Speak Softly My Love (16 page)

Everyone
wants to be the hero.

It was
only later, when he reckoned the cost. All of those old men, all of
those old stories. They were trying to tell him something. All of
this sort of hit home one day and he understood their pain. Their
suffering and their solitude.

He saw
it in the Boss-man sometimes.

They
never forgot.

There
were other factors going into making him what he was, what he had
become.

He had
two brothers and three sisters to look after him. He was quite
young when the war broke out. There were parades, men marching by,
all with their chins up and shining eyes. They paraded down the
street, singing their lusty and cheerful songs. He had cried in his
mother’s arms. His father had been absent for a couple of years.
And then one day he was dead. The few visits that he could arrange
when on leave, had not been enough to have the same kind of
relationship as perhaps the older siblings might have
had.

He
understood that, and accepted that. It was the way of all
things.

Just the
luck of the draw.

They would have had different experiences of their father, a
different set of memories. They might even have resentments,
recriminations where he had none. None. He just
missed
the old fucker sometimes.
What little he could remember of him.

They
would also never share this. He was a grown man, and yet his
relationship with his mother was special. It served a need in one
who had been so immature, so coddled, so sheltered. They really had
spoiled him. Sheltered by their love for so long, now it was his
turn—and it hurt like hell sometimes.

It was
also very precious. He had learned much, about people. About
himself.

It was
something that obviously couldn’t last forever, and yet he knew he
would miss it when it was gone. He would cherish it
forever.

He sat
beside her and she put her hand on his.

“
Yes, mother. It is I.”

She
smiled, always so gentle and always so proud of him.

“
Have I told you—”

“
Yes, mother, you told me just the other day.”

…
how proud of you I am…

He was
still her little baby. He supposed he always would be, in her now
dimming eyes.

Yes, mother, you told me just the other day.

And it was enough—
enough,
already
.

“
Have you had your supper yet, Mama?”

She
looked up, again immersed in her project, what looked like another
set of booties—pale blue this time around. He didn’t really want to
know. It could be Carmen again, or maybe Isobel. One of them was
always pregnant, one or the other, at any given time. The story
would come out, just as it always did.

His
mother looked lost for half a moment and then she came back to
him.

“
I can’t remember what I had, dear.”

So. She
probably hadn’t eaten anything then, and yet she was so deft at
dodging the exact, head-on question. It was a family trait, and
here it came now—

“
So, how was your day?” She answered a question with another
question.

At one
time it might have been infuriating.

“
Fine. Tell you what. I’m a little hungry. Why don’t I make us
something, soup and toast or whatever?” It was best to be
diplomatic, that’s what Doctor Gauthier always said.

He never
quite knew what might set her off.

“
That would be very nice, dear.” The needles picked up right
where they had left off. “I’m glad.”

Glad
about what?

But he
knew enough not to ask.

“
Yes, mother, it’s me.” He heaved a deep and theatrical sigh.
“Who were you expecting? It’s
him,
isn’t it? One of these days I’m going to come
home and surprise that other man. I swear by the Holy Virgin, I’m
going to shoot him in the bum as he crawls out the window, slinging
his trousers ahead of him.”

She
threw her head back and cackled, giving him an admiring look.
Tailler tried to think up a new one every day. When he couldn’t,
her memory was so bad these days, she never even knew the
difference. He’d used that one maybe a week ago. It did the job.
That’s all that really mattered sometimes.

It was
enough to know that she was okay. She was not stressing and fussing
over little things, miniscule things. If the truth could be safely
told, sometimes his mother and her afflictions irritated the hell
out of a dutiful, attentive and admittedly loving son.

It’s
just that he was still tied to her apron-strings.

He still needed her and he told himself that often. As often
as he dared. We never really grow up. That was his interpretation.
We just
pretend
that we did.

We do
what is expected of us…for what it’s worth.

Emile
Tailler got up and went to the kitchen, pretty familiar with what
was there on the shelf and in the refrigerator. He took the
groceries out of the bags and put them away, preparatory to taking
one or two items out again and actually making something. They
seemed to have an awful lot of carrots in there.

And in the Beginning, God said, let there be
carrots.

God, how mother had squawked when a bunch of the older ones
pitched in and bought the refrigerator for her. Even now, she
didn’t really trust the
infernal
thing
as she had called it originally. He
stood there, looking inside the big compartment. The motor came on
and it began to buzz and rumble down low inside the back
part.

Mama
seemed more or less with him today, although it might be a
different thing tomorrow.

It was a
sad thing, but there wasn’t much anyone could do about
it.

In the
meantime, they would make do.

As for
work, it was best not to think about it.

It would
wait until tomorrow.

***

They
were having a case conference.

It was
high time, too.

The
empty desk where Archambault normally sat cast a bit of a pall over
the proceedings. It tended to collect things, briefcases, hats, old
files waiting to be sent downstairs.

Andre
sat there silently smoking. He had been chewing a lot of pencils
lately, and had given up on quitting tobacco, at least for the
meantime.

It was
easier to quit chewing pencils.

LeBref
had come and gone again. He was completely self-directed these
days, with the blessing of all around him.

“
So. Inspector. What do we do next?”

