by Mark Hebden
‘“A good steady job,”’ Guitton said, ‘is nothing but a euphemism for a living death.’
‘It could be made into something with a little work.’
Guitton scowled. ‘Work, they say is “sacre.” So it’s best not to touch it.’
Madame Rensselaer looked at him as if she were the mother of fourteen children, the washing machine had broken down and he was the man who’d sold it to her.
‘People who work for Produits Morand,’ she pointed out, ‘have to earn promotion.’
‘But you always stood up for us against Papa!’ Marie-Christine protested.
‘Your father was head of the firm then. Now I am.’
Pujol looked on the verge of apoplexy and she turned on him.
‘It has only just occurred to me,’ she said, ‘as it doesn’t yet seem to have occurred to you, Bernard, that with the shares I owned originally, the shares my father left me when he died, and now with my husband’s shares which, since he left no will, must come to me, I have the biggest holding. It’s my right to be head of the firm and I intend to exercise it.’
Thirteen
Pel lit a cigarette, decided he was endangering his life quite unnecessarily, and was just about to stub it out and throw the packet away in a wave of self-revulsion at his weakness when he remembered how much cigarettes cost. When he’d finished the packet, he decided. That was the time to start cutting down. Not now, not while he still had a packet half-full in his pocket, two in his drawer in case he ran out, several more in the cupboard with which to replenish his drawer in case that ran out, and another hoard at home in case of real emergency – a strike at the cigarette factories, for instance. He’d smoke them up and then stop. And, for safety, he’d smoke them as fast as he could before he changed his mind. He gave a metaphoric shrug and decided to accept the consequences. In any case, he thought, he was so weak, he wouldn’t have the courage to stop even then. Comforted by the feeling, he settled back to enjoy his smoke.
Darcy watched him, fascinated. He knew exactly how Pel’s mind was working. For most of his working day, Pel’s mind was quite transparent, so transparent even the clerks took him for a ride. But when he was involved in a case, he grew sly and secretive, so secretive, in fact, nobody knew even what they were supposed to know. That was Pel at his most dangerous.
‘Think his wife murdered him, Patron?’ Darcy asked. ‘After all, she stands to gain more from his death than anybody.’ He paused and frowned. ‘If he’s dead, of course. So far, we haven’t even established that.’
Pel studied the end of his cigarette. ‘She had plenty of reason to, quite apart from that,’ he admitted. ‘She’d been humiliated for years. Ever since the day she discovered her husband married her not for her physical attractions but simply because she was loaded. She’s behaving now as if she’s just realised her potential.’
‘Could she have done it to get control of the firm?’
‘Why not just to get control of herself?’
It was a point, Darcy had to concede.
‘On the other hand,’ Pel said, ‘we have our friend, Claude Lausse, when we find him, who seems to have disliked him enough to do away with him. He had a pretty big grudge. Then we have Marie-Christine, the daughter, and her husband. Without him, and with Maman in control, Jean-Marc Guitton might have brighter prospects, and Marie-Christine perhaps might expect to get the jewels she’s been after so long.’
‘To say nothing of paying him back for feeding her pony to the hounds.’
Pel nodded. ‘There’s also Retif, whom he sacked, and Fabre, whom he seems to have humiliated on occasion. The causes of murder are pretty varied but usually they’re summed up as coming under three headings – greed, hatred, and sex. I think to that you might also add humiliation. The number of wives and husbands who’ve been murdered because they humiliated their partners would stretch from one end of France to the other if you laid them in a row.’
‘How about Pujol?’
‘He may have something up his sleeve we don’t know about. Some fiddle he’s been working that Rensselaer had found out about. The only ones who would appear to have no motive are Fabre’s wife, who would far rather murder her husband, I suspect, and Cottu, the whipper-in, who seems too wily to get himself involved in anything. Though I wouldn’t put it past him to be still involved with Rensselaer’s daughter.’
‘We might do a little better if we had the body.’ Darcy frowned. ‘Think acid was used to get rid of it?’
