Pel and the Missing Persons

by Mark Hebden

  ‘Thought I’d come out and have a look.’

  ‘Why?’ Pel asked disconcertingly.

  Goriot coughed. ‘Just thought I’d start getting into harness again.’

  ‘Find the saddle chafes?’

  Goriot pretended he hadn’t heard. ‘We ought to be able to nail this gang,’ he said.

  ‘If nobody interferes we shall.’

  ‘Had a word with Philippe Duche?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘He’s out of gaol. He’s probably getting his team together again.’

  ‘Leave him alone,’ Pel said.

  ‘Why? He’s a criminal.’

  ‘It’s the Chief’s wish.’

  Goriot frowned. ‘You leaving now?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes. Nosjean’s in charge. Fingerprints and Forensic are on their way.’

  ‘I’ll stick around a bit.’

  Pel scowled. ‘I shouldn’t,’ he advised.

  Goriot looked surprised. ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because,’ Pel said pointedly, ‘it’s not your case. It’s Nosjean’s.’

  Three

  ‘Bomb,’ the Chief said.

  They had been called into his office and were all sitting round when he sprang his surprise.

  ‘At the airport,’ he said. ‘Last night. It was in an outbuilding,’ he explained. ‘It was home-made and did little damage.’

  They waited for further enlightenment. The Chief obliged. ‘As you know, the city airport is shared with the military. It doesn’t receive much in the way of civil traffic but the Armée de l’Air, which uses the eastern side, is always nervous. That’s why the incident was reported to me quietly. I was asked that no fuss should be made. I pass it on to you in the same spirit. There is to be no fuss.’

  ‘We should have men out there,’ Goriot said.

  ‘They stipulated no fuss,’ the Chief insisted firmly. ‘I say the same. It did little but make a noise. It was the usual thing – sodium chlorate, the main ingredient, packed into a tin. But it wasn’t very well sealed. You could use the mixture in one half of a two-battery torch and use the other battery to set the thing off and the pressure could be tremendous if it were properly packed.’

  ‘The one in the Impasse Tarien was made of torches,’ Goriot said and they were all silent because if anyone knew of the effects of home-made bombs, surely Goriot did.

  ‘Exactly,’ the Chief agreed, his expression sympathetic. ‘But this was a tame effort – somebody who didn’t know a lot about it. And I agree with the Air Force. It could start copycat bombs. These days people know how to make them. The army from the Avenue du Drapeau are doing the investigation and they have their own bomb experts.’

  ‘We should be involved,’ Goriot insisted.

  ‘I think we should not,’ the Chief said mildly. ‘It was small and crudely made and the Air Force even have the feeling it might have been a lark or a bit of spite by a conscript. It was clearly not a serious attempt to damage aircraft or installations. They prefer to keep it quiet and handle it themselves, and not invite any more.’

  ‘Where was it?’ Pel asked.

  ‘In an outbuilding near the perimeter on the civil half of the field. It didn’t do any real damage.’

  ‘Terrorists would have chosen somewhere more important. Hangar. Aircraft park. Officers’ mess. Armoury. Something of that sort.’

  ‘That’s what the Armée de l’Air decided,’ the Chief agreed.

  ‘Could it be a protest of some sort?’ Darcy suggested.

  ‘It could.’

  Goriot, who had been writing furiously in his notebook, looked up, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, to indicate he was on the ball. ‘Has anybody investigated what Philippe Duche’s up to?’ he asked.

  ‘Philippe Duche,’ Pel said patiently, ‘is running a haulage company.’

  ‘He was going to use explosive on the Zamenhoff robbery.’

  ‘He was going to ram the door open with the scoop of a digger,’ Pel corrected. ‘And anyway, Philippe Duche would have used something more sophisticated than a home-made bomb. He’d have got some type from Marseilles.’

  ‘We should watch him.’

  ‘We’ll leave him alone,’ the Chief said firmly. ‘I’ve talked to the prison governor and the prison visitors about him. We’ll give him his chance. If he takes it, so much the better. Leave him alone.’

  As the conference broke up, the Chief drew Pel aside.

