Pel and the Predators

  Copyright & Information

  Pel & The Predators

  First published in 1984

  Copyright: John Harris; House of Stratus 1984-2011

  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

  1842328972 9781842328972 Print

  0755124898 9780755124893 Pdf

  0755125096 9780755125098 Mobi/Kindle

  0755125290 9780755125296 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 its street names are the same – in fact the city in these pages is intended to be fictitious.

  One

  The early morning sun was brilliant but there was a strong wind that flung the waves ashore like the regiments of an attacking army.

  The old man moving along the beach barely noticed. He had his head down and was collecting driftwood. During the summer he collected sufficient to keep his fire alight throughout the winter and, with coal as costly as diamonds, it was quite an achievement. He pulled a plank out of the water to a point where the rising tide couldn’t reach it, intending to collect it later with a barrow he’d made from the frame of an old perambulator, and fished out a rope attached to two bright blue plastic balls. In his day nets had been supported by cork floats which you cut yourself. Nowadays everything was manufactured – probably inland, too, he thought with a sniff by people who knew nothing about the sea.

  The little pile of timber grew and he was just about to call it a day when he noticed what looked like a red rubber sphere, bobbing among the rocks. It was probably a pill buoy, he decided, and he might get something for it from one of the fishermen – even if only a drink. Trudging down the beach, his yellow rubber boots leaving long slurred footprints, he moved along the water’s edge, deciding his walk had been for nothing and that the red object was nothing more than a punctured airbed. Then he realised it was a plastic rubber raincoat, the sort he’d seen holidaymakers wear on the days when the Breton coast lived up to its reputation and brought gales and rain. Then he stopped dead because he could now also see a pale greyish-looking hand, slashed with wet sand and entwined with a coil of dark green seaweed, protruding from the sleeve and resting across a small rock.

  Nervously, he moved closer. He had dragged many dead people from the sea in his time and bodies were nothing to upset him. But now that he was old, he didn’t enjoy finding them because they made him realise how short was his own life span. He crept closer and, peering over the rocks, saw long hair moving in the swirls of water. It was a young woman, he could see now, and he turned abruptly and began to shuffle up the beach to where he had left his bicycle.

  He was out of breath when he reached the police station. As he stumbled through the door, he was able only to gasp out his message a few words at a time.

  ‘I’ve found a girl…’

  The policeman behind the counter looked up. He was young, bright, breezy and full of the joy of life. ‘You’re lucky,’ he said, regarding the old man with the contemptuous pity of the young for the ageing. ‘I’ve just lost mine. Chucked me for a fisherman.’

  ‘No…no…’ Struggling for breath, the old man waved his arms. ‘I’ve found this girl…’

  ‘At your age, too!’

  The old man glared at the policeman, stood silently for a second or two, then very deliberately turned away and, watched by the policeman, sat down on a polished seat opposite the counter, his eyes glowing with hatred. Gradually his chest stopped heaving and he rose slowly to his feet. Crossing back to the policeman, he stood at the counter and drew a deep breath.

  ‘I’ve found a girl,’ he said slowly and carefully so there should be no misunderstanding. ‘On the beach.’

  The young policeman couldn’t resist it. ‘Topless?’ he asked.

  It was too much for the old man. He snatched off his cap and flung it at the policeman, then he slammed his ancient fists down on the counter top and bellowed with all the power in his lungs.

  ‘I’ve found a girl on the beach!’ he roared. ‘And, if you’d only listen for a minute, you stupid young con, you’d understand that I’m trying to say she’s dead!’

  In Burgundy, spring had come early and the enamelled roofs for which the city was famous glowed in the golden light of the warm sunshine. Though it was an up-to-date thriving city packed with pedestrians and traffic, there were always odd corners which belonged to the Middle Ages, so that the solemn buildings, old courtyards and dim alleys seemed in the dusk as if they ought to be peopled in the bizarre splendour of the Valois court, with women in wimples and trailing dresses and men with swords and striped hose. It was often referred to as ‘the city of a hundred belfries’ but so was Rouen and doubtless a dozen other places too, and Evariste Clovis Désiré Pel of the Brigade Criminelle of the Police Judiciaire wasn’t one to dwell much on fantasies. A Burgundian to his finger tips, he was as proud of his city as he was of the rolling land that surrounded it, land that produced fat cattle, rich grain and the finest wine in France. When the wine of Bordeaux was mentioned, Pel usually looked blank and asked ‘What’s that?’ though he had recently begun to notice that, for a late evening meal, Burgundy sat somewhat heavily on the stomach while the lighter wine of Bordeaux gave no trouble. As a good Burgundian, it seemed blasphemy to admit it but one had to face the facts of advancing age.

