdering her, but neither her husband nor his parents, who looked after the child, were types who might have gone in for killing. And, since they were all together and at the time of the murder in the company of a neighbour, they were out of the running straight away.
Was it one of
Gilbertine Guégan’s clients? Somebody she’d swindled? Somebody she’d stolen from? It was always a possibility. But common sense told them she was dead for exactly the same reason as Alice Magueri – because she was a prostitute. But that asked the question, why the others? To a certain extent Marie-Yvonne You, who had escaped, also fitted the bill. Even Honorine Nauray might have been described as of doubtful morals. But why Marguerite de Wibaux and Bernadette Hamon? And why Monique Letexier, who had also escaped? They could have been attacked for that reason only if the Prowler had spotted them out alone late at night and jumped to the conclusion that they were on the game, too. It seemed to indicate some sort of perverted obsession connected with an unbalanced moral outlook, but in a city with a population of 350,000, where did you look? Leaving out all the children, old people and women, you still had at least 70,000 males who could have done it. They could search them all, check their clothing, ask them if they had a red felt-tipped pen or had stolen a notice from a post office, but it was hardly practical. The solution would have to come from somewhere else and Pel, as usual, suspected they already had the vital clue and hadn’t noticed it.
‘I want every man called in,’ he said. ‘We’re going to check every male in the city.’
Darcy looked startled. ‘It’ll take until Christmas, Patron.’
‘Then let it. And let’s try spreading a rumour that we’re going to make an arrest. Perhaps someone knows something but daren’t give the information, and it might loosen a few tongues. In the meantime, let’s check again – everyone we know who’s been connected with the victims. Everyone.’
The Chief’s conference was a grim affair. By this time the case was involving the Police at all levels – from village cops right up to the Ministry in Paris, because trendy politicians with an axe to grind were asking why the forces of law and order were so ineffectual. With the suggestions of inefficiency, pressure was also being put on the Chief to call in men from the capital; and even police officers from other authorities, on the telephone about cases that had nothing to do with the Prowler, were finding it hard to avoid making snide remarks. In the bars all the old jokes about the Police were being handed round, while the suspicion in the air set wives against husbands and neighbours against neighbours. In Mornay-la-Comtesse, the Police had to turn out for a minor riot caused by a hasty word in a bar, while in Dome a husband was charged with assaulting his wife because, after accusing him of going with another woman, she had raised his blood pressure to boiling point by suggesting he might even be the Prowler.