Pel frowned, remembering Retif breaking up the carcass of a dead diseased cow. The stench had been appalling, and he had stood in the yard staring fixedly at a bloody cloven hoof which had been kicked along concrete slippery with blood. As he had watched, the Algerian had tossed the chunks of flesh into the vats while beyond the fence the hounds, scenting the meat, had howled and whined. It had made him feel sick.
‘There is also another way,’ he said slowly.
‘Which is?’
Pel didn’t enlighten Darcy, and switched to another line. ‘I think you’d better check those photographs of Rensselaer with the places he visited to buy horses,’ he said.
There seemed to be a lull as Darcy tossed his bag into the boot of his car. Lagé, whose idea of detection according to Pel was to follow stumbling hunches, had to everyone’s surprise managed to pin the break-in at Daix on a group of teenagers. At least one thing could he crossed off the list.
But it still left the old man who was threatening to dunk his wife in a bucket of water, the Duche stabbing, Armoire à Glace – who seemed to have been quiet for some time now – and finally whatever it was that Henri Darot was involved in on the demolition site. De Troquereau was none too keen on letting Armoire à Glace off the hook, but this new thing might well prove important and he was itching to remove the doubtful expression from Pel’s face.
Clad in a heavy checked Canadienne, helmet and leather gloves, he reported for work and the site manager gave him a quiet wink. During the day, he humped bricks and stone and pieces of timber, his clothes covered by the dust of the demolition. He soon picked out Darot but Darot did his work normally enough and seemed to show no interest in anything particular. At lunchtime, they went for a beer at the Bar de la Cloche. De Troq’ bought a paper so he could watch without being seen to be watching. The headlines carried the story of the search out at the abbey.
As he read, over the top of his paper he noticed that several well-dressed men had entered the bar and were talking quietly to Darot among the crowd at the zinc. Being new to the city, he didn’t know them but he could smell villains straightaway and, returning after dark to the Hôtel de Police, he worked through the photo files until he managed to recognise at least two of them.
‘Duche’s lot,’ Nosjean said when he showed him the photographs. ‘I think Darcy was right. And so was I. They are up to something.’
Meanwhile, Darcy was enjoying his trip checking the photographs of Rensselaer in the places where he’d been in the habit of searching for horses. He knew a girl in Tonay near Fontainebleau who was good-looking and easy-going, and for the first night, he merely dropped his bag on her doorstep and announced that he’d arrived. She didn’t argue. Darcy’s girls, Pel had often noticed, never seemed to.
The reactions to the photographs were mixed. At Tonay, Rensselaer was regarded as an arrivé with little taste and a pushy manner. At Lors near Langres, he was considered to be a man who, if he didn’t know much about stag hunting, at least was doing a great deal for it and for the breeding of good hounds. At Côte-en-Miéliers, he was considered to be a complete amateur and they made no bones about the fact that they had sold him poor horses for high prices. At Zastres, he was considered a shrewd bargainer, even though most of his purchases had been made by his huntsman, Fabre. At none of them, however, did they think he had any liaisons in the district.
‘He’s well known,’ a woman at the stables at Remaville explained. ‘We’d have known if he’d had a set-up round here. I’d have know
n.’
‘Why?’
‘Because he tried to fix something up with me.’ She gave Darcy an appraising look. ‘He was forty-eight. I’m twenty-eight.’
Darcy preferred to believe she was well over thirty but he didn’t argue. She was attractive and wore jodhpurs so tight you’d have needed a tin-opener to get out of them. She also had a café-concert voice, a jacked-up bosom and a backside that moved enough to make a man feel seasick. Her eyes had a look in them, too, that was bold enough to make him decide not to waste time. With some women you had to hedge and hint and say things without putting them into words, going via Cap d’ Antibes to get to Paris. With others, the best method was to come straight out with it. It had brought Darcy a few repulses in its time but it had also brought him a lot of successes.
‘You married?’ he asked.
She gave him a sidelong look. ‘Yes, I am. My husband’s the other side of St Etienne, buying fodder.’
He grinned. ‘If you ever decide to leave him, can I have first refusal?’
She laughed and Darcy knew he was home and dry. Darcy always knew when he was home and dry. Unlike Pel, who felt he was never home and dry, Darcy could gauge women to the last degree.
