Pel And The Paris Mob Read online

  Copyright & Information

  Pel & The Paris Mob

  First published in 1986

  Copyright: Juliet Harris; House of Stratus 1986-2011

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  The right of Mark Hebden (John Harris) to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.

  This edition published in 2011 by House of Stratus, an imprint of

  Stratus Books Ltd., Lisandra House, Fore Street, Looe,

  Cornwall, PL13 1AD, UK.

  Typeset by House of Stratus.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library and the Library of Congress.

  EAN ISBN Edition

  1842329006 9781842329009 Print

  0755124855 9780755124855 Pdf

  0755125053 9780755125050 Mobi/Kindle

  0755125258 9780755125258 Epub

  This is a fictional work and all characters are drawn from the author’s imagination.

  Any resemblance or similarities to persons either living or dead are entirely coincidental.

  www.houseofstratus.com

  About the Author

  John Harris, wrote under his own name and also the pen names of Mark Hebden and Max Hennessy.

  He was born in 1916 and educated at Rotherham Grammar School before becoming a journalist on the staff of the local paper. A short period freelancing preceded World War II, during which he served as a corporal attached to the South African Air Force. Moving to the Sheffield Telegraph after the war, he also became known as an accomplished writer and cartoonist. Other ‘part time’ careers followed.

  He started writing novels in 1951 and in 1953 had considerable success when his best-selling The Sea Shall Not Have Them was filmed. He went on to write many more war and modern adventure novels under his own name, and also some authoritative non-fiction, such as Dunkirk. Using the name Max Hennessy, he wrote some very accomplished historical fiction and as Mark Hebden, the ‘Chief Inspector’ Pel novels which feature a quirky Burgundian policeman.

  Harris was a sailor, an airman, a journalist, a travel courier, a cartoonist and a history teacher, who also managed to squeeze in over eighty books. A master of war and crime fiction, his enduring novels are versatile and entertaining.

  Note

  Though Burgundians will probably decide they have recognised it – and certainly many of the streets are the same – in fact, the city in these pages is intended to be fictitious.

  One

  Evariste Clovis Désiré Pel wasn’t in the best of tempers. There was nothing unusual about this. There was plenty in the life of a chief inspector of the Brigade Criminelle of the Police Judiciaire to raise the blood pressure, and Pel wasn’t normally in the best of good humour, anyway. Since his marriage, he liked to feel he was a new man who could look on the world with a kindly wisdom, but he wasn’t really. Not by any means. He was still very much the old one and, being a little more advanced in age, had even suffered a further reduction in his threshold of tolerance. After all, people don’t change. They just become more so.

  Fortunately, his wife, formerly the Widow Faivre-Perret, was an understanding woman with a strong sense of humour. She hadn’t managed to change Pel much – and didn’t really expect to – but at least she managed most of the time to make him seem human, and his bad temper at the moment was attributable to the fact that he was away from home and far from her restraining influence.

  Sitting in his bedroom at the Hôtel des Trois Faisans in the village of Quigny-par-la-Butte, where he was an unwilling resident for the night, he realised that for the first time in his life he had started to enjoy going home from work. Before his marriage he had lived a hand-to-mouth existence in a house as big as a dog kennel, his only companion a soured housekeeper who barely looked after him. Even his childhood had not been exactly full of comfort. His father, an irascible old man from whom Pel had inherited his doubtful temper, hadn’t believed much in luxury and it had been a family joke that he liked to sleep on a concrete slab which was sluiced down every morning with the garden hose. When Pel had joined the force, the police barracks had actually seemed an improvement. And though the little home he had eventually set up in the Rue Martin-de-Noinville had been a further improvement, he realised now that he had never really known what comfort was until he had married.

  He removed his tie and looked about him. The reception clerk of the hotel had given him what she said was their best room – on a corner facing the village square. It had windows on two sides, one looking across to the church forty paces away, the other facing directly along the road from Lyons which turned sharp left at the square and ran alongside the hotel. Quigny lay just off the N7 and the hotel was known throughout France as a gastronomic delight. Pel had decided he might as well temper his dislike of travel with the pleasure of a good meal.

  Glancing out of the window, he saw people gathering near the church, more figures coming down the road to the square, and still more crossing the fields, all dressed in dark clothes because the occasion was the funeral of the Maire, Monsieur Robert Heriot. Pel was there because many years ago Monsieur Heriot had encouraged him to join the police and now, having long ago admitted – despite his complaints that he suffered from overwork, shortage of sleep, lack of money and a terrible tendency to smoke himself to death – that he would never have wished to be anything else, Pel felt he owed a debt of gratitude. What else could he have been? A schoolteacher? A man who could reduce policemen to tears would have terrified his pupils. A salesman in a shop? Faced with a difficult customer, he would have crushed him with a word. A civil servant? Restless as a flea, Pel could never have lived the soporific life of a government official. Aggressive, hostile, fond of minding other people’s business, being a policeman was the only thing he was fitted for.

