Pel Among The Pueblos Read online

  Copyright & Information

  Pel Among The Pueblos

  First published in 1987

  Copyright: John Harris; House of Stratus 1987-2011

  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

  1842329014 9781842329016 Print

  0755124812 9780755124817 Pdf

  0755125010 9780755125012 Mobi/Kindle

  0755125215 9780755125210 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 might 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

  Spring, Evariste Clovis Désiré Pel decided, was a good time. It was a period when even an ageing chief inspector of the Brigade Criminelle of the Police Justiciaire of the Republic of France could feel well disposed towards the world. Especially when he was married to a woman who seemed not only able and willing to put up with his peculiarities but even to love him for them. When Pel had married the Widow Faivre-Perret he had gone into it with the gravest misgivings. He had never doubted his own feelings about her but he had often worried over hers about him. Not that he didn’t think she had a faithful heart; it was just that he personally had always considered Evariste Clovis Désiré Pel a bit of a pain in the neck and had half-expected her to go off the boil as soon as she’d really got to know him.

  After two years, however, his wife was still there, still pandering to his eccentricities – strong feelings, was what Pel called them – still making sure he was well fed and properly dressed instead of looking like a ragpicker’s mate as he had before his marriage; even still keeping in order his former housekeeper, Madame Routy, whom she had most gallantly taken on with Pel. On her, even, she had wrought what was nothing less than a miracle. From being a bad-tempered old curmudgeon who did nothing but watch television and could cook nothing but casseroles – which Pel had always been delighted to walk out on at the last moment so she would have to eat them herself – she had become a paragon of virtue, complete with white overall, splendid dishes and television restricted to off-duty hours.

  Pel had often wondered how his wife had done it. A whip? Or thumbscrews? Perhaps even the rack? Because as soon as she vanished to Paris on one of her occasional business trips and Pel was alone for a day or two, the old mutinous, television-watching, casserole-cooking Madame Routy re-emerged, as forceful as if she’d never been tamed. With Madame at home, however, she was never bad-tempered – except with Pel, who was always happy to respond in kind, because living in peace with Madame Routy was utterly beyond him. Since Madame Routy had also found living in peace with Pel very much the same, they had both silently agreed to carry on their vendetta, but had obligingly left out Madame Pel who, since it seemed to keep them happy and gave them something to do, was quite willing to accept the feud in her usual relaxed manner.

  He breathed deeply and was just about to light a cigarette when he remembered it was time to decide to stop smoking. Pel decided to stop smoking about three times a week, though nothing ever came of it. Not even all the warnings he read managed to help him succeed and, in any case, he was usually half-hearted about it and liked to make great play of the announcements of the cigarette manufacturers that their cigarettes could give satisfaction without causing danger. Unlike Gentle Jesus, however, though they were mild they could still hardly be called meek.

  He decided to give it one more try and, instead of lighting up, drew a deep breath, filling his lungs with good fresh air. It wasn’t half as satisfying as cigarette smoke, but he frowned and gritted his teeth. It was far too beautiful a morning to start dying of cancer, and Burgundy was looking its best.

  From Leu where he lived, Pel felt he could see it all, the Burgundy of the vines, the Burgundy of the forests, the Burgundy of the pastures and the rich meadows that nurtured the splendid Charollais. Wine, wood and beef, the three things that made Burgundians the men they were, the things that made Pel the man he was – or might have been, if he could only have given up tobacco.

  He looked about him. The sky – a good Burgundian sky – was blue. The grass – good Burgundian grass – was the bright green of the new year. The air – good Burgundian air – had about it the bouquet of good Burgundian wine. No wonder the province had always been a power in the land.

  The hour was late for Pel. He didn’t rest easily in bed but this Sunday morning he had taken his time rising because he had promised to take Madame Pel to see an aunt of hers at St-Seine l’Abbaye. Madame Pel’s relations, he had long since discovered, were a race apart. They were all elderly and all seemed to suffer from bad hearts, asthma, gangrene, senility, congenital leprosy, or just plain fading away. Throughout Pel’s courtship, they had spent their time dropping like flies so that it had been only with the greatest difficulty that he had ever managed to see the Widow Faivre-Perret at all. He had often wondered, in fact, how he had managed to get her to the altar because she was always being called away at the most inopportune moments to attend a sickbed, a funeral, or the reading of a will.

  Nowadays he did his best to avoid the relations, but they were too numerous to ignore completely and, since they all appeared to be wealthy and since Madame Pel seemed to be the only member of the younger generation in the family, she was due to inherit all their money. To Pel – who, however, never considered himself grasping, just careful of the future – that made a big difference so that he conceded an occasional grudging visit, if only to make an inspection and decide how much they were worth and how much longer they’d got before their fortunes found thei
r way into Madame Pel’s bank. Madame pretended to be shocked at his attitude but, in fact, she too occasionally found the demands on her a little wearing, and was able to weather them by extracting in her quiet way a little comedy from the situation through Pel’s black humour on the subject.

