by Mark Hebden
‘What would happen if he didn’t come back?’ Pel asked. ‘If he were dead?’
Pujol looked shocked. ‘Well, he’s insured, of course. Personally. Quite apart from what the firm took out to cover the likelihood of kidnap.’
‘Who’d collect that money?’
‘Madame. Then I imagine the board of Produits Morand would have to elect a new managing director.’
‘Would it be his son-in-law?’
‘He might get on the board. But I doubt even that. He’d never be elected managing director.’
‘I had a feeling —’
‘That he thought he might?’ Pujol gestured. ‘It’s his ambition, of course. I suspect even that he married Marie-Christine so that he would, just as Monsieur Rensselaer did.’ He shook his head. ‘But no, never. He’s a personnel officer at the moment and not a very good one. He has no shares. He’s there solely because Monsieur Rensselaer wished to see his daughter comfortable. He once told me that Madame’s father had been good to him and he felt he ought to do the same for his own son-in-law. However – ’ Pujol smiled ‘ – he also pointed out that, just as old Morand told him he intended to carry no passengers and that his son-in-law would have to prove he was worth his place in the firm, so would his son-in-law.’
‘And has he?’
Pujol shrugged. ‘No.’
‘What’s Madame’s attitude to Guitton?’
‘Like most mothers, she was soft-hearted at first. But Rensselaer was always against it. He believed in a man working for his living and he felt that Guitton hadn’t come up to his expectations. He’s a socialist and, like so many young socialists, likes to eat from both mangers – enjoying what he calls the enlightenment of socialism but taking the money of Monsieur Rensselaer, who’s a capitalist if ever there were one. I sense now a hardening of Madame’s attitude also.’
‘Has he any money of his own?’
‘None at all.’
‘How did he get on with Rensselaer?’
‘I think he felt Monsieur Rensselaer was the one barrier to his happiness.’
‘And the daughter?’
Pujol sighed. ‘I suspect she felt much the same. Valuables were given to Madame Rensselaer soon after she married. Family jewels, that sort of thing. As soon as Rensselaer began to show signs of being useful to the firm. Marie-Christine feels they should come to her now she’s married, but her father disagreed.’
‘Did he tell you this?’
Pujol hesitated. ‘Not in so many words. He didn’t seem to wish to talk about the jewels, in fact, when I last raised the matter.’
Pel paused, thinking. ‘Guitton was there today when I called,’ he said. ‘They both were.’
Pujol gave a wry smile. ‘Perhaps they’re trying to find the jewels.’
‘Do you know where they are?’
‘No, I don’t. But I suspect they’re looking not only for the jewels but also for any negotiable assets that might have been left around the house.’
‘And Madame? What about her?’
Pujol paused before answering. ‘I think she’s coming almost to relish the idea of her husband being dead,’ he said. ‘You will, of course, realise I’m speaking solely as the family solicitor and as legal adviser to Produits Morand. I personally have nothing to gain. But she’s a changed woman. I’d always regarded her with some sympathy. She was sad, defeated; but, suddenly, now she seems to see her life as her own once more.’
Pel paused. ‘I also had a feeling,’ he said, ‘that no one I met at the house liked Rensselaer. Indeed, that they felt quite the opposite.’
‘Perhaps. Madame because – well, there was bitterness that he married her for money and then rejected her for younger women. The son-in-law – without doubt because he felt his father-in-law was a barrier to his acquiring money.’
‘And the daughter? I had a feeling there was something beyond a mere desire for what she considered her rights.’
Pujol paused. ‘There was. Something quite trivial. I suspect, in fact, it was the reason she married Guitton. Her father never liked him, but she went off and married him just the same. It was over a pony of hers.’
‘A pony?’
‘He fed it to the hounds.’
‘Fed it – ?’
‘She burst into my office one day. When she was about seventeen. Young. Soft-hearted and sentimental, as young girls are at that age. She was in tears. It was a pony she’d had as a child. She’d ridden it for a long time, then, as it grew old and lame, she’d changed to a larger animal. Monsieur Rensselaer had had it shot and given to the pack. She was heartbroken. And furious. She never forgave him.’
