Pel And The Staghound

by Mark Hebden

  Sammy waved a hand. ‘A figure of speech,’ he explained. ‘He got in my way. But that’s no reason to stab a man.’

  ‘We’ve heard different,’ Pel growled. ‘We’ve heard you’ve more than once threatened to get rid of him.’

  ‘Get rid of him, yes. But not kill him. I don’t work like that. I believe in doing a bit of thinking first. If I owe a man a grudge, I see he gets paid for it. I’m not denying it. But if I want a bit of my own back, I do a little careful planning. Stabbing’s something that happens in a temper.’

  Pel leaned forward. ‘How would you let people know, then, that you were – ah – not quite in agreement?’

  Belec grinned. ‘Break a leg or two, perhaps. But not stabbing. It’s not something I go in for.’

  ‘What about Fan-Fan Ramau? He had his face slashed.’

  ‘Slashed. That’s not stabbing.’

  ‘What about Carlo Roussin then? He had about two inches of knife-blade between his ribs.’

  ‘Two inches?’ Belec pulled a face. ‘That’s not a stabbing. A stabbing’s when you get a good six or seven inches. Two inches is only a scratch.’

  They studied him, narrow-eyed, suspecting he was making fun of them, then Pel turned to Sous-Brigadier Thibault.

  ‘What time was it when you picked him up?’ he asked.

  ‘Eleven-thirty-three, sir.’

  ‘You sure? Did you check it?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Pel swung back to Belec. ‘Why did you attack this man, Roger Tachenay, anyway?’

  Belec looked faintly ashamed of himself. ‘I thought he was somebody else.’

  ‘But you don’t lose your temper, do you?’ Pel glared. ‘Oh, no! Nothing like that. It’s not the way you work. You walked straight up to him and struck him.’

  ‘Only twice.’

  ‘Once enough to break his nose,’ Darcy put in. ‘The second time enough to fracture his jaw. He’s in hospital.’

  ‘Yes, well – I’m sorry.’

  ‘Who is he, anyway?’ Pel asked. ‘One of Duche’s lot?’

  ‘He’s a perfectly respectable clerk,’ Darcy said. ‘He’d been working overtime to help his boss. Now he’ll spend a fortnight in hospital.’

  Pel frowned. ‘What if it had been Duche?’ he said.

  Belec shrugged. ‘Well, I might have done the same to him.’

  ‘But not stab him?’

  ‘How could I stab him? I was three kilometres away at the time.’

  Pel looked at Nosjean. ‘You sure you’ve got your time right?’

  ‘Dead sure, Chief. The proprietor of the Bar de la Descente swears to it.’

  ‘He couldn’t be one of Belec’s sidekicks, could he?’

  ‘He could. But there were others in the bar at the time. I’ve found two of them. They bear out what he said. Duche arrived just before eleven-thirty and left bang on the dot of the half hour. Two minutes later he was found.’

  ‘At just about the time when Belec was assaulting Tachenay near the Porte Guillaume.’ Pel frowned. ‘Where’s Misset?’

  ‘Checking Belec’s men. He telephoned in. They’ve all got cast-iron alibis.’

  ‘Genuine?’

  ‘It seems so. They don’t sound put-up jobs.’

  ‘Did Duche have any other enemies?’

  ‘One or two. But none who wanted to kill him.’

  ‘Which leaves Belec. Any weapon found on him?’

  ‘Nothing, Patron.’

  Pel stared again at Belec, who was listening with interest, then he seemed to lose patience and turned away. ‘You’ll have to charge him with Tachenay,’ he said to Darcy. ‘It’s an open and shut case. We have our friend, the sous-brigadier here. We have the doctor’s evidence. He can come up before the magistrates tomorrow.’

  ‘Think they’ll send me to prison?’ Belec said.

  ‘With your record, they’ll hardly recommend a convalescent home.’

  As Belec was led away, Pel glanced at the duty roster. Everybody seemed busy because, in addition to Duche and the assault on Yves-Pol Aramis by Armoire à Glace, for the last month they’d also been trying to sort out a break-in at Daix, to say nothing of keeping one eye on the rash of kidnappings which had recently been taking place in France – for that matter, the whole of Europe. The chance of being kidnapped had of late become one of the occupational hazards of being rich.

