Pel Under Pressure (Chief Inspector Pel)

by Mark Hebden

  ‘You knew the kids who needed money and were willing,’ Darcy went on. ‘And you knew the men who were eager.’

  ‘Name of God!’ she said. ‘Nobody worries these days about morals! The kids were the last people to argue. Their parents couldn’t supply them with money and their grants were small. I did no more than introduce them. What they got up to afterwards wasn’t my affair.’

  ‘How did you learn the names of the willing ones? Was it Ramou?’

  ‘Of course it was! He knew them because he slept with them himself. It was Ramou who approached Salengro and got him to rent his flat.’

  Her eyes glowed with hatred. ‘I merely passed on what was wanted.’

  ‘And got paid for it!’

  ‘No!’

  ‘What about the flat? And the Triumph? Were you blackmailing these men?’

  ‘No! Never!’ Her face was suddenly ugly. ‘They were always pestering me! They were always after me! I didn’t want their fat, bloated bodies! I did it to keep them away! I told them I’d find someone to take my place! There were always kids who were desperate for money!’

  As she became silent, Pel looked at her in wonderment. There was a long pause. ‘I thought I’d seen the lot,’ he said slowly. ‘But this is a new one.’

  ‘And not, I think,’ Bakt said, looking far from happy, ‘the one we were expecting.’

  Twenty-one

  There was an atmosphere of tension in the offices of the Bundespolizeidirektion.

  Marie-Anne Chahu was being held for the moment but Pel was worried and aware of a sickening disappointment. The links had been so clear, but they weren’t links connected with drugs – only sex – and Kommissar Bakt had a look in his eye now that suggested his thoughts were dwelling on the strangeness of French morals.

  They had moved too quickly. Darcy had been too keen and over-eager and the urgency had driven them into a mistake. Pel had allowed his anger at the Chief permitting Foussier to leave France to push him too far and they had arrived in Innsbrück expecting to pick up Marie-Anne Chahu for drug-trafficking. The fact that the charge looked like being a lot less had changed things quite considerably. The Director had gone to great lengths to accommodate them and was now showing his distaste in no small measure at the fact that they had only a vice case.

  Pel was lighting cigarettes in quick succession. The odds had swung against him once more. The Chief would have a lot to say about it, he knew, and so would Judge Polverari. Somewhere the thing had gone sour on them. Yet he suspected even now that they were on the brink of working out the more major case and that the answer still rested somehow with Marie-Anne Chahu.

  She remained defiant, however, because she knew that in the end they probably wouldn’t even be able to charge her. They had no proof she was doing what she did for profit, and none that the girls had not been willing. And there were a lot of big guns on the other side, men with money and men with influence, and even in Republican France influence could still count.

  This was a nasty one, Pel thought, and could have unfortunate effects on his career. Yet, he still felt Marie-Anne Chahu knew the answers and he had begged that a room be set aside for them to question her. Her career seemed to be finished because the thing would get around, and, despite the fact that he saw no harm in going to bed with her, Foussier would clearly not enjoy having his reputation sullied by what she’d been up to. He’d probably set her up safely somewhere, in Paris or the South, and would probably even be instrumental in finding her another equally well-paid post.

  Meanwhile Pel’s dinner date seemed to have vanished into the blue at full speed. It had become the most important meal in his life and he knew that if he threw his hand in, they could still be flown back in a matter of an hour or so. But he knew he couldn’t go home yet, because he was still convinced the thing could be wound up here in Innsbrück.

  He stared at the telephone, brooding and bitter, then abruptly he snatched it up and demanded Madame Faivre-Perret’s home number. For a long time there was no reply and, with a sinking heart, he was just about to put the instrument down when he heard a click as the telephone at the other end was lifted. His heart skidded across his chest as he heard a female voice.

  ‘Madame Faivre-Perret?’

  ‘Who wants her?’

  His heart sank again because it wasn’t the voice he’d expected. ‘My name is Inspector Pel,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, yes! She told me about you.’

  Pel glared at the telephone, feeling his innermost secrets had become public. ‘Who’s that speaking?’ he said desperately. ‘I’d like to speak to Madame Faivre-Perret.’

