Pel And The Staghound

by Mark Hebden

  He sounded overjoyed and, staring bitterly at the disappearing bus, for a wild moment Pel thought of ringing Madame Faivre-Perret’s doorbell and asking to be allowed to stay the night.

  The taxi driver looked up as he reappeared. ‘What happened?’ he asked.

  Pel glared. ‘You’d better call that other car,’ he snarled.

  When he arrived in the Hôtel de Police, Misset was on duty in the sergeants’ room.

  ‘Anything happened?’

  ‘No, Patron.’ Misset sounded bored. ‘Nothing. Estienne, the vet, rang up. Some business about a dog being hurt. I passed him on to Traffic.’

  ‘Did you write it down?’ Pel snapped.

  ‘It was only about this dog.’

  ‘It should be in the book,’ Pel snarled. ‘Everything should be in the book.’

  Misset’s brain, he decided, was about as active as a pile of sand. He ought to be retired – or embalmed. He’d been on the brink of being returned to the uniformed branch many times and when Pel felt more sure of his new position he’d get rid of him and make sure he picked his replacement himself. In the meantime, he felt, he ought to do something terrible to him. He wasn’t sure what, but he was certain he could find something.

  Darcy was still in his office, putting the finishing touches to his plan. He looked up as Pel appeared, threw down his pen and stretched.

  ‘Enjoy your evening, Patron?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Pel said stiffly. ‘The taxi broke down and I had to run for a bus. But it was early and I had to wait half an hour for another taxi.’

  Darcy smiled. Pel’s evening out sounded well up to form.

  ‘I dined Claudie,’ he said. ‘Thought I’d better get to know her. I think she’ll be an asset to the team.’

  ‘What about this ransom thing?’ Pel snapped. ‘What have you done about it?’ Darcy’s smug look, he decided, needed wiping off.

  Darcy had worked with Pel too long to be caught napping. ‘I’ve got it all sorted out, Patron,’ he said. ‘Pujol’s raised the money in fifty-franc notes and got it in the brown paper package that was asked for. He’d prefer to pay up without question and have Rensselaer back unharmed, but Madame reminded him pretty forcefully that he’s merely the lawyer and does what she wants.’

  He pulled forward a map of the park near the Chèvre Morte and started jabbing with a pencil. ‘De Troq’s small and fast,’ he said. ‘And I gather he can run, so I’m putting him where he’ll get the chance. I’ve arranged for cars in the Boulevard Chanoine and at the junction of the Route Nationale Five and the Chemin de Chèvre Morte. You’ll be here in the office, Patron, with the radio.’

  ‘And you?’

  Darcy smiled. ‘I shall be under the bridge with Claudie Darel.’

  ‘Doing what?’

  Darcy grinned. ‘What do men and women usually do under bridges in the dark, Patron?’

  Ten

  When Pel reached home, Madame Routy and Didier were in bed and he noticed that the carton near the boiler where the puppy was supposed to sleep on a bit of old blanket was empty. There was a small pool near the sink and nearby a small neat pile. At least, he thought bitterly, Alphonse was tidy. He tried to keep it all together.

  The dog was outside Didier’s door, its head on one of his slippers. It raised its eyes as it saw Pel and its stern moved slightly in welcome. From Madame Routy’s room came a sonorous sound. Doubtless, Pel thought, because he’d been out, she’d knitted all evening, listening only to gentle music, and had switched off the television at ten o’ clock and gone to bed. He’d often thought she was conducting a feud against him.

  Wearing an expression of distaste, he carried the dog downstairs, carefully rubbed its nose in the pool and pushed it back in the carton. Then, watched reproachfully, he mopped up the pool, found Didier’s sawdust, fastidiously sprinkled the little pile, and carried it out on a shovel. He was trying very hard to work himself into a bad temper, but it wasn’t easy because apart from transport problems, the evening had been a resounding success.

  Still euphoric, he returned to the salon and studied himself in the mirror for signs of depravity. None appeared to be showing, and all he could see was a man with a look in his eye as if he’d seen God. Then, beyond the face that stared back at him, he became aware of his surroundings and sourly turned to study the room. The television stared balefully at him like an evil eye.

