Speak Softly My Love (23 page)

They
finally wrestled her, as gently as possible, over to the chairs
along the far wall.

She had
all kinds of things to say, mostly to God. Her eyes were fierce and
for a moment it looked as if she might strike whoever was
closest.

“
Please, please, Lucinde. Try to get control of yourself. We
know this is very hard for you.” Grief was so contagious an
emotion, he was wracked with a sob of his own. “But we have a job
to do
too,
right,
Lucinde?”

“
Oh, God, Didier—my love. My one and only, the love of my
life. Oh, God, how can you be so cruel?”

She fell
forwards, bending in half and howling in her anguish, covering her
eyes. She bawled into her soft grey gloves, which she hadn’t taken
off since leaving the house in Lyon six or seven hours previously.
The gloves seemed a way of insulating herself, keeping her dignity
in the worst of times. It really wasn’t that cold.

“
Okay, okay.” Tailler sat beside her as Hubert pulled out his
notebook, still standing by the slab with Doctor Auger. “Just for
the record. Lucinde Godeffroy, is this the body of your husband,
Monsieur Didier Godeffroy?”

She
nodded, the makeup ruined totally. She hadn’t been looking all that
good when they came in. A shudder wracked what was a fairly long
frame. She had refreshed herself once on the train and then once
again at the station. All that work was now undone. She had been
revealed as a distraught woman with nowhere to turn, no one to
cling to, not the way she once had with Didier.

At that
moment, whatever one might think of Didier, it was possible to see
that Lucinde had very much been a woman in love. The handkerchief
was sodden and her nose was running. Doctor Auger pulled paper
tissues from a dispenser and handed them over to Hubert, who
brought them to Lucinde. With guests present, Dr. Auger could only
be attentive and keep out of the way. It was all in a day’s
work.

Emile
was studying his notebook, lucky to have brought the correct one. A
thought struck him.

“
There are, unfortunately, not much in the way of personal
effects.” There was another question he must ask. “What colour of
suit was he wearing when he left the house?”

Her lips
quivered as she tried to answer.

“
His black suit is missing, but he had several. He had a dozen
suits, mostly in dark colours. It might be at the
cleaners.”

The
tears still flowed.

“
Does he have a brown suit?”

She
shuddered.

“
Yes.”

“
Ah—do you know if it’s still there—”
Merde
, but he couldn’t help but
ask.

That one
was a giveaway—

She
shook her head, eyes red and raw.

Tailler
was wondering at his own reaction. Surely she deserved better than
this, although he wasn’t so sure about Didier.

He gave
Hubert a look, receiving a shrug and a non-committal look in
return.

“
All right, Madame. We’d better get you to a
hotel.”

“
Can’t I…can’t I just sit with him for a moment?”

Auger
gave a quick and negative shake of his head. It was against
regulations, of course.

“
No, I’m afraid not, Madame.” Tailler found the formality
helped, otherwise he had no idea of what to say.

She was
such a nice lady, and no one deserved this—a bigamist for a
husband, and yet she had obviously loved him so very much. As for
Monique and her failure to identify the body, perhaps that could be
put down to denial, perhaps, perhaps…perhaps. But it was definitely
odd, he had to admit that.

“
When—when…”

“
Take your time, Madame.”

“
Oh, God.” More tears fell. “This is so hard—when will I be
able to call the funeral—”

Dr.
Auger cleared his throat.

“
The remains will be released in due time, Madame.”

The
detectives wrestled with that problem silently, exchanging another
quick look, but neither one contradicted him.

“
Yes. It might be a while, Madame. Ah. Incidentally. I know
this is very hard, Madame Godeffroy. But, uh. Your husband was
stabbed to death, Madame. I guess you have the right to know
that.”

It was
the final blow.

“
Oh…”

She
sagged heavily against first one, then the other. They quickly got
her into a chair.

They
waited for her to recover from a swoon of sorts.

Hubert
took one elbow and Tailler took the other. Between the two of them,
they got her back down the hall, up the stairs and into the
darkness and the chilly evening air.

Their taxi, patiently waiting, was before them and they could
get the hell out of there. It was late enough, ten-thirty when they
finally got the grief-stricken Lucinde checked into a hotel. Close
to the railroad station where she could easily depart on the early
train, she had quickly ruled out an overnight train, although the
possibility had been raised. She had
questions,
questions about Didier’s
death, which they patiently tried not to answer. She had promised
to call room service and that she would try and eat
something.

The
place wasn’t the best, but it was a respectable commercial hotel
frequented by businessmen, salesmen and other professional
travelers.

Hubert
promised that one or both would be there to pick her up. They would
make sure the bill was paid, and see her off in the morning. It was
the least they could do, he said. The blank look in her eyes was
enough to shut him up after a few brief remarks, all of which
seemed necessary to the occasion. He felt really bad for
her.

Finally
they were done.

The
detectives were dead beat, their minds still reeling from the
contrast—interminable hours on the train, going there and coming
back, and then the chilling contradiction raised by Lucinde’s firm
identification.

Everything in their training screamed out against pressing a
witness—but it was very odd. Monique lived in Paris. Didier worked
from Paris, and somehow she was more real—she had more credibility.
That wasn’t very logical, but they had at least seen her marriage
certificate. And yet, Lucinde was the mother of two of his
children. No wonder my head hurts, thought Hubert.

“
I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Hubert
nodded.

