Pel and the Missing Persons

by Mark Hebden

  ‘Has the weapon been found?’

  ‘Not yet. Perhaps he chucked it in the canal.’

  Brochard had all the names, but only two seemed important – those of Duff Forbes Mackay, who was dead, and James Duart, who had probably killed him.

  Mackay was in his cabin, lying on blood-soaked sheets, the front of his clothes red with blood. His hands were also red and there were red hand-prints and fingerprints on the door and bulkhead of the cabin, and spots on the deck outside.

  ‘The blood spots are circular,’ Leguyader pointed out. ‘With the usual crenellated marks on the edges. There are only two that look like exclamation marks. He must have been moving at the time so that they hit the deck at an angle. It seems to me that when he was stabbed, the circular spots of blood fell while he was standing still and upright, probably shocked, but the others came as he tried to make his way into his cabin where he fell on his bunk and there died.’

  ‘From loss of blood,’ Cham said. ‘The bunk’s saturated and so is the mattress and the sheets. He must have been drunk and didn’t realise he’d been stabbed.’

  Judge Brisard was handling the case. He had a yacht on one of the lakes in the Jura and made a lot of fuss about using the correct nautical terms. He seemed to be in a hurry to get away and Pel eyed him coldly. Brisard, he decided, was growing fatter and fussier. It would be nice, he thought idly, if he could fall over the side and drown.

  Nobody seemed anxious to talk and Pel formed the impression that the party that had been held to celebrate the culmination of a week’s cruise had got a little out of hand. It had started simply with wine at dinner but afterwards, after they’d all had brandies, since the passengers were all Scots someone had foolishly introduced whisky, and the staff of the boat, who were supposed to keep order, had got involved.

  The staff were waiting now in the cabin of the boat’s manager, Aloff. They were all smoking and within two minutes so was Pel.

  ‘I suppose this is the end for me,’ Aloff said. ‘We’ve been warned about getting implicated in any way with the passengers. Staying sober. Making sure trouble doesn’t start. Well, there was trouble and we got involved. All of us.’

  ‘Did you see any trouble between Duart and Mackay?’ Pel asked.

  Aloff sighed. ‘A bit of bad temper. It was just jealousy. Mackay had been making eyes at Marie-Claude all week. Then Duart started. He spent the first few days of the trip drinking, then he seemed to spot Marie-Claude and he was a bit more polished than Mackay. I think Mackay went round in one of those skirt things in Scotland and he hadn’t the technique Duart had. He put on his kilt one night to show off but it was too hot and he had to change it for a pair of linen trousers. He had a knife in his stocking.’

  ‘He had a knife?’

  ‘They always have them, patron,’ De Troq’ explained. De Troq’ always knew everything. ‘It’s part of the Highland dress.’

  ‘What do they use them for?’

  ‘I think they used them originally for cutting up the deer they’d killed. Perhaps even for cutting up rivals. Nowadays they’re just for show. Perhaps they use them for sharpening pencils or peeling apples. I don’t think these days they’re big enough for much else.’

  ‘Get it, Lagé.’

  Lagé produced the knife but Cham shook his head. ‘I’ll check it, of course, but there’s been no blood on it.’

  Marie-Claude Darc was suffering from a hangover and wasn’t very willing to talk, but they eventually got out of her what had happened. She was pretty and it wasn’t hard to imagine two young men coming to blows over her.

  ‘They’d been following me around all week,’ she insisted, holding her head. ‘I didn’t think much of it at first, but then I realised they’d both fallen rather badly.’

  ‘Which did you prefer?’

  ‘Duff Mackay. He was tall and good-looking. But it was only for the holiday, you understand. There was no funny business. I have a boy-friend already. He’s a bank manager in Lyons.’

  ‘And the other one, Duart?’

  ‘He’s divorced. He had some important position in London. In finance, which was how we started talking. I told him my boy-friend was in banking. He boasted a lot and I didn’t like him very much. He was fat and tried to paw me. When we went to the night club, he suggested that when we got to the boat again I should go to his cabin. I told him not to be silly and pushed him away. He got angry and suddenly there was Duff Mackay between us. I think he had old-fashioned ideas about gallantry.’