  At the moment, however, his heart was light and that was a change because with Evariste Clovis Désiré Pel it often wasn’t. A policeman’s life, he felt was too real and too earnest for such frivolities as light hearts and, in addition, he suffered fr
om insomnia, overwork, shortage of money, and the unquestionable, indubitable fact that he smoked too much. In recent months he’d cut his cigarettes down from two million a day to around five hundred thousand but he was well aware that it still wasn’t half enough and the effort to do better left him edgy with nerves.

  Today, though, was different. He had just been informed that he had been promoted to chief inspector and that his job had changed. For some time now, in addition to his normal duties, he had been investigating complaints and checking police stations and substations for inefficiency, but it had finally occurred to the authorities that they were wasting their best detective in a job that was within the powers of a mere organisation man, and the Chief had informed him that morning that he was back at his old job, the job he liked best – striking terror into the hearts of the criminals who threatened to undermine the structure of the French Republic. Pel’s attitude to crime was a crusader’s attitude – uncomplicated and intense.

  The Chief had given a little party to celebrate the promotion. One or two senior legal names were there: Judge Polverari, for one, who was a friend of Pel’s and liked to take him out for expensive meals just for the pleasure of hearing his astringent comments on other people – Judge Brisard, for instance, whom Pel liked in the way you liked amputations. The Maire, who was elected by the people to do what they wanted, and the Prefect, who was set over him by Central Government to stop him, were also present, with the Public Prosecutor, his deputy and his clerk, and a few heads of local government departments. The gathering was held in an echoing room off the council chamber, with a bust representing the Republic on the mantelpiece, a tricolour, and a pile of books on social security on a polished table. The carpet was green and so expansive it felt as if they were holding a party in the middle of a football field.

  The Chief made the position clear. ‘Goriot’s decided he won’t be up to the job when he comes out of hospital—’ Inspector Goriot, Pel’s nearest rival, had recently been wounded in an affray in the city which had made the storming of the Bastille look like a Sunday afternoon outing ‘—so we’re giving him your job of co-ordinator. You’ll take over his team as well as your own and run two groups.’

  Pel nodded. No matter what anybody else intended, he intended to continue as before, as he always had – as the Nemesis of the criminal classes – the only difference being that for a change he would now have enough help.

  ‘You’d better inform your men,’ the Chief said. ‘It’s going to cost you something in drinks, I imagine, when they know.’

  There was always a fly in the ointment, no matter how splendid the treatment. And first, anyway, there was one before even his men whom Pel had to inform. Deep down, despite his frozen face, he was more pleased that he would ever admit. Promotion meant a bigger office, a higher salary and better expenses, all of which was something to crow about, and he hoped it would impress.

  The affair between Pel and Madame Geneviève Faivre-Perret had been going on some time now, long enough in fact for the Hôtel de Police to start hoping for a successful conclusion, if only to improve Pel’s temper. There had been interruptions from time to time, of course, such as were caused by Madame’s relatives, who had an unfortunate habit of dying every time Pel made a date, or by the exigencies of his job, because every time he got Madame on her own somebody seemed to get beaten up, raped, assaulted, or even murdered, and Pel had never been certain, anyway, that he could afford marriage. Now, at long last – despite the fact that like a squirrel with nuts he’d been stuffing money into the bank for years against a poverty-stricken old age, he was finally beginning to feel marriage wouldn’t bankrupt him.

  He met Madame at the Hôtel Central for an apéritif that evening. The Central was the best hotel in the city and the manager appeared to greet them. He knew Pel well but he knew Madame Faivre-Perret better. Madame was a business woman who attended business meetings in the hotel and sometimes ate business lunches there because she owned Nanette’s, the largest and most fashionable hairdressing establishment in the city, a place where they didn’t have charges, they had fees. Pel was merely a policeman and, though the hotel had had cause to be grateful to the police from time to time over the activities of certain of its guests who were not all they pretended to be, the manager wasn’t all that keen on policemen making free with his hotel as customers. Having them, even in plain clothes, sitting there drinking could get the place a bad name.

  Madame Faivre-Perret listened to Pel’s news with amusement dancing in her eyes. By this time she knew Pel well.

  ‘Evariste—’ she was a widow and, having to look after herself, was not in the habit of beating about the bush ‘—are you asking me to marry you?’

  Pel looked blank. ‘I thought I did,’ he said. ‘Some time ago.’

  ‘No, Evariste. Never. Perhaps you assumed. I never have.’

