Pel And The Staghound

by Mark Hebden

  Pel frowned. ‘The trouble with this business, Darcy,’ he said, ‘is that there are just too many good suspects.’

  They were progressing, but hardly at speed, and it was when Judge Polverari went down with flu and Judge Brisard appeared in Pel’s office to know what was going on that he realised that, despite his new and exalted position, he was as vulnerable as he ever was.

  He eyed Brisard sourly. With age and experience some men grew in stature. Brisard merely swelled. He was self-important and flannel-mouthed and his technique in court seemed to consist entirely of rhetoric.

  For a quarter of an hour, as Brisard pumped him, Pel didn’t give an inch. He’d conducted a war against examining magistrates for most of his career and he knew how to deal with them. ‘As soon as I have something concrete I’ll let you know,’ he said.

  Brisard sighed. He was clearly going to get nowhere until Pel was good and ready to conduct him there. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘what do we do now?’

  Pel responded with equal enthusiasm. ‘Nothing,’ he said.

  ‘We ought to have one of the suspects in,’ Brisard said.

  Pel had no intention of larding Brisard’s ego by agreeing and he merely grunted.

  Brisard rose. ‘I’ll give you a few more days, Pel,’ he said. Not ‘Inspector,’ Pel noticed, but ‘Pel’. Brisard would soon, he decided, be as rude as he was himself and then things would be really difficult.

  When Brisard had gone, Darcy appeared. Pel was sitting at his desk scowling. ‘I wish no one any harm,’ he was saying with great deliberation, ‘but I would consider it a great joy if the Almighty could arrange for a plague of warts to break out all over his body. Get everybody in.’

  The members of his team trooped into his office and stood around, wondering what was coming.

  ‘We’re not moving fast enough,’ Pel snarled. ‘Judge Brisard even considers we’re slow. I pass that on, not because I consider Judge Brisard an authority on the subject, but because for once I think he’s happened to hit the nail on the head.’ He glared round at them. ‘It will soon be Christmas,’ he went on. ‘And I shall then take a day or two off to rest my weary limbs. But I don’t intend to rest any weary limbs while my brain toils with the ramifications of this Rensselaer business. Neither my limbs nor yours. We need action.’

  ‘We haven’t found the body yet, Patron,’ Lagé volunteered.

  Pel fixed him with a look that would have pierced armour plate. ‘I wasn’t aware that I was asking for opinions,’ he said. ‘I was, in fact, still in the process of venting my spleen on you. It’s my pleasure and privilege, being of superior rank, to vent my spleen on someone and, since you’re the members of my team, it has to be you. I do not, therefore, while in the middle of it, expect to be interrupted by a half-witted detective who has his ideas in between holding the wool for his wife’s knitting and drinking a bock of beer with the neighbours.’

  Lagé blushed and they all shuffled out of the office feeling guilty as hell.

  It was while they were all still wondering what happened next that Nosjean came up with the whisper that the Duche gang, despite its leader’s recent demise, was still in business. There was definitely something ‘on’. The tip, he suspected, had come directly from one of Sammy Belec’s gang – probably even on orders from Sammy Belec himself. Nobody was saying just what it was or when it was to take place, but a few hints seemed to be floating around. It seemed that Sammy Belec had thought of an idea but that the same idea had occurred simultaneously to Duche and he had moved first. It confirmed Nosjean’s belief that Sammy had stabbed Duche. Clearly there had been friction between the two men. Nobody liked doing all the dirty work only to have someone else pick up the change and, while nobody was squealing, spite was working and the police were being told to pull their fingers out.

  Orders went out at once that all contacts were to be approached, but everybody was being very wary, which seemed to indicate that whatever it was that was in the air, it was big. It was one thing Belec’s lot alerting the flics to the fact that the Duche lot were up to something. It was a different matter saying what.

  And while they were all poking about in dusty corners hoping to come up with something, Misset – of all people! – gave them their first break in the Rensselaer case. While everyone else had got themselves good and dirty scouring out the abbey, Misset had managed to get himself picked for the spartan little apartment Rensselaer had maintained and half his time had been spent drinking coffee with Madame Fabre. Misset was big and far from ill-looking and she clearly liked anyone who was bigger than her whippet of a husband.