  ‘They seem to have got him killed.’

  She nodded miserably. ‘They pushed at each other for a while, then Alex Aloff got between them and pushed them apart. He made them shake hands and after that it seemed to be all right, and when we got back to the boat, they were talking again. Unfortunately Alex allowed the bar to be opened again. Everything seemed all right, but then Duart produced a bottle of whisky. He said all Scots drank whisky and they started drinking again. When I went to my cabin, there were four of them still in the saloon – Duart, Duff Mackay and a married couple called Jenkins. The next I heard was shouting and I thought the fighting had started again. But Alex said Duff had been stabbed.’

  The story was confirmed by the two Jenkinses but both had left the saloon before Mackay and Duart. It seemed to leave only Duart, who was demanding a British lawyer and refusing to open his mouth until he got one.

  They persuaded him to appear in the end. He was a flabby man and was suffering from a monumental hangover so that his memory of the evening was far from clear. He was wearing a freshly laundered shirt and when they asked him about it, he said he’d just changed it.

  ‘What about the shirt you were wearing?’

  ‘It was dirty.’

  ‘What sort of dirty?’

  ‘Greasy. Wine stains.’

  ‘Bloodstains?’

  ‘No! No!’

  ‘Find it, Lagé.’

  The shirt had smears of blood on the front and round the cuffs.

  Duart frowned. ‘I’m saying nothing.’

  ‘You can surely say how it got there.’

  Duart swallowed. ‘I’d lost him,’ he said. ‘I went to his cabin to find him. We were friendly enough again by this time. I must have picked it up then.’

  ‘Did you see him?’

  ‘Yes. But I didn’t know he’d been stabbed. The light wasn’t on and he was on his face. I decided he’d passed out and that was the end of the evening. I closed the door and went to my own cabin. I remember sitting on the bed to take my shoes off but that’s the lot. I don’t remember any more.’

  ‘Do you possess a knife?’

  ‘Penknife. That’s all. I use it to clean my pipe.’

  Pel held out his hand. There was no sign of blood on the knife and Cham shook his head.

  ‘That wasn’t the weapon,’ he said.

  ‘I think,’ Judge Brisard said portentously, ‘that we’d better take this type into custody and give him time to get over his headache. He might then remember a bit more, because it doesn’t look as if we’re going to pick up much today.’

  Though they didn’t know it, they were about to pick up much more than they realised, and Mackay’s death was going to open more doors for them than they expected.

  Fourteen

  Darcy was in a foul mood. They had managed to trace Madame François, the former deputy matron at the Hospice de Lugny. She was married and living in Vienne and Darcy had shot down the motorway to talk to her, only to find she was not at home, nor even in the country, having gone on a visit to her son in Quebec in Canada.

  Her husband, who worked for the railways, had not gone with her and, learning from him the date of her return, Darcy had gone back eagerly to find she had not turned up. Her husband said she had telephoned him to say she had decided to stay another week in Canada with her son. Without her, they seemed unable to find Madame Weill, the owner of the hospice, and Madame Weill seemed suddenly to have become one of the Chief’s Missing Persons.

&
nbsp; In addition, Darcy had heard more rumours about himself and knew now that there was a definite suggestion floating about the Hôtel de Police that he’d been taking bribes. It was beginning to get on his nerves and he had picked on Debray over some trivial mistake and bawled him out. Debray was the youngest on the team and the look on his face made Darcy feel guilty, because he knew he had picked on him because of his own frustration and that reason alone.

  It had relieved his feelings but it didn’t stop the rumours, and Darcy knew what happened when rumours floated to the surface. They had to be investigated and, while they were, the man involved was suspended from duty until there could be an enquiry. Darcy had a feeling that the business was coming close to a climax.

