by Mark Hebden
‘The stable’s full of horses.’
Fabre gave a twisted smile. ‘He fancied he knew something about them. He was always sending me here and there to look at them. Most of them were no good. I never bought any.’
‘Did your wife see him here?’
‘She wasn’t here either. She took the van and went shopping and was late back.’
‘When you went off looking at these horses, did Rensselaer ever go with you?’
Fabre considered. ‘At first. Then he seemed to prefer to leave it to me.’
‘Why?’
Fabre’s twisted smile reappeared. ‘He didn’t know much about it really. He used to look wise and run his hands over their fetlocks and down their legs. He even made a point of looking at their teeth. He might have persuaded some of his friends, but he never persuaded me. Or the people who were selling. Perhaps he realised.’
‘Can you remember the places where he went?’
‘Yes. There were six main places. Lors: That’s near Langres. Rameau: That’s in the Doubs. Côte-en-Miéliers over towards Avallon. Remaville in the hills near St Etienne. They’re good horses there. Tonay near Fontainebleau. That’s a big hunt with a lot of stables. And down to Zastres in the Camargue. They’re not the best down there, but occasionally they come up with a good one. Sometimes there are other places, like Beaumarchais.’
‘Did he have a woman at any of these places?’
Fabre hesitated. ‘He might have had,’ he said slowly.
‘Was it a habit of his?’
‘I heard so.’
Pel picked up a framed photograph of the hunt moving off, with Fabre in the foreground. ‘Have you any good photographs of Rensselaer?’ he asked.
Fabre produced a bundle of pictures. ‘That’s him at Fontainebleau,’ he said. ‘This is a good one of him, too. It was taken just after we’d killed.’
‘I’ll take them,’ Pel said.
He handed the photographs to Darcy. ‘I think you’re going to be busy for a week or so,’ he said. ‘I want these photographs checking at these places where Rensselaer went. I want to know if he had an establishment. With a woman in it. Now let’s check Fabre’s story.’
It wasn’t difficult.
‘Sure, I saw him leave for Beaumarchais,’ Cottu said. ‘He took the car and his wife had to have the van. She doesn’t like it. She says it smells of blood and stale meat.’
‘Were you here all day?’
‘Yes. In and out, though. I had to take Maréchal up into the fields and exercise him.’
‘Who’s Maréchal? One of the hounds?’
‘One of the horses. He fell heavily last time we were out, and was just recovering. I was trying to bring him back to his peak.’
‘Was Retif with you?’
Cottu grinned. ‘He doesn’t exercise the horses. He does the menial jobs. Cutting up the cows. That sort of thing.’
‘Then he might have seen Rensselaer?’
‘He couldn’t have. Rensselaer wasn’t here.’
‘Get him, all the same.’
When Retif arrived, he turned out to be a dark-featured man with a lean hawk face and the smouldering eyes of an Arab.
‘What’s your full name?’ Pel asked.
The Algerian looked blank and Cottu grinned. ‘It’s just Retif,’ he said. ‘He’s not known by any other name.’
‘Let him answer himself,’ Pel said.
‘He can’t. He’s deaf and dumb. We have to use sign language.’
‘Can you do it?’
‘We all can. Enough to talk to him, anyway.’
‘Monday, the 16th,’ Pel said. ‘Ask him if he saw Rensselaer here.’
Retif watched as Cottu’s hands moved, then he nodded.
Cottu frowned. ‘He couldn’t have seen him,’ he said. ‘I’d have seen him, too. Besides, where was his car? You can’t get here without transport. Ask him if he saw his car.’
They did and the Algerian’s face went blank. After a while he shook his head.
‘See,’ Cottu said. ‘He’s lying as usual. You can’t trust the stupid con with anything. He gets drunk. He disappears into the woods. That’s why I’ve got a cut hand.’ He held up his hand with its dirty bandage. ‘Because that bastard wasn’t here when he was supposed to be.’
Five
The autumn day was still in the grip of the iron cold. The sky was heavy with low cloud and people hurried past, their heads down against the wind, their breath like small explosions in the icy air. The city wore a defeated look, as though subdued by the early onset of winter.
