Pel and the Bombers Read online

  Copyright & Information

  Pel & The Bombers

  First published in 1982

  Copyright: Juliet Harris; House of Stratus 1982-2010

  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 2010 by House of Stratus, an imprint of

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

  Cornwall, PL13 1AU, 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

  1842328964 9781842328965 Print

  0755124820 9780755124824 Pdf

  0755125029 9780755125029 Kindle

  0755125223 9780755125227 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.

  Author’s 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

  ‘Have you ever been in love, sir?’ Didier Darras asked.

  Inspector Evariste Clovis Désiré Pel lifted his head. Sitting among the long grass on the bank of the River Orche, he had been holding his fishing rod with slack fingers, drowsily watching his float as it moved in the ripples just beyond the reeds. There was a dragonfly hovering above it and the thundery air was filled with the drone of insects. He looked at the line of fishermen along the bank nearby then at the boy alongside him.

  ‘Many times, mon brave,’ he said.

  Mostly, however, he remembered sadly, without much success. With the names he bore, you could hardly expect to be a wow with the girls. The minute they learned them, they either registered shock or fell about laughing. One, he remembered bitterly, had actually fallen out of bed. Even as a child, he recalled, he had felt he had more than his fair share of the sort of labels that would arouse mirth in a schoolyard.

  Fortunately for people like Pel, the world also had its quota of those who recognised that names, like relatives, were something you didn’t choose but had wished on you and – Pel smiled at the thought – Madame Geneviève Faivre-Perret, who ran a beauty salon in the Rue de la Liberté in the city where he worked, was one of them, so that he was led to expect – believe – think – hope, anyway – that one day he might make her his wife.

  He gave a mental shrug. Unhappily, the affair had had so many ups and downs it could hardly, even at this late stage, be regarded as a certainty. Police work had a habit of intruding into his private life – so much so, he often thought, it might almost be wiser to wait until he retired. On the other hand, Madame Faivre-Perret – he still found it difficult to think of her as Geneviève – was a widow, like Pel past the first flush of youth and, despite her undoubted charm and what was a clear if – to Pel, anyway – surprising fondness for Pel, even inclined to be short-sighted. It was quite possible, Pel had to concede, that she didn’t see him as other people saw him – a small dark man with sharp eyes and an intense manner, rapidly going bald so that his sparse hair, combed flat across his head, looked a little like seaweed left draped across a rock by the receding tide. Under the circumstances, it might be better to push his suit before she took to wearing stronger reading glasses.

  Busy with his thoughts, Pel stared at his float. An unexpectedly free afternoon had brought him out into the countryside. Much as he enjoyed Didier’s company, he had to admit it would have been pleasanter with Madame Faivre-Perret alongside him, offering him dainty sandwiches and glasses of wine. But Madame Faivre-Perret had a business to run and probably couldn’t stand fishing, anyway. Judging by her normal elegance, in fact, she probably didn’t go much on flies and fresh air.

  Pel made himself more comfortable. He didn’t expect to catch a fish. Judging by the number of people who were always trying to catch them, French fish had to be the cleverest in the world. But, sitting on the bank of a river with the air heavy with heat and loud with the hum of bees, angling was one of the joys of Pel’s life.

  As he browsed, Didier snatched at his rod and began to reel in.

  ‘How is it,’ Pel asked aggrievedly, ‘that you always catch fish and I never do?’

  Didier shrugged. ‘I work at it,’ he said.

  Pel accepted the fact. To him fishing was an excuse to sit in the sunshine doing nothing. Catching a fish was a bonus.

  ‘Besides,’ Didier went on, tossing a handful of white pellets on to the water, ‘I prepare better.’

  ‘The crumbs, of course.’

  ‘They aren’t crumbs. They’re small pieces of bread. I roll them specially. Between my fingers. Then I dry them. They open up in the water. Like those things you used to get at kids’ parties.’ Pel noticed the ‘used to.’ At fourteen, Didier obviously considered he had put childhood behind him. ‘You put these little green and red things in a saucer of water while everybody’s sitting at the table, and they open up and become flowers. It’s the same principle with ground bait.’ He grinned at Pel. He didn’t think much of him as a fisherman.

  He was a sturdy youngster who had brought a lot of happiness into Pel’s bachelor life. He was the nephew of Pel’s housekeeper, Madame Routy, and turned up at Pel’s house from time to time when his mother disappeared to care for an ailing father-in-law. To Pel he was an ally against Madame Routy, who not only cooked bad food but also made Pel’s life a misery with her addiction to the worst offerings of television.

