Pel and the Faceless Corpse Read online

  She stared at the photograph and smiled at him. ‘But of course I know her,’ she said. ‘She comes here once a week. It’s Nadine de Mougy. She’s the wife of Baron de Mougy.’

  Was she, by God? Pel thought. He’d probably have to tread carefully in that case, because even in France, the home of democracy, baronnes could usually rustle up influence and he could well imagine landing himself in trouble.

  ‘What do you know of her, Madame?’ he asked.

  Madame Faivre-Perret shrugged and Pel leaned forward. ‘She seems to have a great deal, Madame,’ he said. ‘Good looks. Wealth. What more does she need?’

  ‘Love.’

  Pel’s eyebrows rose.

  ‘All women need love, Inspector.’

  Pel began to feel uncomfortable. In his career he’d often had to listen to women, old as well as young, explaining their actions, some of them vicious and bloody, and he’d listened to more than one long lecture on a woman’s need for love. It always made him feel uncomfortable. He could barely remember his mother and she seemed to have spent most of her time complaining about his father, while his younger sister in Chatillon spent most of her time complaining about his brother-in-law, as Madame Routy spent most of her time complaining about Pel. None of them, so far as he could recall, had ever mentioned the need for love.

  ‘Go on, Madame,’ he said stiffly.

  ‘She married the Baron fifteen years ago. She’s his second wife. He’s twenty years older than she is.’

  ‘She told you all this?’

  Madame Faivre-Perret smiled. ‘You’d be surprised what women talk to other women about.’

  Pel frowned. Madame Routy only seemed to spend her time talking about television, the ironing, or the business of getting the next meal ready.

  ‘Her father was Horatio Candas. He died two years ago. He seemed set to become a millionaire but unfortunately a heart attack rather got in the way. She told me he was ruthless enough to sell his soul for money and it seems that, in effect, he sold her – to the Baron.’

  ‘An arranged marriage?’

  ‘Not quite. But he pressed the baron’s case well and she was only eighteen at the time. She accepted and regretted it almost at once.’

  ‘I see. What else have you noticed?’

  ‘I’ve noticed she has a lover.’

  Pel’s eyebrows rose, awed by her perception. ‘How do you notice that, Madame?’

  ‘I’ve seen her change. Her cheeks have become pink again. She dresses with care and for a purpose. She laughs again. It’s quite obvious she’s in love.’

  Eleven

  The following day, Pel decided it might be a good idea to strike while the iron was hot and go to see the Baronne de Mougy. He’d heard of the Baron. Croix de Guerre, Légion d’Honneur, Cross of Lorraine. Bit of a cold fish, he’d heard. Just the sort to buy the affection of a young girl and lose it again just as quickly.

  Since she was a baronne, he felt she, too, rated the grey suit-pink shirt routine. The shirt was still clean and he could wear it once more before putting it to wash for Madame Routy to ruin. When he went home to change, Madame Routy eyed him suspiciously.

  ‘Have you got a woman or something?’ she asked.

  Pel disdained to reply, chiefly because he could never find anything biting enough to quieten Madame Routy. He had the enviable reputation of being able to reduce his staff – save perhaps Darcy – to tears, but Madame Routy was impervious. And with Madame Routy, anyway, he only managed to think up his biting comments after she’d left the room and had to mouth them to the empty air. Chiefly, he felt, he endured her because good housekeepers were hard to get and, though Madame Routy wasn’t the best, she was far from being the worst.

  She was still staring at him suspiciously. ‘Because if you have,’ she said, ‘I want three months notice. A woman my age can’t find another job as easily as all that. And I’d need a good reference.’

  Listens to the television from breakfast time to falling asleep, Pel thought. Uses the volume control as if she were piloting a 747. Full boost. We have lift-off. Or was that rockets? Either way, it wouldn’t look so hot in a reference.

  On the other hand, he knew he’d never write any such thing because he’d never dare hand it to her.

  It was easy enough to find the Baronne’s address from the telephone book. Her apartment was in the centre of the old city, close to the Palace of the Dukes with its turrets and blue-tiled roofs and the tower of the Eglise de Notre Dame behind.

