Speak Softly My Love (2 page)

A loud
engine and stabbing headlights careened around the corner and
roared up the street from the north. A carload of uniformed
gendarmes screeched to a halt right in front of him. The driver
stayed in the car and the other three got out. The driver had the
microphone up, lips moving and noises coming out. He was reporting
their on-scene status.

“
Inspector Maintenon?”

“
Yes.”

“
Sergeant Girard. I understand you have a discovered a body? A
dead one?”

“
That’s the usual description, Sergeant.” Gilles lifted an arm
like a tour guide. “Step right this way, please.”

The
officers snapped on their torches and followed him across the dewy
grass. A moment later he was rewarded with the sight of his own
footprints. Presumably. They were the only obvious ones along
there. They should lead straight to the scene of the
crime.

Chapter Two

Sergeant
Girard and the two gendarmes went in front, lights poking ahead and
off to right and left.

Gilles
was at the Sergeant’s heels. His hand was in his pocket, secure in
the feel of the little MAB Model D, a 7.65 mm automatic. His
instinct was that it wouldn’t be needed.

It was
just for moral support.

They
strode into the darkness, following his route in from the sidewalk
as well as Gilles could recall. The park was fairly large. He’d
been seeking the silence, the air—the smell of wet grass and dead
leaves and the precious topsoil, the lifeblood of the nation as a
late president had once called it in the fatuous, pompous way that
politicians had.

He
reached up and grabbed a shoulder. Girard was slightly taller and
much heavier than Gilles. The warmth and the animal male sweat
smell was reassuring. Any self-respecting killer would have been
long gone by now. Gilles was entertaining the notion that he might
have surprised them in the act—either shortly after the act of
murder, or perhaps right in the middle of the act of disposing of
the body. He hadn’t seen any sacks, blankets or shovels. That’s not
to say they weren’t out there in the darkness somewhere. His heart
was doing a little trip-hammer beat and he wasn’t used to this kind
of exertion. Not at his age and not for one of his constitution.
Maintenon had settled into a kind of physical mediocrity with the
coming of late middle-age. There was the hint, the slight burn of
anger as well, lurking there under the surface. This had always
been a weak point, that passion. Gilles had been looking for a
nice, quiet, solitary night at home.

He sure
as hell wasn’t going to get it now.

“
It was right around here somewhere.”

His jaw
dropped slightly.

“
Point the light over there—”

Something light-coloured was there.

The beam
caught it and the young gendarme looked over at Gilles as they all
hovered there in a line.

“
That’s the milk—” And the cheese. The butter.

“
You’re lucky it didn’t break, Inspector.” It was a strangely
unconscious remark.

He let
it pass.

Reaching
over, Gilles took the flash from the nearest man, who to be
completely honest didn’t look like he was even shaving
yet.

“
What’s up, Inspector?” The gruff sergeant was as genuinely
puzzled as Maintenon.

“
That’s my bag—my milk…my bread. What in the
hell…?”

Gilles
pointed the light at the ground. They all saw it. There were fresh
tracks still embedded in the thick grass, lush and green although
the trees were denuded, bare branches overhead pale and ghostly in
the night when lit from below. The moon had gone behind clouds
again.

“
There.” There was a long depression, the grass flattened in a
characteristic way, an oblong shape in the right place.

“
Nobody move.”

They
sure as hell weren’t going to contradict Sergeant
Girard.

Gilles
shook his head in amazement.

There
was a long moment as he swung the beam off into the darkness. It
was difficult to be sure, but he saw what might be drag marks and
more footprints, faint and indistinct. The dew was uneven, and it
had been a pretty dry week so far.

“
Ah. With all due
respect,
Inspector...”

Maintenon could have sworn the sergeant growled, low and deep
in his throat, but he bit off anything further. The boy stopped
abruptly. He had been about to go on.

Gilles
looked over at the youngster.

“
Young man.”

“
Ah, yes, sir?”

Gilles
held his left palm upward, and pointed the hot glare of the light
down.

There
were quick intakes of breath at the sight of brown, dried blood on
his palms and his cuffs.

“
Sir. I withdraw my comment.”

Gilles
nodded.

That
seemed sensible enough.

“
Sergeant.”

“
Yes, Inspector?”

“
I want a photographer, and more men. A lot more. Throw a
cordon around the area. Stop and question anyone you
see.”

The
sergeant nodded.

“
Antoine. Call it in.” The boy turned and pelted off,
hopefully staying on their own tracks and not making a fresh
set.

His
heavy steps would be plain enough, being most recently made. It was
unavoidable.

“
Sir?”

Gilles
looked at the other gendarme.

“
Stay here. Don’t let anyone come near.” He looked up at
Girard. “There were some young people, they came into the park.
They were right about here when the girl screamed.”

Standing
where he was, he used the light and tried to find their footsteps.
There was a paved walkway right there and bare dirt where traffic
had worn down the grass. There was a line of disturbances in the
leaves, bleached a lighter colour on top but darker on the
bottom.

The
sergeant, who seemed the quick sort that Gilles had always admired
as a young man himself, nodded and pulled out his notebook. Some of
them old boys made their immediate superiors, supposedly
better-educated and with allegedly advanced training, look rather
sick.

Gilles
shoved the light in his pocket. He lifted his hat and ran a hand
through what would have been hair once.

Girard
took out a pen and fell into a habitual pose of which he was
supremely unaware.

“
Right, sir. Perhaps you’d better start at the
beginning.”

