Pel and the Missing Persons Read online

  Copyright & Information

  Pel & The Missing Persons

  First published in 1990

  Copyright: John Harris; House of Stratus 1990-2011

  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

  1842329057 9781842329054 Print

  0755124847 9780755124848 Pdf

  0755125045 9780755125043 Mobi/Kindle

  075512524X 9780755125241 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

  No writer of detective stories can do the job without reference to the experts and for the technical details on ballistics in this book, I feel I ought to acknowledge my debt to Mostly Murder, by Sir Sydney Smith, which devotes a chapter to this subject.

  Though Burgundians may feel they recognise it – and certainly some of the street names are the same – the city in these pages is meant to be fictitious.

  One

  Two days, six hours, fourteen minutes and – a quick glance at the dashboard clock – sixteen seconds. Evariste Clovis Désiré Pel, Chief Inspector of the Brigade Criminelle of the Police Justiciaire of the Republic of France, managed to look at himself in the rear mirror of his car and what passed with him as a smile crossed his face. He was pleased with himself. Two days, six hours, fourteen minutes and – he looked again at the clock – twenty-five seconds since he had last smoked a cigarette.

  For Pel it was a monumental achievement, roughly equivalent to one of the labours of Hercules. The fact that he felt dreadful was beside the point. Pel expected to feel dreadful. Life for Pel was real and earnest; for anyone who took it as seriously as he did, it was bound to be hard work. And at the moment it was cold and the wind buffeting the car set it staggering as it whirred down from Leu where he lived. It wasn’t the sort of weather one expected of Burgundy. The wind was coming direct from Siberia and, being a cautious type, he had put on so much clothing he found it hard to move his arms.

  He would have been better, he thought, to have directed his energies on leaving school not to police work but to being a crook. That way he would have lived in St-Trop’ where the weather was warm and, surrounded by film starlets, he would have driven about in a gold-plated, steam-heated Cadillac. On the other hand, St-Trop’, pleasant as it was, wasn’t Burgundy, and Burgundy, to Pel, wasn’t a province of France, it was a religion.

  Rain slashed against the window by his elbow and he decided sadly that at that moment it was a very chilly religion. Especially since he was suffering from a heavy head cold with catarrh, painful sinuses and watery eyes. His wife, Geneviève, had tried to persuade him to stay in bed but he felt the Hôtel de Police couldn’t function without him and preferred to be a martyr, anyway. And the head cold, which refused to go away, took all the taste out of cigarettes, so that his achievement in giving them up wasn’t all that splendid in the end.

  However, his wife was being doubly attentive, and he had noticed that Claudie Darel, the only woman member of his team, had also been showing concern for him over the past few days, so that he had come to the conclusion he must be looking pale but interesting, and had decided to prolong his suffering as long as possible. Pel liked attention, and even Madame Routy, who had been his housekeeper in the days before his marriage, after which she had been taken on with Pel by his new wife, had begun to show an interest in his condition. Since he had been conducting a vendetta with her for years, perhaps her concern was with how much longer he had before – according to taste – he passed on, passed over or passed out and she was finally shot of him.

  She had handed him his briefcase as he had left the house. His wife had put into it a flask containing a mixture of glycerine, lemon and rum that she had prepared – she considered Pel about as capable of looking after himself as a one-armed orang-utan – and Madame Routy had handed it over as if she hoped it would poison him.

  His mind busy, Pel was just on the point of reaching for the glove pocket where he kept his Gauloises when he remembered he had stopped smoking. He had been reaching for Gauloises ever since he had left school. He had been tempted by a fellow schoolboy to try one at the age of thirteen and, because he had just been crossed in love – the girl had laughed outright when he had told her his Christian names – he had taken to smoking like a duck taking to water. He had been trying to give it up ever since.

  He’d taken snuff, chewed gum and eaten sweets. He’d even been to a meeting of smokers who had got together in the city in a joint effort to give up. But he hadn’t been able to concentrate for the coughing and because, between the recounting of individual catalogues of failure, they had all been smoking like maniacs. He had left before the meeting had even started.

  Now, however, he felt he had kicked the habit. Two days, six hours, twenty minutes and four seconds. Mind you, he had a feeling it was only because of his cold that he had held out so long and he sensed that as soon as the cold was better he would grab for his Gauloises like a drowning man grabbing at a straw. Though his wife was encouraging him to stick with it, he had a feeling she had long since come to regard him a lost cause. He was under no delusions really. It was only because the area’s criminal fraternity seemed to be taking a holiday that his campaign was succeeding. When they all came out of their holes again, he had really not much hope.

