Pel and the Faceless Corpse

by Mark Hebden

  It seemed the most likely explanation, and the next day they managed to move another inch or two forward when a white Citröen answering the description of the car missing from the Hôtel de la Poste at Dure was turned up by the police at Rivière Française. It was on the side of the road deep in the undergrowth, and had apparently been there for several days because it was covered with twigs and a lot of bird droppings. The windows were tightly shut, and inside there was nothing but a strong smell of cigars.

  Armed with photographs from the Fingerprint Department, Darcy shot off as soon as the report came in. The car was covered with prints that matched those of the man found by the calvary at Bussy-la-Fontaine and there were two which matched those on the steering wheel of Vallois-Dot’s Renault. There were also one or two others which couldn’t be identified.

  The police sergeant at Rivière-Française was a small man, alert as a terrier, and he hadn’t been idle.

  ‘We checked the car number,’ he said. ‘It belongs to a hire car firm in Belfort.’

  Since Belfort wasn’t too far away, Darcy set off at once.

  ‘Sure,’ the owner of the hire car company said. ‘I remember the guy who hired it. Tallish, well-built, fifty-ish, reddish-fair hair turning grey.’

  ‘Anything else? Any distinguishing marks?’

  ‘None I saw.’

  ‘Ever seen him before?’

  ‘Never.’

  ‘No idea who he was?’

  ‘For all I know, he was the Lion of Belfort.’

  That evening, sitting opposite Pel at his desk, Darcy laid his findings in front of him.

  ‘It was the guy we found at the calvary that hired that car,’ he said. ‘It must have been. But it’s my guess that it was Vallois-Dot who parked it where it was found.’ He looked at Pel. ‘Think it was Vallois-Dot who murdered him?’

  ‘Doesn’t fit.’ Pel shook his head. ‘He doesn’t seem to have been the type. But I think he was around at the time.’

  ‘There must have been two of them, Patron. You can’t get up to Bussy-la-Fontaine without a car and, if our dead friend arrived at a point somewhere near the calvary in the one he hired in Belfort, then Vallois-Dot must have driven it away again after he was killed and left it by the roadside at Rivière Française. Then Vallois-Dot must have been picked up in another car by whoever was with him and driven home.’

  ‘No wonder we thought that whoever carried the body to the Calvary was strong,’ Pel said. ‘There must have been two of them. Vallois-Dot and one other. I think our friend, the postmaster, was an accomplice to murder, but he got the wind up and was just about to spill the beans when he was shot.’

  ‘And Matajcek?’ Darcy said. ‘Where does he fit in?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Pel said gloomily. ‘Perhaps nowhere.’

  Ten

  Orgny was only a small village and its church, dating back to the twelfth century, stood bang in the centre, grey, crumbling and ancient alongside the stream that ran through the place, which, that morning, was gun-metal grey under the iron sky.

  Standing by the church gates, unobtrusive under the trees, Pel waited with Darcy for Vallois-Dot’s funeral cortège to arrive. Here, he felt sure, was the answer to the pattern he was seeking. Everybody in Orgny knew everybody else. Family histories, family scandals and family fears were common property, and if the truth weren’t to be found in this narrow village of narrow ideas, then it wouldn’t be found anywhere.

  Standing alongside him, Darcy moved his frozen feet, deciding that the corpses in the ground about him were probably warmer than he was.

  ‘It’s quiet,’ he observed.

  ‘You’d hardly expect it to sound like a riot,’ Pel growled.

  He shifted restlessly. Near him as he waited was the notice board announcing the times of masses, and under his feet a path which had been stirred by the feet of countless mourners and the hooves of generations of scrawny horses. It was a desolate place full of cast-iron crosses, beadwork wreaths and marble slabs supporting yellowing photographs under glass. Among the lachrymose stone angels there was a large and decorative tomb with a withered wreath, laced with faded red, white and blue ribbon, lying at its foot. He could just make out the words on the plinth between the trees – ‘Fusillés par les Nazis’.

