by Mark Hebden
‘But a handbag!’
De Troquereau scowled. ‘Men carry handbags these days,’ he said. ‘Or hadn’t you noticed? Little ones. To keep car keys and wallets in. So it doesn’t spoil the cut of their pants.’
‘You seem to know all about it.’
‘It’s not a habit of mine, as it happens, but it’s a fashion that exists and I suspect the sort of people our friend Armoire à Glace is looking for would be the first to be aware of it.’
‘It’s to be hoped he doesn’t see that eye,’ Darcy observed.
‘You ought to have a little make-up on it,’ Claudie Darel suggested. ‘A touch of matt would hide it.’
De Troquereau turned with what was almost a bow. ‘Perhaps you’d oblige,’ he said.
Pel could see Nosjean’s heart shrivelling with envy as she sat De Troquereau in a chair and bent over him, her face close to his, her bosom under his nose, her perfume in his nostrils. Watching his expression, Pel decided that Claudie Darel could well be more trouble than help, because they were all crowding round, laughing and shoving and handing her things as she worked.
Standing up, De Troquereau examined himself in the mirror. It was the one Darcy had always used for straightening his tie and practising his smile before going to interview women. He now had one of his own in his new office.
‘It’s good.’ De Troquereau said. ‘If our friend likes little men with pretty clothes and pretty manners, he ought to like me.’
‘There’s just one thing.’ Pel looked about him. ‘Let this be kept quiet.’
‘You afraid for our reputation, Patron?’ Misset grinned.
‘I’m never afraid for our reputation,’ Pel said. ‘Just that Armoire à Glace will get to know.’
He was looking hard at Misset as he spoke because he suspected Misset talked in bars, boasting of his skill. ‘It would make the whole thing pointless if he were aware of what’s happening.’
He eyed the new member of his team with something that was as near to admiration as Pel could get. ‘You’ve got more courage than I have, mon brave,’ he admitted.
‘I’m not afraid of Armoire à Glace, Patron,’ De Troquereau said.
‘I wasn’t thinking of him,’ Pel pointed out. ‘I was thinking of going out dressed like that. It’s a good job you’re not well known around here. You could get the PJ a bad name.’
De Troquereau’s head lifted. ‘Have no fear, Patron,’ he said. ‘I shall be well known. Given time.’ He indicated Misset. ‘Our large fat friend here seems to think it makes me a fairy, too. I can assure him it doesn’t and if he chooses to meet me in the gym some time I’ll prove it.’
‘You got a black eye,’ Misset growled.
‘I shan’t get another.’
There was a curious certainty about De Troquereau that impressed Pel. ‘We’d better have someone keep an eye on you,’ he suggested.
‘I’ve arranged it with the uniformed branch,’ De Troquereau said. ‘I have a whistle and there’ll be a man hanging about the Parc de la Colombière listening for it.’
‘He won’t catch much if Armoire à Glace runs towards the Place Wilson.’
‘Traffic will have a car in the Place Wilson. I’ve had a word with Inspector Pomereu. He’s agreed to help. I shall be in the middle near the Monument de la Victoire.’
If nothing else, Pel decided, De Troquereau had thought of everything. He might well turn out to be another Nosjean instead of another Misset.
Which was something – though the idea of having two such dedicated men in his team made him shudder.
Nine
His spirits high, Pel headed for the Bar Transvaal for a pernod to give him courage. He was delighted with the way things had turned out.
The Relais St Armand was in the Avenue Maréchal Foch, which lay between the Avenue de la Première Armée and the Rue de la Liberté, which led eventually to the Place de la Victoire, and the names gave him strength. Sometimes, Pel thought, you could be almost overwhelmed by the ringing names of French triumphs. On the other hand – with the prospect of a good evening out he was inclined to be generous to the city fathers – you could hardly expect them to name their streets and squares after failures, defeats and dead-loss generals. Close by was the Avenue Victor Hugo, and that, he realised, reflected another strange French habit – that of exiling their great men then calling their streets after them when they were dead. Perhaps they’d have been better to stick to the names of wines – Rue Pommard, Rue des Nuits St Georges, Rue Clos Vougeot. They had a nice ring and you couldn’t be proved wrong with them.