  ‘Then—’ Pel swallowed, nervously aware of the abyss into which he was stepping ‘—then – will you?’

  ‘I’ve been wondering when you were going to get around to it.’ She looked at him worriedly. ‘You do want to, don’t you?’

  Pel could hardly speak for the earnestness of his reply. He looked forward to marriage as one condemned to death looked forward to the man on the white horse hurtling up with the reprieve tucked into his gauntlet. For years he had lived with the indifferent ministrations of Madame Routy, his housekeeper, who was probably the only bad cook in a country crammed full of culinary experts. She stole the ‘confort anglais,’ the only comfortable chair in his house, gossiped with the neighbours and suffered from an addiction to television which took the form of watching everything from breakfast time to the good night kiss, always with the volume turned up beyond ‘Loud’ to ‘Unbelievable.’ He had been convinced for a long time that the deplorable state of his house was entirely due to the stresses and strains placed on the foundations by the vibrations set up by the shuddering one-eyed box in his salon.

  ‘Of course,’ he said fervently. ‘It’s my dearest wish.’

  Madame smiled, reassured, and put on her spectacles to see him better. She was a little on the short-sighted side which, Pel often considered, was probably a good thing for him because he was not a very prepossessing man and, with his thin hair plastered across his skull like wet seaweed across a rock, he sometimes felt he looked a little like an anxious terrier.

  On the other hand, of course, if she could choose someone as unimpressive as himself – and one also with the Christian names Evariste Clovis Désiré – she had to feel something for him. His mother had hoped his future might be in politics – and certainly Evariste Clovis Désiré seemed to go more with a president of France than a chief inspector of the Police Judiciaire – but she could never have conceived the way the names she’d chosen weighed at times on her son.

  ‘It’s so easy, really,’ Madame Faivre-Perret was saying. ‘I have a business which is doing splendidly. You’ve been promoted to a position of importance. There’s nothing to stop us.’

  Pel sat back in his seat. Now the thing was done, he was caught by a cold fear. After a lifetime of independence, had he thrown it all up in the name of company, comfort and decent food? He drew a deep breath. It seemed to call for another drink.

  As the drinks arrived, Madame got down to arr-angements.

  ‘I shall give up my house at Talant, of course,’ she said.

  Pel looked alarmed. Surely she wasn’t thinking of moving into the house he maintained in the Rue Martin-de-Noinville? His house looked like a dilapidated chicken run and, because he was a little on the mean side, hadn’t been decorated for years so that it seemed – even to Pel – to have been curtained with sacking and papered with wrapping paper.

  ‘We shall need something larger,’ Madame said placidly.

  ‘Shall we?’ Pel was wondering what his impulsiveness had led him to. Marriage suddenly seemed a very expensive business. The thought made him feel in need of a cigarette but he resisted the temptation. Now that he was acquir
ing a wife, he felt, he couldn’t possibly afford both.

  ‘Actually,’ he said, ‘we shall need a new car, too. I’ve been expecting mine to let me down for years.’

  Madame laughed. ‘I’ve been expecting it to deposit me in the gutter every time we go round a corner.’ She touched Pel’s hand. ‘I think perhaps we’ll be able to afford both. I’m not without funds.’

  Relief flooded over Pel. ‘I was thinking of a bungalow at Plombières,’ he suggested. His mind had been full for some time of a neat little property in the country, near the river where he could fish, perhaps with a garden that could be made – by someone else, of course, he decided firmly – to produce vegetables which would offset the enormous expense of supporting a wife. Perhaps even a dog, so he could walk out in the evening, a countryman looking round his estate. He decided against a stick and a pipe in the English manner. The last time he’d tried a pipe to stop himself smoking cigarettes he had ended up with jaw ache, a sour mouth and a burned hole in his pocket.

  ‘I was thinking of something at Hauteville just north of Fontaine,’ Madame said.

  ‘That’s a very expensive area.’ Like a recalcitrant underslip, Pel’s alarm was beginning to show again.

  She was quite unperturbed. ‘There are a few people about the city who can find me something. Businessmen I know.’

  Pel’s heart shrivelled with jealousy at the thought of other men sharing Madame with him.

  ‘A garden, perhaps,’ she went on. ‘Fields, so we don’t feel too enclosed. An orchard. Two bathrooms. A big salon.’

  Name of God, Pel thought in a panic, it was growing bigger by the minute! It was already the size of a château and the costs would bankrupt him.

  She noticed his look and began to tease a little. ‘You’ll need a study, too, of course. Somewhere you can read all those documents you have to go through.’