  Pel was shown into a panelled room filled with Louis Quinze furniture. The Baronne was tall, languid, blonde and more beautiful even than the photograph. The de Mougys belonged to the old aristocracy, not the parvenus of the Second Empire, and she went with them. She’d have looked chic in a sack, Pel decided, and there was an ambience about her that made him feel vaguely commonplace.

  ‘Do you always live here, Madame la Baronne?’ he asked.

  The luxury about him was enough to take his breath away.

  She smiled, graciously condescending. ‘No. We’re often at the château. It’s at Ste Monique. It’s not a big one. Nothing like Bussy-Rabutin or Ancy-le-Franc, or the châteaux of the Loire. It’s quite small, really –’ probably only covering four or five hectares, Pel thought ‘ – so we’ve been able to prevent it decaying. Also, my husband was one of the first men in France to go in for the frozen food business. He’s transformed eating.’

  Not for the better, Pel thought, deciding he didn’t like the Baron. No true Frenchman could possibly like a man who’d brought that transatlantic horror, frozen food, to France. Though, doubtless, he was a great favourite with Madame Routy.

  ‘He used the stables,’ the Baronne was saying, ‘and set up freezers there. We supply Monoprix and many other stores.’

  ‘The Baron must be a busy man,’ Pel said politely.

  She smiled. Very busy, she admitted. He went all over France selling their products, even to Belgium and Germany.

  ‘And he has a manager to run the plant?’ Pel asked.

  She smiled again. Oh, no, she said. She attended to that.

  Another of Piot’s capable women, Pel thought. ‘I’m investigating a murder, Madame,’ he said. ‘At Bussy-la-Fontaine.’

  Her face became blank and wary. She’d heard of it, she said. Pel glanced about him. What he had to say seemed best said in private. Establishing that the Baron was away from home, he leaned forward. ‘What I have to say, Madame,’ he pointed out, ‘concerns you. You and Monsieur Piot.’

  Her manner changed from friendliness to hostility at once, and when Pel told her what he’d discovered about her, she sat silently for a long time, almost as if she were petrified. When she spoke, however, he realised it wasn’t terror that had caused her silence.

  ‘Yes,’ she admitted slowly. ‘I am that woman. I trust you’ll keep the information to yourself.’

  Pel frowned, affronted. ‘It’s not the police department’s business, Madame,’ he said stiffly, ‘to become involved in domestic affairs. We’re not involved with morals and it’s no concern of mine. All I want to know is something about Monsieur Piot.’

  Her manner softened. She offered him a cigarette and a cognac. He refused the cognac because he felt his stomach would never cope with it, but, having smoked nothing since getting up but his rolled confections, he accepted the cigarette with alacrity. He was already growing tired of cigarettes that either exploded in the face to singe the eyelashes or were so difficult to draw on he could feel his toes curling up as he sucked at them. When it came, however, the cigarette wasn’t a Gauloise, strong and black and harsh enough to give him the coughing fit that always restored his morale, but something scented in red paper. It tasted like nothing on earth.

  ‘I heard about his trouble, of course,’ the Baronne said, sitting back. ‘He telephoned me.’

  ‘He told you all about it?’

  ‘He told me a man had been found dead on his land and that he’d obviously been murdered.’

&
nbsp; ‘Did he suggest any reasons?’

  ‘He seemed baffled by it. It’s such a sorry business and must be a great trial to him. Especially after what happened to his father.’

  Pel’s ears cocked like a spaniel after a pheasant. ‘What did happen to his father, Madame?’

  ‘Didn’t you know? He was shot by the Germans.’

  ‘In the Forest of Orgny?’

  ‘Oh, no. On the Vercors Massif near Grenoble. It was very sad. I was just a baby, of course, but I know about that business. I understand they put out flags after the invasion and decided to defy the Germans. Unfortunately, the Germans sent in a division of troops with gliders and tanks and that was that.’

  Pel had heard of it.

  ‘How did you hear about all this, Madame?’ he asked.

  ‘My husband told me.’ She gestured. ‘He was a leader of the Resistance round here, of course. He was decorated by General de Gaulle. I’m told he was quite ruthless.’