  ‘I’ll be glad,’ he said, ‘when Krauss’ replacement arrives. He’s long overdue.’ He stretched, and stared at the lightening morning. It had been a long night. ‘I’ll be in the Bar Transvaal having a coffee and croissant. Probably,’ he added darkly, ‘with a rum.’

  As he reached for his hat, however, the telephone went. It was the Chief and he wanted Pel. At once.

  Pel replaced his hat on the peg. ‘He’s down early,’ he growled. ‘What’s he want?’

  ‘Perhaps it’s promotion, Patron,’ Darcy smiled.

  Three

  As it happened, that was exactly what it was.

  The Chief was a large man, well used to the temperaments of the officers who operated under him, and Pel’s sour face didn’t disturb him in the slightest. ‘Sit down,’ he said. ‘Drink?’

  It was obviously an early retirement, Pel decided. Drinks weren’t normally in the habit of flashing about the Chief’s office.

  ‘Know what you’ve come about?’ the Chief asked.

  ‘No,’ Pel said, accepting the cognac that was offered.

  ‘Well – ’ the Chief sat down and faced him across the desk ‘–I was in Paris last week. A meeting of all commissioners, chiefs, et cetera. It was under the Minister. There was a bit of a get-together. The President appeared.’

  ‘How was he?’

  The Chief’s eyes twinkled. ‘He didn’t ask after you. He had a drink, shook a few hands, murmured a few well-chosen words and bolted. He probably took fright.’

  ‘I would, too,’ Pel said. ‘All those cops. What was it all about?’

  ‘Methods. The tendency of judges when dealing with criminals to heed social workers instead of the police. Computerisation. We’re going to get more of it.’

  ‘We ought to employ robots,’ Pel said. ‘Then we could send them out on jobs. They don’t feel the cold and their feet don’t get tired.’

  The Chief laughed. ‘The regions were discussed. Including this one.’

  Pel couldn’t imagine what a lot of people in Paris could possibly know about Burgundy. Burgundy was a place on its own. Only a place that stood out for its courage, character and strength would have had the power to defy the French kings as Burgundy had. It had produced Philip the Bold. It had produced Vercingetorix. It had produced Evariste Clovis Désiré Pel.

  The Chief leaned forward. ‘There was a suggestion that we’ve become a little too static down here,’ he said.

  ‘Paris always did talk through a hole in its head,’ Pel observed coldly. ‘They’ve always felt that what they think everybody else in France thinks, too.’

  The Chief shrugged. ‘Well, Paris is where the brains are supposed to be. Perhaps they’re right. They feel that since we in this city have the laboratories and all the other facilities, we ought to cover a larger area of ground. They want a flying squad forming so we can move further afield if necessary.’

  Pel eyed the Chief warily. He was remembering the winter nights he’d spent on the high Plateau de Langres investigating the handiwork of some criminal who probably lived three-quarters of the year in style in St Trop’ on the proceeds of his ill-gotten gains – with gold-plated Cadillacs and mistresses of unsurpassed beauty, while Pel drove a clapped-out Peugeot and to provide for his evening’s entertainment had Madame Routy. As far as Pel was concerned, they already covered more than enough territory.

  ‘It would work in just the same way as any other team,’ the Chief was explaining. ‘Hand in glove with the Palais de Justice, the Lab, Fingerprints, and so on. Leguyader, Doc Minet, Prélat and the others would be on tap just the same. The only difference would be t
hat we should be more mobile and the squad will eventually be increased in size. It would take a week or two to set up the office, but we can do it and the Minister’s very keen on it. If it works, it’ll be led by a chief inspector with an inspector under him. He’d go anywhere within the region and that doesn’t mean just the Côte d’Or, but also Yonne, Saône-et-Loire and Nièvre, sometimes even into Haute Marne, Haute Saône and the Jura, Loiret, the Doubs and Cher-et-Allier.’

  Pel scowled and the Chief eyed him, a hint of amusement in his eye.

  ‘They’ve picked a man to run it,’ he said.

  Goriot, Pel decided. Inevitably Antoine Goriot. Goriot was good. He didn’t panic and he was a sound detective. Not as sound as Evariste Clovis Désiré Pel, of course, but sound. What was more, he also had influence. His great-uncle was Senator Forton who was only too keen to push his nephew’s claims.