  ‘Well, you can’t, Monsieur.’ The voice sounded self-satisfied. ‘She isn’t here.’

  Pel’s stomach suddenly felt as though he hadn’t eaten for a week. ‘She’s not?’ He had firmly expected her to be.

  ‘No. She went to Paris.’

  ‘Surely she’s back by now.’

  ‘No, Monsieur. She has an old aunt at Vitteaux she always calls on when she goes to Paris. I expect she stopped there.’

  ‘Do you have a telephone number?’

  ‘No, Monsieur.’

  Nor did she have a name. She was only the concierge who had been asked to call in to feed the cat.

  So she had a cat! Pel grabbed at the titbit of information and stored it away. It was one more item about Madame Faivre-Perret he’d discovered.

  ‘I think she must be going out tonight,’ the voice went on in his ear. ‘She’s put out shoes and there’s an evening coat. Pale blue.’

  It made sense, Pel thought bitterly. Blue would suit her.

  ‘Nothing else? No notes? Nothing?’

  ‘She doesn’t tell me her business, Monsieur. I expect she’ll dash in and get ready at the last minute. She usually does. She’s a busy woman.’

  Pel replaced the receiver slowly and sat staring at it, baffled, bitter and faintly depressed. Why, he wondered, did God have it in for him so?

  Madame Faivre-Perret was obviously looking forward to their dinner date, he decided – which at least was a faint consolation – but that would make the shock of his non-appearance all the more severe, especially if she’d made an effort to get back in time from Paris. He looked at his watch, alarmed at the way time was slipping by. How in God’s name, he wondered, could he contact her? He could hardly sit at the end of a police telephone in Austria waiting for someone to turn up m France.

  Bitterly, he lit a cigarette and began to pace the office that had been set aside for his use. A few hints had been dropped that it was needed, but he had shut his ears to them. The Innsbrück police could do without it just a little longer, he felt. And it was no good brooding about something he couldn’t alter. His face bleak, his tongue feeling like charcoal after all the cigarettes he had smoked, he turned to the files Krauss had brought and moved the sheets of loose paper, the reports, the reminders, the photographs, one after the other. This was where it was, he felt sure. Among the details. Somewhere here was the connection with Paris or Marseilles, with Pépé le Cornet or Maurice Tagliacci. Unfortunately, his dinner at St Seine kept intruding with what they’d discovered about Marie-Anne Chahu’s flat and he found it hard to concentrate.

  Alongside him was the Innsbrück file on Alois Hofer. Bakt had been the officer who had led the raid on his home in the Nedergasse and he had pointed it out as the car that had met them at Dors had taken them to the Sudtyrolerhof. The Nedergasse was a narrow alley off the Mariatheresienstrasse, close to the great arch of the Triumphforte and overshadowed by the mountains that rose over the Goldenes Dachl and the old town. There had been tourists moving about under the arcades and Bakt had shrugged.

  ‘He had vanished,’ he had said. ‘With all his family.’

  Pel pulled the file towards him and began turning the items inside it. He was just wondering how long he could hold out against the combined disdain of Bakt and the Director when he realised he was looking at a photograph of a man wearing lederhosen and a feathered hat
, who was standing by a woman dressed in the flowered print dress and apron of the Tyrol. She was tall with thick greying hair, flashing eyes and a wide smile, her face one that had become surprisingly familiar to Pel.

  For a second longer he stared at it, his heart thumping with excitement, before slapping the desk and yelling for Krauss. ‘Get Bakt,’ he said.

  When Bakt appeared, Pel jerked a hand at the photograph.

  ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘Hofer.’

  ‘And the woman?’

  ‘His wife. She’s French.’

  Bakt made it sound like an insult. Pel glared.

  ‘I know she’s French,’ he growled. ‘What’s her name?’

  ‘Hofer.’

  ‘Before her marriage?’

  Bakt looked puzzled and indicated the file.

  ‘It’s in there somewhere.’

  Pel was still searching when Darcy appeared. Pel shoved the photograph across.

  ‘Take a look at that,’ he said.

