by Mark Hebden
‘Not only the knives,’ Pel said briskly. ‘Also the chaff-cutter in the stables.’
‘Ah, we now have a new idea! He was fed through the chaff-cutter and emerged in slices.’
Pel said nothing. The knives, axes, cleavers and chaffcutter revealed no clues.
As the morning drew on, they began to grow thirsty and tired. From time to time Fabre or Maurice Cottu was fetched to answer questions, and Madame Fabre also arrived with coffee, though it seemed to Pel she came more because she wanted male company than because she was anxious to dispense hot drinks. As the policemen chaffed her, she responded with laughs and backchat that brought a taut angry look to her husband’s face.
Retif watched them, a strange shabby figure with his twisted headdress and rags, his dark face and burning eyes. Pel pushed Rodsky forward and hands and fingers flew.
‘You look for Monsieur?’ Retif asked.
‘Yes.’
‘He’s not here.’
‘No.’ Pel stared at the Arab. ‘You sure you saw him here that day?’
‘Yes.’ It was amazing how well they could talk just using hands. ‘I saw him. Sometimes I see him in the woods also.’
‘Which woods?’
Retif’s arm gestured along the valley. ‘There. Once I see him watching the abbey with binoculars. More than once I see him like that. I tell Maurice where I see him. Always same place.’
‘What was he looking for?’
‘I don’t know. Sometimes, he leave his car on the slopes and walk down to the abbey.’
‘Is that right?’ Pel turned to Fabre.
‘I never saw him do that,’ Fabre said. ‘If he did, he must have done it when I was away.’
‘He turned up once,’ Michelline Fabre offered. ‘In the summer. I gave him some wine.’ She pointed. ‘He said he’d left his car along the valley there.’
‘What was he looking for, do you think? Stags?’
‘He wouldn’t find them that way,’ Fabre growled.
By midday they were beginning to grow hungry and wonder whether Pel would allow them off to Douzay in car loads for lunch. Pel had other ideas, however, and a police van arrived with sandwiches and beer and enough rum to give them all a tot. By this time, they were all cold, growing tired and accumulating dirt. Somewhere underneath the west wing, the frogmen were still exploring the stream but so far had found nothing.
It was as Pel shared a flask of brandy with Judge Polverari that Nosjean appeared.
‘I think there’s something here you ought to see, Patron,’ he said.
He lead them through a door in the north wing, down a passage and out at the back, to where the blank rear wall of the abbey faced the hills and the bitter winds. A muddy track ran down the outside of the building to a pair of double doors. They were of recent origin and beyond them was a huge chamber, with several smaller ones leading off. Metal chimneys had been pushed through the thick stone and there was a large extractor fan, growing rusty with disuse. Inside was a line of what appeared to be porcelain vats.
‘Some sort of small factory,’ Nosjean said.
There was a second large room beyond the first that appeared to be a store room. Inside were a few old buckets, coke skips and pieces of metal. In the corner stood a line of carboys. Several of them were still full.
‘Acid, Patron,’ Nosjean said.
‘Get Fabre,’ Pel said.
A moment or two later Fabre appeared, his eyes angry. ‘I’m busy,’ he said. ‘I’m still doctoring Archiviste.’
‘In the name of God, who’s Archiviste?’
‘She’s the bitch who’s just pupped. We’re frightened we might lose her. What do you want?’
‘Well, for one thing, you can tell us what this place is?’
‘It’s nothing now. We keep it locked. You can hardly have hounds where there’s acid.’
‘What was it?’
‘The monks used it originally. It was where Lausse operated.’
‘Who’s Lausse?’
‘He ran his business here.’
‘What business?’
‘Galvanising. His people never came through the courtyard. They always went round the back and left their lorry behind the north wall.’ Fabre gestured at the line of vats. ‘They scoured the buckets and sheets and things with dilute acid, then they were dipped in a bath of molten zinc.’ He indicated a furnace in the corner. ‘They used ammonium chloride as a flux. I think the monks used to do it here in the last century. It was never a big process, though. Buckets and farmware – feeding troughs, that sort of thing – that’s all. Lausse was never big enough for galvanised sheets or wire.’
