Pel and the Faceless Corpse

by Mark Hebden

  What the Chief said was right, however, and Pel shifted uneasily in his chair. ‘It doesn’t make it any easier, all the same,’ he muttered.

  In the end, the Chief promised to watch the way things were going, but Pel knew him well enough to know he’d do nothing of the sort so long as the dispute didn’t grow too big. Which was exactly what Pel did when Nosjean complained about Misset, or Misset about Krauss, or Krauss about Lagé, or Lagé about Darcy. They were all human beings and often in too close proximity for too long. And they were also often overworked, cold, tired, and longing to get their feet up in their own homes, something that sometimes seemed only too rare.

  Pushing the problem of Brisard aside, they discussed what to do about the Press. Pel was nervous with a murder and an attempted murder within a few kilometres of each other, both on lonely high ground, and the murder of two policemen no more than two hundred and fifty kilometres away in St Symphorien. It was decided that a statement should be made to the Press, warning people in lonely areas not to open their doors at night to strangers, and to report any unknowns they saw on the roads or anything odd that might occur.

  ‘I’ll ask them to play it down, though,’ the Chief said. ‘After all, we don’t want to frighten the daylights out of everybody. I think they’ll co-operate.’

  ‘I wouldn’t bank on Fiabon,’ Pel said darkly. ‘France Dimanche could make a fight at an infants’ school sound like gang warfare.’

  The Chief shrugged his big shoulders. ‘I’ll make it pretty clear,’ he said, ‘that if he doesn’t follow our line, he’ll never get another thing from us. He’ll come to heel.’

  Pel had to be satisfied with that, but he consoled himself that the detective inspector in St Etienne would be having a harder time than he was. Everybody there – the Chief, the Director of Prosecutions, the Palais de Justice, the Press, perhaps even Paris and the President of the Republic – would be bearing down on him. Not counting Matajcek, Pel had only one body. They had two – both policemen.

  The Rue Martin-de-Noinville, where Pel lived, looked shabbier than ever and as he stared at his home he wondered why he hadn’t gone into commerce. By this time he might have been driving a Merc instead of the clapped-out old Peugeot that was always letting him down, owned a house in Paris and another one in the south where he could go for the worst of the weather. He might even have had Brigitte Bardot for a wife – not so young any more, of course, but with four beautiful children, two boys, two girls – and his own private jet to get around. He shuddered. It sounded horrible.

  He could hear the television even as he climbed out of the car and slammed the door. The very thought of it gave him a headache.

  Madame Routy was sprawled as usual in le confort anglais, leaving for Pel only the French armchair that clutched you like an iron maiden. She looked round and gestured at the television to indicate she was just watching the end of something. Madame Routy was always just watching the end of something. The end of something with Madame Routy seemed to last from the moment she took off her apron until the moment she went to bed. Had she been able to, she would have watched the end of something from the moment she got out of bed until the moment she climbed back in; and then, if it were possible, had another television on the dressing table opposite where she laid her head to watch the end of something else.

  Pel stared at her in desperation, wondering what he was going to do about it this time. Every time he returned home to find the television blaring, he swore that if it happened again he’d get rid of Madame Routy and find a new housekeeper. But he always backed away from a confrontation at the last moment.

  I’m a coward, he told himself, a yellow-bellied, lily-livered coward.

  While he was still silently berating himself, the door opened and a small boy entered.

  ‘Didier!’

  Madame Routy tore herself away from the television long enough to explain. ‘He had to come. My sister had to go and look after her father-in-law. He’s ill again.’

  Pel beamed and Madame Routy gave him a dirty look because she knew that, good at domestic in-fighting as she was, she wasn’t half as good as Pel and Didier Darras together. From time to time the boy turned up at Pel’s house to stay, and when he did they were immediately in league against her. Even her televiewing suffered.

  ‘Not fishing weather, I’m afraid,’ Pel pointed out.

  ‘Doesn’t matter,’ the boy said. ‘You solving any cases just now, Monsieur Pel?’

  ‘One or two.’

  ‘Any murders?’

  ‘Yes. A man got shot at Orgny.’