  He shivered and fought off the urge to light a cigarette. About him were men and women in black, a few still arriving to shake hands silently before taking their place under the trees, and he was deep in thought when Darcy nudged him. As he looked up he saw the cortège approaching. Despite their lack of funds, Vallois-Dot’s widow had seen fit to provide an impressive coffin covered with metal ornaments and a funeral car decorated with black and silver drapings. There were more black drapes round the church door, where the priest waited, an old man with a droplet on the end of his nose and huge black boots under his cassock, his robes touched with moisture. The whole village was there, and Pel recognised Heutelet, Piot, the Grévys, even Massu standing there on one side, square and dark, with his constable, watching everything, his black eyes alert, his dark visage heavy and solemn, eyeing the mourners, keeping an eye on the district he administered, ready like a sheepdog to herd them into the church if they strayed.

  Darcy blew his nose and shifted restlessly. He wasn’t even thinking of the funeral. He was thinking of Joséphine-Heloïse Aymé. He had a feeling he’d done himself a lot of no good leaving her side as he had. When he’d rung up a third time to make things right she’d told him to drop dead; at the very least it looked like being a large box of chocolates, roses or a gold bracelet.

  He sighed and stared at the black-clad people filing past.

  ‘They don’t look very criminal, Patron,’ he said. ‘Just cold.’

  When they got back to the office, Nosjean was busy at a typewriter and Krauss was on the telephone in the sergeants’ room, occupied with ringing the towns along the German border.

  Pel took a seat at his desk, frustrated, dyspeptic and certain he was dying. His cold was worse and the Chief was asking for a report. A report on the involved cases on the Butte-Avelan, he thought disgustedly, would take him days, and he felt like Tolstoy about to start on War and Peace. Gloomily he rolled a cigarette, watched it vanish in two puffs, and sadly, certain it was another nail in his coffin, took out a Gauloise. As the first whisps of smoke touched his lungs, he sat back and drew in another lungful. It seemed to go right down to his toes and, bursting into a violent fit of coughing, he felt better at once.

  Fishing in his drawer, he took out the picture Madame Grévy had found behind the chair in Piot’s house at Bussy-la-Fontaine. Who was she? Darcy’s enquiries to Paris so far had produced very little.

  Staring at the picture, Pel was certain it wasn’t Piot’s cousin. So who was it? The face stared back at him, serene, beautiful and clearly of good class. As Darcy said, this was no shop girl.

  How could he check on it? Local, Madame Grévy had said. Wealthy. Poised. Name of Nadine. It wasn’t much to go on. They might try all the expensive clothes shops. One or two might have seen her.

  The calm, poised, confident face gazed at him. The hair was dressed high on her head, immaculate, the work of an expert, an expensive expert without doubt.

  Hair! Pel sat bolt upright. Hair meant hairdressers! And expensive hairdressers meant Nanette!

  Of course! Nanette! Nanette was the best hairdresser in the city and if this woman were local as Madame Grévy thought, she’d undoubtedly have had it styled there. Unless she were so wealthy she flew to Paris or Marseilles. There were women who were silly enough for that but, thinking about Piot and his attitude to women, Pel was certain that he’d never have much time for that sort. He didn’t belong to the jet set and he suspected he wouldn’t choose his girl-friends from among them.

  He picked up the telephone nervously. ‘Get me Madame Nanette’s,’ he said.

  The man on the telephone paused. ‘Who?’

  ‘Madame Nanette’s. The hairdressers.’

  ‘You w
ant me to arrange you a shampoo and set, sir?’

  ‘Don’t be funny,’ Pel snapped. ‘Get on with it.’

  The voice that answered was soft and friendly.

  ‘Is that Madame Faivre-Perret?’ Pel asked. The voice became harsher at once. ‘Madame Faivre-Perret doesn’t work in the salon,’ it said coldly. ‘I can give you Barbara. She’s free.’

  ‘I shan’t keep her long.’

  ‘Fine. What is it you wanted. Tint? Shampoo? Or a cut?’

  ‘I want to see Madame Faivre-Perret,’ Pel snapped.

  ‘She doesn’t work in the salon, Monsieur. I just told you.’

  ‘This is the Police Judiciaire,’ Pel shouted. ‘Tell her it’s Inspector Pel!’

  There was a long pause, then the telephone clicked and another voice came which Pel recognised at once.

  ‘Inspector Pel!’

  Pel’s heart thumped. ‘I’d like to see you, Madame,’ he said. ‘I have a query I’m making. You can probably help us.’

  ‘Of course, Inspector. Come and have afternoon tea with me. About four. Will that be all right?’