When he reached his home in the Rue Martin-de-Noinville the television – inevitably – was shuddering on its stand, and Madame Routy was leaning over the fence discussing with the next door neighbour what to have for dinner. As Pel stalked past, dudgeon in every angle of his body, a head poked round the kitchen door.
‘Inspector!’
It was Didier Darras, Madame Routy’s nephew. He was just entering his teens and was growing a little long in the leg now. He had a habit of turning up at Pel’s when his mother, Madame Routy’s sister, had to disappear to attend to an ailing father-in-law. It was always a bonus in Pel’s life when he arrived because he was an ally in that he also disliked television, enjoyed fishing – which Pel considered the limit of luxurious indolence for a warm day – and, into the bargain, played a good game of boules, which to Pel was the height of sporting excitement.
‘I’m delighted to see you, mon vieux,’ he said.
Didier grinned. ‘I’ve brought my dog,’ he said.
It wiped the smile off Pel’s face at once.
‘It’s all right, isn’t it?’ Didier said. ‘Aunt Routy said it would be.’
Aunt Routy would, Pel thought sourly. To Pel, a dog was something that fouled pavements, chased sheep and bit him when he called at houses on duty. And as a good Frenchman, who had learned all about the functions of the various parts of his anatomy in school and the diseases they were prone to, he had a dread of germs. The prospect of having a dog in his house alarmed him greatly.
Didier had vanished while he’d been occupied with his fears, and returned dragging a small puppy on the end of a lead. It clearly had no wish to be introduced and, in its dismay, was leaving a thin wet trail behind it.
‘It’s pooling,’ Pel said in alarm.
‘Oh, that’s nothing,’ Didier said. ‘He’s called Alphonse.’
‘Does he do – ?’ Pel indicated the long wet trickle ‘ – does he do this all the time?’
Didier gave an offhand gesture. ‘I’ll clean it up. I’m trying to house-train him.’
‘I trust, mon brave, that you’ll succeed. And in the meantime?’
‘It’s only pipi.’
‘Suppose–’ Pel’s eyes narrowed ‘–suppose one day it isn’t pipi, but the other.’
Didier was quite casual. ‘I’ve got some sawdust in a bag. Maman gave it to me. A spot of that, then a shovel and it’s gone.’ He seemed quite untroubled by the possible onset of disease. ‘Are we eating out?’ he asked.
Pel’s smile reappeared. One of their favourite means of infuriating Madame Routy was to allow her to make one of her disgusting dishes and then fail to turn up to eat it.
‘Not tonight,’ he said.
‘Scrabble in the kitchen?’
‘I have an engagement,’ Pel said warily.
‘And you’ve come home to put your best suit on? Is it her?’
‘Who?’
‘The one you always put your best suit on for.’
‘I have to eat in the city,’ Pel said, refusing to commit himself any further.
‘Shall I pick you a tie out?’
‘I think I can manage that.’
‘Won’t it be difficult with this kidnap case? The one I read about in the paper.’
‘It isn’t a kidnap case,’ Pel said.
‘It isn’t?’
‘Well – ’ it seemed unwise to be too sure ‘–it could be a hoax. We’ll have to see.’
‘Do you want me to clean your car like last time?’
‘You could give it a rub up. I propose, however, to use a taxi in the city.’
‘Do policemen often get to have dinner in town?’
‘From time to time.’
‘I’ve decided to be a policeman.’
‘I’m delighted to hear it.’
‘Louise Bray says it’s all right. She’s the girl next door. She’s stopped hitting me over the head with her dolls. She doesn’t play with dolls any more. She’s gone on Sacha Distel.’
‘It’s a habit in females to become infatuated with cinema stars.’
‘He’s not a cinema star. He’s a singer.’
‘Oh!’ Pel was not very knowledgeable about singers.
‘She’s getting a shape. I like her.’
‘That’s a habit in males,’ Pel said solemnly. Even, he thought, in me.
Didier was studying him with interest. ‘Are you going to marry her?’ he asked.
Please God, Pel thought.
‘Would it worry you if I did, mon brave?’ he asked.