  However, with spring in the air, it was good to be alive and Pel was unable to resist a small dance. Nothing much, because Pel was no dancer. Just a few steps round the edge of the garden.

  ‘Have you hurt your foot?’

  At the words, Pel stopped dead, one leg in the air. Staring about him, he found himself looking into the bright black eyes of a small boy who was crouched by a hole in the hedge which separated the Pel property from the house next door. He wore too-tight, too-brief shorts, ankle socks and solid shoes, and his bare legs were marked with enough cuts, scratches and grazes to suggest he had had an argument with a tiger. His crew cut could at best only be called casual.

  Slowly Pel lowered his leg, his face pink. The wind ruffled his sparse hair and he brushed it down hurriedly.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I haven’t.’

  ‘I thought you were limping.’

  ‘No,’ Pel said. ‘I wasn’t. I have a stone in my shoe.’

  The small boy gestured behind him. ‘I’ve come to live next door,’ he pointed out.

  ‘Oh!’ Pel remembered he had seen furniture vans and a lot of activity a few days before.

  ‘I’m Yves Pasquier. Who’re you?’

  ‘I’m Pel.’

  ‘Pel what?’

  ‘Just Pel. That’s my name.

  ‘My father’s an architect. You’re a policeman, aren’t you? My father doesn’t think much of policemen.’

  Pel decided at once that he wouldn’t like Yves Pasquier’s father. ‘Perhaps he doesn’t know many,’ he said stiffly.

  ‘He’s heard of you, though,’ Yves Pasquier conceded. ‘He’s seen your name in the paper. He says you’re all right.’

  ‘I’m obliged, I’m sure.’

  ‘I’m going to be a policeman when I grow up.’

  Pel managed a smile. It could hardly have been called a full-throated one because he didn’t smile often and was out of practice. But he approved of small boys who wanted to be policemen. It meant there would always be recruits for the fight against crime. To Pel the fight against crime was a crusade. He had already enrolled Madame Routy’s nephew, Didier Darras, who had grown up so fast he made Pel feel positively senile. He was now in uniform as a police cadet and Pel was pulling strings like a puppet operator to get him a job in his office in the place of the cadet who normally worked there but had finally gone on to the streets as a fully fledged cop.

  He was just wondering what to say next when a young woman appeared at the other side of the hedge. She was pretty and, since Pel liked pretty young women, he managed a death’s head grin at her.

  ‘I’m his mother,’ she said. ‘I’m Marguerite Pasquier.’

  They shook hands solemnly. ‘Pel, Madame.’ Pel wasn’t giving anything more away. With the names he possessed, he’d have had her rolling on the ground shaking with laughter. To Pel his names were a sensitive point, so much so his wife had long since realised it was better simply to address him by his surname alone.

  They exchanged courtesies, then the small boy was dragged indoors for his breakfast. As he headed towards his own breakfast, Pel felt uplifted. Small boys who wanted to join the police and pretty young women who were their mothers were a solace to cynical policemen and he decided he had a good replacement now that Didier Darras had grown up, because Madame Routy, Didier’s aunt, could never by the widest stretch of imagination be called pretty.

  When he appeared in the kitchen, his wife was at the table pouring coffee. ‘I see you’ve met Madame Pasquier,’ she said.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘She’s very pretty.’

  ‘Is she?’ Pel had his head down, occupied with trying to spread jam on his croissant with a teaspoon.

  ‘Didn’t you notice?’

  Pel shrugged. It wasn’t very convincing. His wife smiled her small secret amused smile. She knew her Pel by this time, with all his little pecularities, all his doubts and all his strengths. She had been taking a big risk, she realised now, when she had married him, but it seemed to work. A bell rang and Madame Routy appeared. ‘Telephone,’ she announced.

  Pel knew she was addressing him because she never addressed his wife in that manner. Madame Routy thought Madame Pel was a gift from Heaven, even if she regarded Pel as something the cat might have dragged in.

  It was Darcy, Pel’s second-in-command. ‘Trouble, patron,’ he said.

  ‘What sort of trouble? Terrorists running rampant through the streets? A visit by the President? Brigitte Bardot about to marry one of us?’

  Darcy chuckled. ‘A shooting, patron,’ he said. ‘Two guys. One called Navarro. Serrano Navarro.’

  ‘I know that name.’

  ‘Quite likely, patron. He has a record. We haven’t identified the other yet.’