  While rooting in the cupboards in Rensselaer’s apartment, he had managed – trust Misset! – to cut his thumb and had gone next door to have a bandage put on it.

  ‘She got me to go upstairs with her to the bathroom, Patron,’ Misset said. ‘I thought at first she was after me.’

  ‘You would!’

  ‘Well, she struck me as being that type.’

  ‘You can tell them?’ Pel wished he could.

  Misset grinned. ‘Well, not exactly, Patron. But you know how it is.’

  ‘No, I don’t know. Tell me.’

  ‘Some women have a look about them.’

  ‘And she did?’

  ‘I thought so.’

  ‘Do you ever make mistakes?’

  ‘I don’t try, Patron. I’m married.’ Misset sighed, pretending total innocence. ‘But when I was younger I used to.’

  ‘Go on,’ Pel said coldly.

  ‘Well, she took me to the bathroom. It was next door to her bedroom. That’s what made me think she was after me. It was a comfortable bedroom, too. Nice bouncy bed. Lots of lace and colour. Not the sort I’d expected out there in that fortress of a place. Very cosy, in fact. She stopped the bleeding then we went downstairs and she bound it up and fastened the bandage with some sticking plaster off a roll in the kitchen drawer.’

  Misset fished in his pocket and produced an envelope from which he took a grubby piece of waterproof sticking plaster.

  ‘That’s what she used,’ he went on. ‘She cut it off with a pair of scissors that were hanging on a hook over the sink.’

  ‘So?’

  Misset produced an envelope and from it extracted one of the sets of photographs that had been made of the letters stuck on the ransom notes. ‘I noticed they had serrated edges,’ he said.

  Finally, he laid on the desk a blown-up picture of the sticking plaster he’d produced. ‘That’s got serrated edges, too, Patron,’ he said.

  As Pel and Darcy grabbed for the pictures, Misset went on smugly. ‘I went to the Lab and got them to check. They’re exactly the same. Even the same indication of broken teeth.’ As he finished, he looked at Pel with the cheerful expression of a dog expecting a bone for good behaviour.

  Pel and Darcy peered at the photographs then looked at each other. ‘Fabre?’ Pel said slowly. ‘And Madame Fabre?’

  ‘They’d know every move Rensselaer made,’ Darcy pointed out. ‘Especially out at the abbey. I bet nothing ever happened there that they didn’t know about.’

  Misset smiled, pleased with himself. ‘Can I have the night off, Patron?’ he asked.

  Pel rounded on him, his eyes hot. ‘Why?’

  ‘I could do with one. After all, I just brought in that piece of sticking plaster. It might be a lead.’

  ‘And because of this you feel you’re entitled to retire?’

  ‘My wife thinks —’

  ‘Your wife’s not in the Criminal Brigade of the Police Judiciaire.’

  ‘My kids —’

  ‘Neither are your children.’

  While Misset was still gasping, Pel swept. Out of the office with Darcy, heading for the Fond des Chouettes.

  ‘Things begin to fit,’ he said slowly as they drove out of the city. ‘Acid in Lausse’s old workshop. Scissors that match the serrations on the ransom notes.’

  ‘Doesn’t prove they did him in,’ Darcy said. ‘Though it could mean
they were involved in those ransom notes and were trying to cash in on his disappearance and get money out of his family. I get the distinct impression that Michelline likes money.’

  Pel was doubtful. ‘That wouldn’t work, though,’ he said, ‘if Rensselaer was liable to turn up at any minute, would it? And the only people who’d know he was unlikely to turn up would be someone who’d either kidnapped him or killed him.’

  ‘There are certainly means of disposing of the body, Patron. Acid, for instance.’

  Pel thought of the bloody hoof he had stumbled over. ‘And hounds,’ he added. ‘They eat anything.’

  Darcy’s eyes flicked towards him. ‘Oh, mon Dieu,’ he said. ‘I hadn’t thought of that.’

  As Darcy halted the car outside the abbey, Pel sat for a while, deep in thought, before climbing out and starting to walk along the valley. Darcy watched him for a moment, wondering what he was up to, then he set off after him in a hurry.