  He knew the Chief had been sitting for some time on the decision whether to suspend him or not. The Chief was a loyal type, an honest bull-at-a-gate sort of man, and he didn’t want to suspend Darcy, but police work was always in the eye of the politicians and he had to do something, and rumours and the waiting were getting on Darcy’s nerves. Moreover, that morning, crossing the square at the Porte Guillaume, he had bumped into an old flame. Her name was Josephine-Héloise Aymé and she and Darcy had conducted a stormy love affair a few years before. He was about to greet her when she turned aside and walked past him, apparently without seeing him.

  But he knew she had and it made him think. Even after they’d parted they had remained on good terms and she had always been willing to be friendly. He stood still, staring after the slim figure with its mass of red hair. He had a theory about what was happening. Nothing had appeared in the press about him personally, but he had no doubt the word had got around, because this had been the second incident in two days.

  Troubled, Darcy thought it might be a good idea to take his mind off things by calling at the Hospice de Lugny again. As he approached, he spotted the woman they’d spoken to when they’d first arrived there. She was heading for the village, a plastic bag in her hand, an apron showing beneath her coat. He stopped his car alongside her.

  ‘Can I give you a lift, madame?’ he asked.

  She clearly thought he had nefarious intentions towards her.

  ‘I don’t accept lifts from strange men,’ she said, hostile and haughty at the same time.

  ‘I’m not a strange man,’ Darcy said. ‘I’m a policeman.’ He flashed his identity card at her. ‘I met you at the hospice a few days ago, remember? I’m Inspector Darcy. You’re Madame–’

  As he paused, she supplied the answer. ‘Brouchal.’

  ‘That’s it. Madame Brouchal. We talked.’

  ‘What do you want with me?’ She gestured with the plastic carrier bag. ‘What’s in here’s mine.’

  ‘What is in there?’

  ‘Food. And it doesn’t belong to the hospice. I do the cooking there and I sometimes take along my own ingredients and cook for myself and my family at the same time. But I buy it myself and just use their cooker. And why not? It doesn’t add anything to their bill because I have to use it for them anyway.’

  Darcy didn’t believe her. What she carried would undoubtedly be for her family but he guessed the ingredients had come from the larder of the hospice. But he didn’t argue. He had better things to do than check for stolen food.

  ‘I was just about to visit the hospice when you happened along,’ he said. ‘Perhaps you can save me a lot of trouble and in return I can take you home.’

  Unwillingly she admitted she had finally recognised him and climbed into the car.

  ‘Well,’ she admitted, ‘it’s a help because I’m late. I’ve been helping to lay the new carpet.’

  ‘What new carpet?’

  ‘In the television room. They said it was worn out. It didn’t seem worn out to me. I expect it was the red wine that was spilt.’

  ‘Red wine makes a mess,’ Darcy agreed.

  ‘He knocked over a tray of drinks.’

  ‘Who did?’

  ‘Him. The one who was found dead. They rang up Bertholle Carpets and ordered a new one. It came yesterday. They took the old one away. There were bits of glass in it. What are you wanting to know?’

  ‘Anything you can tell me about him. The man who was found dead.’

  She shrugged. ‘He was a randy old devil,’ she said. ‘He liked to put his hand on my backside when he passed me in the corridor. I told him in no uncertain terms that my backside wasn’t free pasturage for the wandering hands of dirty old men.’

  ‘Funny he disappeared and turned up dead on the motorway.’

  She sniffed. ‘He’s not the first.’

  ‘There’ve been others found dead on the motorway?’

  ‘Not that.’ She seemed to regard Darcy as having the intelligence of a rabbit. ‘I meant that he’s not the first to disappear.’

  ‘Do they often walk out?’

  ‘Some of them aren’t all there. Round the bend. Senile. Their families stick them in the home to get rid of them.’

  ‘And they disappear?’

  ‘They have done. Most come back but there was one old boy eighteen months ago who didn’t. Wealthy old boy, too, I heard. His family just didn’t want to be bothered with him and they weren’t very worried when he disappeared. All they were interested in was getting their hands on his money. They even complained we’d stolen some of his belongings.’

  ‘What for instance?’

  ‘Oh, money he had on him.’

  ‘What happened to him?’