‘And Rensselaer?’
‘He was bewildered. To him dead wood had to be got rid of. The pony had no value. He couldn’t sell it because it was too old, and it never occurred to him to put it out to grass. Perhaps if he’d considered it, he might have. But, as he said to me, the hounds needed feeding, the pony needed feeding. The obvious thing to do was use the pony to feed the hounds.’
Pel frowned. It was beginning to look, he decided, as though François Rensselaer had a great gift for making enemies.
Eight
With his new office finally in order, Pel decided it was time he broke the news of his advancement to Madame FaivrePerret. She just might fall into his arms in admiration.
He was on the point of telephoning ahead when he remembered that she’d once told him he didn’t have to telephone – merely arrive – and also that the man on the switchboard liked to consider himself a joker and would inevitably ask, when Pel told him to get ‘Nanette’s,’ the hairdressing salon she owned, whether Pel wanted a cut or a shampoo and set.
Reaching for his hat and coat, he set off on foot for the Rue de la Liberté where she had her business. After all, he thought, hadn’t his ancestors defied the kings of France? Or, at least, the Dukes of Burgundy had, and the Pels would inevitably have stood alongside them. Perhaps, of course, he thought ruefully, they’d merely have been dragged along against their wishes, when they’d much have preferred to stay at home giving their full attention to the chasing of some wench, as he might have done, too, if his time hadn’t always been too fully occupied with his job.
He was not asked his name when he appeared in the hall of the salon. The girl behind the desk, blonde and of breathtaking beauty, didn’t even hesitate.
‘This way, Monsieur l’Inspecteur,’ she said, and it occurred to him with a startled amazement that she’d probably even been told to look out for him.
She led the way up the stairs. As always, Pel felt a faint erotic sense of mounting to his mistress’ bedroom. If only he were, he thought.
Madame Faivre-Perret looked up as he was shown in, peered at him short-sightedly for a moment, then put on her spectacles. Her face broke into a smile.
‘Evariste!’
Pel almost swooned. She’d never previously used his Christian name. Previously it had always been ‘Inspector’ and he’d always assumed that his names put her off. Evariste, Clovis or Désiré were all right on their own but all together they were enough to make a man worry rats, and he was grateful for her selectiveness. For the first time he felt that Madame Faivre-Perret really was pleased to see him.
‘I’ve been hesitant to call,’ he blurted out, ‘since the death of your aunt.’
She gestured and he noticed what delicate hands she had. ‘She was old,’ she said. ‘I knew she was going to die. I merely tried to be kind to her and because I was the only one in the family in business she wished me to attend to her affairs. I am to benefit by her will. She was quite wealthy.’
Though he knew it shouldn’t, it made Pel feel even better. Judge Polverari, who was a friend of Pel’s, had married a wealthy woman and could afford to indulge Pel in large and expensive lunches. It would be nice – the thought arose at the back of Pel’s mind – to be able to return the compliment.
‘Perhaps,’ Madame Faivre-Perret broke in on his thoughts, ‘it was because I was a
lways kind to her.’
What nobility, Pel thought. What warmth of character!
‘You shouldn’t have waited,’ she went on. ‘I’ve been back a long time.’
Pel cleared his throat. ‘I was thinking of your clients.’
She smiled. ‘I’m not a hairdresser, Evariste. I’m just a businesswoman.’
Pel was pleased to hear it. If they ever got around to marrying, at least there’d be someone to look at his bank statements and income tax demands and reassure him that he wasn’t going to end his days in poverty.
‘I had doubts,’ he said. ‘After all, I arranged for us to dine once and found myself in another country.’
‘Sergeant Nosjean explained perfectly.’ She smiled at Pel with a warmth that made his legs go weak. ‘What gentility that one has.’
‘He’s a clever young man,’ Pel said, something he wouldn’t have dreamed of saying to Nosjean’s face, because praise for subordinates wasn’t in Pel’s repertoire. ‘But it troubled me and I hesitated.’