  Reaching the woods, Pel stopped and stared back. ‘This is where Retif said he saw Rensselaer watching with binoculars,’ he pointed out. He gestured at the abbey. ‘If you had binoculars, what do you reckon you’d see?’

  Darcy stared back the way they’d come. ‘From here, Patron,’ he said, ‘you can see only the outside walls. The west wall and the south wall.’

  ‘I can see more than that. I can see through the archway into the courtyard.’

  ‘Well, yes – but you can only see part of the inside.’

  ‘Which part?’

  ‘Fabre’s house and the apartment Rensselaer built for himself next door.’

  ‘That’s what I decided,’ Pel said. ‘In that wing, there isn’t much else, anyway, is there?’

  With Darcy following, still puzzled, Pel set off back without bothering to explain. Fabre’s car was standing alongside the van in the courtyard; Fabre was sitting in his kitchen alone, staring at the fire.

  He looked up as they entered and stood waiting, angry and silent, as Pel walked across the kitchen, found the scissors Misset had noticed and picked them up.

  ‘I’m going to have to take these with me,’ he announced.

  Fabre’s sour look changed to one of surprise. ‘Why?’

  Pel ignored the question. ‘Was your wife in the habit of reading women’s magazines?’ he asked.

  Fabre gestured. ‘Of course. What woman isn’t?’

  ‘Expensive magazines?’

  ‘Yes. She liked them. I always brought one or two back with me when I went away. I hoped to – ’ he scowled. ‘It didn’t make much difference.’

  ‘Does she have any now?’

  Still bewildered, Fabre reached into a corner behind a chair and produced several magazines – Elle, Plaisir de la Maison, Vogue, Jours de France. Pel passed them to Darcy who immediately started riffling through the pages.

  ‘Not very many,’ Pel said.

  ‘I expect she threw them away. Or gave them away.’

  ‘Who to?’

  ‘Retif likes them. He enjoys the pictures because he can’t read very well.’

  ‘Nothing cut from these, Patron,’ Darcy announced.

  Fabre looked puzzled. ‘What are you looking for?’ he asked.

  Pel indicated the scissors. ‘These scissors cut out letters from women’s magazines which were used on a note demanding a ransom for Rensselaer. They were pasted on a sheet of paper ruled with blue lines. Do you use such paper?’

  Fabre gaped, then recovered himself and, fishing in a cupboard, tossed a cheap red exercise book on to the table. ‘I buy them in Douzay,’ he said. ‘I use them for the rough accounts. Rensselaer liked tidy accounts. I worked everything out first then copied it out.’

  Pel picked up the book and handed it to Darcy. ‘Looks the same,’ he said. ‘Leguyader will know.’ He turned to Fabre. ‘Did you cut out those letters?’ he asked.

  Fabre looked bewildered. ‘Me? Name of God, no!’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘Why should I lie?’

  ‘Why should you indeed? Why should you, for instance, lie about going to Beaumarchais on the 16th of last month when you didn’t go near the place?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Beaumarchais says you didn’t.’

  ‘But I did!’ Fabre went to a drawer and produced a diary. His finger jabbed at the date and the word, ‘Beaumarchais.’ ‘There. It says so.’

  ‘It says “Beaumarchais,”’ Pel observed coldly. ‘That’s only an indication of intent, not of arrival.’

  ‘It’s in black and white!’

  ‘Beaumarchais keeps records, too,’ Darcy said, ‘Meticulous records. Why should they falsify them to cover someone they barely know?’

  ‘Perhaps they–’ Fabre’s start was clearly artificial ‘ – ah, I remember now!’

  ‘I thought you might eventually,’ Pel said drily.

  ‘I wasn’t well. I stopped the car at the side of the road and had a sleep. I felt better afterwards but it was too late by then. I decided to come home. I was going to arrange to go later. But then, of course, Rensselaer disappeared and I decided I’d better wait.’

  It sounded thin but Fabre closed the diary as if he felt he’d satisfied them. He was about to put it away when Pel’s hand fell on it.

  ‘We’d better have that,’ he said. ‘It might tell us things.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘We shall see. What time did you arrive home?’

  ‘Late in the morning.’

  ‘Anybody see you?’