  ‘Nobody knows. In the kitchen we decided he’d chucked himself in the river. He was suffering from depression. I’d have been depressed, too, if I’d had a family like he had.’

  ‘Did he live with his family?’

  ‘Not likely. He lived on his own. His family paid him visits. But not often. I think he was glad to come to the hospice. At least they played cards with him at night.’

  ‘They seem to play a lot of cards.’

  ‘Well, when they’re old there isn’t much else they can play, is there? They certainly can’t go in for fun and games. Only a few like old Dupont try that. Usually it’s backgammon. Or scrabble.’

  ‘Does Madame Weill play?’

  ‘She used to when she was younger.’

  ‘Did she play with this old man?’

  ‘No. She’d gone to see her daughter in Saint-Trop’.’

  Darcy’s ears pricked. ‘You mean she’s been there since God knows how long?’

  Madame Brouchal gestured with a limp flap of her hand. ‘Well, she was getting on a bit herself. She must be eighty if she’s a day. She just leaves it to old Sully. Mind you, I expect she takes her share of the profits.’

  ‘Did she know she’d lost one of her inmates?’

  ‘Madame Sully was going to write to her.’

  ‘But she didn’t reappear to hold an enquiry?’

  ‘No. They hadn’t an address.’

  ‘I think,’ Darcy said, ‘that we ought to try to find her. So we can tell her she’s just lost another.’

  Absorbed with his information, Darcy headed for the Hôtel de Police. The cold-shouldering he was receiving was worrying him. And he hadn’t finished yet.

  Arriving in Pel’s office, he passed on what he had learned from Madame Brouchal. Pel seemed curiously uninterested.

  Darcy’s anger was boiling out of him and, as he finished, he burst out at once with his unhappiness. ‘I met Philippe Duche downstairs,’ he said.

  ‘What’s he want?’ Pel seemed preoccupied and kept his eyes on the papers on his desk.

  ‘He came in to complain. His wife was with him. They say one of Goriot’s men’s been following them.’

  ‘Have you asked Goriot?’

  ‘I saw Goriot’s sergeant. He says not. But I don’t believe him and I reckon Philippe Duche knows whether he’s being followed or not. We’ve followed him often enough in the past. He says he’s being harassed.’

  ‘Harassing an innocent man won’t help Goriot,’ Pel said. ‘I think it’s time he had another medical. I wonder, i
n fact, if that medical that allowed him to return to duty was properly conducted or whether his uncle, Forton, had a hand in it.’

  ‘There’s another thing, too,’ Darcy said angrily. ‘I’ve just been accused of taking bribes.’

  ‘Who by?’

  ‘Gaston Lerenard. You know him. He’s Pierre la Poche’s sidekick. I brought him in six months ago. He’d been picking pockets. He was fined. He’s just been brought in again. One of the Uniformed boys picked him up. When he saw me he said, “Some people get away with it. It depends whom you know.”’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘I was going to wring his neck. The Uniformed boy – name of Pinchot – pushed me away.’

  ‘It’s a good job he did, Daniel.’

  ‘Yes. I’d probably have hit him. It all comes from this obsession Goriot has that Philippe Duche did the shooting at the airport. Because I’ve been behind him, he thinks I’m in his pocket.’

  ‘Hang on to your temper. It can only get you into worse trouble. And you’ve got enough, as it is.’

  ‘What do you mean, patron?’

  ‘The Chief’s decided: you’ve been suspended.’

  Darcy’s face twisted. ‘For taking bribes?’

  ‘The Chief doesn’t believe that for a minute but people are a bit sensitive about the police these days and he felt it was best. Full pay, of course. You’re innocent until you’re proved guilty.’

  Darcy managed a twisted smile. ‘I always thought your view of criminals, patron, was that they’re guilty until they’re proved innocent.’

  ‘You’re not a criminal.’ Pel snapped the words and Darcy knew he was angry. ‘But rumours are going round about you. You know they’re rubbish. I know they’re rubbish. That’s because we know and trust each other. But other people have to be convinced.’

  ‘When does the suspension start?’

  ‘Immediately.’