  He looked at the boy affectionately. He had a sly sense of mischief that made him always willing to fall in with any of Pel’s schemes to irritate his aunt. It was sad, Pel thought, that if he ever brought himself to the point of marriage – and the idea grew daily more interesting – Madame Routy would inevitably have to go and that, he feared, would mean the disappearance of Didier, too.

  He was considering the possibility when the boy spoke again. ‘I think I’m in love,’ he said. The enthusiastic way he had unhooked the fish he had caught,
studied it, then dropped it into the net that lay in the water by his feet made nonsense of the statement and Pel ignored it. He sniffed the air and cocked his head as he heard a growl of thunder. There had been rumbles rolling round the Burgundian hills for a few days now and he had a feeling they were building up to what would be quite a storm when it came.

  ‘I think it’s time we left,’ he said.

  Didier nodded and began to pack his fishing bag. Taking out of the net the fish he had caught, he tossed them back into the water.

  ‘We can always catch them again,’ he pointed out.

  ‘You can, mon brave. I can’t.’

  Didier grinned. ‘Are we eating out?’

  Pel smiled conspiratorially. Madame Routy, they both agreed, was perhaps the only bad cook in a province which, in a nation of excellent cooks, claimed to have the best of them all, and it always gave them a malicious pleasure to eat out unexpectedly so that she had to polish off her repulsive dishes herself.

  ‘Doubtless we can find somewhere,’ he said. ‘Then I’ll look in the office.’

  ‘You’re always looking in your office,’ Didier said. ‘Are you busy?’

  Pel’s eyebrows rose. It made no difference whether he was busy or not. He just couldn’t imagine the Police Judiciaire functioning without him.

  ‘Not particularly,’ he said. ‘Garage hold-up at Regnon off the N7. Got away with the takings. Assault case at Auray-sur-Tille. Minor riot at Castel. Somebody threw a petrol bomb. But these things are all in a day’s work.’

  As they walked towards Pel’s car, Didier lifted his head. ‘Louise Bray,’ he said.

  ‘What about Louise Bray?’

  ‘She’s the one.’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘The one I’m in love with. She lives next door. She used to hit me over the head with her dolls.’

  ‘But now she doesn’t?’

  ‘Oh, no. She’s all right. I decided last week. She had a party. We danced together all the time.’

  ‘Having your arms round them always makes a difference, I’ve found.’

  Didier gazed at Pel. ‘You don’t dance that way these days,’ he said contemptuously. ‘She had a disco. She always has good parties. Always novelties. Those flowers you put in water I told you about. That sort of thing. Have you ever seen them?’

  ‘They had them,’ Pel informed him dryly, ‘when I was a boy.’

  Didier frowned. ‘I shan’t be seeing her when I go home,’ he said gloomily. ‘We’re going to Brittany for August. Think she’ll wait?’

  ‘I’d say it was more than likely.’

  ‘When are you seeing yours again?’

  ‘My what?’

  ‘The one you always wear your best suit for.’

  Not much slipped past young eyes, Pel reflected. He smiled. His affair with Madame Faivre-Perret had become a joke between them. ‘Soon,’ he said. ‘I thought I’d arrange dinner somewhere. Make it an occasion. Impress her a bit. Don’t you agree?’

  Didier shrugged. ‘Always dangerous, trying to impress them,’ he said. ‘Something always goes wrong.’

  He didn’t know how right he was.

  Gilbert Lamorieux, the night watchman at the quarry on the eastern boundary of the village of St Blaize, was a small man no longer young. It didn’t worry him much, though, because there wasn’t much you could steal from a quarry. The site contained only an ugly huddle of buildings thickly coated with the dust of the diggings; a set of old-fashioned steam engines driving the rollers that crushed the clay and rock; a string of lorries, none of them new; an office full of dusty papers; and a little ready cash in a locked drawer. And that was all. Except, of course, for the explosives store, which was a steel bunker, situated for safety away from the main buildings.

  Lamorieux could see the bunker from the window of the room where he made his coffee and ate his sandwiches and only went near it if he heard something suspicious. Children sometimes got into the quarry, and it was his job to keep them out. But the old steam engines seemed to intrigue them, and once he had even found a group of teenagers with a rat gun and had had to chase them away.

  As he opened his sandwiches and poured himself a mug of coffee, the dog which helped him guard the premises sat up expectantly. It was young and he didn’t like it because it had once wolfed his supper when he wasn’t looking, and he gestured at it angrily so that it turned away, its tail between its legs. As it did so, however, it cocked its head suddenly and began to bark.