  ‘Yes – ’ Pel’s voice sounded rusty with disuse ‘–that will be fine. I’ll be there.’

  He’d have preferred earlier, but afternoon tea sounded promising.

  When Pel arrived at the house in the Rue Martin-de-Noinville, Madame Routy was cutting out a pattern in the sitting room, assisted by three neighbours, two small girls and Didier Darras.

  ‘I didn’t expect you home,’ she said.

  ‘I didn’t expect to be home,’ Pel pointed out.

  He went to his room to change. The suit he was wearing was baggy at the knees, and had lapels that persisted in curling up at the ends.

  Carefully selecting his very best, a dark charcoal grey that had cost him a fortune and was intended only for the Chief’s parties or to meet the President of France when they finally decided to give him the Légion d’Honneur or elected him to the Academy, he examined himself in the mirror. The suit fitted well but it made him look like a Dutch Reform Church minister, and they were nothing to write home about when it came to being chic. Fishing in his wardrobe again, he brought out a light grey suit. But it had several spots on the front that made him look as though he fed from a trough. It would have to be the dark grey.

  ‘Try this.’

  He turned to see Didier standing by the wardrobe holding a pink shirt in his hand. It was brand new and still in its cellophane packet. Pel shied away like a frightened stallion.

  ‘I can’t wear that,’ he said. ‘It was given to me by my younger sister. Her husband runs a drapers’ shop in Chatillon and she always sends her daughters-in-law nylon nightdresses for Christmas and me shirts like that. I think they’re stock they can’t get rid of.’

  The boy studied the shirt carefully. ‘It’s not bad,’ he said. ‘Be all right with that grey suit. Adds a bit of colour.’

  ‘Are you good at colour?’ Pel asked.

  ‘I might go in for art when I leave school. It has lots of advantages.’

  ‘Well,’ Pel agreed, ‘artists always seem to have plenty of girls.’ He studied the shirt again. ‘What sort of tie?’

  Didier crossed to the wardrobe and pulled out a navy blue tie from the rack. ‘How about this?’

  Studying himself in the get-up, Pel decided he knew nothing about clothes. For the first time in his life he didn’t look like a neglected husband. Almost, you might say, like a successful businessman.

  He took off the clothes carefully, laying them on the bed, then he washed and shaved and dressed himself again and brushed his hair.

  ‘It’s too flat,’ Didier said. ‘Don’t brush it so hard. Just use a comb.’

  Pel stared at him, awed. ‘Where do you get these tips?’

  ‘Mammy talking to Pappy. I expect that’s it. I’ve got a girlfriend, too.’

  Pel wished he had.

  He did his hair as the boy suggested and had to admit that it didn’t lie quite so flat as it normally did. It even, he noticed, had a suggestion of a wave, and he decided that the grey at his temples suited him. He’d been fighting baldness for years, hoping he might look distinguished for a short while before he finally had a dome like a billiard ball. He considered it one of the few successes of his life.

  Reaching for the after-shave lotion he smeared it on fulsomely, then panicked and decided he’d put on too much so that he smelled like a whore’s boudoir. Hurriedly washing it off again, he applied it again a little more cautiously. He decided he looked rather smart.

  Didier accompanied him to the door. ‘Who is she?’ he asked.

  Pel’s jaw dropped. ‘Who is who?’

  ‘The girl you’re going to see.’

  ‘You’re a true Frenchman, mon vieux,’ Pel said dryly.

  Driving carefully to the city, taking care not to rub against the doors of the old Peugeot because they always seemed to leak oil on to his clothes, he reached the Hôtel de Police around three o’clock.

  He entered the office in light spirits. He felt almost cheerful. If he pushed a bit, he thought, he probably would feel cheerful.

  It was the old spirit of Burgundy coming out in him, he decided, that strong undefeatable spirit that had made the province an independent monarchy and given it the power to challenge the King of France, the spirit from which had come its reputation for good eating, and given body to its fine wines. He was so overcome with pride, he was even singing softly to himself as he strode down the corridor.

  The door of the sergeants’ room came up and he pulled himself together and became silent, his face set and frowning, a good, no-nonsense Burgundian police inspector. Darcy was crouched over his notebook, his head down.

