Speak Softly My Love (21 page)

She
turned and had another look.

“
Oh, God. Poor man—but no. It’s not him. This is not my
Didier.”

The two
detectives regarded each other, as if in a state of mild
astonishment.

“
Okay, well. Huh. Well. What do you know?” Tailler was making
an ass of himself and he came to a full stop.

“
If the lady says it’s not him, then it’s not him.” For a
minute, it looked as if Doctor Auger was going to shake Monique’s
hand.

As it
was, he gave a quick, odd little bow. Then he stood at ease, hands
behind his back.

He had
all kinds of experience dealing with this sort of thing. The
detectives were caught a bit flat-footed.

He
crossed his arms and gave them a happy nod.

So. What are you going to do about it?

Hubert,
and especially Tailler, were relative newcomers to the
game.

“
Oh, thank God. It’s not him. Huh.” Hubert took her arm.
“Terribly sorry about all of this. Madame Godeffroy. Thank you so
much for helping us out. Uh, huh. I guess we’d better get you home,
eh?”

She
turned, hugging herself in the cold and the damp, still looking at
the man on the slab. The sheet was drawn down only enough to show
the face.

“
Tell me something, Madame.” Tailler figured it couldn’t hurt
to press a little.

She was
still giddy with the relief, and for whatever reason, perhaps
disappointment, he couldn’t quite help it.

“
Yes?”

She
stopped and waited, Hubert right there, standing at her side. He
regarded her with clouded, questioning eyes.

“
Does this gentleman look
anything
like your husband? Didier?
Anything at all. I mean. He’s the spitting image, at least in our
opinion, in the photographs and such.”

She took
a step back again. She looked at that cold, dead, waxen face, eyes
mercifully closed.

“
Oh, yes, I can see why you wondered—there really
is
a resemblance. But
that’s not my Didier.”

Auger
gave a subdued nod. That seemed clear enough. You couldn’t really
do much better than that.

Tailler
bit his lip.

He
looked at Hubert.

“
Okay. It looks like we are out of here.” He turned and gave
the Doctor a quick and rueful grin. “We’ll give you a call. Thank
you for all of your patience.”

“
Not at all, my dear boy. It’s why they keep me
around,
after all.” He
gave one last look at Madame.

They weren’t exactly messing about with
that
one, were they? The door was
slow on its double-sprung hinges. Their voices faded off down the
hallway.

“…
we’re so terribly sorry, Madame. We know how very upsetting
this must be, and we thank you for your forbearance…”

He could
still hear their footsteps.

Her
response was muffled and indistinct, but there were only so many
things she could say. His gut twitched and he snorted gently,
careful not to be overhead by a sensitive public. The door touched
the frame and the latches clicked into position. He could go back
to being himself again, a true scientist, for only then was he
happy.

It was in the nature of his job, but he was always the last
one to find out
why.

As an expert examiner, giving testimony in court, he had
always managed to keep a special kind of detachment. It didn’t pay
to get too involved. He was not paid to
speculate.

All he
ever did was look at the body and write a report. He read it back
in court and then answered questions as best he could.

That’s
it. Job done.

He had to wait until it was in the paper just to find out
what
really
happened.

There
was more here than met the eye.

Thoughtfully, he covered the face of their anonymous victim,
and put the poor fellow away again.

With an
internal monologue that never seemed to shut up, Dr. Auger was
never lonely.

Chapter Seventeen

“
Once more into the breach, dear friends.” Tailler was frankly
tiring of long train rides.

The
countryside was, if anything, prettier than the last time
through.

The
train rumbled along a valley, low hills on each side sprinkled with
autumn wildflowers and vineyards, grain and cattle. It was all very
well. The streams were picturesque.

Big deal.

“
That’s all right. I could use the sleep.” Hubert squirmed and
scrunched down in his seat, trying to get comfortable.

He would
probably feel like hell when he woke up, cramped and uncomfortable
as it was. But the thoughts of a nap were insidious, and there were
only so many things to see out the window, so many things to talk
about.

He was
about done talking and more than anything, thinking about the
case.

“
What do you think of that woman in the Rive Gauche? Love,
Didier. Seriously. And that knife wound—I’ll bet it matches the one
from Gilles’ mystery man.” Tailler’s fingers sought the confiscated
blade in his pocket, but they were convinced the weapon had been
more like a stiletto.

As soon
as they got back, Tailler planned on putting two reports side by
side and comparing them—the knife wounds in (or of) their decedents
sure sounded like the same killer.

A short
blade might have reached the heart if it was really pounded into
the body. There were no signs of bruising around the wound,
according to the Inspector. This was true in both cases. The
trouble was he couldn’t quite recall the exact wording, and two
different doctors had examined two different victims.

Hubert
heaved a deep sigh.

“
Leave it alone, Emile. I’m sure there is a very logical,
perfectly innocent explanation for all of this.”

“
Yeah, sure there is—the guy faked his own death, got up and
ran away after Maintenon falls on him, boots off to Lyon for a
quick weekend with the second wife. Then it’s off to Bordeaux to
buy and sell a few hundred thousand bottles of the finest.” Tailler
stared out the window, glad the sun was on the other side of the
carriage now. “And then, a quick nip back to town to shove a knife
in some blonde lady’s guts. Pop in, see the wife, have dinner, bang
her once or twice—and then it’s off he goes again.” He gave Hubert
a look. “Nah. I could never happen.”

