Pel And The Staghound

by Mark Hebden

  ‘Rensselaer had a mistress somewhere,’ he said suddenly.

  ‘I wish I had,’ Darcy observed.

  Pel gave him the benefit of a glare. ‘Suppose she was behind this ransom attempt?’

  ‘I thought it was a hoax, Chief.’

  ‘Probably it was. But I have to consider every possibility, as also, my friend, do you now you’re an inspector. The days of indifference when you were a sergeant have disappeared.’

  Darcy clamped his teeth together. There were times, he thought, when he would have liked to hit Pel over the head with something.

  ‘Suppose this mistress did set it up?’ Pel tried the idea on him again.

  ‘Patron, mistresses are supposed to have some feeling for their lovers. They don’t have them kidnapped.’

  ‘Nevertheless, we’ll check Rensselaer’s house. If a man has a mistress, they must go to bed together. So where did they do it? Perhaps we shall find something there that will tell us.’

  The following morning Darcy stopped at the Bar de la Cloche in the Place Frère Thurot to eat breakfast. The early black coffee and rum drinkers had gone, as had also the coup de blanc drinkers, and at the bar now were the coffee and croissant customers on their way to the city offices.

  It was still cold and the place was full of demolition workers warming themselves with rum.

  ‘Which part of the city are you pulling down this time?’ Darcy asked.

  ‘Rémiers’. Down the road. It was an ironmongers. They’re going to put up a block of offices in its place.’

  Finishing his coffee, Darcy walked past the site to see what was going on. The adjacent buildings were propped up by huge beams, the bare walls showing, and the place was a litter of broken stone and brickwork and the charred remains of woodwork. In the centre a huge fire of old beams, window frames and shutters was blazing.

  Darcy watched for a while as he fished for a cigarette. As he lit it, he was studying the men standing round the fire among the diggers, bulldozers, tractors and heavy dumpers. After a while, he strolled to the hut that held the site office. The site manager was standing outside wearing a protective helmet, and Darcy drew him to one side.

  ‘I thought you might be interested,’ he said. ‘In your gang here you have a type by the name of Darot. Henri Darot.’

  The site manager turned to his desk and flicked a sheet of paper. ‘Don’t think so,’ he said. ‘Nobody by that name here.’

  ‘I’m not asking,’ Darcy said. ‘I’m telling you.’ He produced his identity card with its tricolour strip. ‘He’s the little type over there with “Tintin” painted on his jacket.’

  ‘His name’s Dissot. Arthur Dissot.’

  ‘Take it from me – it’s Darot. You take on casual labour?’

  ‘Of course. We have a nucleus of our own men but the labourers are all casual.’

  ‘Well, what puzzles me,’ Darcy said, ‘is that I’ve never known our friend Darot – or Dissot or whatever – do a decent day’s work in his life and I’m wondering what he’s up to.’

  The site manager stared through the window at the distant ‘Tintin’, who was occupied with tossing a plank on to the fire and warming his hands.

  ‘You sure?’ he said.

  ‘I’m dead sure. He’s a member of one of a few little groups we know of that operate round the city.’

  ‘Gangs?’

  ‘I wouldn’t call them gangs exactly. On the other hand, there isn’t really any other expression you could use.’

  The site manager looked worried. ‘I’d better get rid of him,’ he said. ‘He’s probably planning to pinch something.’

  ‘What?’ Darcy said. ‘A dumper? A tractor? That’s not his scene. And as far as I can see, there isn’t much else. I think he’s up to something different entirely. Instead of getting rid of him, let me attach someone to your gang. He’s new here and not known. He’ll work like the rest but he’ll keep his eyes open. Our friend over there’s a member of the Duche outfit and I’m wondering what he’s after.’

  While Darcy was busy at the demolition site Pel was deciding to try his usual source of information. If Rensselaer had a mistress, she doubtless had a hairdresser, so he went round to ‘Nanette’s’ to try the idea on Madame Faivre-Perret.

  Over tea, from delicate green china cups such as Madame Routy would have shattered merely by looking at them, he put forward his view.

  ‘Am I only a source of information to you, Evariste?’ she chided.