‘Look,’ he said. ‘I’m doing nothing tonight. How about dinner? Just to repay you for your trouble.’
‘I have to look after the animals.’
‘I’ll help you.’
She smiled coolly. ‘You’re trying it on,’ she observed.
Darcy grinned. ‘I didn’t think you’d notice,’ he said.
That night, while Darcy was busy dining his way into a bed at Remaville, De Troquereau was sitting on one of the benches under the trees in the Cours de Gaulle. The fact that he’d been on duty since reporting to the demolition site in the early hours didn’t put him off in the slightest. He was keen and anxious to prove that he was as good at his job as everybody else, if not better.
It was hardly the night for sitting about on benches under trees, however – especially when you were tired – and he was shivering with cold. Near the Parc de la Colombière a police car waited in the shadows, its lights switched off and another was in an alley near the Place Wilson. Lagé, always willing to help, was near the Monument de la Victoire.
Deciding he was frozen, De Troquereau headed for a bar, picking up Lagé as he went. There were a few amused glances at his small frame and the chiffon scarf he wore round his neck. As they drank they spoke in whispers.
‘It must be the cold,’ De Troq’ said quietly. ‘It’s put him off.’
‘It was just as cold when he got Yves-Pol,’ Lagé pointed out. ‘Muggers don’t seem to be seasonal.’
As they talked, a burly man in blue denims leaned over.
‘Got a light, sweetheart?’ he asked.
As De Troq’ offered his lighter, he felt a hand touch his chest. Without hesitation, he grabbed it, twisted it and yanked its owner outside.
‘What’s going on?’ Lagé asked, following.
‘My friend,’ the burly man said, his face contorted in a grimace of pain, ‘just let go of my hand.’
‘You were after my wallet.’
‘Listen, darling, I’m a policeman and I advise you to be careful.’
De Troq’ grinned. ‘It might surprise you, mon brave, but I’m a policeman, too, and I know you’re not. I’m charging you.’
Still protesting, the pickpocket was hauled off by Lagé while De Troq’ headed back down the Cours de Gaulle. As he crossed the road, a figure appeared. Here we go, he thought. Here he is at last.
‘Listen, chéri – ’ the lisping voice made his heart sink.
‘Push off,’ he said.
‘If you’re going to be nasty —’
‘Listen,’ De Troquereau snarled. ‘I’m a police officer and if you hang around here much longer I’ll run you in so fast for molesting people your feet won’t touch the ground.’
As the little figure vanished in alarm, De Troquereau decided it was time to go home. There were more hazards, he felt, to pretending to be gay than he’d realised.
Fourteen
The report on the hound, Archer, was quite concise.
Doc Minet and Leguyader had worked together on the disinterred carcass and they produced the report together like twin footmen bearing information on the royal gardens at Versailles to Louis XIV.
Doc Minet looked apologetic but Leguyader, who came from the same mould as Pel, stood in the doorway and gave a sarcastic smile.
‘So this is where you’ve moved to,’ he observed. ‘Better carpet, I see. Bigger desk. More comfortable chair.’
Pel glared. ‘I take it you’ve come to bring me information,’ he said. ‘What kept you so long?’
Leguyader sniffed. ‘Things had to be checked,’ he said. ‘A good filing system’s the whole basis of police work. At least it is in my department. Doubtless yours stumbles along most of the time with guesswork and feeble memory.’
‘The report.’ Pel gestured irritably. ‘I can grasp it if you explain it slowly.’
Holding up what they’d written, Leguyader launched off into his spiel as if he were giving a speech to the Académie Française.
