Pel and the Prowler

by Mark Hebden

  ‘No one there,’ he said, climbing inside as she unlocked the door. ‘You’re sure this is the place?’

  ‘Certain.’

  Driving into the next street, they found the garage locked and dark, its front guarded by a wire mesh gate that looked as if it might keep out small children and dogs but not much else. Darcy was on top of it in a second.

  ‘If a cop comes,’ he said. ‘Tell him I’m in here. The name’s Darcy. He’ll know me.’

  He prowled round the garage premises but there was no sign of anyone. It was clear the attacker had been as clever as usual and checked his escape route ahead. Returning to the car again, he climbed in, lit a cigarette and offered one to the girl. She accepted it with trembling fingers.

  ‘What the hell were you doing alone on the street at this time of night?’ he asked. ‘Surely you’ve seen the warnings in the newspapers?’

  Her hand moved in a helpless gesture. ‘My mother telephoned that she’d had a fall. She lives round the next corner. I’ve just put her to bed. I had to come. She thought she’d broken her arm. She hadn’t. It was only bruised. I’ll get the doctor to her tomorrow.’

  ‘Where do you live?’

  ‘Rue St Brieuc. Round the corner from the Rue des Fosses.’

  ‘Name?’

  ‘Monique Letexier.’

  ‘Mademoiselle?’

  ‘Madame.’

  ‘Where’s your husband? Why didn’t he come with you?’

  ‘He’s not here. He’s in Marseilles. He’s a sales representative. He’s away most of the time.’ She looked nervously at Darcy. ‘I’ll have to come and see her in the morning. And again in the evening. To make sure she’s all right. Feed her. Help her to bath. That sort of thing. What shall I do?’

  ‘Get a taxi,’ Darcy said briskly. ‘Or get one of the neighbours you can trust to walk with you. If I get the chance I’ll come myself. Now let’s get you home. I’ve radioed in so there’ll be prowl cars on the streets.’

  The Rue St Brieuc contained a few old houses which had been gutted and rebuilt. They were modern-looking with brightly-coloured doorways and brass knockers, good properties surrounded by the old part of the town.

  ‘I like living here,’ she explained as Darcy stopped the car and looked curiously about him. ‘I was born here and grew up here. Would you like to come in and have a coffee or something?’

  Darcy didn’t argue. He never did where a pretty girl was concerned. Inside, she offered him a whisky instead. ‘I think I’d rather have a drink,’ she admitted. ‘Wouldn’t you?’

  He agreed that it was a good idea. ‘Did you see this type’s face?’ he asked.

  ‘No. He was behind me.’

  ‘Is there anything you can remember about the incident?’

  ‘When I kicked him, he said “Oh” or “Ah”. Something like that.’

  ‘Which was it?’

  ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘It might.’

  ‘I think it was “Ah”.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘He called me a whore.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘How?’ She looked puzzled.

  ‘What exactly did he say?’

  ‘Just the word “Whore!”’

  ‘Why should he say that?’

  She studied Darcy with steady eyes.

  ‘Why do you ask?’

  Darcy’s eyes were equally steady. ‘Because there’ve been four murders in this city recently and one of them was a whore. At least she sold herself for money.’

  ‘Well, I don’t.’

  ‘Then why would he think you did?’

  ‘I don’t know. Perhaps because there are one or two round this district. It isn’t the best area in the city, you know. One or two hang around the Bar de la Renaissance in the Rue Hauts Pavés. Perhaps he thought I was one. Because it was midnight and I was alone.’

  ‘Anybody round that area know you?’

  ‘Most people do. Somebody must have seen me at times going to my mother’s. I visit her regularly.’

  ‘We’ll go through the place with a fine-toothed comb tomorrow.’ Darcy frowned. ‘You say he called you a whore. Is that all he said?’

  She tried to recall the incident, frowning at her fingers on her glass. ‘He said this “Oh” or “Ah” or whatever it was. Then he said something else – one word – and then “Whore”. That’s all.’

  ‘What was this other word?’

  ‘I don’t know. I didn’t recognise it. Perhaps I didn’t hear him properly.’