“
That’s pretty much it—I tripped on a body. It can’t be more
than five or ten minutes ago. And it’s not here now.”

Going
right by the book, the sergeant looked at his watch, and out of
reflex Gilles Maintenon did as well.

“
Yes, it must have been about eight, eight-fifteen. Right
about then.” They needed more men.

There
were more sirens on the evening breeze, and it occurred to Gilles
that the young people in question had probably gone for the nearest
phone, which would be helpful. Hopefully they had left a name, or
maybe they would stay on the line.

Other
than that, the sergeant and the others knew as much about it as he
did.

***

It was
the start of a whole new day.

“
That’s it?” Levain wasn’t sure whether to be impressed or
not. “You stumbled on a body one minute, and then it’s gone the
next?”

“
That’s about the size of it.” Gendarmes had gone from door to
door, combing the streets and the sidewalks, trying to find anybody
that might have seen something, heard something. “We have a slew of
pictures, maybe, just maybe one drop of human blood on a twig ten
metres from the scene. And that’s about it.”

Because
the twig was on a shrub between the body and the street Gilles had
come in from, they were sort of assuming a direction of travel. The
victim might have already been dead. If so, then where did it come
from, so warm and fresh that blood from cloth and fabric had
indelibly stained Gilles’ coat and shirt-sleeves. Both items of
clothing were now evidence, exhibits in a case.

As for
the shirt. He had a clean white one in a bottom desk drawer, a
fairly rational precaution in this line of work. As for the jacket,
he wouldn’t miss it particularly. He could go home in his old
raincoat, which hung on the rack much of the time. He had another,
better one at home.

Without
a body, they weren’t even sure if it was a stabbing or a shooting.
Only that Gilles had stumbled on a man’s body and that he had come
away with blood on his hands.

He’d
been up half the night. The bread was ruined, and when he went to
use the milk the next day it was an instant reminder of the new and
intriguing mystery.

Even
Tailler, with all of his brash and youthful optimism, didn’t know
what to make of it.

“
So we think that the Inspector either just missed the
killing, perhaps a stabbing, or he narrowly missed catching the
killer trying to dispose of the body?”

Gilles
nodded.

“
That’s how it looks.” Unfortunately, no one in the
neighbourhood had heard anything resembling a shot. “The blood was
so fresh—and yet I certainly didn’t hear any shots.”

No one
they had been able to talk to reported anything of the
kind.

The
store was less than two hundred fifty metres away, around one
corner and there on the next.

A few
potential witnesses had seen other people in the vicinity. Until
all of them were identified and interviewed, more or less
accounted-for, they had some information but nothing compelling.
Their two young people had not been located. Hopefully they would
come forward on seeing the newspapers.

No
bodies were found in the park. A search of alleys and vacant lots
within a six-block radius, which seemed about the ultimate physical
and psychological limit, had revealed nothing. Gilles might have
heard a car start if it was close by. If so, he recalled nothing of
the sort, and with the busy night sounds of the city, anything over
a couple of blocks away would be completely subconscious in a
manner of speaking.

The
press had already gotten hold of the story. It had all the earmarks
of a nine-day wonder, with headlines dragging a huge tale of
question marks and showing mostly pictures of him, the empty park
in daylight and one or two locals lucky enough to be interviewed.
It was the usual bunch, none of them had seen anything. They lived
right there and were foolish enough, vain enough or starved for
attention enough, to answer the door when the press came
pounding.

Levain
made a face.

“
Well, it’s Girard’s case now. Whoever’s in charge over
there.” He looked over at Tailler in humour. “They must love you
right about now, Gilles.”

Gilles
nodded.

“
Yes. Without a body, and my face all over the front pages,
they get all the work and nothing much to show for it. Not even
glamour.”

“
Without a body, he doesn’t stand much of a chance.” Tailler
was right about that. “Still, you would think. It must turn up
somewhere. Sooner or later.”

Gilles
sat down heavily on the front corner of his desk. He still hadn’t
taken his hat off yet.

He
looked at Tailler, one of their better acquisitions. The young
fellow was learning, and under the steadying hand of Levain and the
older men, his natural intuitiveness was being tempered with some
solid investigative skills. Anyway, that was the theory. Some men
learned by listening, Tailler seemed to learn by doing. He had
curious, questioning, even nervous eyes sometimes.

“
Not necessarily.”

Gilles’
eyes slid from one side to the other. He had a full case-load of
his own, nothing really interesting but it was there. It was all
stacked up neatly along the front of his desk, and if truth be
told, on the long shelf behind it as well. Much of it was routine,
some of it was cold and dead, and yet there were things he might
conceivably work on. Huge chunks of time were blocked out due to
court commitments.

For
whatever reason, it was just a busy time.

Resolutely reaching up and removing his hat, he sent the
battered black fedora sailing in the general direction of the
hat-rack.

It
missed, bounced off and then slid down the far wall where it came
to rest on top of yet more files. Tailler casually picked it up and
hung it up for him as Gilles nodded his thanks.

“
Coffee, Inspector?”

Gilles
nodded, with a look at Levain, who shook his head. Tailler grabbed
the pot, turned and left the room looking for water.

Gilles,
as might be expected, was lost in thought.

There
were only so many ways to game it out—there were only so many
things that could have happened. Things were linked and related. As
soon as you had a body, you had a killer or a natural cause, an
accident perhaps. If you have blood, a human or other body has been
punctured somewhere and somehow. One thing followed logically from
another.