‘No. I expect she’s better-looking than Aunt Routy. Has she said “yes”?’
‘I haven’t asked her.’
‘I asked Louise Bray to marry me.’
‘Already?’
‘You can’t waste time.’
No, Pel thought, you can’t. Especially at my age. ‘What did she say?’
‘No.’
‘I thought she might have.’
Didier shrugged. ‘She’ll change her mind eventually,’ he said confidently. ‘They all do. Women are like that. They never say what they mean.’
Pel eyed the boy. ‘You, mon brave,’ he said, ‘will be a knock-out with girls when you grow up.’
Picking up his hat, Pel checked in his usual meticulous way that he had his wallet and that it was full. It was a bit like going out on a job, when he checked that he had his notebook, his pens and pencils and enough cigarettes to poison a battalion of paratroopers, just in case the tabacs were shut and he ran out.
Because he couldn’t bear to think of the Hôtel de Police functioning without him, he called in on his way to the centre of the city. It might just, he always felt, come apart at the seams if he didn’t keep an eye on it. The system wasn’t complete without his presence, and other people – some of them not even Burgundians – didn’t have the same attitude to duty he had. A few like Misset even tried to get off early. Very probably, he thought bitterly, Darcy had made a date with Claudie Darel and gone home. Unless, of course, Nosjean had made a date first.
To his surprise, Darcy was still in his office and he looked up as he saw Pel.
‘It’s come,’ he said.
‘What’s come?’
‘The demand. They’ve brought down their price. They’re asking five hundred thousand francs now and it has to be left in the camping ground near the Chèvre Morte. There’s a hollow tree where the road passes over the stream. It has to be there before dark tomorrow.’
Pel’s face fell. ‘So it is a kidnap?’
‘Did you think it wasn’t, Patron?’
Pel frowned. That had been just what he had thought.
‘I’ve had it checked,’ Darcy went on. He pushed a letter across to Pel. Like the last one, it was made up of words cut in small glossy squares from magazines. It read. ‘500,000 francs in used 50-franc notes in the hollow tree where the road passes over the camping ground near the Chèvre Morte. By dark tomorrow. Brown paper package. If police informed, all off.’
Darcy sat back, lit a cigarette and indicated the message. ‘Same paper,’ he said. ‘Probably same magazines. Prélat says no prints this time. They’re getting clever.’
‘Did he do a check on the fingerprint on the last one?’
Darcy nodded. ‘Yes. Nobody we know.’
‘Been in touch with the family?’
‘Yes. Pujol insists they pay. The firm needs him back, he says. He’s even agreed to deliver it because he doesn’t want the police involved.’
A thought occurred to Pel. ‘Think he might be in on this? It wouldn’t be hard to have an accomplice.’
‘It’s an idea,’ Darcy agreed.
‘How about Madame?’
‘She’s dead against it. As far as she’s concerned, they’re welcome to him. However, she accepts that the firm needs him but she insists on the police being around to pick up whoever tries to collect the money. If you ask me, Patron, she’s starting to put her foot down.’
‘What have you set up?’
‘I’m working on it now. I’ve told Nosjean and De Troq’ to forget Sammy Belec and Armoire à Glace for the time being. They’re going to be prancing about near the Chèvre Morte. We all are.’ He noticed Pel’s dark grey suit. ‘Who is it, Patron?’ he asked. ‘The President of the Republic or the Chief? Or just her?’
Pel gave him a cold look. ‘It was her,’ he admitted.
‘Isn’t it still?’
Pel gestured at the note. ‘Do you think I can indulge myself with all this on the point of bursting about our ears?’
‘Yes.’ Darcy spoke with such confidence Pel wondered if, having pushed him upwards, they’d suddenly discovered he was no longer necessary.
‘After all, Patron,’ Darcy said, ‘I’ve watched you set up these things a dozen times. I know what to do. That’s why they promoted me.’ He pushed forward a triangular piece of wood on which was painted his name and new rank.
He appeared to be so much in charge of the situation. Pel decided it was time he was taken down a peg or two.
‘You checked on those photographs of Rensselaer yet?’ he asked sharply.