“
Not without a motive, Emile—and the explanation is a lot
simpler than that.”

“
Why don’t you tell me what it is then?”

Hubert
gave a disgusted snort.

“
Because I don’t know what it is yet, dummy.”

Hubert
turned, wriggling and cursing lightly

He
managed to get curled up on his left side. His legs contracted,
bending at the knees, and it seemed as if he was really going to do
it.

“
You can’t sleep like that.”

“
Not with you talking I can’t.”

That
seemed logical enough.

***

“
The first thing we do is ask about the passport.”

Tailler
nodded.

“
Got you.”

Reaching
out, he rang the bell and they patiently waited. They had called
ahead before leaving Paris. Lucinde was expecting them. That had
been a tough call, and they had argued about it, whether to call
ahead or make it a surprise visit. She knew they were from Paris
and they could hardly say they were just in the neighbourhood. You
never really knew what to do sometimes.

It was a
good thirty seconds before there was a response.

“
Yes?”

“
Detectives Tailler and Hubert—”

Hubert
cuffed him on the shoulder and he shut up abruptly.

“
Oh, yes. Please come up.” The door latch clicked and the pair
stumped up to the third floor landing where there was a small,
neatly kept lobby and three doors.

She was
door number three.

On their
light knock, the door opened and the lady let them in.

“
Please come in, gentlemen.”

A short
hall led them into the salon.

Lucinde
stopped to formally greet them.

“
Hello. How are you.”

They
made the usual social noises and then settled down to more serious
matters.

She took
a seat on the sofa, and Tailler studied her intently. Lucinde was
not totally grief-stricken, yet she was definitely an unhappy
person. The burden that she bore, in the disappearance of her
alleged husband, would be hard enough on anyone. To her
perceptions, Didier would be everything to her. The effect on her,
try as she might, was profound. Her face, with its softness and
roundness of countenance, beautiful only a couple of days before,
had become drawn, haggard, with long lines bracketing the mouth. If
only he could peer past superficialities and see into their heads
sometimes. Her eyes were a shocking blue. He’d noticed that
before.

“
Well. Now that you’re sitting down—” No, that was wrong,
thought Hubert.

This was
no time for levity.

“
Please don’t be alarmed, Lucinde. But we have some
information for you, ah, maybe. We need your help. This might be a
very great shock.”

“
It’s Didier. He’s dead—isn’t he?”

They had
been sort of expecting this.

“
No—no, please don’t think that way.” Tailler had been
regretting such cruelties lately.

Emile
had wondered if he was really cut out for the job, not so much the
tragedy as the duplicity. Tailler opened the envelope and took out
a thick wad of photographs. That’s when he remembered, or appeared
to. Maddeningly, he hung onto the pictures as she stared at the
package in his hands.

“
Oh. I almost forgot. Does your husband have a passport?” He
cleared his throat. “It’s just that, ah, we were wondering at the
possibility of him leaving the country.”

She
nodded.

“
Yes, of course.” She looked at Hubert, wide-eyed and
innocent.

She
stared at the photographs again, from a few metres away.

“
Where does he keep it? If it’s there, at least it limits our
search to Metropolitan France, and, er, ah, overseas
departments.”

“
But of course.” She rose, as gracefully as ever, smoothing
her skirt in the most unconscious way.

Tailler
waited until she was halfway to the bedroom door. He set the
materials down. Emile got up and followed along. Assuming it was
there, he was prepared to practically grab it out of her
hands.

The
thing was, if Didier Godeffroy was a killer—and there was no real
way of calculating the odds of that, they didn’t want the bugger to
get away.

He
rounded the last corner.

“
Ah.” The lady stooped slightly and pulled out the top drawer
of the desk.

He came
up beside her.

Tailler’s mouth opened. There was a passport book lying right
there along with a few other documents. Chequebooks, et
cetera.

“
Please don’t touch that, Madame.”

She
froze in the act of reaching for it.

“
Monsieur.”

“
I’m sorry, Madame, I really am.” He turned and raised his
voice. “Hubert.”

“
I’m right here.”

“
What…is it?” She stared, hand up to her throat, her face
pale. “Something terrible has happened.”

Hubert
came closer.

“
My friend.” Tailler took out a small camera from his side
jacket pocket.

He set
that down on the bedspread for a moment as Tailler led her away to
a corner. Throwing the curtains wide, he made a big show of pulling
on clean white cotton gloves. He used a pencil to pull the drawer a
little further open. Hubert turned on the bedside light, pulling it
forward to the edge of the table to throw a little more light in
there.

He
carefully snapped a dozen shots, all bullshit of course, but it had
the desired effect of totally mystifying Lucinde.

Theoretically.

Hubert
put the camera away and Tailler dramatically stepped forward with
the envelope.

Hubert
lifted out one…no. Two passports.

He
paused for dramatic effect.

“
Do you have a passport, Madame? One would assume so, am I
right?”

She
nodded, staring at the offending drawer. Hers was in there too. He
slipped that out and had a quick look.

“
We went on a cruise—”

“
Oh, how lovely.”

“
Did you and your husband ever fight? Did he ever threaten to
leave you, anything like that?” Tailler’s voice was calm and cool,
and it was just sufficiently distracting.