  ‘My wife had returned from her shopping. And Retif and Maurice were here.’

  ‘How about Rensselaer? Was he here?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘How about your wife? Did she cut out the letters?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Of course I’m sure! She wouldn’t do that!’

  Pel wasn’t impressed. He had a report on his desk at that moment from Claudie Darel about an old boy who had the reputation of being unable to harm a fly but was more than willing to try to drown his wife in a bucket of water.

  ‘Where’s your wife at this moment?’ he asked.

  Fabre’s eyes flickered. ‘She’s out.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Shopping, I suppose.’

  ‘I noticed the van and the car standing in the courtyard as we arrived. How would she go shopping if she took no transport?’

  ‘Perhaps someone gave her a lift. Perhaps someone called on the way to the city.’

  ‘Who? Do you have any names?’

  Fabre hadn’t any names and it was very clear even that he didn’t think his wife had gone shopping.

  ‘Where is your wife?’ Pel persisted.

  ‘I—well, she often—I—’ Fabre’s words finally dried up and he sat down heavily in the chair where they had found him on arrival. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘She’s vanished. I think she’s left me.’

  Pel and Darcy glanced at each other. Please God, they were both thinking, not another one!

  ‘Have you reported this to Missing Persons?’ Pel asked. Fabre shook his head. ‘No. I thought she might come back.’

  ‘Do you still think she might?’

  Fabre shook his head again slowly. It might have indicated a negative answer or simply that he didn’t know.

  ‘Did your wife have men friends?’ Pel asked.

  ‘No!’ The word came out like a pistol shot.

  ‘Never?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Did you never have occasion to take her to task about such a thing?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘She seemed to like to have men around,’ Pel pointed out. ‘My men noticed it.’

  ‘She wasn’t like that.’

  Fabre was clearly not going to talk to them about his private life and Pel decided that he knew very well that his wife had had men friends, that she’d probably been off with one on occasion, and that he suspected she was off with one of them now. But who? The man who’d sent the ransom note s
he’d helped with? Or had that been Fabre himself?

  ‘Does your wife wear a heavy coat when she goes out?’ he asked.

  ‘Only in winter.’

  ‘Such as we’re having now.’ Pel’s hand jerked at a coat hanging on the door. ‘Would that be the one?’

  Fabre’s eyes moved slowly. ‘That’s just the old one she wears here.’

  ‘She has another?’

  ‘Yes. I got it in Dijon. It cost a lot of money.’

  ‘She’d keep that, of course, in her wardrobe? Please accompany my officer upstairs and check whether it’s there.’

  Fabre vanished with Darcy. They were a long time. When they came back, Fabre’s face was grey.

  Darcy shook his head. ‘It’s there, Patron,’ he said. ‘If she left, she left without it.’

  ‘Did she ever wear anything else?’

  ‘She hadn’t got anything else. Just an old windcheater.’ Fabre gestured at the door. ‘She kept it there.’

  ‘I don’t see it, and even in a car it would be odd, I think, to leave without a warm coat in weather like this. It seems to indicate she left in a hurry and probably against her will.’

  ‘There are a lot of new clothes up there, Patron,’ Darcy put in. ‘Underwear. A trouser suit. A scarf. A gold pendant. Perfume. As well as a few other things. Fabre says he didn’t buy them and he didn’t give her the money to buy them. I’d say they were worth quite a bit.’

  Pel’s eyes swung to Fabre. ‘Do you have any photographs of your wife? We’ll need them for Missing Persons.’

  Fabre turned a gaunt, angry, agonised face towards them. ‘I haven’t reported her missing,’ he said.

  ‘I shall,’ Pel said.

  The following day, armed with copies of the photographs of Rensselaer and Michelline Fabre, men from Police sub-stations in the villages were visiting the shops in their area to ask if either of the two subjects in the pictures had been seen. Rensselaer didn’t ring a bell anywhere, because he wasn’t the sort of man who would do his trading in the tiny upland and valley shops. He bought his suits in London, New York, Paris, at the very least in Marseilles or Dijon. His wine came direct from an established wine merchant who picked the best vintages from the best of the vineyards for him, and his food didn’t come from corner stores or the Nouvelles Galéries.