‘You should never hesitate.’
‘I shouldn’t?’
‘Of course not. I’m delighted to see you.’
‘Madame —’
‘Geneviève’s my name.’
Pel swallowed. It was almost too much for him. ‘Geneviève —’
‘You have come as usual to ask me to find out something that will help you keep the peace?’
‘The police,’ Pel said, ‘don’t keep the peace. They merely sweep up the wreckage of human failure.’
It was a profound statement. He’d read it somewhere and it clearly impressed her enough to make her smile. Or was she smiling because she’d read it somewhere, too? Normally so brisk and confident at his job, Pel was a mass of uncertainties in his private life.
‘One day,’ she was saying. ‘Perhaps you’ll come merely because you wish to come.’
Pel’s adam’s apple worked. ‘I come now,’ he said humbly. ‘To suggest a meal.’
She beamed at him. ‘Nothing would please me more.’
It hadn’t really been Pel’s intention to suggest dinner because it was the end of the month and he was short of cash. Nevertheless, he could hardly pass up a chance like this. He could always draw out what little he had in the bank. It was a small fortune really but, because he had a fear of dying in poverty, he stuffed money away like a squirrel storing nuts. Spending some of it, he decided, would be worthwhile for the privilege of dying happy.
‘It was my intention last time,’ he pointed out, ‘to go to St Seine L’Abbaye. There is an excellent restaurant there —’
Which would, he remembered, have cost him more than he could afford, involved him either in borrowing a car, hiring a car, or having his own rattletrap serviced because it certainly wasn’t fit to provide a ride for a woman of delicate instincts. More than likely she’d fall out of the door as they went round one of the corners on the descent from Destres.
She was speaking gently. ‘I think St Seine L’Abbaye is rather a long way in this weather.’
Pel’s mind whirled. Normally, he dined in cheap bistros or brasseries – when he wasn’t reduced to wolfing a hurried sandwich and a beer at the Bar Transvaal. His knowledge of expensive restaurants was limited.
‘I would be very happy to go to the Relais St Armand,’ she pointed out. ‘We met there, if you remember. They have an excellent muscadet and their andouillettes are excellent and I know you like andouillettes.’
He was staggered to realise how much she knew of him. He was also a little relieved because the Relais St Armand was not an expensive restaurant. Perhaps, he decided, he might manage without having to withdraw all his savings from the bank. He would have to be careful, of course, and perhaps – he thought of it with horror – have to cut down on cigarettes for the rest of the month. But it could be done.
‘When?’ he said.
She looked apologetic. ‘I’m busy tomorrow.’
‘Day after?’
‘I have an old friend I must visit.’
Jealousy gripped Pel until she went on quietly. ‘He’s eighty. He was my aunt’s gardener.’
‘Day after that?’
She hesitated. Here we go, Pel thought wildly. Promises. Promises. But when it came to the pinch there was always an excuse. She’d be telling him in a moment that she had to wash her hair.
‘Don’t you think we’re looking rather a long way ahead,’ she said gently. ‘What’s wrong with this evening?’
Pel’s thoughts stopped dead, as he metaphorically beat his forehead with the flat of his hand in a passion of guilt.
‘Of course!’ His mind raced like a mad mouse. Was he engaged? He’d not have to be. After all, Darcy had been given promotion for this very reason – to take the responsibility. And the Chief, surely, could only approve.
‘This evening,’ he said. ‘I’ll call for you here.’
He was still in a good mood when, during the afternoon, Leguyader brought in his report on the ransom message they’d received. He always brought them in personally if he thought they were going to be of any value. When they produced nothing he sent them round by one of his assistants.
He was smiling as he laid on Pel’s desk an envelope containing photographs and typed sheets of paper. The Fingerprint boys had done their stuff with the letter and the envelope. Treatment with a solution of silver nitrate had produced prints all over it – all of them smudged. There was, however, one thumbprint which clearly belonged to a woman.