  Darcy did so and raised startled eyes. By this time Pel was furiously searching through the material Krauss had brought with them and now he stopped and straightened up, holding two documents in his hands. It was the first time he had seen them side by side. For a while he studied them, his heart pounding, comparing words, letters, slopes and angles, excited but told by his common-sense that what he’d found wasn’t enough. A good lawyer would have it thrown out of Court within minutes. It needed more.

  Name of God, he thought, he ought to have listened to Didier Darras. He’d put it on a plate for him a couple of weeks before. I don’t like letters, he had said. They give too much away. They certainly did.

  He stared at the papers again, looking at the names on them, deep in thought, then he called for Krauss again.

  ‘Find out if the lecture’s still on,’ he said.

  Since there were no other telephones available and the Director, in a wave of contempt for French police methods, showed no inclination to provide them, Krauss had to use the one in Pel’s room. Professor Rosschnigg seemed to be unavailable.

  ‘He’s in the building somewhere,’ his assistant informed them. ‘Please hold.’

  As Krauss sat with the telephone to his ear, Pel jigged impatiently from one foot to another until a new voice came on the line. It was clear and loud and sounded as if it belonged to a very old man.

  ‘Rosschnigg here!’

  Krauss leapt into his explanation and the voice jabbered noisily in his ear. ‘Yes, I organised the lecture. “Influences of Slavic Languages on the East German States.” I provided some slides.’

  ‘Is the lecture still being held?’

  ‘Why? Are you French too? You sound French.’

  Listening, Pel’s thoughts were preoccupied. By this time, perhaps, Madame Faivre-Perret would be home at last, changing her clothes, attending to her hair, putting on make-up, perhaps even managing to be excited at the prospect of seeing Evariste Clovis Désiré Pel. Half an hour from now, though, she’d be wondering what the hell had happened to him, and half an hour later puzzled and more than likely sad, if not furiously angry. And, whether she were home or not, now wasn’t the time to think about trying to telephone her again. Things had started happening and they were beginning to happen fast.

  Krauss was still hard at it, growing red in the face with frustration, and in the end Pel snatched the telephone from him.

  ‘Professor Foussier’s lecture!’ he yelled in French. ‘Is it still on?’

  To his surprise Rosschnigg switched languages at once. ‘Of course. It’s his speciality. I arranged it with him myself. He’ll be demonstrating his new system. We’ve just had it installed. It’s worked electronically. It’s in the Hofhalle.’

  Pel slammed the telephone down and swung round to Krauss. ‘Get me Nosjean,’ he said.

  ‘Back at the office?’ Krauss looked unhappy. ‘They don’t seem very keen on us downstairs, Patron. It’ll take a long time.’

  ‘It had better not.’

  Krauss pulled out all the stops and the call to Nosjean came through quickly.

  ‘Patron?’

  ‘Nosjean! The documents in the Cortot-Mortier case: You have them there?’

  ‘In the file, Patron.’

  ‘I want you to examine them carefully. There are one or two things I want you to look at.’

  ‘Right, Patron.’

  Pel described what he was looking for and went on quickly. ‘I want you to compare them with the photocopies in the duplicate of the file we brought with us. The items are numbered and the original I have here is 354. Check it with the Mortier thing. See if the handwriting’s the same. If it is, get Lagé to bring in the files of that half-baked photographic society of his.’

  ‘The photographic society, Patron?’ Nosjean sounded puzzled.

  ‘You heard me, didn’t you?’ Pel snapped. ‘You aren’t deaf! I’ve never perceived an ear trumpet! Lagé’s always boasting how he keeps everything. Let’s hope he does, because he also has something I want you to check with Number 354. You’ll know what, as soon as you’ve checked your own. Have the handwriting people look at that, too. And be quick. Ring me back at once with the answer.’

  Holding on to his patience, smoking furiously, after a while Pel called Darcy in and talked to him long and earnestly.

  ‘It was there,’ he said. ‘Among the details. As I knew it would be. We were looking so hard at Paris and Marseilles we didn’t see what was on the end of our noses.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Nosjean will be at least an hour. You’d better get something to eat.’