  ‘When they’re shot, do they scream?’

  Pel didn’t answer and Didier went on. ‘I read about it in the paper. They said it was done with a .38.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Probably a Walther-Mathurin. That’s a police pistol, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘There must be thousands in France.’

  Pel nodded. ‘That’s what bothers me,’ he said.

  The boy paused, then, seeing Pel’s worn look, spoke helpfully. ‘I’ve got a duckshoot,’ he said.

  In the backgarden a device like a small roundabout with four arms had been erected. On each arm were suspended cardboard pheasants, ducks or partridges, each numbered with a score according to the size of the target.

  ‘It works by clockwork,’ Didier said.

  He wound it up and the arms began to revolve slowly, carrying the birds with it. He was already a dead shot.

  ‘Mammy bought it for me because she’s always having to go away to look after Grandpappy.’ He fired and a duck spun off the revolving arm. ‘Why not have a go with your gun, Monsieur Pel?’

  ‘Not likely,’ Pel said. ‘I’d probably hit the next door neighbour.’ Come to think of it, he decided, it might not be a bad idea. The next door neighbour was a railway official, big, beefy and red-faced, and he was always round at Pel’s house in summer when the doors and windows were open, complaining about the noise of the television.

  He glanced towards the house. ‘What’s for supper?’ he asked. ‘Soup,’ Didier said. ‘Yesterday’s. Followed by casserole. I think that’s yesterday’s too.’ He handed Pel the rifle. It was small and fired suction-headed darts. ‘They’re not heavy enough,’ he said. ‘The ducks fall off as if they were swooning.’ He fished in his pocket. ‘I made these.’

  ‘These’ were darts with metal tips.

  ‘It’s a strong gun,’ he said. ‘Good spring. I bet it’d fire them all right.’

  With a few deft shots he successfully removed every single bird from the revolving arms, then he loaded the gun and handed it to Pel. It contained one of the metal-headed darts. ‘I just want to know if it’ll carry,’ he explained.

  It did, and there was a tinkle of glass from next door.

  Pel put the gun down and headed for his car. ‘I think we’ll eat out,’ he said.

  Pel arrived at the office the next morning wilting like one of last year’s leaves. Madame Routy had said nothing about her wasted efforts at the oven but she’d got her own back later, and they’d had to sit through every single programme at full blast so they could neither read, nor write or even play Scrabble in the kitchen.

  Darcy was waiting in the office with Krauss. Krauss was an Alsatian, big and slow and easy-going.

  ‘He’s found something,’ Darcy said.

  Pel waved and Krauss pulled out his notebook.

  ‘You don’t need that,’ Pel said. ‘You’re not giving a lecture.’

  Krauss managed to turn the flourish with which he opened the notebook into another flourish to put it away.

  ‘“Vita” Laundry in Dure,’ he said. ‘They saw the picture of the laundry mark in the paper and rang up to say it was theirs. Man staying at the Hôtel de la Poste down the road from them. He brought laundry in and asked them if they’d do it quickly as he was moving on. He asked them to ring the hotel when it was done. When they did so, though, he wasn’t there. They left a message, but he n
ever got it.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘He never turned up again. I rang the hotel. They reported that one of their guests had left without paying his bill.’

  ‘Name?’

  ‘No name, patron. He just gave a room number at the laundry.’

  ‘What about the hotel? Don’t they know?’

  ‘They say not.’

  Pel scowled. ‘He’s supposed to fill in a form. Everybody’s supposed to fill in a form. How long is it since they saw him?’

  ‘He hasn’t been seen for three nights,’ Krauss said. ‘They opened his room with a master key. His suitcase’s still there. He could fit our description.’

  ‘French?’ Pel asked. ‘Dure’s en route from Mulhouse and the German border.’

  Krauss shook his head. ‘Belgian, they thought.’

  ‘Don’t they know that even?’

  ‘They didn’t seem very sure.’

  ‘They’re supposed to be sure,’ Pel said. ‘The law’s clear on the subject. They have to check identity cards or passports.’

  Krauss shrugged. ‘Well, if he were a Belgian he might be a bit dim. You know Belgians.’