  ‘When did all this take place? Last night?’

  ‘No, patron. About an hour ago.’

  Pel’s eyebrows danced. ‘An hour ago? What happened to the man who killed them? Has he been stopped?’

  ‘He got away, patron. Quick take-off. He was seen—’

  ‘He was?’

  ‘—but not identified. I’ve informed the Chief and all departments. Pomereu of Traffic’s setting up road-blocks and Nadauld of Uniformed Branch’s getting his boys out. But we’re not going to catch him. Not now. He had a car and he could be a hundred kilometres away by this time. And, on a Sunday morning, with nobody about, I dare bet nobody saw him going.’

  ‘So how do we know about him?’

  ‘The housekeeper saw him leave.’

  ‘I’ll be down shortly.’ Pel paused. ‘Tell me, Daniel,’ he said, ‘why is it murder enquiries always start just as I’m about to sit down to breakfast?’

  Darcy laughed. ‘I’ll try to fix it differently, patron,’ he said. ‘I’ll arrange for them to start just as you’re about to sit down to lunch.’

  ‘It would at least give me a chance to wake up. I’m never keen on starting work before the streets are aired. Where is it?’

  ‘Sorgeay-le-Petit. Big house as you enter the village. The boys are already there so you’ll spot the cars. Local cop was called. Lagé took the call and fixed everything. Photography, Forensic, Doc Minet. They’re all on their way.’

  ‘Together, no doubt, with the Press.’

  ‘So far, we’ve had no enquiries, so perhaps they haven’t yet heard.’

  ‘Perhaps not,’ Pel said. ‘But they will soon.’

  When Pel arrived at Sorgeay-le-Petit, Darcy was waiting for him. The house was on the edge of the village, large, pretentious and expensive-looking. Police cars jammed the drive and the road outside was full of interested onlookers, men, women, children and dogs.

  ‘Are they bringing him out?’ an old man asked Pel as he climbed out of his car.

  Reflecting that there’d be a crowd even if the murder had been committeed in the middle of the Sahara, Pel shrugged him off and turned to Darcy who was holding out a packet of Gauloises.

  Pel eyed it warily. ‘I’d decided to stop.’

  ‘Leave it till tomorrow, patron.’

  Pel frowned, but he weakly agreed to leave the decision for a later date. According to the experts, the best way to stop smoking was to avoid tension, but the Great Lord God of Stresses and Strains had long since adjudged that tension was something no policeman could avoid. He took the cigarette.

  ‘In here, patron,’ Darcy said, holding out his lighter. ‘We’ve got the second guy’s name now – Paul Desgeorges. It seems he was bodyguard to Navarro.’

  Pel frowned. ‘Wasn’t this Navarro once involved in some gang business?’

  ‘That’s right, patron,’ Darcy said. ‘With our old friend, Maurice Tagliatti. But he was beginning to get on a bit – sixty-four last birthday. I understand
he’d retired.’

  ‘It looks like it,’ Pel said dryly. ‘For good.’

  Darcy grinned. ‘From the gangs, I mean. He hadn’t been involved with them for some time.’

  Pel sniffed. ‘It looks as though he might have renewed their acquaintance. What do we know about him?’

  ‘Known as Serro le Cerveaux – Serro the Brain. He took a degree in art at the Sorbonne. Not a very good one, but a degree nevertheless. He was an educated crook.’

  ‘Of which there are far too many these days.’

  Darcy agreed. ‘His line was books. He was believed to be involved in the theft of that Maillol manuscript at Reims seven years ago. He was never pinned down and the police never found the manuscript. He knows his way round art. Maurice Tagliatti has consulted him on things and it’s believed he was on the fringe of the theft of the Medusa’s head from the Paris Opera House. He was involved in a few other things, too, of course, which weren’t art, but that was his chief line.’

  ‘And the other type?’

  ‘Paul Desgeorges. Also getting on a bit. Fifty-nine and growing fat. He’d worked for Tagliatti but seems to have given up when Navarro did. Once a wrestler and a bouncer, and for a time one of Tagliatti’s strong-arm boys. It seems Navarro kept him on his payroll as a bodyguard.’

  Pel gave a small chilly smile. ‘Obviously not the most skilful,’ he said, ‘since they’re both dead.’

  Darcy grinned. ‘Well, I did warn you they were both getting a bit past it, patron. But Navarro had made his pile. We know that from the way he lived. Look at the house.’ Darcy gestured at the building before them. ‘There are two cars in the garage. Big ones. He wasn’t scratching for money. How he got his dough we don’t know – dishonestly, I expect – but for the last year or two he seems to have been living off his capital. He hasn’t been suspected of being involved in anything.’