  ‘Keep an eye on Goriot,’ he said quietly. ‘I don’t entirely trust him. He behaves a bit oddly. I think he’s determined to get back his seniority no matter who suffers. Perhaps that bomb in the Impasse Tarien did him more harm that we thought.’

  Pel gave him a warm glance. It was the sort of hunch he admired and the Chief, shrewd as he was, wasn’t the type to go in for hunches as a rule.

  ‘By the way,’ the Chief said as they parted, ‘we’ve turned up two more missing persons. One was a girl of fifteen who ran away from home, regretted it and didn’t dare go home. She was living with a man of thirty. She’s home now, forgiven, and content – until she does it again. The other was an old woman who wandered off. She’s been found in hospital at Beaune.’

  ‘Goriot’s determined to have Philippe Duche behind bars again,’ Darcy said as they left the Chief’s office.

  ‘He’s eager to make his mark,’ Pel agreed. ‘He probably feels he’s lost of lot of leeway with all the time he’s had on light duties.’

  As they left the Chief’s corridor, Inspector Nadauld of Uniformed Branch touched Pel’s arm.

  ‘Friday evening,’ he said. ‘We’re having a few drinks at the Bar Transvaal. My son’s wedding. The fact that he’s getting married to a girl from Avallon – in Avallon – doesn’t mean we can’t have a few drinks here to celebrate. Sergeant Gehrer, my deputy, is celebrating too. He finishes his time tomorrow. His successor – chap called Lotier – will be there. You’ll get a chance to meet him. You, too, Daniel. The Chief’s promised to look in.’

  ‘Goriot’s trying to shove his oar in,’ Pel said.

  Madame Pel, who was seated at her desk busy with her accounts, looked up, her eyes amused. She wasn’t very worried about Goriot. After a year or two of marriage, she knew her Evariste Clovis Désiré enough to believe he could handle Goriot and several more like him if necessary. There wasn’t much of him but she would have backed him against Goriot any day, even with an uncle who was a senator.

  ‘What will you do?’

  ‘I’ve done it already. I told him to get lost.’

  Madame smiled. ‘I thought you might,’ she said.

  Pel sat back. He liked to see Madame handling her money. She did it expertly and with a quiet confidence that reassured him. The days when he had expected a poverty-stricken old age had gone. With the skill she showed over finance, he felt he might manage now, if he were careful, to survive in reasonable comfort to the end of his days.

  ‘He tries to interfere with Darcy,’ he said.

  ‘I’m sure you’ll persuade him not to.’

  Pel picked up the paper. It was Le Bien Public. The headline concerned the supermarket hold-up and his face was plastered all over the front page.

  ‘Why is it I always look as if I’d been struck by lightning?’ he mused.

  ‘Oh, you don’t,’ Madame said. ‘You’re really very handsome.’

  It was balm to Pel’s heart. ‘I am?’

  ‘Of course.’ Madame didn’t really think so but she knew Pel liked a little flattery now and again and she was more than prepared to offer it. She knew he was good at his job – one of the best – and that policemen were always underpaid for what they did, and was more than prepared to make up for it by dishing out soft words.

  She began to put her account books away, singing to herself as she did so.

  Où est donc l’évêque d’Odon?

  Il est parti à Loudon

  Manger du pudding.

  Dong et dang et ding.

  Il est parti à Lou-don.

 
‘Where do you find them?’ Pel asked wonderingly.

  ‘My Great-Aunt Jeanne used to sing them to me when I was a little girl.’

  ‘Which one was Great-Aunt Jeanne?’

  ‘She died last year. She left me some money.’ Madame spoke as if it would have been odd for someone in her family not to leave her money.

  Under the circumstances, Pel felt they ought to be able to eat out. He decided on the Relais St-Armand and pretended it was because that was where he had first met Madame. Actually it was because they served excellent andouillettes, the chitterling sausages of the region, with a chablis that took the roof off your mouth. Madame wasn’t fooled for a minute.

  The place was full and she glanced around her, interested – not only as a woman but also as the owner of a business concerned with women – in what people were wearing and how they had their hair done. Near the window, half hidden from Pel by a wilting palm, was a woman in a red polka-dotted dress. The lights were low but he could see she was a big woman with blond hair. Accompanying her was a man who seemed to have been chosen to match her in every department. He had his back to Pel but he was large with powerful shoulders, good features and strong dark hair that curled round his ears. Madame was watching them closely.