When Pel arrived back at the Hôtel de Police, he stood for a while in his office flapping his arms to get warm. On his desk was a message from the Chief to say that Madame Rensselaer would appear during the afternoon with her lawyer and would he make a point of being available? He studied it for a moment. The visit to the abbey had told him remarkably little about Rensselaer save that he liked horses and women, had a habit of disappearing from time to time, and was unlikely to offer an explanation when he reappeared.
He was just wondering what sort of woman would accept this sort of thing from her husband when Darcy appeared.
‘The new sergeant’s arrived,’ he announced. ‘Krauss’ replacement.’
Pel looked up. Krauss had never been one of the bright lights of his team but he’d been missed.
‘What’s he like?’ he asked.
Darcy smiled. ‘He’s a baron,’ he pointed out. ‘His name’s Charles-Victor de Troquereau Tournay-Turenne.’
Pel looked startled. He hurriedly lit a cigarette. ‘I don’t want a baron,’ he said. ‘Nor a comte or a vicomte. Not even someone with the légion d’honneur.’
‘He’s the type who set Nosjean straight on that antiques case he was on,’ Darcy pointed out. ‘He seems bright enough.’
‘Have you seen him?’
‘Yes. He looks pretty normal. Just the one head and two eyes. One each side of his nose. His family are Auvergnats and mean as sewer rats so that he’s no expectations of ever having any money. He decided to become a policeman. He’s got a good record and he asked to be on your team. He’d heard of you.’
Pel pushed his spectacles up on his forehead. ‘What’s he heard?’
‘That you’re good at the job.’
And probably also, Pel decided, that he smoked too much, was bullied by his housekeeper and was underpaid, overworked and in the last stages of exhaustion.
‘Let’s go and see him,’ he said.
The first impression Pel gained of the new member of his team was one of incredible youthfulness. De Troquereau had small immaculate features – precise, delicate, almost effeminate – with a straight narrow nose and huge pale eyes set in a neat head that was surmounted by crisp curling hair perfectly cut. He looked as if he’d just left school and at that moment was sitting on a chair in the sergeants’ room, holding his cigarette in the arse-about-face way Darcy had suggested for Pel’s Gitanes Maïs.
Misset was questioning him. ‘Why?’ he was saying. ‘Why did you decide to become a cop?’
De Troquereau eyed him indignantly. ‘Why not?’ he asked.
He finished his cigarette and stubbed it out in the ashtray that stood on the desk alongside him. Misset shifted on his chair.
‘It seems a stupid idea to me,’ he said.
De Troquereau stared at him angrily. ‘That,’ he observed with withering contempt, ‘probably makes it excellent sense to everybody else.’
It still seemed to worry Misset. ‘Surely you know somebody – your relations, for instance – who could arrange something better.’
‘My relations,’ De Troquereau pointed out, ‘have about as much influence as I have.’
Lagé managed a smile. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘you’re certainly different from poor old Krauss. He was Alsatian. He could speak German.’
‘I can speak German,’ De Troquereau said icily. ‘Also Italian and English.’
Misset pulled a face and seemed abou
t to take another dig when Pel decided it was time to intrude. He pushed Misset aside.
‘You are a detective?’ he asked.
De Troquereau eyed him warily. ‘I think I’m a good one, sir,’ he said. ‘You’ll not be disappointed in me.’
‘I’d better not be, mon brave,’ Pel said. He turned to Darcy.
‘Well, Inspector,’ he asked. ‘What do we have for this splendid new detective we see before us?’
‘He could take over Armoire à Glace.’
‘You’ve heard of Armoire à Glace?’ Pel eyed De Troquereau.
‘I’ve been looking at the file,’ De Troquereau said.
‘Unhappily, we have nothing that could really be called suitable for the upper crust.’
De Troquereau looked indignant. ‘I’ll do whatever I’m given,’ he said.
‘I’m glad to hear it.’ Moving slightly, Pel inclined his head towards Nosjean. ‘This the type who worked with you?’
‘Yes, Patron.’
‘And your opinion of him?’