  Pel often wished she were a source of a great many other things, too – such as comfort, affection, good food and warm companionship. He would have to push things a little, he decided, or by the time he got round to marriage he’d be so old and frail he’d be knocked down by the rice that was customarily thrown at brides and bridegrooms.

  She watched him with amused eyes as he protested. ‘Unfortunately,’ she said, ‘this time I can’t help you. I’ve heard nothing.’

  ‘Does Madame Rensselaer come here?’

  She smiled. ‘Judging by the photographs I’ve seen in the paper, Madame Rensselaer’s not exactly a type who takes much pride in her appearance.’

  There was that, Pel had to admit. Madame Rensselaer looked as if she had as much romance in her soul as Hitler.

  ‘What about the daughter?’ he tried.

  ‘She doesn’t come here either. Perhaps she uses “Elegance”. They cater for younger women.’

  ‘Ever heard the family discussed?’

  She shrugged and he thought how prettily she did it. ‘Never,’ she said.

  Pel sighed. ‘There must have been somewhere he met her,’ he said slowly. ‘Somewhere he enjoyed being with her.’

  Deciding the Rensselaers merited the grey suit and best shirt treatment, Pel headed for his car. It always made him feel more confident to be immaculately dressed or at least as immaculately dressed as living with a housekeeper who never made the slightest attempt to press his suits allowed him to be. Returning home, he found the front garden covered with Alphonse’s droppings and he was quite sure every corner in the house had been moistened by him.

  He had been on Didier’s bed and, worse still, on Pel’s. In addition, Pel’s newspaper had been chewed to rags, his bedroom slippers no longer had the pristine look they had had when Alphonse had arrived, food was sloshed about the kitchen floor and Madame Routy was in a worse temper than normal.

  Yet – despite everything – Pel had to admit the animal had a certain charm. Not that it charmed Pel, of course, he told himself hurriedly. That was impossible. He was too much in control. But its bulging forehead, huge eyes and silly grin, and the way it waggled its behind at him when he appeared were sufficient for him to bend and stroke it.

  Didier was cheating himself at Scrabble in the kitchen. Madame Routy, inevitably, was watching the end of something on the television.

  ‘Fancy a game?’ Didier asked.

  ‘Not this time, mon brave. I’m on duty.’ Pel hesitated. ‘I’ve come home to change my clothes and, for your information, I’m not going to see her. I’ve just been to see her – to ask for information which, unhappily, she was unable to provide. I’m going now to interview Madame Rensselaer.’

  ‘That’s the one whose husband’s vanished, isn’t it?’

  ‘It is.’ Pel headed for his room and took out the suit he kept for when they threw a party to promote him to the Chief’s job. It was the only one he possessed which didn’t have corrugated lapels and trousers with seats like the crap-catchers worn by Balkan peasants.

  He held it up in front of him and looked at his shirts.

  ‘The blue, I think,’ Didier said.

  ‘You should be a valet when you grow up,’ Pel advised. ‘You seem to know a lot about clothes.’

  ‘It’s knowing Louise Bray.’

  ‘She likes her men smart?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Monsieur Rensselaer keeps a pack of dogs, doesn’t he?’

  ‘Hounds,’ Pel corrected.

  ‘Same thing.’


  ‘Barely.’

  ‘I had a dog once before.’

  ‘It’s a common failing.’

  ‘It used to sit on my bed. When I went to school, it waited for me. I used to try to hide from it when Papa took us into the country. He used to hold it and I ran off. It always knew where I was. It’s their noses, you know.’

  ‘This I’ve heard.’ By this time Pel had removed his shirt and was trying not to let the boy see his body. It was hardly the body of a superman.

  Returning from the bathroom, he changed his shirt, then firmly shut the bedroom door. He was having nobody see his legs.

  ‘What’s for dinner tonight?’ he asked through the door.

  ‘Casserole.’

  ‘Again?’

  Madame Routy would have to go, he decided. He was fed nothing but casseroles, his clothes were shabby, and his house was a wreck because it was never cleaned, and doubtless – because the vibration set up by the television was damaging the foundations – also on the point of falling down. He made up his mind. He would give her notice. There were times when she went too far. But, as he knotted his tie, he wondered how to set about it. He’d never have the courage, he knew. Perhaps, he thought gloomily, he could push her down the stairs.