  He glanced at himself in the mirror. He was looking old, he decided. There were new lines round his mouth and the bags under his eyes now had bags on them. He ought to take exercise or something, a few days at a health farm, perhaps, as his wife had once suggested. But the meals would consist of soda water, bean sprouts and wheatgerm biscuits and the
re would be callisthenics, aerobics and steam baths. Pel’s idea of exercise was watching other people exerting themselves. Or winding up his watch. But even that had disappeared since he had acquired a battery-operated one. For more violent pastimes, this left him only a game of boules or an afternoon’s fishing, preferably with the fish not too active.

  He took another quick glance at himself as he reached the bottom of the hill where he joined the main road and, as he did so, through his musings he became aware of a shadow on his left. It was a lorry and trailer carrying washing machines. It had about fifty wheels and weighed around a million tonnes. It shot past him with a roar and a whoosh that shook his car. Because he was on the mean side, it was only a small car and shook easily, but joining the main road was Pel’s daily dicing with death. About three times a week, absorbed by his thoughts, he came within an ace of being smeared by passing lorries.

  He sat up straight, concentrated fiercely, and drove into the city without taking his eyes off the road. Near the Place du Rosoir there was a poster encouraging the ecological way of living. Near it was another advising that whales shouldn’t be killed and seals should be spared. Alongside that was an advert for tomatoes. ‘Rich in vitamins and mineral salts,’ it said. ‘Efface stomach maladies and fight arthritis and rheumatism.’ It came at you from all angles. The world, Pel felt, was full of clever dicks all telling you what was good for you. If they weren’t politicians or trade union leaders, they were health experts and ecologists. He was so lost in this idea he almost hit the policeman on traffic duty at the Porte Guillaume.

  French traffic policemen don’t take kindly to drivers who jeopardise their lives. One once even put an advertisement in the newspaper saying ‘I have a delicate temper. Please don’t irritate me.’ This one had the same short fuse and, dripping with rain, was just about to stop Pel dead in his tracks and tear him off a strip when he realised who he was. The mouth that opened to let out a roar of rage switched to a beaming smile, and the hand that was about to indicate a halt changed hurriedly to a sloppy salute.

  ‘Silly old con,’ the policeman thought. It was a pity he was the best cop they had, or he’d have been run in long since for his driving. He spat water off his lips and studied the rain; ‘Comme une vache qui pisse,’ he said disgustedly.

  The Hôtel de Police seemed quiet. The man on the front desk looked up, saw it was Pel and hurriedly looked down again. Like everyone else in the building, he’d heard of Pel’s attempt to stop smoking and was aware of the tension that permeated the whole building.

  Reaching his desk, Pel glanced at the reports placed there for him to see. The top one concerned a bribery case among police in Lyons where two senior officers were being investigated. He knew one of the men because when he had been a sergeant the man had been his superior officer, but he had got himself posted to Lyons in the belief that there were better prospects there. He would undoubtedly go to prison for his efforts.

  Pel’s deputy, Inspector Daniel Darcy, arrived. He had an open file in his hands and was reading it as he appeared. Pel nodded and Darcy smiled, flashing his teeth at him. Pel envied Darcy. He always looked as if he’d just come out of a bandbox, dusted, polished and set in motion. He was a good detective but he made Pel feel like the man who had come to mend the lavatory.

  His team were a mixed bunch. After Darcy came Nosjean and De Troq’, the most reliable of his men, and after them Bardolle of the bulging muscles and the iron voice, who was on leave at the moment – fortunately, because he gave Pel a headache just by being around. Then came Aimedieu who had a face like a choirboy – at that moment an angry choirboy, sounding off about Pel: ‘He’s always in a bad temper and taking it out on me,’ he was saying. Then there were Brochard and Debray, and finally Lacocq, Morell, Cadet Darras; and the golden oldies, Lagé and Misset, both slowing down, Lagé because he was growing fat and looking forward to retirement, Misset because he was just naturally lazy. On the whole they had their good points and their bad points and Pel knew how to use them to advantage. Aimedieu, for instance, was useful where cool cheek and a choirboy’s face were needed. Brochard made women want to mother him. Lagé was dogged and always sure where long-winded enquiries had to be made, though he had lately taken to complaining about his feet. Pel didn’t even think of Nosjean and De Troq’. They could be safely left to work on their own.

  As he started divesting himself of clothing, flapping his arms to restore circulation, Darcy watched him with amusement. He allowed him to gather his wits before he spoke.

  ‘How are you, patron?’ he asked.

  ‘My ribs feel rusty,’ Pel growled.

  Darcy grinned. It always took Pel a little while on a cold day to come to life. As he stood flapping, Darcy decided he had been born middle-aged, complete with thinning hair and specs.

  He waited until Pel was about to sit down, then stopped him with his backside poised over his chair. ‘The Chief wants us,’ he said.