‘Unlike sulphuric acid, which dehydrates and therefore chars,’ he said, ‘hydrochloric burns in the manner of a strong bleach, making the flesh raw. Transferred from the hands to the mouth, it could cause the tongue and the delicate membranes inside the mouth to become inflamed. In the case of this animal, it had obviously been scratching in some place where the acid had been spilled and, due to the cold weather had not dispersed. Since also the soil round here is clayey, it tended to lie on the surface. It thus remained in strength and, by scratching at the soil, the animal got it on its paws. It was also on its forelegs and later, when they were raw and painful, it seems to have licked them, transferring the acid to the tongue and mouth. The acid was also on its chest, belly and genitalia as well as on its throat, chops and the rear part of its legs and under its tail. As if it had been lying down in it, though why it should I can’t imagine. I would have thought the smell would have been sufficient to warn it to keep away. Instead, it seems deliberately to have wallowed in it.’
Pel listened quietly. ‘Tell me more about this hydrochloric acid,’ he said. ‘Was it full strength?’
‘It was industrial acid. Strong and dangerous. Nearly forty-three per cent pure acid. It can dissolve anything you put in it.’
‘Such as bones and flesh?’
‘Also clothing, shoes, nails, hair and a few other things.’ Leguyader smiled. ‘You have somebody who’s been dissolved? Diluted, it can be used as —’
‘I’m not interested in what it’s used for when diluted.’
‘Nevertheless – ’ Leguyader was not put off ‘ – it’s my duty to tell you. It can be used internally as an emetic, externally in baths for the relief of sciatica, rheumatism et cetera. It’s also used as a cleaning or scouring agent for metals in galvanising and dyeing industries. Being a corrosive, when swallowed the tissues are in some measure destroyed. The victim feels a burning sensation in the mouth and throat and there is intense stomach pain, followed by vomiting of shreds of bloodstained tissue. Choking is common and the air passages would probably be congested. There would be – indeed there are, and we found them – signs of corrosion around the mouth and lips. In human beings, consciousness is usually maintained, but the victim is drained of colour as respiration breaks down, and death usually follows within a few hours of a fatal dose, resulting from a combination of shock, extensive tissue damage and respiratory failure. Acid transferred to the mouth by licking would have the same effect, though the damage would not be so extensive. If the acid were used to destroy a body, there might be deposits. In the sludge to which the body would be reduced there would be traces of body fat, pieces of bone and probably plastic from dentures, belts and that sort of thing.’
Pel studied Leguyader. He was a pompous ass and would have looked splendid stuffed and mounted on a plinth. Neve
rtheless, with Doc Minet, he had done a good job.
He was still pondering the possibilities behind the report when Darcy returned, looking like a cat that had been at the cream. Pel knew what he’d been up to. He seemed to find sex a marvellous pastime and Pel decided it was time he had a go at it himself. Sometimes he felt he had rigor mortis coursing through his veins. Darcy, however, normally seemed so alive you felt you ought to add water.
‘You look like a man who’s found a truffle in a bag of potato crisps,’ he growled.
Darcy shrugged. ‘I’m going downhill faster than a greasy pig, Patron,’ he said. ‘It’s wonderful.’
‘You have a great future.’
‘I’ve not had a bad past.’ Darcy was rarely downhearted. He’d see the bright side, Pel thought, of being buried under the N7.
‘A woman, no doubt?’ Pel said. ‘Do you ever consider they might be virgins?’
‘This one wasn’t, Patron. And, anyway, virginity’s curable.’
Despite the fact that he’d not failed to improve the shining hour, Darcy had done a good job. Rensselaer had been well known everywhere he’d been, he reported. The word had got around. One hunt knew another hunt and Rensselaer’s reputation had gone ahead of him. There was a woman at Remaville he’d tried to make but hadn’t.
Pel caught the look in Darcy’s eye and suspected that if Rensselaer hadn’t, Darcy had.
‘But there’s no knowledge of any cosy little establishments,’ Darcy ended. ‘If he had one, then it must have been nearer home. There’s one other thing: I discovered that the day Fabre said he went to Beaumarchais – the 16th – he didn’t. They’re meticulous up there. They keep records. They have it in black and white. He was due but he didn’t turn up.’
Pel’s eyebrows lifted. ‘That’s interesting. That means he could have been out at the abbey when Rensselaer disappeared.’
‘To say nothing of Madame Fabre – who could have returned early – Madame Rensselaer, the Guittons, Lausse, even Pujol. It’s possible any of them could have been there, Patron.’