  ‘Something of interest?’ Pel asked.

  Madame smiled. ‘Only the dress,’ she said. ‘It’s one of ours. An exclusive model. She looks well in it. She has one of our handbags, too.’ She smiled again. ‘In fact, she has one of our hair styles. It was done by Sylvie Goss and I can recognise her work anywhere.’

  Returning home, they watched opera on television. Pel didn’t go much on opera on television. In fact, he didn’t go much on anything on television. During the days when he had had only Madame Routy to keep him company, he had endured night after night of it with the volume turned up from Loud to Unbelievable. But his wife liked music so he sat through it patiently, dozing at intervals, watched fondly by his wife who knew his views.

  The opera went on later than they expected and Pel was just doing what he called his exercises before getting into bed when the telephone rang. Pel’s exercises wouldn’t have strained an eighty-year-old but at the sound of the bell he was only too happy to pause, his knees bent and his arms outstretched as though he were about to take off and loop the loop.

  Madame watched him cheerfully. She had long been aware that she was married to an oddity who would probably descend into raving eccentricity as he grew older. But she felt she could cope and was always delighted.

  Pel was staring hostilely at the telephone as though he expected it to explode. Frowning, he rose and snatched at it. It was Darcy.

  ‘Thought you’d like to know, patron,’ he said. ‘There’s been a body found on the motorway. Near Mailly-les-Temps.’

  ‘Murder?’ Pel asked.

  ‘Could be. Cruising patrol car found him.’

  ‘I’d better come.’

  As he put the telephone down, Madame Pel looked up. ‘You’ve got to go out?’ she said.

  ‘Yes. I’m sorry. I don’t want to.’

  ‘Don’t be silly. Of course you do.’

  Amusement bright in her eyes, Madame put her spectacles on to see him better. Pel had often felt that, but for feminine vanity and her dislike of being seen in spectacles, he might never have got her to the altar. God knew, in spite of what she said, he was no Adonis and he could only put it down to the fact that she hadn’t been able to see him properly.

  ‘You love your work,’ she said. ‘It comes first and I come second.’

  ‘Never!’

  ‘But yes. If I died or disappeared, you’d mourn me, I suppose, but you’d still go on catching criminals. But if you were to be told tomorrow you had to give up police work, you’d die.’

  There was no answer because it was true. ‘That’s not fair,’ Pel said.

  Madame smiled. ‘Go on. Off you go. Take your warm coat. It’s cold. And don’t forget your cigarettes.’

  Pel managed to look shamefaced. ‘I gave them up,’ he said.

  ‘But now you’ve started again.’

  ‘You knew?’

  ‘Of course.’

  At the door, she handed him a small leather-covered pocket flask. ‘Brandy,’ she said. ‘Against the cold air.’

  ‘It’ll give me indigestion.’

  ‘Indigestion’s better than pneumonia.

  Darcy was waiting for him at the Hôtel de Police and they drove off together.

  ‘Everybody’s been called out,’ Darcy said. ‘Forensic. Fingerprints. Doc Minet’s deputy, Doctor Cham. Minet’s in bed with influenza. There’s a lot of it about.’

  ‘I think I’ve got it.’

  Darcy grinned. If there was anything about, Pel immediately assumed he was about to die of it.

  ‘Cham’s bright,’ he observed. ‘I expect he’ll take Minet’s place when he retires.’

  ‘Everything’s changing,’ Darcy agreed. ‘Judge Polverari’s relief’s arrived. The Palais de Justice told me.’

  ‘Anybody we know?’

  ‘Name of Castéou. Claudie Darel got the name from that barrister she’s going around with – Bruno Lucas. I expect she’ll be the next to go.’ Darcy suddenly realised he sounded like Pel. Having for years listened to Pel being Pel and finding it amusing, he was alarmed to discover he was becoming like him. Good God, he thought, perhaps it goes with the job.

  ‘Goriot was at Talant,’ Pel said. ‘Trying to worm his way in.’

  ‘He seems round the bend a bit these days,’ Darcy said. ‘He was always a bit self-important, with that great-uncle of his. Since he got blown up in the Impasse Tarien he’s become worse. He’s started demanding his old team back.’