  ‘You.’

  The Chief spoke quietly, just as Pel’s bitterness was in full flood and he stopped dead. ‘Me?’

  ‘I can’t think of anybody who’s had more success than you lately. And you’ve got the strongest team: Darcy. Young Nosjean. Lagé. Misset.’

  Lagé and Misset, Pel thought privately, spent most of their time wandering around like horns looking for a fog, but he supposed that at least Lagé was good-natured and willing to work. Misset had disgraced himself too often for Pel to be sure about him.

  ‘We’ve also got someone to take the place of Krauss,’ the Chief went on. ‘It’s taken time but they had this idea going even then and they preferred to wait for the right one. Now it’s all settled, he’s on his way.’

  The Chief paused. Here we go, Pel thought. The difficult bit. So far, nobody had mentioned that it was all probably just to save money, and the Chief was being crafty enough to make it seem as if it were entirely for the benefit of Pel.

  ‘Unfortunately,’ the Chief went on, ‘it doesn’t mean promotion. Not yet, anyway.’

  Naturally, Pel thought. Just more hard labour.

  ‘But it will if it works,’ the Chief added. ‘And it means you’ll be more independent. You’ll move about more. Further afield. More expenses.’

  ‘And doubtless more nights out of bed.’

  The Chief shrugged. ‘You ought to enjoy it. If anything involves us in the Midi or in Paris, it would be you who’d handle it.’

  Pel’s face was suspicious. He’d never been able to understand the reason for the existence of the Midi or Paris. As far as he was concerned, France ought to consist solely of Burgundy, with perhaps a touch of Haute Marne, the Doubs, and the surrounding neighbourhoods. The rest of France was either too hot, too cold, too windy, too self-important, too lacking in pride, or too politically inclined. He had a feeling he was being jockeyed into something he wouldn’t enjoy.

  ‘What are you engaged on at the moment?’ the Chief asked.

  ‘There was a stabbing in the Avenue Victor Hugo. At the top of the hill. Our friend Duche.’

  ‘So I heard. Did Belec do it?’

  ‘They’ve been enemies for years,’ Pel admitted. ‘Both trying to muscle in on the same pickings. But it doesn’t look like it. Belec was being hauled in near the Porte Guillaume at the time. There’s also this type who’s been beating up the homos round the Place Wilson, the break-in at Daix, and the kidnapping of the Gillet boy near Beaune. Judge Polverari was involved with that and I got involved, too.’

  ‘That’s over,’ the Chief said. ‘They bungled it.’

  ‘They might not next time,’ Pel pointed out. ‘Kidnapping’s a growth industry these days.’

  The Chief could see he was going to have difficulties with Pel. He was terrified he was being put on. After all, he was put on at home by his housekeeper and could see no reason why they shouldn’t try to put on him at work.

  ‘Look,’ the Chief said. ‘Turn the running of your department over to Darcy. He knows it inside out by now. It’ll leave you more free. Darcy’s going up a notch to inspector anyway – he’s overdue – but he still remains subordinate to you, because when you get yourself sorted out and get yourself also pushed up a notch, as you’re bound to, he’ll still be there to look after you.’

  He made Pel sound as if he were on his last legs.

  ‘Wouldn’t he prefer to be on his own?’ Pel asked.

  ‘I’ve had a talk with him. He preferred to go on working with you.’

  Pel felt humble. He was a self-effacing man and the thought that Darcy should prefer to be his deputy rather than have his own team made him feel proud. It never occurred to him that Darcy had decided long since that Pel was going to go far and that it would be easier to cling to his coat-tails and go with him.

  ‘You’ll be given a cadet as a clerk so you’re not cluttered up with unimportant trivia,’ the Chief continued. ‘You’ll also have a woman police officer.’

  Pel ran his mind over the available women officers. None of them could be called beautiful enough to be decorative. It sounded safe.

  ‘She’s a new one,’ the Chief said. ‘She’s come from Paris. Her family’s moved down here and she prefers to be with them. She was involved in that drugs case of yours. Brought you a suspect from Paris. Claudie Darel.’

  Pel’s eyes narrowed. Claudie Darel had the sort of looks that had set steam coming out of Darcy’s ears. He could foresee all sort of problems.