  Lamorieux sighed. Kids, he thought. He picked up a torch and a heavy stick and signed to the dog to follow him. As he moved among the delapidated dusty buildings, he was thinking sourly of his coffee going cold and was just working himself up into a monumental bad temper when he realised that, for the first time in his experience, he actually had genuine intruders to deal with. Just ahead of him the beam of a torch was moving near the hut where the detonators for the explosives were kept.

  ‘Hé!’

  As he raised his voice, he saw a blur of white faces turned towards him, and, gesturing to the dog to move into the attack, he began to run. As he did so, the torch flashed in his direction again then, to his surprise, he heard a shot and a bullet whacked over his head to whine away into the distance. As he dived for the grass and pulled himself as close to the earth as he could get, he noticed that the dog had turned tail at the bang and bolted for the shelter of the office.

  At just about the time Lamorieux was first spotting the light at the quarry at St Blaize, Madame Marie Colbrun, of Porsigny-le-Grand, was on her way home from her mother’s house on the western boundary of the neighbouring village of Porsigny-le-Petit. Her mother, who lived alone, was over eighty and growing frail and it was Madame Colbrun’s habit to visit her at least once a day to make sure she was all right.

  On this particular day, Madame Colbrun had been into the city. Porsigny-le-Grand was a long way from civilisation and trips to the shops came round only occasionally, but she’d been offered a lift by a neighbour and, snatching at the chance, had begged money from her husband and disappeared soon after breakfast.

  She was not used to spending money and had bought nothing but a new underslip but, since her husband was no more than a farmworker, an underslip was a luxury she didn’t often afford. Above all, she had eaten a lunch prepared by someone else and gossiped over her coffee, something she rarely had time to do, and her mind was still full of her day out as she pushed at the pedals of her bicycle. She was a sturdy countrywoman with no fear of the dark. Nothing much bothered her and she was not even afraid of the rats that came after the grain she kept for her chickens, because her eldest son, who was fourteen and an expert with a rat gun, liked to sit and wait for them to poke their noses out. But he was a responsible boy and a good shot, which was more than could be said for some. It was not unusual in those parts for a youngster to help himself to his father’s gun and take to the fields without much thought. She had once been peppered – fortunately at extreme range – by pellets from a twelve bore, and once a boy after rabbits had shot out her mother’s kitchen window with a .22 from over a kilometre away.

  She thought happily about her new underslip. Admiring herself in the mirror, she had suddenly remembered that she still had to check on her mother, and had decided to keep it on because her mother was inclined to be cantankerous and she had hoped it would take her mind off her woes for a while.

  Her mother had been in a disgruntled mood and Madame Colbrun had sat down with her to have a glass of wine. After a lot of talk, she had finally persuaded the old woman that she was not being neglected and that everybody had her welfare at heart, and now, satisfied that her mother was content once more, she was cycling leisurely homewards. She had no light, which was against the law, but since you never saw any traffic in those parts after six o’clock at night and not very much before, she had no fear that the law would worry her.

  Happy after her day out, she began to hum to herself and had almost reached home when something struck her
thigh a blow as if it had been hit by a hammer. It jerked her foot from the pedal, so that she lost her balance, spun round and fell from the bicycle. Sitting on the roadside, her ample behind in the damp grass, she wondered what had happened. She had seen no assailant. Could it have been some animal she hadn’t noticed which had collided with her?

  Then she noticed a small spreading red stain on her dress and, lifting her skirt, saw that the new underslip was marked, too. Raising the underslip itself, she stared disbelievingly at her plump white thigh.

  ‘Mon Dieu,’ she said. ‘I’ve been shot!’

  Sergeant Jean-Luc Nosjean, of Pel’s squad, was sitting in the Texas Bar of the Hôtel Central. The Hôtel Central was the best hotel in the city, as was obvious from the number of American tourists who used it. As everybody knew, American tourists were fabulously wealthy and lived in houses and apartments as big as the Parc des Princes, and the Hôtel Central was careful to make them feel at home. The Texas Bar lay on the right of the entrance hall. The New York Grill lay on the left. The Manhattan Cocktail Lounge lay directly ahead with, just beyond, the dining room – known throughout the city as Le Hamburger from its habit of including even that doubtful delicacy among its courses. Nosjean was all for catering for tourists, even for making them feel at home, but, considering how many French people also ate and drank in the hotel – especially out of season when there were no Americans – he felt the management had let their enthusiasm run away with them a little.

  He was low in spirits. To his hurt surprise, his girl, Odile Chenandier, whom he had considered his personal property for two years now, had just informed him that she was getting married to someone else. To Nosjean it seemed an act of basest treachery. He had always assumed she was unable to live without him and wasn’t sure whether to be bitter, angry or sad.