‘On the ball, Patron.’
Pel nodded. Though he’d never have admitted it to Nosjean, Nosjean’s opinion carried a lot of weight. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘We’ll give him a try.’
As he headed back to his office, De Troquereau turned indignantly to Darcy. ‘Is he always like this?’ he asked.
Darcy smiled. ‘I think he’s going through the change of life.’
‘Perhaps his wife’s unfaithful?’
‘He’s not married.’
‘Ah!’ De Troquereau gave an understanding smile. ‘But can’t he take a mistress?’
Darcy grinned. ‘I’ve been trying to persuade him,’ he said. ‘One of these days he’ll catch on. He’s brighter than he looks.’
He was bright enough, in fact, to ask himself why it was that Madame Rensselaer had been so slow to report her husband’s disappearance.
She sat opposite Pel, a plump pale-faced woman wearing too much make-up not very well applied. Alongside her, Bernard Pujol, her solicitor, was trying to explain.
Pel held up his hand. ‘We’d better have the details down,’ he said.
‘Ah!’ Pujol smiled. ‘But this isn’t a police enquiry, is it?’
‘Isn’t it?’ Pel said coldly.
‘Madame Rensselaer doesn’t wish to make a formal complaint.’
‘Then what does she wish to make?’
‘She just wishes to find her husband. She doesn’t think he’s come to any harm.’
‘We aren’t private detectives, Maître,’ Pel said icily. ‘When people come to the Brigade Criminelle of the Police Judiciaire it’s usually to ask our help, and in those cases we open a file.’
Pujol cleared his throat. ‘I think Madame would prefer that there was no file.’
Pel eyed the two people across his desk coldly. His hand moved towards the packet of Gitanes Maïs, then he hesitated, decided to be strong, and pushed it hurriedly into a drawer so he couldn’t change his mind.
‘Very well,’ he said. ‘We will not open a file. Not at first. We will learn the details. After that – ’ he shrugged. ‘We had better have Monsieur’s name.’
‘François Rensselaer,’ Pujol said.
‘I would rather,’ Pel pointed out, ‘that Madame answered my questions.’
‘I am her lawyer.’
‘Nevertheless —’
Pujol shrugged and Pel leaned forward, already beginning to wish he weren’t quite so strong because he was desperately in need of a cigarette.
‘I would like the address, Madame.’
‘26, Avenue de la Premiere Armée.’
‘Of course.’ Pel eyed the woman opposite. She had an upper-class face but she sat lumpishly in her chair, pale and unattractive. ‘How old was your husband?’
‘He was forty-eight.’
‘And you don’t want us to investigate?’
‘I’m merely reporting that he’s missing.’
‘I’ll pass the information on to the Bureau of Missing Persons. They will list the name. But – ’ Pel gestured ‘ – if you don’t wish us to make an investigation, why have you come here?’
Pujol leaned forward and Pel held up a hand to silence him.
‘Because Monsieur Pujol advised me to.’
‘You didn’t wish to?’
‘No.’
Pujol managed to elbow his way into the conversation. ‘There are things which must be done,’ he said. ‘Monsieur Rensselaer is a businessman. A lot depends on him. There are things to sign. He should be found.’
Pel listened quietly and turned to the woman again. ‘But you do not so wish?’
She shrugged.
‘Could he by any chance have committed suicide?’
‘He wasn’t the type.’
‘What about his financial position?’
‘Absolutely sound,’ Pujol said. ‘The firm’s doing well and his affairs are in order and, though I haven’t the exact figures, I’m assured by his bank that there’s nothing to fear in that department. Monsieur Rensselaer’s a very wealthy man indeed.’
‘Personal problems?’
‘None at all,’ Pujol said quickly.
‘Then why did he disappear? Was he in good health?’
‘He’s never been ill in his life,’ Madame Rensselaer said.
Pel was growing bored and was beginning to suspect like the Chief that Rensselaer was enjoying himself somewhere with a mistress.
‘When did you last see him?’
‘On the 16th. He got up at his usual time – seven-thirty —’
‘From your bedroom? You share the same room, of course.’