‘Did they always keep the acid here?’
Fabre gestured to the store room. ‘Yes. They worked in rubber boots and aprons and gloves. They had to be careful about the fumes.’
‘Who is this Lausse?’
‘Claude Lausse. I think he was some relation of the Comte de Boulay, who used to own the place. I heard he was the old boy’s illegitimate son but I don’t know. When Rensselaer bought the place he told him to go. He hung on and hung on but eventually he had to close down. Year or two back it was.’ Fabre scowled. ‘He was probably the bastard who hurt Archer.’
‘What’s happened to Archer? I thought she’d just pupped.’
‘Not Archiviste. Archer. We had to put him down.’
Pel paused, frowning. ‘I’ve heard of this Archer before, haven’t I? Isn’t this the hound Rensselaer raised?’
‘That’s right. Big dog hound. Rensselaer’s favourite. Adored Rensselaer. Good in front of the pack. Never missed a scent. Only trouble, he’d started getting restless in his old age, and started getting out – after the bitches, I suppose. I told you. With his nose, I expect he could smell a bitch on heat a mile away, and I expect there’ll be a few part-hound whelps around here by spring. He came home two days ago covered with mud and with burns on his body and legs.’
‘What sort of burns?’
‘Acid burns.’
‘This acid?’
‘Probably. Some bastard could have pinched it and put it down to keep him away from his bitch. But that’s a hell of a way to put an animal off.’ Fabre paused. ‘And how would they know where to put it? And why did Archer get it on him? A hound’s got an instinct for that sort of thing like any other animal.’
‘Where’s the body?’ Pel asked. ‘We’d like to check. Or did you feed it to the others?’
‘Not this time. Not with the acid. We buried it.’
‘Who put him down?’
‘Maurice.’
Pel turned to Nosjean ‘Get Prélat in here to look at those carboys. And tell him to be careful. Then get the carcass of this hound dug up and into one of the vans. I’ll want Leguyader and Doc Minet to look at it. Tell everybody to be careful.’
While they had been talking, Cottu had appeared. He was wearing a white coat and he leaned over and spoke to Fabre.
‘You’d better come,’ he said. ‘She’s rejecting the litter now.’
Fabre scowled and looked at Pel. ‘I’d better go. Maurice will tell you anything else you want to know.’
Pel watched as Fabre hurried away. For a long time he stood with his hands in his pockets. Cottu waited, pushing the black curling gypsy hair from his eyes with the grubby bandaged hand.
‘Did Rensselaer ever live here?’ Pel asked.
Cottu gave a bark of laughter.
‘He’d have been a fool if he had,’ he said.
‘Why?’
‘Well, imagine it. Stuck here all the time. It drives Michelline round the bend.’
‘Do you always call her Michelline?’
‘Why not? We’re all here together. I’m Maurice. Only Fabre gets his surname.’
‘Don’t you like Fabre?’
‘He’s not much of a husband. He thinks more of the hounds than he does of Michelline. All the same he knows his job.’
‘In what way?’
‘Well, those hunts up round Pa
ris – Compiègne and Rambouillet – all they think about is the etiquette and the trappings. The Revolution was supposed to have removed the nobility but there are always plenty of dukes, barons and marquises up there, I notice. They’re always talking about La Chasse à Courre, and they always go on about the way the English don’t do it right. “Chasse à l’anglaise”, they say when things go wrong, and start calling it a steeplechase. But what they mean is that they’re still trying to run a royal staghunt, just as they used to – priests offering blessings and huntsmen in blue velvet jackets with yellow waistcoats. That’s not hunting. Here, it’s a race and sometimes the stag wins.’
Pel paused, studying Cottu. ‘Tell me about Lausse,’ he said.
‘Not much to tell. He didn’t live here. He just had this small galvanising business. He paid no rent and when he had to find other premises, it was too much for him and he went bust. He got a job with Garauds’ in Langres. They sell chemicals, fertilisers and so on. He was good and mad at Rensselaer and kept coming back here looking for him.’