  Standing in the middle of the carpet he let his eyes wander about him. The room gave the impression of being papered with wrapping paper and the furniture looked as if it were made from old crates. The pictures, circa 1920 for the most part, were cast-offs from his family home that his elder sisters had not wanted when they married, and the curtains looked as if they were sewn from disused bedspreads. As he thought of Madame Faivre-Perret’s elegant surroundings, his heart ached for such comfort, such relaxed ease.

  Reaching for the whisky bottle, he was on the point of pouring a glass for himself when he noticed Madame Routy had been at it. Because he regarded it as pricey as platinum, she normally left it alone and went for the brandy, but tonight she’d obviously relied on him returning in a good mood and taken a chance.

  He poured himself a tot and, replacing the bottle well back in the cupboard, plonked the brandy firmly in front of it so he could be sure if she moved it. He was even tempted to make a pencil mark on the label but that, he decided guiltily, was carrying things too far. Madame Faivre-Perret, he felt sure, would never indulge in such practices, and he felt suddenly that he had a new set of standards to live up to.

  The following morning, his nature actually verging on the sunny, he sat at the kitchen table, his mind far away. As he tried to perform the almost impossible feat of holding a slice of bread in his hand and spreading honey on it with a teaspoon, Didier appeared in the doorway.

  ‘Louise Bray looks like that when she thinks of Sacha Distel,’ he said.

  Pel jerked to life and, finishing his breakfast hurriedly, headed for his car. The clerk, Martin, was in his office laying out the newspapers. Nothing, Pel noticed, had leaked out about the ransom demand, which was just as well. Newspapers only got in the way. As he sat down, Claudie Darel arrived with the mail. Pel studied her overtly, wondering if the look in her eye was Darcy’s doing or merely that of someone concentrating on her job.

  ‘There’s a personal one,’ she said. ‘It arrived by hand.’

  Pel picked up the envelope. Since it was faintly perfumed, he realised what the look in Claudie’s eye meant.

  He opened it hurriedly. All it contained was a sheet of paper on which was scribbled. ‘Thank you, Evariste. Geneviève F-P’

  He sat staring at it, his mind far away. Geneviève Pel, he thought. It had a ring to it.

  ‘Inspector Darcy would like to see you, sir.’

  Pel jerked back to the present. ‘Then tell him to come in here,’ he snapped. ‘He never had to send a messenger before.’

  Darcy arrived, grinning. ‘It’s the new regime, Patron. They’re taking us over.’

  ‘Then tell them to stop. Just get on your hind legs and walk down the corridor. And stop calling me “Patron”. You hold the same rank now.’

  ‘I’ll stick to “Patron”,’ Darcy said.

  His calmness put Pel in a bad temper. There was only one person in Pel’s team who was allowed to be calm under stress and that was Pel. As the briefing for the ransom drop took place, he was even sharp enough to pick on Nosjean, who was normally beyond reproach.

  ‘What happened to him?’ Nosjean asked as they filed out. ‘Did his date go wrong?’

  ‘The date was all right,’ Darcy said. ‘It was the taxi home. It broke down and the last bus was early.’

  By the afternoon, they were all on edge. It wasn’t normally the procedure to intervene in ransom drops. People wanting their loved ones back usually preferred to take no risks and the police were not involved. But Madame Rensselaer had left no one in any doubt that she preferred to safeguard the money even if it meant
losing her husband. She had never been a shrinking violet and now she seemed to be growing in stature before their eyes. Husbands who chased other women, it was quite clear, didn’t merit the same consideration as those who remained faithful.

  Everybody was aware of her attitude but when the time came and they were all in their places the thought that crossed Darcy’s mind was: Would Armoire à Glace, their other big headache, change his stamping ground and put a spanner in the works? Pujol, who was to make the drop, was not a large man and was inclined to mince, and Darcy was suddenly worried sick he might be mistaken for the sort of man Armoire à Glace made his victims. Law was one of the last citadels of conservatism in a wavering world and lawyers like Pujol should never be wandering around in unlit areas of the city carrying large sums of money.