There was a momentary hesitation as she studied him with eyes as blank as rivets. ‘Of course.’
‘Did you get up, too?’
‘We have a housekeeper who provides him with his breakfast and brings mine to my bedroom —’
‘My bedroom?’
Madame Rensselaer looked at Pel as if not understanding him.
‘You said “my bedroom”. A moment ago you said you shared a bedroom. Why didn’t you say “our bedroom”?’
‘Does it matter, Inspector?’
‘I think it does.’
‘Very well, then, our bedroom.’
Pel nodded, in no doubt at all now that the Rensselaers were no longer sleeping in the same bed. ‘Please go on.’
‘I heard him leave the house.’
‘By car?’
‘Yes. For the firm’s office in the Rue Belay. But he doesn’t seem to have reached it. It seems he took his car from the garage —’
‘His only car?’
She smiled. ‘He has one for his private use. A personal one. As I do and my daughter does. It’s an Alfa Romeo. It was found two or three days later in a car park near the station at Chaumont.’
‘Why Chaumont? Did he have any business there?’
‘There’s a small factory at Langres and I understand from the chauffeur that on occasion he’s driven him to Chaumont after visiting Langres, to collect the train to Paris.’
‘The car at Chaumont: It was locked?’
‘Of course. But there’s a spare set of keys.’
‘Where’s this car now?’
‘In the garage at the house,’ Pujol said. ‘I had it brought home.’
‘Anybody touch it?’
‘Only the chauffeur.’
‘Trustworthy?’
‘Utterly. There’s an office car, too, you understand – a Citroën – but Monsieur Rensselaer preferred to drive himself if he didn’t wish to work en route. Normally he drove the Alfa Romeo. That’s the one he used on the morning of the 16th.’
‘Did anyone see him at Chaumont?’
‘No. I’ve made enquiries.’
Pel held out his hand. ‘We’d better have the keys,’ he said. ‘We’ll have the car brought round here and checked for fingerprints. Just in case.’
‘In case what?’
Pel didn’t enlighten them and reluctantly Madam
e Rensselaer handed over the keys.
Pel paused, his mind working. ‘Did he say goodbye to you?’ he asked.
Madame Rensselaer shifted in her seat. ‘No,’ she said. ‘We didn’t bother with such trifles.’
I would, Pel thought, if I were married to Madame FaivrePerret. ‘Did the housekeeper notice anything odd about him?’ he asked.
‘She says not.’
‘Did your husband normally come home to lunch?’
‘He ate in the city. At the Restaurant des Ducs de Bourgogne.’
‘Did he mention what time he’d be home?’
‘No.’
‘Why haven’t you reported his disappearance before?’
‘I thought he would come back as usual.’
‘As usual?’
‘He’s disappeared before.’
‘How did you and your husband get on?’
There was a small thud of silence then Madame Rensselaer drew a deep breath. ‘We didn’t,’ she said.
‘Meaning, Madame?’
‘Meaning we rarely bothered to speak.’
Pel frowned. Was Rensselaer alive and trying to frighten his wife by pretending to be dead, he wondered. Was there some gain to be had by so doing?
He was silent a moment before continuing: ‘What about clothes? Are any of them missing?’
She sniffed. ‘How could I possibly answer that? My husband isn’t a road sweeper and doesn’t possess merely two shirts, two pairs of trousers and a suit for Mass on Sunday. He has dozens of shirts, plenty of suits. All I know is that he bought his suits at Perriers’ and his shoes came from Tremouilles’ who had them hand-made in England from a last that was made years ago. His hats came from Durandeaux’ near the Palais des Ducs. He was a bit old-fashioned about them. Perhaps he thought he represented a picture of industry and respectability. They were always the same. Always grey with a high brim.’
‘And none of them is missing to your knowledge?’
‘It’s impossible to say. I would say not.’
‘Doesn’t that seem to indicate he left intending to return?’
‘It might.’ Madame Rensselaer shrugged. ‘On the other hand, if he left on impulse, he’s wealthy enough to buy what he wanted when he reached wherever he was going.’
‘Did he normally travel by train or car?’