Pel glanced at Darcy who made a note of the name.
‘Go on,’ he said.
Cottu shrugged. ‘Well, when he went he left half his stuff behind. There wasn’t much – a few buckets and feeding troughs. We used some of them. That was about all, except for a few carboys of acid.’
‘What sort of acid is it?’
‘Hydrochloric. It’s not surprising he was told to clear out. He got careless and Rensselaer was always looking for an excuse. When he found he was pouring acid into the ground, he got rid of him.’
Pel was silent for a while. ‘Tell me more about him,’ he said eventually. ‘We’ve not heard of him before. How did he react to being kicked out?’
‘He thought Rensselaer was destroying him because he constituted a threat to Rensselaer’s firm. Rensselaer just laughed and Lausse went for him with a hammer.’
‘And?’
‘And nothing. Rensselaer dodged and he tripped over his own feet and fell flat on his face. Rensselaer told him to get out before the end of the week.’
‘Did he?’
‘Yes. He sacked his people – there were only a few – and the stuff was sold at a loss. This is all that’s left of him. We used some of the acid.’
‘What for?’
‘Getting rid of bones. When you break a cow down, there’s a lot of rubbish left. Hooves, horns, bones. It came in very useful.’
Pel was suddenly thoughtful. ‘Who knew about this process of getting rid of the rubbish?’ he asked.
‘All of us. Visitors, too, I suppose. They saw us working occasionally.’
‘The Rensselaer family?’
‘I imagine so.’
‘All of them?’
‘I should think so. They knew what went on out here.’
‘This attack by Lausse on Rensselaer? Did Rensselaer report it to the police?’
‘He didn’t seem to think it was worth it. He thought Lausse was too old and useless to be much of a threat.’
Pel studied the whipper-in for a moment, his dark eyes shrewd. ‘You seem to know what goes on round here?’ he said. ‘What do you know about Rensselaer?’
Cottu’s eyes were veiled. ‘Why?’
‘Never mind why.’
‘Well, I know he married his wife for her money and I know he didn’t behave like a husband.’
‘Didn’t you like him either?’
‘This world wasn’t made just for the wealthy,’ Cottu said frankly. ‘You can’t sit on the working classes’ necks any more.’
‘You a Communist?’
‘No. I just don’t agree with the way people like Rensselaer behave. Using their money to keep other people down. Ignoring his wife, using his wealth to buy himself women.’
‘Did you know any of these women?’
Cottu grinned. ‘No, I didn’t,’ he said. ‘But I know there were women. His daughter told me.’
‘Why should his daughter tell you?’
‘I think she fancied me a bit, until she met that twit she married.’
‘Were you lovers?’
‘I wouldn’t call us lovers. Once. That’s all. In the woods. Then she got too big for her boots and remembered she was Rensselaer’s daughter and I was only the whipper-in. She became as snooty as her mother.’
‘Was her mother snooty?’
‘I don’t think she addressed a single word to me all the times she came out here.’
‘Did she come out here?’
Cottu grinned. ‘Sometimes. I think she came in the hope of finding Rensselaer with one of his poules. The whole family were out here at one time or another. His daughter was always looking around, searching —’
‘What for?’
Cottu laughed. ‘The same as her husband, I suppose. He was often here – looking for something he could nick.’
‘Such as what?’
‘Old things. Harness. A wine press. He took those, I know. They were old and dusty but there’s a demand for that sort of thing these days. The Americans and the Germans’ll pay anything for them.’
‘How do you know?’
Cottu grinned. ‘Because I’ve sold a few things myself.’ He paused and looked at Pel shrewdly. ‘But I bet you didn’t come out here to find out who I like and dislike.’
‘No.’ Pel admitted. ‘But since you mention it, whom did you dislike?’
‘All of them.’
‘But you worked for them.’
‘A man has to have a job.’
‘Don’t you like the abbey?’
‘I hate the damn place!’
‘Why didn’t you get a job on a farm then?’
‘Catch me being a farmhand. Work all day for no money.’
‘You could get paid well in factories.’