It didn’t work. Darcy looked up, unperturbed. ‘Have I had time, Patron? When this is sorted out, I’ll go.’
‘We need to know what he got up to when he went off buying horses.’
‘Patron, we will,’ Darcy promised. ‘But if we nobble the type who’s demanding this money, we might not need to. He might lead us to Rensselaer without going to all that trouble.’
It was a point, Pel had to admit.
‘So forget about it, Patron. Leave it to me. You can sort out the details tomorrow. Go and enjoy yourself. Good luck.’
‘Good luck to do what?’
‘What does a man usually seek to do when he takes a woman out?’
‘What I seek to do,’ Pel said coldly, ‘is not, I suspect, what you seek to do.’
All the same, he admitted to himself, it had crossed his mind.
The Relais St Armand excelled itself and they were given a discreet corner table where they couldn’t be seen. Pel hadn’t asked for it and he wondered if perhaps Madame Faivre-Perret had. He still couldn’t manage to call her ‘Geneviève’ and spent most of the evening referring to her as ‘you’. He went mad with a bottle of Montrachet with the fish and a Beaune-Marconnets with the meat. He was even in the mood to produce brandy with the coffee, but she said she had to watch her figure and he decided to do the same. It was a relief, because he’d been mentally adding up the cost and, anyway, she probably didn’t approve of men who indulged themselves too much.
He told her of his new job, making far more of it than the Chief had, and explained that eventually it would mean promotion and a rise in salary, so that she’d realise he could afford to support her if he could ever manage to screw himself to the point of proposing.
She listened quietly, though not without an occasional exclamation of admiration, and he learned a little of her life, how she’d been widowed after only a few years of marriage, how she was sometimes lonely and had even now not really become accustomed to living alone. It sounded almost as if it were a hint.
Afterwards, he got the restaurant to call a taxi from the station and they drove to her home, which was a small house, painted white, on the slopes north of the Avenue Victor Hugo. She invited him in but the thought of Darcy running a ransom operation without him was more than he could bear and he begged her to understand.
To
his surprise and delight, she seemed disappointed but she didn’t argue. They said goodnight sedately, shaking hands as the taxi driver watched with interest. Behind Madame Faivre-Perret was the open door and beyond that a tastefully-furnished interior with a settee that looked elegant but not a great deal more comfortable than the angloise française. As he climbed into the taxi, Pel was wondering if he should have kissed her and the thought left him in a state of nervous agitation that the unromantic nature of the parting was his fault. Had he been too eager? He hardly thought so. You could hardly call a man ardent when all he’d done was talk over dinner and hold hands as he said goodnight. Darcy would undoubtedly have pushed matters beyond a – handshake. Had he not been eager enough? Was she imagining he didn’t care?
As the taxi approached the main road, the engine missed. Pel knew the sign. He’d heard it only too often in his own car and he was by no means surprised when the car jerked to a halt. Steam was issuing from the engine.
The taxi-driver swore. ‘Merde alors!’ he snarled. Leaping from the seat, he savagely flung open the bonnet and stared at the steam.
The things he managed to call it startled even Pel, who’d always imagined he’d heard everything. When he finally calmed down, he offered to radio for another car.
‘It’ll be about half an hour,’ he said. ‘If you can wait.’
Pel couldn’t. He fished in his pocket and produced a note. ‘I’ll catch a bus,’ he said.
The driver looked at his watch. ‘You’ve got a good five minutes,’ he said.
Clutching his overcoat round him against the wind, Pel hurried to the main road. Just as he reached it, however, the bus came round the corner, dead slow on the acute angle, then, gathering speed, hurtled down the hill towards the city, its door wide open, the draught caused by its speed stirring the dust of the interior, which was occupied by the solitary figure of a man going on night shift somewhere in the Zone Industrielle.
‘Hé!’ Pel lifted his arm and yelled. But the bus failed to stop and, even as he wished he could whistle through his teeth like Darcy, he realised that the crew were set on getting home and wouldn’t have stopped if he’d sounded a foghorn.
An old man on his way home from one of the bars nearby halted alongside him. ‘It’s the last one,’ he said.