“
Flip a coin?”

“
What do you mean?”

“
Would you like to see her off on the train in the morning?
It’s the six-oh-seven, for crying out loud.”

Tailler
slapped his buddy on the shoulder.

“
Forget the coin. I’ll do it.”

He
looked up and raised an arm. His stentorian voice boomed out over
the noise of chuffing engines and steam puffing out of brake
cylinders.

“
Taxi! Taxi!”

Chapter Nineteen

“
God, what a horrible feeling.” Tailler scowled into his
coffee cup.

Levain
wasn’t looking too good himself. There was some kind of cold going
around and he was surrounded. Parents of school age children pick
up everything, sooner or later.

Just
everything.

“
Argh.”

The knob
turned, the hinges squeaked and the door swung open.

“
Good morning, gentlemen.”

“
Good morning, sir.”

Levain
stared blearily at Gilles.

“
Where’s Hubert?” The Inspector looked around. “Where’s
Firmin?”

It was still early yet. There wasn’t much Tailler could do
after seeing Lucinde off at the
gare.
He had arrived at work
indecently early and made a good start on typing up his rather
brief notes. They were a real mess by this point in time. He’d have
to watch that. His notes were admissible as evidence, and might be
demanded in a court of law at almost any time. It was best to be
thorough. This included names, addresses, dates and times. Just
sticking all that in later wasn’t good enough. Sooner or later you
would really trip yourself up. Going from memory later on was
tantamount to fabricating evidence.

What if
he got a date wrong, or a name wrong? They were already busy. They
all had ongoing investigations, admittedly he and Hubert were not
under so much pressure as the senior men. They had their own tasks
and places on the team that was Maintenon’s unit.

Working
with Maintenon. Tailler still marveled at his luck. A
detective-sergeant. He felt queasy sometimes when he thought of it,
but then he’d never believed in miracles. He had no doubt he was
working with the best, and quite frankly few illusions about his
ability or his experience. That made it a double miracle! He was
just damned glad to be here. Hopefully that feeling would never go
away.

It was a
point of pride, perhaps even principle. If it was weird, different,
or better yet, insoluble, (or unsolvable, as Tailler had never been
quite sure which was the proper form), then people really ought to
come to Maintenon. And so they had, it happened all the time—if the
crazy bastard didn’t get there first and trip over the
body.

“
So.”

“
Ah. Yes. Well. We have, ah, news, sir.”

“
News?” Gilles stuck his hat on the rack and took off his
coat.

He
looked at Levain.

“
What the hell’s wrong with you?”

“
Argh. A miserable cold.”

Those
impenetrable brown eyes—almost black at times, ran through Emile
Tailler.

“
Where’s Hubert?”

“
Ah—”

The door
thudded open, bouncing off the steel filing cabinets, and
rebounding into his right shoulder as Hubert came in the
door.

“
Here he is, Inspector.”

“
So. Tell us all about it.”

“
Okay.”

Hubert
took off his coat, stuck his hat on there and went to the
coffeepot.

It was
half-full and he made approving noises.

“
Well, sir, it’s just that Lucinde identified the body at
Maison Sant
é
. She says it’s her husband,
Didier, and yeah, it just broke her up completely, sir.
Ah.”

He
looked at Hubert, settling into his desk with an air of
contentment, hoping for a little help. It didn’t seem to be
forthcoming, so he went on.

“
On the plus side, we got her passport along with
Didier’s—his, ah, other one.”

Gilles
nodded.

He bit
his lip.

“
Two passports—nice.”

Tailler
could only agree.

“
Yeah, it makes sense. We’ll have to find out when he applied
for a replacement passport. All he had to do is claim that the
original was lost or stolen. Tell them it’s a change of address,
something like that. But if you have a wife, sooner or later the
subject might come up. He can’t say he left it at his other house.
Bearing in mind the double life he was leading. Ah, what I’m
thinking here, sir—” He was thinking that it wouldn’t be all that
hard for Lucinde to get a passport as Didier’s wife, and yet it
couldn’t be all that
easy,
either.

Tailler
had a bad case of too many unknowns.

He
paused. He thought it through and then started again. Hubert sipped
the coffee, just at the perfect temperature, and not incidentally
hiding the look of amusement on his face behind the big
mug.

“
I’m thinking that he had two wives, and two passports.
Basically.”

The kid
was doing all right, why not let him go.

“
So, he can leave Paris, and Monique. He can go see his other
wife, stay a day or two. Then maybe the pair of them go off
together to Italy. The other wife thinks he’s at some tiny little
hotel in Burgundy, or Bordeaux. He can’t be out of the country,
because his good old passport is right there at home in his desk.
Right?”

“
Hmn. Interesting.”

“
Ah, yes, sir. It sure is.”

Hubert
stifled a cough, as if something had gone down the wrong
way.

Hubert
coughed again.

“
Emile. Passports are stamped, coming and going.”

“
Yes. But. He’s got a shit-load of stamps in both passports.
Either one of them, plus a really good suit, is enough to get him
through. He’s clearly a very charming individual. We all know that.
What’s important is that both passports are so obviously real, and
not fake.”

“
So, what do you want to do now?” Gilles steepled his fingers
across his small paunch.

“
I want to find out about that passport. I want to check and
make sure that Lucinde’s is genuine. I should have asked for
Monique’s.” He was asking for more man-hours.