  From the window he watched Darcy leave the building and head for the old streets round the Imperial Summer Palace to find a beer and sandwich. He was frowning, and Pel knew he was as aware as Pel that something had to be pulled out of the bag to save their reputations.

  Pel reached for the telephone and demanded his number again. It was going to cost him a fortune before he was done, he realised, and he had deliberately sent Darcy out because he preferred to be alone when he made his excuses.

  ‘Sorry, sir. Line’s engaged.’

  Pel slammed the telephone down with a curse and sat staring at it as if he’d like to bite it. For God’s sake, he asked himself bitterly, if she’d finally arrived home, why in the name of Heaven did she have to pick up the telephone and start ringing round all her friends just when he needed to contact her. He looked at his watch again, wondering what to do. Several more times he tried but the answer was the same every time until finally he was told the telephone was ringing out but that no one was answering.

  ‘Merde!’ By this time, he could only imagine she was in the bath.

  Nosjean came through much more quickly than he had expected.

  ‘The files on Cortot and Mortier, Patron,’ he said. ‘I found the note you wanted. The handwriting matched.’

  ‘What about Lagé’s files?’

  ‘He made a lot of fuss, Patron. About keeping everything in order. I think he’d have liked a receipt.’

  ‘Lagé’s an ass. Did you find what you were looking for?’

  ‘Yes, Patron. That matched, too.’

  Pel gave a deep sigh. ‘Have them photographed, Nosjean,’ he said. ‘Fast. And get them here. Fly them to Dors. You can explain to Judge Polverari. I think he’ll accept the necessity. I’ll have them met.’

  By the time the photographs arrived, Pel and Darcy were on edge and the ashtrays were full of cigarette stubs. Bakt brought the packet in and laid it on the desk.

  ‘You’d better stay, Kommissar,’ Pel said. ‘Then we’d better see the Director. These photographs may interest him.’

  He began to talk, explaining everything they’d done, passing sheets of paper one after the other to Bakt who sat silently, frowning. Finally, he pushed across the photograph of the note that Nosjean had taken from his files on Cortot and Mortier.

  Bakt’s frown grew deeper. ‘Are they connected, Inspector?’

  ‘You bet your sweet life they are,�
�� Darcy said.

  He held out a packet of cigarettes and Pel took one. As he lit it, he had the feeling that things were going to be all right, after all. He’d continued to try to telephone Madame Faivre-Perret as they’d waited, but every time he’d been informed that there was no reply, and he could only imagine now that, as a businesswoman, she had no intention of getting involved in anything that might delay her date and was not answering. He had even been wondering if he would be wise to try again and – supposing that this time by the grace of God he got hold of her – whether he should with profuse apologies postpone his dinner date. But now, it seemed they might after all see things through to the point when he could leave it with Darcy and be flown back to arrive on the doorstep – even if a little late – to present them in person, together with a dozen red roses. The shops would all be shut when he arrived, he knew, but as a policeman, he had advantages over other people, and there were several florists for whom he’d done a good turn whom he felt he could persuade to open up their premises for him.

  Marie-Anne Chahu looked a great deal less happy and considerably less self-assured when Darcy brought her up to Pel’s office. She was no longer beautiful and poised. Her face was grey and her make-up had disappeared. Sweat – honest sweat – damped her dress between the shoulder blades and under the armpits. There were tears in her eyes, and she looked every day of her age.

  Pel glanced at her, then at Bakt and the Director, who was sitting in a chair in the corner, his face grim.

  ‘Would you like something to drink?’ Pel asked. She shook her head.

  ‘Coffee?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Beer? It’s cold.’

  She hesitated then she nodded. ‘I’d like a beer,’ she said.

  As Krauss left to get it, Pel leaned towards her and placed on the table the photographs of the slip of paper Nosjean had found in Mortier’s wallet.

  ‘Why was your telephone number in the wallet of Philippe Mortier, who committed suicide while under the influence of drugs?’ he asked.

  She stared at the paper. ‘It’s not my number,’ she said. ‘It’s the office number where I work.’