  He fished a black tie from his overnight bag and tied it carefully, studying himself in the mirror as he did so. His hair, plastered across his skull, had ceased, he noticed, to look like wilting anchovies draped across the top of a pizza; these days it looked more like infant scratchings with a pencil on the shell of a boiled egg. He wasn’t getting any younger, he reflected. It was a sad thought. Newly married and already on his way out. It was all those cigarettes he smoked. The number he put away in a day was enough to kill a carthorse.

  Glancing from the window, he noted that the queue of people entering the church had increased. He had already seen the Maires of two neighbouring villages, complete with their sashes of office, go in. Just time for a quick one, he thought, and headed for the bar. It was empty and he guessed that everyone except the barman was in the church because Monsieur Heriot was well known in the district and universally popular. As he sipped a Pernod and dragged at a hurried cigarette, he noticed the room was filled with old photographs of the village, the square, and the Trois Faisans. One of them attracted his attention. It was the church opposite, where he was bound within a minute or two, but it looked odd and it dawned on him that it had no steeple. The barman saw his look of puzzlement and explained.

  ‘Taken in 1871,’ he said. ‘It collapsed into the nave. They had a battery of Prussian guns just outside the village during the Battle of Saulbrais. The Army of the Alps was trying to get up this way to lift the siege of Paris and they were firing all night. They said the vibration did the damage.’

  Becoming aware of the church clock chiming four, Pel finished his drink and slipped across
a sandy courtyard flanked by the ivy-covered wings of the hotel, and into the square. Though he barely noticed it in his hurry, the clock was still chiming four. The queue entering the church had thinned out considerably and he decided he had timed his entrance exactly. He had no wish to be obtrusive and didn’t want to be among the family or official mourners.

  There were now four Maires in the church but Pel found a seat among the people at the back, for the most part horny-handed men and women from the little farms and villages around, the women in out-of-date hats, the men in board-stiff black suits and heavy shoes, their faces devoid of expression. The coffin was covered with a tricolour. The priest moved forward to meet it, a tall thin man with a lined ascetic face and aggressive nostrils, as if he sniffed out sin with such constancy it had affected their shape.

  Mercifully, he was not as ardent as a preacher as his features seemed to suggest, and he delivered an address blessed by its shortness, and everyone escaped thankfully into the bronze late afternoon sunshine.

  As he left the graveyard, Pel debated going home. But he had calls to make the following morning on police matters further south, so he gave himself wholeheartedly to commiserating with the relatives, raised his hat to the visiting Maires and a few other local officials, and smiled benignly – while hopping from one foot to the other in an effort to bolt – on the landlord of the Trois Faisans who insisted he had recognised him from his pictures in the newspaper. ‘Inspector Pol, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘Involved in that case in Corsica.’

  ‘The name’s Pel,’ Pel said sharply. ‘The rank’s Chief Inspector, and the case you’re thinking of was on the Ile de St Ives.’

  ‘Got you,’ the landlord said. ‘Evariste Clovis Désiré Pel. Easy to remember. Because of your name.’

  Pel glared. He had never considered his name fitted the image of a successful detective. It was only with a great feeling of guilt that he had admitted it before his marriage, and even now he preferred not to be reminded of it. But it had a habit of cropping up again and again – every time he licensed his car, on every insurance he took out, during every case reported by the newspapermen who had somehow acquired it from police records. His wife, thank God, addressed him these days simply as ‘Pel’.

  He was barely civil for the rest of the conversation and escaped at last to light a cigarette to steady his nerves. He had intended to cut his smoking for this day at least, feeling that without the normal worries of a chief inspector of the Police Judiciaire he might be able to relax, but having his name trotted out like this was enough to up his intake from five hundred thousand a day to a cool million.

  The cigarette worked wonders and he began to feel better, even a little smug with the sense of a duty well done. The bar had filled up quickly as the mourners, parched after the service, arrived to slake their thirst. Because he had no great fondness for his fellow human beings, Pel decided to sit on his own in the garden. On the whole – apart from what he considered to be an inferiority complex but, with his aggressive arrogance, couldn’t possibly have been – he found that, even if he didn’t like other people very much, he got on very well with Evariste Clovis Désiré Pel.

  He chose a place as far as possible from the bar, situated between a row of sunflowers and a canebreak where the canes were as thick as his thumb. He was nicely screened there and able to sit quietly with his apéritif until it was time to eat. Because it was warm and he felt pleased that he’d done his duty with as little personal wear and tear as possible, he had an extra drink and then, guiltily, another extra drink.

  Only vaguely aware of other people sitting outside in the warm evening and the faint chimes of the church clock coming over the roofs, he ate what he considered a magnificent meal and drank rather more wine than he’d intended. Finally – not, of course, he persuaded himself, because he wanted one but simply to do justice to the chef – he had a brandy and an extra couple of cigarettes, guiltily aware that he’d already smoked more than his ration for the day.

  He often wondered why he never managed to stop. Millions did. It cost him a fortune and without it he would doubtless feel healthier and smell fresher. Doubtless, if his wife ever decided to leave him, it would be entirely due to the dislike of kissing someone who smelled like an ashtray.