  ‘Keep thinking. If you remember or can think what it might be telephone me at the Hôtel de Police. It might be important. Are you alone here?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘When does your husband come home?’

  ‘He’s supposed to come every weekend but he doesn’t always manage it. In fact –’ she paused ‘ – he hasn’t managed it for some time. There are always excuses. I think he’s got another woman down there somewhere. In fact, I’m sure he has.’

  The old old story. Staring at Monique Letexier with her ivory hair, Darcy decided her husband must be mad.

  ‘What about you?’ he asked. ‘What do you do?’

  ‘What do you mean? What do I do?’

  ‘Do you have friends, too. Men friends.’

  She uttered a sound which was a cross between a sigh and a protest. ‘No, I don’t. But men look at me. Probably it’s my hair. It’s natural, though. I don’t bleach it. But it catches their eyes. They try to make passes.’

  ‘Do they succeed?’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Do they come home with you?’

  ‘No, they don’t. I get rid of them.’

  He decided she had a great deal more self-control than most women in a similar position.

  ‘What about tonight?’ he asked. ‘Anything you remember about this man who grabbed you? Did you see his hands for instance?’

  ‘No. I just felt them.’

  ‘Did he seem tall?’

  ‘How would I know? He was behind me.’

  ‘He’d have to be close to you to grab you by the throat. You’d feel him. Did he feel short, for instance? If he were shorter than you, his forearms would be resting on your shoulders.’

  She thought about it and saw the point of the question. ‘He was taller than that.’

  ‘Very tall?’

  ‘I’d say he was normal size.’

  ‘Hair? Did you see any hair? If he had long hair you might.’

  ‘No. Nothing.’

  ‘Clothes? Flapping coat? Scarf?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Smell?’

  ‘Smell?’

  ‘If he were an old tramp who’s living rough he’d smell a bit strong, wouldn’t he?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so. No, he smelled of nothing special.’

  ‘Cigarettes? Cigarette smokers have it on their clothes and on their hands.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Perfume?’

  ‘Perfume? In Heavens’s name – !’

  ‘Murderers have been caught by their perfume,’ Darcy pointed out. ‘Raymond Lepage in Paris two years ago. He was a queer and almost bathed in the stuff. A woman recognised it and the cops got him.’

  She shook her head. ‘No perfume.’

  ‘Soap?’

  ‘No soap. I’m sorry, there’s nothing I can add. I didn’t see him. I only felt him.’

  ‘Don’t worry. It all helps. It means we don’t have to search for drop-outs and drug-takers. He’s obviously somebody who looks as normal as I do.’

  She gave him a shaky smile. ‘I hope you’re not him.’

  Darcy didn’t think it funny. ‘Voice?’ he asked.

  ‘He said this “Ah”. Well, it wasn’t just “Ah”. It was different.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘I don’t know. It just was.’

  ‘What about his feet? Did you hear him come up behind you?’

  ‘No. He must have been wearing rubbe
r-soled shoes.’

  ‘What about a knife? Did you see a knife?’

  ‘He tried to strangle me.’

  ‘He also –’ Darcy remembered their decision to keep the mutilations quiet and changed step. ‘There’s just one more point. Don’t talk about this.’

  ‘To no one? I’d like to talk to someone.’

  ‘Try the Police. Me.’ Darcy smiled his toothy smile. ‘I’ll be available.’

  ‘What about my mother? Suppose I have to get someone to go with me when I see her? She’ll wonder why.’

  ‘Spin her a yarn. Tell her you’re scared. There’ve been plenty of warnings in the papers.’

  She gave him a twisted smile. ‘I was relying on being able to tell a few friends. A woman likes to gossip and this is the best bit of gossip I’ve had for a long time. Why can’t I?’

  ‘The press. You’ll get hordes of them on your doorstep. They’ve turned up in the city in dozens. Besides, we want to keep this as dark as we can.’

  ‘To beat the press boys?’

  ‘To beat the type who’s doing it. He won’t know whether you saw him or not. Whether you heard what he said or not. So he’ll be scared. This is the first time he’s failed. Or at least it’s the first time we know about. He’ll be worried sick. He might even have another go.

  ‘At me?’