  ‘I checked the cousin, Patron,’ he said. ‘Clothilde Moncey. Divorced. Thirty-two. Director of “Mes Enfants Babywear”. At the moment on a promotion trip to the United States. Considered to have quite a head for business.’

  ‘Did they know anything about Piot?’ Pel asked.

  ‘They did. They also suspect she has a boyfriend but they don’t know who.’

  He finished writing and looked up. Seeing Pel, his jaw dropped then his mouth widened in a grin.

  ‘Turn round, Patron,’ he urged. ‘Let me drink you in.’

  Pel flushed and Darcy’s grin widened.

  ‘Oh, mon dieu,’ he said. ‘Who is she, Patron?’

  ‘Who is who?’ Pel said coldly.

  ‘Well, you’d hardly get yourself tarted up like that just to see Judge Brisard or the Proc.’

  ‘I have to see somebody important,’ Pel said. ‘Sometimes it pays to be properly dressed.’

  Darcy refused to be squashed and tossed a packet of Gauloises across. ‘Better have these, Patron,’ he said. ‘For God’s sake, don’t offer her one of those fusées from that little gadget of yours. There’s an art to chasing women and that’s not part of it.’

  Pel pushed open the door of the salon on the Rue de la Liberté with considerable trepidation. Being a bachelor, he was not experienced in such places.

  As he entered, he was pleased to notice that the girl who received him gave him a cool, appraising glance. ‘Perhaps you’ll take a seat, Monsieur,’ she suggested.

  Pel sat, wishing he’d remembered to take a capsule to sweeten his breath a little. He’d intended to, but it had slipped his memory, and he remembered he’d had beer at lunch. What Madame Faivre-Perret would think of a man who breathed stale beer over her – even Amstel, which was good beer – he couldn’t imagine.

  A girl appeared in front of him. ‘Madame’s name, Monsieur?’

  ‘Madame?’

  ‘The lady Monsieur is waiting for?’

  Pel scowled. ‘I’m not waiting for a lady,’ he said. ‘I have an appointment with Madame Faivre-Perret.’

  Her face fell. ‘A thousand pardons, Monsieur. I didn’t realise. You’ll be Monsieur Pel, of course, of the Police Judiciaire.’ She gave him a look which seemed to suggest she was surprised that the Police Judic
iaire had such smartly-dressed officers. ‘This way. Her room’s upstairs.’

  She led him, blushing, through a salon full of women sitting under hair-dryers reading magazines. As he passed, he was surprised to see they all lifted their heads and gave him interested glances. It made him feel better. Evariste Clovis Désiré Pel seemed to have come into his own. He felt two metres high and was sure he looked like a cross between Robert Redford and Jean-Paul Belmondo.

  Madame Faivre-Perret’s office was furnished in pale green and yellow, with a lot of filmy drapings. It was so feminine it almost made Pel blush with embarrassment. Almost as if he’d caught her without her clothes on.

  Her attitude was brisk and friendly. ‘Inspector! Sit down. Tea will be here in a moment. I didn’t think we’d meet again so soon.’

  ‘I thought of you at once,’ Pel lied. ‘Something cropped up. A photograph. I guessed she’d come here.’ He stopped dead, realising he was babbling like an idiot. ‘We’re trying to identify someone,’ he said more calmly. ‘A young woman. She looks well-dressed and probably wealthy and it’s believed she’s from this city. It occurred to me that she probably came here to have her hair done.’

  Madame Faivre-Perret smiled. ‘That was highly intelligent of you, Inspector,’ she said. ‘If she’s wealthy and comes from this area, that’s more than likely. But first, here’s the tea.’

  The tray was brought in by a girl in a pink overall, and Pel felt almost domesticated as it was poured out for him into a flowered green china cup. Normally he drank out of a mug to save washing up, and it gave him a feeling of luxury and wealth. He decided he was wasting his life as a bachelor if this was the sort of thing that went with being married.

  He nibbled at a biscuit and swallowed his tea. Fishing out the photograph, he laid it on the table. Madame Faivre-Perret picked it up and he was surprised to see her take a pair of spectacles from a drawer. They were large and elegantly-shaped but they changed her whole appearance. Since they also greatly enlarged her eyes, he could only assume they had strong lenses and it led him to wonder if she saw him as plainly as she appeared to, and whether he’d wasted his time putting on his best suit and pink shirt. Perhaps she was as blind as a bat.