  He decided abruptly that he’d stop there and then, and to celebrate the occasion he ordered another brandy. But the brandy made him feel like another cigarette, and he decided that he would stop not at that moment but the next morning when he would have had time to prepare himself for the ordeal. He sank the brandy and dragged the smoke down to his socks with a feeling of luxury.

  Heading for bed, he had to admit that he’d thoroughly enjoyed the funeral, and he was just dropping off to sleep when the church clock opposite chimed the hour – eleven strokes. He waited patiently until it had finished and closed his eyes again. He was on the point of dropping off once more when it started again. Name of God, he thought, the damn thing was malfunctioning! He waited until the twenty-second stroke and composed himself again. This time he had just gone off properly when the quarter hour chimed and five minutes later chimed again and it dawned on him that he’d heard of this kind of clock before. Not six months before, in fact. Claudie Darel, the only woman on his team, had told him about one at Torcé-en-Vallée near Le Mans, which had kept her awake half the night while she was en route south for a holiday. She had even discovered one within a mile of Pel’s office in the Hôtel de Police. This was another of the same kind – large, very loud and not forty metres from where he lay. It chimed not only on the hour but every quarter, too, and its bells had been made loud because they had been cast in the days when farm labourers didn’t wear watches and needed to be warned of the approach of matins and the angelus and the time to stop work, and to chime twice in case they’d been missed the first time.

  The iron clangs sounded as if the clock were going off in the room with him and every time, as they started, he found himself tensing at the series of minor clonks, groans, creaks, grunts and shuffles as the mechanism got under way. After an hour he could have described in detail every single one, and was cowering with his head under the pillow, his face dark with fury. Why, he wondered, did God have it in for him so? He would have to organise a society for the removal of noisy clocks. Perhaps even a society for the blowing up of badly-planned hotels which didn’t allow their residents to sleep, or the shooting of self-important landlords who inveigled long-suffering chief inspectors of the Police Judiciaire into their premises with the pretence that they served gourmet food. After four hours of the clock opposite, there was no place in Pel’s mind for the memory of a splendid meal and no room in his heart for mercy for the man who had provided it.

  Never a good sleeper – for most of his life Pel had gone to bed early in the belief that he needed sleep when in fact he needed remarkably little – his mind was busier than ever through being kept awake and he recalled again the landlord’s insult at calling him Pol, the priest’s nostrils, the coffin covered in a tricolour, the visiting Maires in their sashes, the sombre interior of the church, even the story the barman had told him of the church spire collapsing into the nave because of the vibration of the Prussian guns at the Battle of Saulbrais.

  He dropped off at last only to be awakened almost at once by an appalling crash. He sat bolt upright immediately, convinced that the guns of Saulbrais were firing, or that the church spire had collapsed again, or both. But, as he glared through the window, the clock chimed defiantly back at him. Then he became aware of voices coming through the other window overlooking the road and, crossing the room to stick his head out, he discovered the trouble had been caused by a fire engine returning from a fire, which had taken the corner into the village rather too sharply and had removed every single ground-floor shutter from the outside of the hotel.

  As he peered out, he saw one fireman stacking the shutters neatly against a wall, and another two endeavouring to wrench the wing of the fire engine off the wheel while their office
r urged them to get a move on so they could be away before anyone arrived to see what had happened. It was a vain hope, because just then the landlord arrived, in pyjamas and dressing gown and looking half-asleep – doubtless, Pel thought bitterly, his room was well away from the church clock at the back of the hotel. Taking in what had happened at a glance, the landlord sailed into the firemen with every scrap of vituperation in his possession.

  By the time Pel turned from the window, the staff and several residents had also appeared. It looked like turning into a riot. Pel gave up trying to sleep and, putting on his clothes, decided he might just as well go home.

  He reached the Hôtel de Police long before anyone else and in a thoroughly bad temper because the Bar Transvaal opposite, where he often took his breakfast of a coffee and croissant, wasn’t yet open. He told the policeman at the desk to let him know as soon as they opened their doors and, when the call came, stalked out, bought a newspaper, and found a corner of the bar where he might recover.

  By the time he returned to the office, his team were beginning to appear – first Sergeant Bardolle, big as a brewery dray, his huge iron voice setting Pel’s head ringing; De Troquereau, slight, handsome, his aristocratic face full of intelligence; Darcy, Pel’s deputy, as well-dressed as if he were about to attend a levée at the Elysée Palace and smiling with those strong white teeth of his that captivated the girls so much; Lagé, plump, slow and hard-working; Aimedieu, looking like a choirboy; Brochard and Debray, the Heavenly Twins, pale hair, pale eyes, looking as if they were related; Lacocq and Morell, recently arrived from Uniformed Branch; Claudie Darel; and Martin, the cadet who ran the errands. Inevitably the last to arrive was Misset, running rapidly to seed, his good looks beginning to disappear, struggling with a failing marriage and a dislike of hard work. Only Nosjean, who was on leave, was missing.