‘Cherchez la femme,’ Leguyader said with heavy humour.
The sheet was normal pulp paper such as was used in cheap exercise books.
‘You can buy it at any stationery shop in the city,’ Leguyader said with delight. ‘At any village store where they sell pens and pencils as well as greengroceries, wine, tins of sardines and olives, and also at the Nouvelles Galéries. In fact, I have a notebook from the Nouvelles Galéries which I use myself which is of exactly the same paper. So you’re not likely to make much headway by searching along that route.’
‘And the letters?’
‘From women’s magazines. I carefully steamed them off and found on the backs parts of advertisements for Nina Ricci and Yves St Laurent, a picture of a brassiere, even one of those gaunt stag-like models who stand around looking as if they were suffering from malnutrition.’
Pel scowled. ‘Go on. There’s more. I can tell by your smug expression.’
It was Leguyader’s turn to scowl. ‘There is one thing. The letters were cut out by a pair of kitchen scissors.’ He produced a photograph, a blow-up of the edge of one of the cut-out letters. ‘You will note that there’s a faint serration, almost like the edge of a postage stamp. This is what you get from cutting paper with the sort of scissors people use these days to cut things in the kitchen. In my youth my mother used sharp knives. But, of course, since the English invented stainless steel, that kind of knife – which unhappily rusted – has tended to disappear and been replaced by nice shiny ones which, however, don’t cut. Hence, people nowadays tend more and more to use scissors this kind, with serrated edges, which makes it easier to grip and cut meat.’
‘We’ll check the ironmongers.’
Leguyader smiled. ‘Since the city has a population of around 600,000 – including surrounding villages, rather more – of which more than half are female, the possible number of such pairs of scissors could be around 60,000. Besides, these are not new scissors. There are marks where the serrated edge has been damaged by wear and tear, probably by cutting things they aren’t normally intended to cut. There are also faint traces of rust. I could say they are several years old. Perhaps even ten, which is about as long as such scissors have been on the market.’ He beamed at Pel’s expression. ‘If you can find an ironmonger who can remember every customer who bought a pair of scissors of this type in the last ten years, then I congratulate you. One should also accept, of course, that they might have been a gift from an adoring niece or from a mother or a grandmother, livi
ng elsewhere in France – perhaps in Amiens, perhaps in Marseilles, perhaps in Mulhouse, perhaps in St Nazaire. If I were you, I’d save my breath.’
As Leguyader swept out of the office, satisfied at having scored off his old enemy, Pel sat and breathed slowly, his face red.
‘How that department manages to function,’ he said very deliberately, ‘with such a bigoted, narrow-minded fossil as that, I can’t imagine.’
It had entirely ruined his day, something which with Pel was not all that difficult. For Pel life was not merely real or merely earnest; it was pure hard work.
Heading for Darcy’s office to inform him he was leaving early, he heard laughter. Opening the door of the sergeants’ room, he found De Troquereau trying on a green hat with a wide brim and a yellow silk band, a purple-mottled overcoat and pink trousers. He carried what appeared to be a handbag. The swollen eye barely showed beneath the hat brim.
Misset was standing in the doorway, his eyes moist with laughter. Lagé, who was a kind-hearted man, didn’t know whether to laugh or be understanding. Darcy wore his usual amused expression. In the background, the new clerk, Martin, was grinning and, standing near Darcy, was the new woman police officer, Claudie Darel. Nosjean had his eye on her and Pel had the feeling that, provided Darcy didn’t get in first, he would be finding excuses in the near future for failing to turn up at Odile Chenandier’s flat.
‘What’s going on?’ he asked.
‘Charlotte-Victoire de Troq’,’ Misset moaned. ‘She’s got a date. With Armoire à Glace.’
De Troquereau glared at him. ‘You could always change places,’ he suggested.
‘Not me.’ Misset slapped his knee. ‘I don’t prance around in fairy gear, mon brave. Not for anything. I’m a family man with children.’
‘As we so often hear,’ De Troquereau snapped back.