  The Chief was still watching him closely. By this time Pel was almost persuaded. If nothing else, he felt, the change would produce a period of calm, with a lot of sitting around talking while they decided where to put the files and what colour carpet to have, time for a proper lunch for a change instead of sandwiches and a beer at the Bar Transvaal, home early and a period of nights in bed – providing Madame Routy hadn’t got the television turned up. He would also, he supposed, have to stand Darcy a meal in celebration – if only because he hadn’t elected to go off on his own. He might even – Pel’s heart thumped suddenly – manage a dinner date with Madame Faivre-Perret. He’d been hovering on the brink for a long time but had never quite made it.

  The Chief dashed his hopes of a life of luxury at once.

  ‘Since you’ll have plenty of time,’ he said, ‘you’d better take over this Rensselaer business.’

  Pel’s ears pricked. ‘Which Rensselaer business?’ he said.

  ‘Haven’t you heard? François Rensselaer, of Produits Morand. He’s disappeared.’

  Pel knew of François Rensselaer. Produits Morand had their works just off one of the feeder roads to the motorway and Rensselaer was worth a fortune.

  ‘Where’s he disappeared to?’ he asked.

  The Chief shrugged. ‘That’s what we’d like to know. Or rather, not us; his solicitor. It doesn’t sound urgent, though, because his wife hasn’t bothered to report him missing. You’d better see her. It would look bad if he had been kidnapped. The last time anyone saw him seems to have been about ten days ago on the 16th.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘At home. He left for the office, but didn’t arrive.’

  ‘Any leads? Other businesses, for instance, he may be visiting?’

  ‘There are other businesses, of course, but his solicitor’s been in contact with them all and they know nothing.’ The Chief shrugged. ‘It’ll probably not be much more than a formality, because he’s got a reputation for womanising and he’s probably slipped off for a weekend with his secretary and found an excuse for not hurrying back. You could enquire in the Fond des Chouettes. They might know something there.’

  ‘What’s in the Fond des Chouettes? A love-nest?’

  The Chief smiled. ‘If it is, then it’s a damn big and cheerless one. It’s an old abbey. He’s master of a pack of staghounds there.’

  Four

  Madame Rensselaer was in no hurry to see Pel. She had an appointment with her dressmaker and her dentist and would Inspector Pel be kind enough to hold the appointment until later? She would telephone.

  ‘Since she doesn’t seem very worried,’ Pel observed to Darc
y, ‘let’s go and see what we can find out at this abbey place.’

  The uplands of the Plateau de Langres lay still and cold in the icy blasts from the north. There was no rime on the trees, no damp and no sign of frost, but the temperature was obvious in the emptiness of the countryside. The bare trees moved in the gusts of wind, and the withered brown grass lay flat across the black soil. There was little sign of animal habitation. The cows were all in the byres and the wild life seemed to be skulking in its burrows.

  The sky lay like a steel sheet over the slopes and the woods were dark against the horizon. Pel studied them gloomily. Alongside him in the car, Darcy was smoking happily, quite indifferent, it seemed, to the possibility of cancer. For a long time, Pel fidgeted, trying to avoid lighting up, too. He pushed his hands into his pockets, then put his gloves on them. Finally he sat on them, but they were itching to move and in the end, in desperation, he took out a cigarette and put it between his lips. Darcy’s hand moved automatically from the steering wheel, went into his pocket and emerged with a lighter which he applied to the cigarette without looking.

  Pel drew the smoke down into his lungs. He could just imagine it searing all the pink tissues, carbonising them, destroying everything living within reach. It was a wonderful feeling.

  Reaching Baignay-la-Comtesse, they climbed out of the village to the hills again, passed through the Forêt de Baignay until they saw the sign ‘Fond des Chouettes’ and began to descend through the trees. The foliage pressed closely over the road as it wound downwards into a valley that seemed like a hole scooped out of the hills. In the gloom it seemed to be filled with the cold of a thousand winters and there was a dead feeling about the place that made Pel wonder if all the depressing prophesies of a new Ice Age were correct.

  As he considered the possibility, the road straightened out into a shallow valley which rose on either side into the trees. At the end was a huge square edifice that looked like a fortress.

  ‘Abbaye du Fond,’ Darcy said. ‘Built in the Middle Ages. Closed down at the end of the last century when the politicians were chasing the Jesuits after the Dreyfus case.’