  The camping area was a long narrow strip of uneven ground alongside a small dam on the north of the industrial zone of the city and close to a hospital. It was bordered on one side by the canal and the River Orle, and on the other by a stream which ran to the pumping station. It was an area well covered with trees and foliage and broken up by small paths from the roads near the canal and from the feeders to the Route Nationale 5. It was a favourite area during August for French campers from the north and from July to September for foreigners en route south. For the rest of the year it was the haunt of small boys with balls, people with dogs, lovers, fishermen and, from time to time, rogues.

  The icy weather had not ended, and as the afternoon had drawn in and the pale sun had disappeared, the cold had gripped the city and its environs with a clammy hand. To the waiting men, the Parc de la Chèvre Morte had a malignant look about it. The trees were empty, the bushes had a stark appearance and the grass had a dead winter aspect.

  When Pujol arrived, carrying the brown paper package, it was almost dark. Reaching the bridge, he stood for a moment by the hollow tree. Lighting a cigarette to let himself be seen, he drew the smoke down into his lungs and stared round for some indication of the presence of the police. But there was no sign of Pel’s team.

  A canal worker was bent over the lock gates beyond the bridge. A man on the bridge who had been painting seemed to be packing up his traps to leave. A gardener who had been shifting leaves was busy near the gardener’s hut adjoining the hospital ground. Another man was by the fishpond, testing depths with a long pole with which from time to time he fished out weeds. There were also two shadowy figures under the bridge who appeared to be lovers. But there wasn’t a uniform in sight anywhere, not even anyone who looked like a plain clothes man.

  What he couldn’t see were the cars in the Boulevard Chanoine and near the Chemin de Chèvre Morte, which could watch traffic in any direction. They were silent, their flashers extinguished, their lights out, the eyes of the crews on the exits from the camping ground. There was another car in the Rue Hoche, parked so that it could move either north towards the city or south towards the canal.

  Nosjean, clad in voluminous overalls, beneath which he wore everything woollen he possessed, was the man bent over the machinery of the lock gates. The wind seemed to pick up an extra coldness as it came off the dam, bringing with it not only the ice from the north but also the damp chill of water. He wasn’t sure whether there was enough life in his hands to use his radio if he had to, and he was still preoccupied with the Sammy Belec/Edouard-Charles Duche business.

  On the bridge, De Troquereau busied himself with paintpots and ladders, his eyes sweeping the camping site beneath him all the time. He was fully alert to what he was doing, but like Nosjean, his mind was also busy with other business – the mugger in the Cours de Gaulle.

  By the gardener’s hut, Lagé, wearing the overalls of a Public Works Department employee, was putting away his brush and shovel and the two pieces of plywood with which he had been picking up leaves. He had already pushed behind the hut the metal container on wheels which he’d filled. The hut was open and he went inside, his eyes moving about among the trees and bushes, now beginning to change from grey to violet as the light disappeared.

  Near the hospital, Misset considered he’d been lucky. He could see through the lighted windows as he stood among the bushes. He was cold but so far he’d barely noticed it because more often than not his eyes were on the bright hospital wards where he could see nurses moving about. He wasn’t near enough to see their faces but he could see their figures and that was good enough for Misset. His wife was beginning to grow fat and, harassed by children, had started to nag him, with the result that he’d taken to finding excuses for not returning home. He was on duty: he had to interview someone: he was watching some premises where they were expecting a break-in. His wife never seemed to catch on that he was busier than he’d ever been, and it gave Misset the chance to prowl round the bars. So far he hadn’t got himself involved beyond one heavy session in a car with a girl he’d picked up, but he knew that eventually he’d fall, and he was enjoying himself watching the hospital windows, allowing his mind to drift over the possibilities and imagining that it might be one of the nurses.

  Under the bridge, Darcy had the best job. He shared it with Claudie Darel and not only were they able to keep each other warm but it was also highly enjoyable.

  ‘Hands to yourself,’ she said sharply.

  ‘That’s what hands are for,’ he retorted.

  ‘My behind’s not free pasturage for newly-promoted inspectors.’

  In the Hôtel de Police Pel sat with Cadet Martin waiting for the radio to come to life. From time to time, he stared through the wide windows, feeling them shudder under the wind. He could never understand the reason for winter. They seemed to manage perfectly well in other parts of the world without cold weather.