‘And lose your freedom?’
‘You, mon brave, are probably the only conservative socialist in the Republic.’
‘I ask my rights, that’s all. Rensselaer didn’t see it that way.’
‘You also seem to dislike Rensselaer.’
Cottu’s grin came again, impertinent and sly. ‘Not half as much as other people disliked him. They were all the same. Hypocrites getting what they could out of him, while all the time they detested him.’
‘Even Fabre?’
Cottu smiled. ‘I’ve seen him standing with his fists bunched and his teeth clenched.’ He eyed Pel. ‘I think if he didn’t know that there aren’t many jobs for huntsmen going these days, he’d have knocked his teeth in.’
Twelve
By the end of the day, they looked like the Tenth Legion after a trying campaign in Gaul. They were all tired, dusty and dirty. One of the uniformed men had been carted off with a twisted ankle when the plank floor of an attic he was exploring had given away and dropped him through to the room below. Misset had a cut hand and several people had tears from old nails and more than one had splinters. Clothing had suffered and one of the frogmen was complaining that his wet suit was ruined. They had explored the bricked passage from the pond outside the gate right through the oubliettes and on under the west wing until it emerged in a stream to the north of the abbey. Cluttered with rubbish and the slime of years, it had not been easy but it had been in remarkably good shape, and they had found nothing.
Nothing.
Wherever Rensselaer was, he didn’t appear to be in the abbey.
As they prepared to leave, Pel went into the enclosure beyond which the hounds were kept. They were setting up a clamour, baying and whining, and it dawned on him why. A tractor had arrived from one of the upland farms, dragging a trailer carrying the carcass of a cow. It had already been hauled by block and tackle from the trailer and what was left of it lay on the blood-slippery concrete. Clad in rubber boots and apron and covered with blood, Retif was hacking at it with a cleaver and tossing the flesh into the vats to be cooked for the hounds. Near Pel’s feet was a bloody cloven hoof chopped from a leg and kicked out of the way. There seemed little skill in the way the
Arab worked.
Fabre and Cottu were watching and they turned as Pel appeared.
‘We’re leaving now,’ Pel said.
‘Found anything?’ Fabre asked.
Pel decided not to be informative. ‘A few things here and there. We shall know better when the laboratory’s had time to examine them.’
Fabre accepted the statement for what it was worth but Cottu seemed to suspect they’d found nothing and grinned. Faintly depressed, tired and cold, they collected their traps, stuffed them into the vans and cars and headed back towards the city. Pel was in a thoughtful mood as he climbed into Darcy’s car.
‘How far is it to Langres?’ he asked suddenly.
Darcy glanced at him quickly. He’d had plans for Claudie Darel for the evening.
‘It’s late, Patron,’ he said.
‘So?’ Pel was in a sour mood. ‘This is a holy hour or something?’
‘Well, we’ve had a pretty tough day.’
‘It’s going to be tougher, Inspector Darcy.’ Pel laid great stress on Darcy’s rank to remind him of his responsibilities. ‘We’re going to Langres. To see Lausse.’
With a sigh, Darcy turned the car north.
Though there were still lights on at Garauds’, the place was closed, but the night-watchman was able to open the office and find the address of Claude Lausse.
‘11, Rue de Bourne,’ he said.
‘Allons-y,’ Pel growled.
Eleven, Rue de Bourne was a shabby little house and Lausse’s wife fitted it. She was small, thin and bent, and looked as if she had all the cares of the world on her shoulders.
‘My husband’s not here,’ she said.
‘Where is he?’ Pel asked.
‘He travels for Garauds’. He said he had to go to Lyons. He left a week ago.’
‘Has he been in touch since?’
‘No.’
‘Is he usually away as long as this?’
‘No.’ She looked worried. ‘I rang the firm. They said he wasn’t due to go to Lyons.’
Pel turned to Darcy. ‘Have the local police put a watch on this place,’ he said quietly. ‘I want this Lausse brought in when he turns up.’
On the way back, Darcy was faintly depressed that his evening was ruined. Pel sat in silence.