  He took De Troquereau with him to the Rensselaers’, hoping that if nothing else, his name might impress. Pujol met them in the hall.

  ‘No news, Inspector?’ he asked.

  ‘None, Maître.’

  ‘Madame is disturbed by the loss of the money the other day.’

  ‘Not half so disturbed as I am,’ Pel growled.

  ‘Of course, with the insurance, there’s no loss to the firm. What are you proposing now?’

  ‘I wish to see round the house. I’ve informed Madame by telephone.’

  ‘You’ll need a warrant, of course.’

  ‘I have one. Madame raised no objection.’ And why not, Pel wondered suddenly. Was she putting on a show of innocence? It had happened before.

  Madame Rensselaer, her skin sallow in the winter light that came from the window, greeted him coldly. He noticed she was not in mourning.

  ‘This is Baron de Troquereau, of my staff,’ Pel introduced. It made him sound like the head of the Secret Service and he saw her eyebrows rise. ‘It’s your husband’s papers I’m concerned with. There may be something that will indicate where he is.’

  She rang the bell for the maid and instructed her to lead Pel to Rensselaer’s desk. It was unlocked and Pel and De Troq’, watched by Pujol, started to work through its contents. Considering how much Rensselaer was involved in business, there was remarkably little to indicate his interests.

  ‘His affairs were mostly dealt with by myself,’ Pujol explained.

  There was little beyond a few bills for household expenses, settlements at clothiers or boutiques in the city for himself and his wife, and repairs to a house in the Rue Reggio.

  Pel pounced on this last at once. ‘Who lives there?’ he demanded.

  ‘Marie-Christine and her husband,’ Pujol said. ‘Rensselaer bought it for them.’

  Pel frowned. He’d been expecting the name of some woman.

  ‘It’s only a small house.’ Pujol pulled a face. ‘I suspect Monsieur Guitton was a little disappointed at its size, but it was always Monsieur Rensselaer’s view that they should start in a small way, if only to encourage them to work harder. That’s the way he started. Whatever his faults and despite his reasons for marrying Madame, he accepted what was given him and took his opportunity. He was quite poor as a child and showed no particular cleverness.’

  ‘He was clever enough to marry my mother-in-law for her money.’ The voice came from the door, and they turned to see it had opened and that Jean-Marc Guitton was watching them.

  ‘Your father-in-law has not been ungenerous with you,’ Pujol said coldly.

  ‘A house, that’s all.’

  ‘And a car. And a good job.’

  ‘Personnel manager. You call that a good job? I could do that sort of job with my eyes shut and one hand tied behind my back.’

  ‘Nevertheless —’

  ‘Nevertheless what?’

  ‘It’s not very long,’ Pujol said stiffly, ‘since your father-in-law complained to me that you were not bringing to the job the concentration he felt you ought.’

  ‘Looking after a lot of Bolshie workmen? That doesn’t need concentration.’

  ‘It needs tact. More than ever when they’re left-wing.’

  ‘He never showed much tact towards us. And why has he let my wife’s jewels go out of the family?’

  ‘Has he?’

  ‘I bet he has.’

  As Guitton left the room, Pujol was silent for a while.

  ‘Why does he feel the jewels might have gone out of the family?’ Pel asked.

  ‘Because I think Monsieur Rensselaer didn’t trust him, and I think he knows it.’

  ‘Why do you think that?’

  Pujol hesitated. ‘Because Rensselaer cut him out of all the firm’s business affairs.’

  ‘I’ve not heard of this before. Why haven’t I been told?’

  Pujol gave a sad little smile. ‘Because, Inspector, you didn’t ask and it’s my job, as solicitor to the family and to the firm, to keep their troubles quiet.’

  Pel nodded, accepting the fact. ‘Was it unexpected?’

  ‘It was very sudden. For a long time, he’d even seemed to favour him.’

  ‘What made him change?’

  ‘A woman.’

  ‘What woman? Rensselaer’s mistress? This mistress we’ve heard about? Had Guitton seen him with her?’

  ‘No. He discovered Guitton was trying to start an affair with Madame Fabre.’