  Automatically, he lit a cigarette and it made him remember an article he’d read in Le Bien Public, which quoted some unknown medical practitioner who’d stated that it was as dangerous to stop smoking as it was to continue. It had thrown Pel into a state of nervous agitation because, despite what the doctor said, he knew that the way he smoked was enough to give cancer to everybody who came within yards of him. Yet it was also true, he realised, that if he stopped, he would probably degenerate into a gibbering idiot. One day, he decided, he would stop. Perhaps tomorrow when they had this ransom business sorted out. Or perhaps the week after, when they knew what had happened to Rensselaer. Perhaps even the week after that. Maybe even –

  The radio clicked. ‘Patron – ’ it was De Troq’s voice ‘– someone’s just passed me moving west in the direction of the bridge.’

  ‘It’s not Pujol, is it?’

  ‘No, Patron. I saw him leave. It’s somebody else. Dressed in a dark jacket, dark muffler, dark woollen hat. I can’t see the face, and I can’t tell whether it’s a man or a woman.’

  ‘Keep watching.’ Pel bent over the radio. ‘Darcy, he’s moving towards you. Nosjean, keep your eyes open. Misset, Lagé, watch for him coming your way.’

  From under the bridge, Darcy saw the shape approaching the hollow tree. In the darkness, lit only by the few lights on the road, it was impossible to recognise it.

  ‘Watch it, Claudie,’ he breathed. ‘And keep out of trouble. Leave him to me. He’ll bolt when he sees me. Lagé and Misset’ll pick him up.’

  From the canal, Nosjean walked towards the lock-keeper’s hut then, slipping round the back, he came out on the north side of the camping ground. As he did so, he saw De Troquereau just ahead near the stream. Whoever it was, they had him surrounded. Whichever way he ran, he had to run into one of them.

  ‘I see him, Patron,’ Darcy said into his radio. ‘I’m going to move out in a moment. Everybody close in. Stand by! I’m going – now!’

  The dark figure had just removed the package from the hollow tree when Darcy appeared from the shadows. The head turned and caught a glimpse of Nosjean also emerging from the dark. Taking alarm, the figure began to hurry.

  ‘Stop!’ Darcy shouted.

  The figure started to run.

  At the other end of the cam
ping ground, Lagé was struggling to free himself. The wind had blown his brush and shovel across the door of the hut and jammed it so that he was having difficulty getting out. Misset, wrenching his mind with an effort from the hospital windows, caught a glimpse of the running figure and moved forward. But, because he’d been watching the lighted windows for so long, his night vision was poor and the figure was on him before he was ready. As he reached out, something square and hard hit him in the face. He heard paper tear and a muttered curse then he staggered back and sat down.

  ‘Stop,’ Darcy yelled. ‘Or I’ll fire!’

  Dazed, Misset was just struggling to his feet as Darcy’s finger tightened on the trigger.

  ‘Name of God!’

  As the shadowy figure raced off, Misset stumbled directly into Darcy’s line of fire. Lagé, bursting out of the hut at last, joined him and the infuriated Darcy started to run.

  It was inevitable that thinking about smoking should lead Pel to think about his private life. He was just preoccupied with the twin problems of Madame Routy and Madame FaivrePerret when the radio clicked again and Darcy’s voice came.

  ‘Patron, we’ve lost him!’

  ‘What!’ Pel’s voice rose. ‘What!’

  ‘A misunderstanding. Misset’s got a fat nose and Lagé’s got a bruise on his shin. De Troquereau’s somewhere in the grounds of the hospital. He seems to have got in there. It’s my view that he disappeared through the Botanical Gardens.’

  ‘You’ve lost him!’ Pel snarled.

  ‘I’m coming in now,’ Darcy said, ignoring the implied threat. ‘I’m leaving Nosjean in charge.’

  Darcy was scowling when he and Claudie Darel appeared. He walked to Pel’s desk and, fishing in his pocket, produced half a dozen bundles of used fifty-franc notes. ‘What’s that?’ Pel snapped.

  ‘Misset tried to grab him and got the package of money in his face. It split and some of the bundles fell out. I picked these up. Nosjean’s got a few and we may find one or two more.’