  Pel snorted. ‘All his old team but Aimedieu were killed, chiefly because Goriot didn’t think ahead.’

  ‘The Chief’s assigned him Aimedieu,’ Darcy said.

  ‘What?’ Pel nearly went through the roof of the car. Despite his choirboy face, Aimedieu had become one of his best men.

  ‘Aimedieu’s furious,’ Darcy said.

  ‘I’ll bet he is.’

  ‘The Chief says it’s only temporary. Aimedieu’s afraid it won’t be.’

  ‘So am I. We need Aimedieu. He’s bright.’

  ‘Bright enough not to be attached to Goriot. Goriot’s going to be a nuisance.’

  ‘Goriot was always a nuisance.’

  Darcy said nothing for a moment. ‘He tried to bring a charge against Philippe Duche,’ he said eventually. ‘Said one of his trucks had faulty brakes. It was nonsense. Pomereu, of Traffic, was furious. It’s his department, not Goriot’s.’

  ‘I think Goriot’s got it in for Duche.’

  ‘He’s got it in for me, too, patron,’ Darcy said. ‘Been having words with him?’

  ‘Not pleasant ones. I think he’d like my job.’

  ‘He’s got a hope.’

  ‘He’s senior, patron. By many years.’

  ‘That’s because he stuck at inspector. You won’t.’

  ‘I think Judge Brisard’s ganging up with him.’

  Pel frowned. Judge Brisard was one of the examining magistrates. He was young, aggressive, and anathema to Pel. He and Pel had disliked each other from the day they had met. Brisard was tall and plump, with a big behind and hips like a woman. He had a nice line in family togetherness which Pel knew was phoney because he had learned that Brisard kept a policeman’s widow down the motorway in Beaune.

  ‘You’ve never quarrelled with Brisard, have you?’ he asked.

  ‘You have, patron,’ Darcy said. ‘And anything they can lay on me reflects on you. Goriot’s also got Senator Forton behind him, remember.’

  Since Senator Forton spent most of his time in Paris, Pel couldn’t imagine what he could possibly know about Burgundy. As different from the areas that surrounded it as chalk was from cheese, it was noted for its courage, character and strength, and had defied the French kings and produced Vercingetorix and Philip the Bold. It had even produced Evariste C
lovis Désiré Pel.

  He sighed. Office politics were always with them. There were always men who relied more on being noticed by their superiors than on what they achieved, pushy men who manoeuvred rather than worked their way to the top. They occurred in every office where people operated in groups.

  ‘All the same,’ he said, ‘we’ve got to work with him. It’s a measure of a man’s fitness for the top jobs that he can work with someone he doesn’t like.’

  Darcy grinned. Pel had never made concessions to anyone.

  Because of the hour, it was quiet and only one car passed them, going at a speed well above the regulation. On the south-bound carriageway near Mailly-des-Temps they began to see warning cones on the road and signs indicating that the inside track was closed.

  Finally, they began to see the flashing lights of police vehicles and eventually came to an area where the three tracks had been cut to one. The other two tracks had been blocked off and cars and vans were parked to force any traffic that appeared away from the scene. Policemen with handlamps were there to wave vehicles down but, at that hour, the motorway was empty.

  On the northbound carriageway there was a single ‘whoosh’ as a late car hurtled past. A police van, its engine running, had its lights directed across a huddle of men in the roadway. Among them, close to the verge, they could see the body.

  Doctor Cham was bent over it. He looked like a studious hen, tall and thin with glasses, a high forehead and an Adam’s apple that went up and down in his long neck like a yo-yo. He looked up as Pel and Darcy appeared alongside him, his spectacles reflecting the flashing lights of the police vehicles.

  ‘Looks like an ordinary accident,’ he said. ‘Hit and run perhaps. Severe head injuries. Both legs broken. That’s at first glance.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘I’ll be more specific when I examine him on the slab.’

  It was something Pel had to accept. A car, slowed by the waving torches of police, growled impatiently past, the beams of its headlights probing the darkness like lances.

  ‘Any indication who he is?’

  ‘None. Pockets seem to be empty.’