  Pel considered for a moment, staring at the cigarette she’d given him and wondering what on earth it could be made of. ‘Your husband, Madame,’ he said. ‘I understand he’s older than you?’

  ‘Yes. Twenty-five years.’

  ‘That would put him in his late fifties.’

  She smiled. ‘You flatter me. I’m almost forty. He’s sixty-four.’

  ‘Could you describe him?’

  ‘I can do better than that. I can show you a portrait. What has he been up to?’

  ‘Nothing, I hope, Madame,’ Pel said slowly. ‘I’m merely pursuing a line of enquiry.’

  She led him into the library and gestured at a painting on the wall. It showed a tall, erect man in his forties dressed in riding clothes. He was strong-featured with a face like a hatchet. His hair, close-cropped in the manner the Resistance had favoured, was golden, Pel noticed, with reddish lights in it, though whether the red was artist’s licence or not it was hard to say because there was a setting sun and a pink sky behind him. A companion portrait showed the Baronne, also in riding clothes. She must have been about eighteen at the time, ravishingly beautiful and slender as a wraith.

  ‘They were painted when we were married,’ she said.

  ‘The Baron’s wearing the Légion d’Honneur,’ Pel observed.

  ‘He was given that for his work in the Resistance. He was very proud of it.’

  Pel cleared his throat. ‘Did he know about Monsieur Piot, Madame?’

  ‘Of course not.’ She gave him a cool little smile. ‘It would have been very foolish of me to allow that to happen.’

  ‘Monsieur Piot: What did he think of the Baron?’

  ‘Not very much.’

  ‘But this ah – situation that had arisen between you?’

  Her expression didn’t change. ‘It was most unfortunate.’

  ‘Did Monsieur Piot wish to do anything about it?’

  ‘He wanted to marry me.’

  ‘But the Baron was in the way?’

  ‘But, of course. But for the Baron we’d have married long since.’

  ‘But the Baron wouldn’t permit a divorce?’

  ‘He was never asked. We knew it was useless. He was a quick-tempered man, and a fine swordsman. He represented France with sabres and pistol in the Olympic Games of 1936.’

  ‘So that if Monsieur Piot wished to marry you, divorce wasn’t the answer?’

  ‘Hardly. My husband was a good catholic and didn’t believe in it. It would never have been possible.’

  Pel drew a deep breath. Suddenly his heart began to beat faster. All that nonsense about German commercial travellers and questionnaires to the police along the borders had been a sheer waste of time. The thing was staring him in the face – a crime passionel, a simple domestic issue! They’d been looking down all the wrong avenues, seeing ghosts where there weren’t any, making up complicated conspiracies in Orgny where they didn’t exist. There were still a few things to be cleared up, of course. For instance, why a hired car and a hotel in Dure he couldn’t imagine. Perhaps that was connected with something else entirely, but at least he seemed to be making headway at last, and he could thank Madame Faivre-Perret, Didier Darras and the pink shirt for it.

  ‘Did your husband know Monsieur Piot?’ he asked. ‘Personally?’

  She smiled. ‘Yes, of course. They were both in business in the city. They were both members of the Chamber of Commerce.’

  ‘Did he know Georges Vallois-Dot?’

  ‘Who?’ She looked quite blank.

  ‘Georges Vallois-Dot. The postmaster at Orgny. He’s just been found murdered.’

  Her eyes widened and a smile crossed her face. ‘You’re not suggesting my husband murdered him, surely?’

  Pel wasn’t. The thought was the farthest thing from his mind. Quite the opposite, in fact.

  ‘No, Madame,’ he said stiffly. ‘I’m not.’

  The Baronne was still smiling. ‘Well, of course, he might have known him. We have to pass through Orgny on our way to Dijon. In fact Orgny’s the first place we can post letters, and he often went off with a briefcase full of them. Business letters. Perhaps he posted them in Orgny instead of Dijon. Perhaps that’s how he knew him.’

  Pel was beginning to feel sure of himself. ‘Your husband, Madame,’ he said. ‘Does he smoke?’

  She smiled. ‘Of course.’

  ‘Cigars?’

  ‘He loves them.’

  ‘German cigars?’