  ‘It’s possible, if he thinks you might be able to identify him. But don’t worry. We’ll be watching you. There’ll be someone keeping an eye on you all the time from now on. And I’ll be keeping an eye on him to make sure he is watching you.’ Darcy rose to his feet. ‘It’s late. I’d better be off. Lock the door after me. And don’t open it to anyone.’

  She gave him a worried look. ‘Don’t go,’ she begged. ‘You’ve made me scared. Have another drink.’

  It occurred to Darcy that she was not only scared but interested, especially if her husband were indifferent. He was a handsome man and he’d experienced it before. He sat down again.

  ‘What do you do with yourself?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m a teacher,’ she explained, pouring him another drink. ‘At an infants’ school. Teaching reading, writing, drawing, how to sit still, how to behave.’

  As Darcy finished his second drink and rose again, her eyes were beseeching.

  ‘Do you have to go?’

  ‘This time, yes.’ Darcy smiled, showing all his splendid white teeth. ‘But I’ll be back. There’s a lot to look into round here.’ He glanced at her admiringly. ‘More than you’d think.’

  Twelve

  If nothing else, the attack on Monique Letexier proved that Le Rôdeur was still with them. But this time he hadn’t used the cord he’d used on the other girls. ‘If he had,’ Darcy said, ‘she wouldn’t be here.’

  They assumed he’d dropped it and, sure enough, Brochard found it – a length of rope knotted at the ends, near the pile of planks Darcy had noticed. Leguyader and the Lab. boys started to go over it but nobody had much hope of their efforts producing an identity, because it looked like nothing else but a piece of old clothes line and there were thousands of those in the city.

  Monique Letexier’s mother, her arm blue with bruises, confirmed the time of her daughter’s visit in response to her telephone call, and the owner of the Bar de la Renaissance admitted that women, whom he knew were not all they ought to be, sometimes used his premises to pick up men.

  ‘There’s nothing I can do about it,’ he admitted. ‘They talk together. He buys her a drink. They talk some more. I don’t hear because I don’t listen. They go off together. How do I know what they’re up to?’

  While they were talking, Aimedieu was checking the yard where they’d found the cord. Like all the other yards they’d investigated in that part of the city, it was drab and decaying and the buildings surrounding it were locked and the windows nailed up.

  ‘Condemned.’ The speaker was a short stout individual in green greasy overalls.

  Aimedieu turned. ‘Who’re you?’

  The short man stared back at him aggressively. ‘Come to that,’ he said, ‘who’re you?’

  Aimedieu produced his identity card. ‘Police,’ he said.

  ‘What’s wrong? I’ve done nothing.’

  ‘I didn’t say you had. We’re investigating an attack that was made in the street here last night. On a woman.’

  The man’s jaw dropped. ‘Holy Mother of God,’ he said. ‘Another of these?’ His manner changed abruptly. ‘I’m Bouyon. Patrice Bouyon. I have the garage round the corner. I’ve come for some of my planks.’ He indicated the pile Darcy had climbed to look over the wall. ‘I got permission to store things here until I can take them to the dump.’ He gestured at the houses. ‘In there, too. Just old tyres and bent fenders that I have to get rid of. Can I have my planks?’

  ‘No,’ Aimedieu said. ‘You can’t. You’ll have to wait until we’ve finished.’

  ‘How long?’

  ‘Might be several days.’

  ‘In the meantime I go bankrupt?’

  Aimedieu noticed that Bouyon looked strong and that his thick wrists ended in strong, meaty fingers.

  ‘Where were you last night around midnight?’ he asked.

  Bouyon looked startled. ‘Where I ought to be. In bed with my old woman. Where else would I be?’

  ‘You might have been here.’

  Bouyon’s face changed. ‘Here, steady on. I don’t go in for that sort of thing.’

  ‘Have you proof you were at home and in bed with your wife?’

  Bouyon gave Aimedieu a cold look. ‘Yes, of course. The old man from next door was in bed with us. We always have him in for an hour or two around midnight.’

  Aimedieu didn’t smile. ‘Have you any children?’

  ‘Six. Teenagers.’

  ‘All at home?’