  Pel knew. There were a thousand stories about them: ‘If a Belgian threw a hand grenade at you, what would you do?’ ‘Take the pin out and throw it back at him.’ That sort of thing.

  ‘What else? Did they describe him?’

  ‘Yes. Tallish, reddish hair going grey, pale eyes.’

  Pel glanced at Darcy. ‘Could be him,’ he said. ‘What about his clothes?’

  ‘They’re still there.’

  Pel turned to Darcy. ‘Get over there,’ he said. ‘And fast.’

  Dure was just to the south-west of Vesoul on the tourist route to the N73 and the south. It was a busy little town full of hotels of various sizes, of which the Hôtel de la Poste was the biggest, flashy with thick glass doors with bronze handles, a chrome bar – empty at that moment – and a vast and ornate dining room. There was nobody at the reception desk, however, and Darcy pounded the bell until a young man in a black jacket appeared.

  ‘Who’re you?’ Darcy demanded, aggressively because the young man was slick and looked too smart for his own good. In reply, the young man languidly moved a small plaque across the counter with one finger. It said ‘Philippe Chainat, Manager’.

  Darcy showed him his badge and went for him at once. ‘This missing guest of yours,’ he said. ‘Who was it booked him in?’

  Chainat had seen too much television and thought he knew how to handle the police.

  The receptionist had been away for the day, he said, so he had done it. He hadn’t noticed the name and the fiche d’hôtel that should have been filled in seemed to have been lost.

  ‘More likely he didn’t fill it in,’ Darcy said. ‘I’ve been into the police station here and they tell me you’ve been suspected of not following the law before.’

  He hadn’t done any such thing but it was enough to take the self-satisfied look off Chainat’s face.

  ‘You know it’s an offence not to fill in a fiche d’hôtel,’ Darcy went on. ‘And you’re supposed to check it with his papers or his passport.’

  ‘Well, he must have filled it in.’ Chainat didn’t like Darcy’s manner, but he was less sure of himself than he had been.

  Darcy placed both hands on the counter. ‘So where is it?’ he demanded.

  ‘I don’t know.’ Chainat flapped his hands. ‘Perhaps I was called to the phone and it was overlooked. He seemed honest enough, anyway.’

  ‘Perhaps he wasn’t though,’ Darcy snapped. ‘How do you think the police ever manage to trace people? That’s what the system’s for and it won’t work if nobody uses it.’

  Chainat decided that nobody had ever worried before and if only the bastard in Room 34 hadn’t gone missing, nobody would ever have noticed.

  ‘Did he have a car?’ Darcy asked.

  Chainat shrugged. ‘People don’t arrive here by train.’

  ‘What sort was it?’

  Chainat sniffed. He hadn’t noticed it particularly. It was white, middle-sized, a family sort of car which he thought probably had a French registration, though it might have been Belgian. He hadn’t looked at it much.

  ‘You seem to go around with your eyes shut and your mind shut,’ Darcy said. ‘You’d better look out. I’ll get the local police to pay you a call a bit more often to see you do what you’re supposed to do. What sort of man was he?’

  ‘Usual: Head. Two legs. Two arms. Both with hands on the end.’

  ‘Don’t try to be funny with me, my friend,’ Darcy snapped. ‘Was he well-heeled?’

  ‘He wasn’t short of funds.’

  ‘How long had he been here?’

  ‘A week.’

  ‘Did you ever see him without his shirt?’

  Chainat was still trying to score. ‘But of course. All our guests come down to their meals stripped to the waist.’

  ‘I’ve told you,’ Darcy snorted. ‘Don’t be funny with me. I’m trying to find out if you ever saw a tattoo on his forearm.’

  ‘He didn’t show me one,’ Chainat said. ‘But then it’s not something you do, is it, lifting your sleeve and asking “Have you seen my tattoo?”’

  ‘You, my friend,’ Darcy said darkly, ‘are asking for trouble. Anybody else in this dump of yours speak to him?’

  ‘The barman did, I suppose. He sat at the bar the night he arrived.’

  ‘Fetch him in. Quick. Or I’ll have you run in for obstructing the law.’