  ‘I doubt it. He’s a good Frenchman. Though, he might have done. He sometimes visits Germany as I’ve said.’

  ‘By which route did he go?’

  ‘The usual way from here, I suppose. Vesoul, Mulhouse and on to Stuttgart.’

  ‘That would be via Dure, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘Would it?’ The Baronne moved her shoulders in an elegant shrug. ‘I don’t know the place.’

  He hadn’t expected she would. Dure was hardly the place to capture the imagination of someone as beautiful, expensive and sophisticated as the Baronne.

  She was watching him as he fiddled with his notebook and ballpoint. ‘Does all this have a bearing on your murder, Inspector?’ she asked.

  Indeed it did, Pel thought. ‘Yes, Madame,’ he said. ‘I think it does. Tell me, how tall would you say your husband was?’

  ‘He’s one metre seventy-six, I think.’

  ‘Quite tall?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And well-built?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Had he been wounded during the war?’

  ‘Yes, he had. During the battle for Amiens. He was demobilised after the Occupation. A little influence, I suspect, because he never went to a German prison camp. It was after that he joined the Resistance.’

  ‘This wound, Madame –’ Pel’s heart was thudding ‘ – was it in the calf?’

  She looked surprised. ‘No. In the ankle. Right ankle.’

  Well, Pel thought, people probably had different ideas about where the ankle ended and the calf began.

  ‘Where exactly, Madame?’

  She pointed vaguely to her leg. ‘It was an old scar. I didn’t make a point of examining it often.’

  ‘Of course not. How about tattoos?’

  She looked startled. ‘Tattoos? I imagine he’d never have dreamed of being tattooed.’

  Pel pointed to his forearm. ‘About here, Madame.’

  ‘I never saw one.’

  ‘It was very faint. It had been erased. It could almost look like the blueness of veins.’

  She looked blank. ‘It’s possible,’ she admitted. ‘We never made a fetish of examining each other’s bodies. But it’s possible. He served in the Navy as a boy.’

  He did? Pel’s heart jumped with certainty. The sailor they were looking for!

  ‘Where is your husband now, Madame?’

  She looked surprised. ‘At his hotel in Paris, I imagine,’ she said. ‘He went there on business.’

  ‘And the hotel, Madame?’

  ‘Hôtel Angleterre, Rue Jacob. H
e always stays there. So did his father.’ She gave a little smile. ‘The de Mougys are creatures of habit.’

  ‘Have you spoken to him since he went to Paris?’

  She looked startled again. ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘Ah!’ Pel almost smiled. The thing seemed to be sewn up. All it required was a visit to Madame Vallois-Dot to check whether she’d ever seen the Baron in the Orgny post office, then he’d see Judge Polverari that evening and Piot soon afterwards. ‘You’re quite sure he’s in Paris, of course?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Pel pounced. ‘But when did you last see him, Madame?’

  She smiled. ‘This morning,’ she said. ‘He left on the early train. I drove him to the station myself.’

  Twelve

  Pel was deflated.

  He’d done what no detective should ever do. He’d made the facts fit his own theories. Until he’d discovered the Baronne, he’d continued to assume that the murder at the calvary had been connected somehow with Orgny or the district around, but the fact that the Baron was the obstacle to Piot marrying the Baronne had made him jump to conclusions. And they’d been the wrong conclusions.

  It had been a bad mistake – though, fortunately, he hadn’t got as far as an accusation and made a fool of himself. But what he’d begun to feel might be a good lead had fallen flat on its face. The Baronne had borne out Piot’s words that he liked intelligent women. She’d been cool and capable, and under other circumstances, Pel suspected she’d have made a hard-headed businesswoman.

  He decided gloomily that he wasn’t in the same league as the Baronne and Madame Faivre-Perret. The Baronne had made him feel lacking in manners, and the pink shirt had suddenly become sugar icing-coloured and hideously wrong.

  There was little else to report. Leguyader’s tests on the soil samples taken from the field near the Bois Carré showed blood – the same blood as that of the man found at the calvary – which seemed to suggest he’d been murdered there – but the tyre print they’d found was from a sort of tyre that was fitted to every small car in France, and the chance of finding the owner looked slim indeed.