  ‘Trying?’

  ‘I suspect nothing had yet happened. But how can I tell?’

  ‘Who told you this?’

  ‘Rensselaer. He came to see me. He was white with rage. I doubt if he’d ever trusted Guitton. He knew what he’d done himself to get into the firm and he always suspected Guitton had done the same. Nevertheless, if Guitton had played fair, Rensselaer would have backed him up. But he didn’t, and it angered Rensselaer. Then he heard of this attempt to arrange an assignment with Madame Fabre and realised Guitton wasn’t even playing fair with his daughter. He came into my office and made arrangements – not to remove him from the firm – he felt that would be too cruel to his daughter – but to make sure Guitton never got his hands on any money that would come to her. He can’t even touch her allowance. It’s a very complicated arrangement but it’s very sound. He’ll never be able to lay a finger on it. This is also why Marie-Christine hasn’t got the family jewels she thinks she should have. When Monsieur Rensselaer started to suspect Guitton of having affairs with women, he felt that the marriage might fail. He even thought Guitton might sell the jewels to raise money if he got the chance.’

  ‘Did Fabre know about Guitton and his wife?’

  Pujol shrugged. ‘Rensselaer didn’t say, but he probably did.’

  Pel frowned. Here was another angle. Had this something to do with Rensselaer’s disappearance? Had Guitton killed him? The ramifications of the affair were increasing, and there were still many unanswered questions. Was Rensselaer at the abbey on the 16th, as Retif said, and, if so, why was he there without his car? And why was his car at Chaumont? And since it was, how did Rensselaer get to the abbey, if he was there? There seemed to be so many unanswered questions, it was as if they were groping around in a fog.

  While he was still preoccupied, Marie-Christine Guitton came into the room.

  ‘I hear you’ve been taking the abbey apart,’ she said without bothering to greet them.

  ‘That’s correct,’ Pel said.

  ‘I bet you found nothing.’

  ‘Nothing very much,’ Pel admitted.

  ‘I didn’t think you would. I’ve been through that place with a fine-toothed comb.’

  ‘Looking for what, Madame?’

  ‘For what are rightly mine. Th
e jewels. My grandfather said I was to have them eventually. I could never find them here, so I thought they might be there, especially as there are so many places out there to hide things. My husband says he’s given them to his woman.’

  ‘Which woman would that be?’ Pel asked quietly.

  She shrugged. ‘I never knew. Neither did anyone else either. He was too clever. But he had one. Maurice Cottu told me.’

  ‘Maurice Cottu told me about you’, Madame. You and he.’

  She looked surprised that he knew, then she shrugged. ‘It didn’t last long,’ she said. ‘Maurice’s a bit of a lout.’

  ‘Did you love your father, Madame?’

  She shrugged. ‘How can I answer that? He was my father. People are supposed to love their fathers.’

  She showed little sign of it, nevertheless. Pel had been terrified of his own father, who, if anything, had been smaller and worse-tempered than Pel, yet paradoxically he had also managed to think the world of him.

  As they finished what they were doing and headed for the door, Madame Rensselaer appeared.

  ‘I shall want to see you, Bernard,’ she said to Pujol. ‘There are things to discuss.’

  ‘Of course, Madame.’ Pujol half-inclined his body in a neat little bow.

  ‘Tomorrow, if you please. Good and early. Let’s say ten o’ clock.’

  ‘Of course, Madame. Where?’

  ‘In my office.’

  Pujol glanced about him. ‘Your office, Madame?’

  ‘At the factory. It used to be my husband’s. It’s now mine. I’m taking it over.’

  Pujol’s jaw dropped. ‘Taking it over?’

  ‘Why not? I’m a director of the firm. I grew up in the firm. My father talked about it often with me before I married and I know as much about it as anyone. I intend to use my knowledge. I shall be directing its course.’

  Pujol looked bewildered.

  ‘If you’re going to start throwing your weight about, Maman,’ Marie-Christine said, ‘you might persuade someone to give Jean-Marc a decent job.’

  ‘I’m sick of arguing with people in overalls,’ Guitton agreed.

  ‘It’s a good steady job,’ Pujol said.