  The barman was a thin youth with a ferrety look and a moustache that seemed to have wilted and died on his face. He remembered the visitor well enough.

  ‘Sure I remember him,’ he said. The night he had arrived he had sat drinking pernod before his meal and whisky afterwards. The following night he hadn’t appeared so he had assumed he had left. He had seemed well-off.

  ‘Well-heeled,’ was the barman’s expression. ‘Like most Germans.’

  ‘German!’ Darcy swung round and glared at Chainat. ‘You say he was German?’

  The barman shrugged. ‘Well, he didn’t say so. After all, you don’t sit down at a bar and say “I’m a German, isn’t that nice,” do you? Or I’m a Belgian, or a Dutchman. Americans do, of course, but they’re the ones who don’t need to. It’s obvious what they are. They have so much money and they’re twice as big as everybody else.’

  Darcy turned to Chainat. ‘It strikes me, my good friend,’ he said with deadly emphasis, ‘that you train your staff here to be sarcastic rather than efficient. I think I will get the local police to keep a watch on this place.’

  Chainat gestured at the barman. ‘Tell him what he wants,’ he said nervously. ‘Without frills.’

  The barman shrugged.

  ‘He was German?’

  ‘I thought so. He had an accent and he had plenty of money, and most Germans have these days.’

  ‘If that’s how you work it out,’ Darcy said, ‘you need to take a course in detection. Did he smoke?’

  ‘Yes. Cigars.’

  ‘French ones?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know. I can only afford Gauloises.’

  ‘Did he buy any?’

  ‘Not from me.’

  ‘Did he mention his name?’

  ‘Not to me.’

  ‘Never?’

  ‘It’s not usual –’ the barman stopped, glanced at Chainat and shook his head. ‘No, he didn’t mention his name.’

  Darcy turned. ‘Let’s have a look at his room.’

  ‘I’ll get the porter to take you up,’ Chainat offered.

  ‘No, you won’t,’ Darcy said. ‘You’ll take me up yourself.’

  ‘I’m busy.’ The words came out like the bleat of a lost sheep.

  ‘So am I,’ Darcy said. ‘A man’s been brutally murdered – probably your guest – and, thanks to you, we don’t know who he is. Get the key.’

  With a sigh, Chainat produced a key and led the way up the stairs. The hotel wasn’t quite wh
at it seemed. It had been constructed from several old houses, on to which a new façade had been built, and the stairs and corridors were narrow and creaking and looked as if they should have been condemned at the time of General Boulanger.

  Number 34 was on the third floor at the top of a winding stairway covered with cheap whipcord carpet. The room looked out over the ramparts of the town to where the land fell away to the river. Through the window it was possible to see the rising land of the Vosges in the distance.

  Darcy stood in the entrance and sniffed, then he crossed to the wardrobe and lifted out a suit. Holding it to his nose, he sniffed loudly.

  ‘What do you do now?’ Chainat asked bitterly. ‘Put your nose to the ground and follow his scent?’

  Darcy ignored him and began to go through the drawers, turning things over.

  ‘What are you looking for?’

  ‘Cigars.’

  ‘What’s so important about cigars?’

  Again Darcy ignored him and began to stuff the clothes from the wardrobe into a suitcase he found under the bed. When he’d finished, he pushed in all the loose objects from the dressing table and slammed the case shut.

  ‘You taking them away?’ Chainat asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Suppose he comes back?’

  ‘Pass him on to us. He can have them back as soon as he explains a few things.’ Darcy fastened the suitcase and straightened up. ‘A man’ll be along to fingerprint this place.’

  ‘I’ve done nothing,’ Chainat said.

  ‘No. But perhaps our missing friend has. Lock the door. I’ll take the key. And if you’ve got a duplicate, I’d advise you to keep it in its drawer. If our missing friend turns up, give him my name.’

  Pel, Darcy and Leguyader stood in Leguyader’s laboratory staring at the suitcase on his table, its contents spilled along the surface. They all knew they were the belongings of the faceless man they’d found in the woods at Orgny, but there was nothing that might identify him.