  ‘All of them. My kids behave themselves. They get a thump round the ear if they don’t.’

  ‘With six teenagers in the house then, they’d know if you were home, wouldn’t they? You needn’t worry.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Bouyon looked relieved. ‘For nothing.’

  Aimedieu turned his attention to the old buildings. ‘Ever seen anyone in here?’

  ‘They’re locked. I’ve got the key and nobody goes in but me.’

  Aimedieu borrowed Bouyon’s bunch of keys. Inside, he found the rooms empty except for a few odd cartons, empty bottles and tins, an old suitcase, and scrap iron and tyres from Bouyon’s garage. In the kitchen of one of the houses he saw a rat. But nothing else.

  ‘Nobody had been in, Patron,’ he reported to Pel. ‘The Prowler hadn’t been hanging about there.’

  Once again they checked everybody involved, but they were all able to show what they were doing. Darcy himself could vouch for Padiou who couldn’t possibly have reached the Rue des Fosses from where Darcy had left him and, somehow, that seemed to rule him out from all the other attacks. Only Moussia seemed uncertain. For once Schwendermann had not heard him banging about in his room below, and Schwendermann had been in his room all evening except to go downstairs about 11.30 p.m. to inform the girls on the bottom floor that he’d be out the following night at a lecture.

  ‘Do you always tell people when you’re going out?’ Darcy asked.

  ‘Iss usual,’ Schwendermann said. ‘People call. To borrow books. Or for – how do you say it? For company. We have not much money so our entertainment iss just by talking, you know. So, when we go out, we tell someone in case someone comes and they want to wait. You understand?’

  ‘Do people come late at night?’

  Schwendermann smiled. ‘Students must not get up early like workers in a factory. Often they study late. Often they talk late. To early hours, you see. I think you must ask the others to prove this.’

  Darcy did ask the others to prove it, though he knew it to be true. The late customers in the bars in the city centres were invariably students and on the few occasions when they’d been called to some trouble between them it was invariably after midnig
ht. What Schwendermann said was correct, andthe girls in the ground-floor flats confirmed Schwendermann’s story with a willingness that left no room for doubt. Sure, he’d called in and he’d been in his room all evening because they’d heard his radio and Annie Joulier and Marina Lorans had been to his room about 9 p.m. to borrow sugar, going together because they were nervous of the dark stairs.

  Which left Moussia. Nobody had noticed Moussia, it seemed. Moussia’s explanation, offered between contortions on the floor, was that he’d had a hangover. He’d drunk too much wine the night before and decided to have an early night.

  ‘I was asleep,’ he said. ‘I’m sick of this place. Nobody’s friendly. They don’t like pieds noirs and I’m thinking of moving in with a Tunisian type called Habib in the Rue Novembre 11.’

  There was no way of proving he hadn’t been asleep, and certainly he’d been seen the night before in one of the city bars knocking back cheap wine with Habib, but that was no proof that he’d remained in his room the following night.

  Which left their other chief suspect, Hélin. But Hélin’s friends, Jenet, Detoc and Hayn, were prepared to swear that he’d been with them, so that they ended up exactly where they’d been before. Nowhere.

  Lighting a cigarette, Pel sat back to study the reports, searching as he always did for that small thing, that trivial clue that linked one incident to another. As he tossed the last file aside, he realised he had smoked his way through half a pack of cigarettes.

  Disgusted with himself, he began to work out what it had cost him, and then what it cost him each week to smoke. It wasn’t a large step from that to working out what it cost him monthly and from that to yearly and finally to how much he had wasted during his lifetime. It was an astronomical figure and he decided that if he’d never started he could have been a wealthy man.

  For a while he wondered if he could make another attempt to give it up but it wasn’t with much of a struggle that he came to the conclusion it was a lost cause. And people with lost causes, he decided, might just as well accept they weren’t going to win them. As he drew the first grateful puffs on another cigarette, Leguyader arrived from the Lab., apparently delighted by the fact that he could offer nothing helpful. The two things which pleased Leguyader most were being able to produce a mass of evidence which would clear up a case so he could boast that the Police didn’t need detectives while they had the Lab., or none at all, so he could see the mounting anger on Pel’s face.