  Pel scowled and Darcy’s hand went to his pocket for his cigarettes. For a long time Darcy had been spiriting away Pel’s bad tempers with a Gauloise. This time, however, his hand stayed in his pocket. The offer of a cigarette would have produced an eruption of cataclysmic proportions. Like Madame Pel, Darcy had a feeling that Pel’s campaign had been a lost cause from its inception but he wasn’t prepared to be the one to end it for him.

  Pel said nothing as he headed for the Chief’s office, Darcy trailing behind him with his arms full of files. Coffee was called for and the Chief was about to offer cigarettes when he saw Darcy silently shaking his head. The Chief was a big man who had been noted as a boxer in his youth but he was always a little scared of Pel. Not physically. He could have eaten Pel for breakfast. But Pel, he always felt, was an awkward little bugger, though fortunately he had nerve ends that reacted to crime. He could smell it – the Chief was convinced of it – and, because his successes reflected on the Chief, he was best kept in a good temper.

  There were those who claimed that Pel had mellowed since the Widow Faivre-Perret had got him to the altar, but the Chief wasn’t so sure, and for safety he brought out the brandy bottle. Pel sat opposite him, his spectacles on the end of his nose, his thinning hair brushed across his scalp like disturbed cobwebs on a Second Empire glass dome full of wax fruit, his expression one of prim gloom, looking as though he’d been too often to the laundry and shrunk in the wash.

  ‘What have we got?’ the Chief asked.

  ‘The usual,’ Darcy said. ‘Paperwork.’

  The Chief frowned. He knew all about paperwork. It had expanded a thousandfold since he had been a young cop. Nowadays it took a couple of minutes to arrest a wrongdoer and a couple of weeks to fill in the forms.

  ‘Crime-wise,’ he pointed out.

  ‘Nothing big. Enough to keep everybody busy but not enough to give anyone a heart attack. We’ve sorted out those thefts at Metaux de Dijon. It was one of the security men. He’s up before the beaks tomorrow. We’ve also pulled in Pierre la Poche. He’s been running a gang of kids picking pockets round the Place des Ducs. Tourists mostly. There’s also been a complaint from Couchy. Type there says the man next door’s killing off his garden by sprinkling something on it at night. Misset’s been keeping an eye on the place. He’s seen nothing.’

  ‘Misset,’ Pel observed, ‘wouldn’t see anything even if it were stuck up his nose. He ought to be retired.’

  The Chief consulted a sheet on his desk. ‘Several more years to go,’ he said.

  ‘Sacked, then.’

  ‘We can’t sack him. He’s pulled off one or two things.’

  ‘Sheer luck.’

  The Chief sighed. The argument about Misset had been going on for a long time. He tried to change the conversation. ‘What about those armed robberies?’ He crossed to a map on the wall. It concerned a new gang that had appeared in the neighbourhood. They used fast cars, held up shops, jewellers, any premises that might carry large sums, and disappeared again at once. It was headed ‘Les Tuaregs’. It was a
name that had been given to them by Henriot, of the local rag, Le Bien Public. Henriot wasn’t noted for his imagination or skill as a journalist, but this time he had hit exactly the right note. ‘They come from nowhere,’ he had written, ‘masked like the Tuaregs of the desert, take what they fancy, and vanish just as easily.’ The name had stuck.

  ‘Chateaurenard,’ the Chief said. ‘Brière. Église St-Georges. Fleurs. Etuf-le-Cascade. Martour. Pouges. Six places. One this week. Small supermarkets. Hotels. Places likely to have full tills. Held up by men with sawn-off shotguns.’

  ‘We’ve got Nosjean and De Troq’ on it,’ Darcy said. ‘They’re a good team.’

  ‘They’ve produced nothing yet. The gang seems to have grabbed the initiative. Why aren’t we one step ahead of them?’

  ‘Because,’ Pel said, ‘we don’t know where they’re going to strike next. It’s a bit of a disadvantage.’

  ‘Don’t we have any information? Fingerprints, for instance.’

  ‘None. They use gloves. Like everybody else, they watch the television and read all the books. They know what to do. We’ve dusted the cars they use. Always fast but never new. Nothing to attract attention. They steal two or three, use one for the job and switch to the others until they’re clear to pick up their own.’

  ‘Haven’t your informers got anything?’

  ‘They know nothing. We think they’re youngsters. Early twenties. That age. Informers don’t pick up anything on that sort.’

  ‘Perhaps you ought to extend your information service.’

  Pel scowled. ‘Information doesn’t come cheap.’

  Darcy was trying to hang on to his smile. The Old Man was fighting back. Nobody bullied Pel, not even the Chief, who bullied everybody else. There wasn’t much of Pel and most of the time he looked like something the cat had dragged in but so long as he was on his feet, no one was going to push his people around.