“
I was hoping that you gentlemen might have some suggestions.
It’s your case after all.” Gilles had excused himself from the
investigation.

This was
mostly because he didn’t have the time.

“
Well.” Tailler was about to suggest going to Lyon
again.

They had more questions for Lucinde. It was a question of how
much time, how many man-hours they might justify for a possible
homicide without a body to show for it. If Didier was indeed alive,
there was nothing
real
to connect any of their subjects with the body in the park.
What was interesting was that no one else, anywhere in the country,
had reported a missing person with anything like the description of
their victim. Their option there was to attempt to go back through
years of missing-person reports, on some kind of a whim and little
else. Time
spent
was always a ticklish question, at a time when resources were
tight. If there was no way a case was ever going to be solved, then
why were they digging into it at all? The line of reasoning was
simple: don’t waste resources.

What
would be the return on investment? The thing sure looked like a
fruitless endeavour.

It was
also the correct attitude, ninety-nine times out of a hundred and
who were they to contradict it? Guys like them shouldn’t maybe be
contradicting the book and established ways.

Did the
two of them really think they were so good that they were going to
get something when no one else could? Emile put the question to the
Inspector as Hubert sort of hunkered behind his desk and Levain
just listened.

This
would last for about as long as he could stand it.

The kid
had a point though.

There
were other things Levain might be doing.

“
Other than that, we don’t have much to go on—just rumour and
suspicion.” They were speculating like crazy.

This was
no way to run an investigation. Tailler said so and Gilles
nodded.

The
phone rang and Gilles casually lifted the receiver. He listened,
not revealing any emotion.

He
jotted something on his blotter.

“
Thank you.” He put the receiver down.

He
looked up, first at Tailler and then Hubert.

“
Right. They’ve got a dead body downriver. Sounds like it
might be our boy. He’s been in the water for a few days now and he
answers the description—my description.”

“
I have to admit—I’m impressed, sir.”

Tailler
and Hubert exchanged quick grins. Gilles snorted, giving his head a
quick shake.

The
phone rang again.

Gilles
ignored it.

“
Andre. Do you feel like getting out of here for a
while?”

“
Why, sure, Boss.” Detective Levain hastily clambered out of
his desk and grabbed his hat.

“
I’ve at least had a proper look.” Maintenon tilted his
head.

He was
lucky to be there at that exact moment—first, seeing the body and
now the phone call. The phone rang. Again.

“
Ah, sure, Boss.” Levain gave Hubert and Tailler a
look

“
And what about us?” Tailler had the bit in his
teeth.

He
didn’t want to let go.

One
minute it was their case, and now this.

Levain
pointed at the ringing telephone.

“
I don’t know, but I’ve got a funny feeling that one’s for
you.” He gave a happy little smile, crushed his hat firmly down and
took one last look to make sure the ashtray was okay and that he
hadn’t left the desk on fire.

Chapter
Fourteen

Hubert
sighed. He reached over and picked up the phone.

“
Hello?”

“
Yes, Hello. This is Inspector Jacques Delorme. Is Inspector
Maintenon in today?”

“
Ah, no, I’m sorry. He’s just left, sir. Is there something I
can help you with? This is Detective Hubert.”

“
Hmn. Ah. Well. Yes, why not. Look, I’ve got a body downtown
here. It’s at the Maison Rive Gauche, a kind of cheesy tourist
hotel. Our girl is tall, blonde, and blue-eyed. She’s been stabbed
to death. The name is Godeffroy, that’s with two f’s.”

“
Whoa! That’s our case, Inspector. Thank you so much for
calling.” He was madly beckoning for Tailler to listen in. “And
she’s dead?
Shit.
So what’s going on, sir?”

“
Monique or Lucinde, sir?” Tailler had grabbed the extension
and punched the lit extension button, butting in
shamelessly.

“
Ah, according to the identification and the registry, the
lady’s name is Zoe.”

The pair
stared at each other from across the room.

Zoe…???

“…
and there’s a letter in her purse, where someone named Didier
is asking to meet her at the hotel. The words ‘second honeymoon’
are underlined…and then it says,
love,
Didier.”

There
was hoarse breath on the line as the gravelly voice
paused.

Tailler
stood.

“
We’ll be right down, Inspector.”

Tailler
hung up. His mouth opened, and then closed. He stood looking at the
phone, suddenly grateful that he had a partner to get the address
and other necessary details.

“
Uh, huh. Uh-huh.” Hubert’s pen flew as he took it down.
“Thank you. We’ll be there shortly. Sir.”

The door
didn’t exactly hit them in the ass on the way out,
either.

***

The tray
and contents of a continental breakfast lay on the floor just
inside the door. They avoided the damp stains from coffee and
cream, Tailler noting the faint hint of gritty sugar between shoe
and carpet.

Even
dead, the woman in room four-fifteen was another looker by any
standard of the imagination. Tailler studied a woman’s body, one
which had in death, as well as in life, a firmly rounded
shapeliness. The thin silk dress clung to the form and hid nothing
important. There was one shoe on the floor and one still on her
foot. There was a small run in the stocking on the left calf. He
could not stifle the thoughts sometimes. Did it really matter what
they looked like?