Speak Softly My Love (3 page)

It could
only be one or the other. As soon as someone moved the body, you
had a plot—and so it went on. There had to be a logical train of
events.

Or
something like that.

As for
the canvas of the neighbourhood, word got around and maybe someone
with some information would turn up.

It was
just a regular day.

His
phone was ringing already.

Chapter Three

Gilles
hadn’t really forgotten the incident of the disappearing body. He
hadn’t read any of the reports. He had basically skipped over the
small news stories, which had completely disappeared from the most
recent editions as there was nothing to report.

It was
like he didn’t want to get involved or something.

The gist
of it all was that the police were stymied and were seeking the
public’s help in the matter, which was being listed as a probable
homicide.

They had
a hundred photos of an empty crime scene. It wasn’t exactly
unprecedented.

Gilles hadn’t been of much help. In the darkness, all he knew
was that he had fallen on a body, it appeared to be male, and that
he had blood on his hands. Samples had been scraped off, and
microscopic analysis had confirmed that it was indeed human blood.
Whoever had taken the body must have been quite strong. There might
have been more than one person. They had avoided the soft, loose
soil of the flowerbeds. Yet there
were
innumerable and indistinct
prints in the flowerbeds, the conclusion drawn that they had been
there a while and probably belonged to either gardeners or
teenagers and other assorted
types.
There had been no signs of recent
digging.

Types
was a nice word, a bit of slang or shorthand. No one could really
define it.

They had
managed to get out of the immediate area quickly while lugging a
body that weighed, at minimum, a good sixty or seventy kilos in
Gilles’ uncertain estimation. It was the best he could
do.

He was reading his case notes in the Brevard case. He was due
in court on the following Monday, one week away. His testimony
would be enough to send Monsieur Brevard to the guillotine, which
Gilles didn’t have a problem with. He wouldn’t be giving that
testimony if he wasn’t convinced of his facts, and Brevard should
have known better than to hack up a boarder like that over a stolen
jug of rough red and fifty francs in unpaid rent. Monsieur Brevard
hardly needed the money or the wine, and had benefitted from the
finest legal defence. The Palais de Justice,
nombre dix
as some said, (Number Ten
Boulevard de Palais) was convenient enough. So much of his precious
time would be spent cooling his heels in some bleak and cheerless
waiting room. He would be cut off from everything. Winding up cases
long-solved was part of the job and a necessary part, one that
wouldn’t often be left to subordinates until they had much more
experience.

He’d
always sort of hated court.

The rain
was pouring down outside the windows and the place was damp and
chilly. There were rumours the heating would be turned on sooner or
later.

The
weather was up and down like a whore’s pants on payday these
days.

A small
electric fire did little to help, although when various officers
were out of the building, those left behind tended to grab it and
drag it closer to their desk.

It was
better than nothing. His eyes were tiring and he was just looking
at the clock when the phone rang.

“
Hello?”

“
Maintenon. This is Inspector David.”

”
Yes?”

“
You found that body in Parc Montsouris, right?”

“
Yes, but that’s not my case.” Still, Maintenon’s pulse picked
up, and why not?

David
was a thorough-going investigator.

“
I have a missing-person report from just around the
corner.”

“
Ah, yes? Go on.”

“
I’ve already been speaking to Sergeant Girard, but if you
don’t mind, I’d like to send someone over with a
picture.”

“
Absolutely.” It was five to four and Gilles had already
reserved a driver, a perk he rarely abused, for the ride
home.

Lately
his legs tended to go numb, especially the right one, when walking
any distance. Sitting on the Metro could be quite painful when the
hips flared up. This was one reason why he made himself go places,
to walk for the sake of walking once in a while. The fact that it
got him out of a house that still reeked, not a nice word but apt,
of his dear departed Ann was also a consideration. Hopefully it
would stave off further physical deterioration. Maybe even mental
deterioration.

“
The lady of the house says her husband has disappeared. He
said he was going out for a drink with someone, she’s not sure who.
He did that from time to time. Anyways, he matches your description
to a certain extent. What colour of hair did your boy have, did you
get a good look?”

“
Blond. I’m relatively sure, but I think grey or white would
have showed up better, and black or brown hair wouldn’t have been
visible at all…”

“
I see. Okay, I’m sending Gravelet right over.”

“
When?”

The
Inspector laughed.

“
Give him ten or fifteen minutes.” There was the sound of
muffled conversation in the background.

“
Thank you.”

Gilles hung up. Well, they needed a break and it looked as if
they might get one. Most homicides were relatively simple affairs,
solved in five minutes when you got right down to it. Other than
that, he was looking at a thick docket and he’d better read his
case notes or the
advocate,
the defense would trip him up all over the place
and that just wouldn’t do.

Interesting.

***

Gravelet
turned out to be a competent-looking young officer. With a quick
rap on the door, he opened it up and came in. Dark brown eyes found
Maintenon, whom he recognized from pictures in the
paper.

Hell,
everybody knew Maintenon.

“
Inspector?”

“
Yes, come in, come in.”

The
fellow was wearing some abominably clunky black leather shoes, and
had an air of genteel poverty, underlined, perhaps exaggerated
slightly by grey slacks that were a bit too light and a brown
jacket that was perhaps rather too dark to be any sort of a
complement. Unlike Tailler, who towered above everyone, or Levain,
who was twice as wide as the average man across the shoulders,
Gravelet was a compact and yet well-built young man with an air of
gravitas far beyond his apparent years.

His
voice was low, precise and confident.

Maintenon had always liked people who stood up
straight.

“
These are the pictures of Monsieur Didier
Godeffroy.”

“
Our missing person?”

“
Yes.” Gravelet stood there, more or less at ease.

“
Who called it in?”

“
The wife, Monique. She’s a very nice lady, about thirty or
thirty-one. Tall and slender. Really, quite beautiful.”

Gilles
snorted gently and the detective flushed a bit and shut up. He
eyeballed the envelope.

“
Yes, Inspector.” The fellow pulled the flap, and laid the
sheaf of photos, eight by tens plus a couple of small originals
from which the enlargements had been made. “The wife called it in
on Sunday morning. She’d been stewing for days, but kept thinking
he’d walk in the door. Smelling of booze or whatever, but home, you
know? She says he’s not really known for it, though. He hasn’t been
missing that long, but the Inspector had a hunch—a hunch like a
camel, as he always says. The dates and times correspond
beautifully.”

“
Hmn.” Gilles picked up the small picture. “A hunch,
eh?”

He
looked at an enlargement.

“
Hmn. Very well. Huh.”

Gravelet
stood there patiently. He reached down and fanned the items out on
the desk.

There
were a few pages in there as well, copies of the original incident
report as well as the notes, which were formally typed up, probably
by Gravelet himself.

The
address was right around the corner from Maintenon’s house and
about six blocks from the Parc Montsouris. It was barely three
blocks from his own place.

“
Very well. What action have you taken?”

There
was a hint of red in the young man’s face.

“
The Inspector has put out the usual bulletins. The gentleman
is a wine representative, and his route generally takes him to all
of the wine regions. He was supposed to be going to Bordeaux, she
says. His firm wholesales in town here and all the major regional
cities. For that reason, we’re hoping or at least wondering if he
simply took off.”

“
And that’s it?”

“
Ah…so far, yes, sir.”

He
cleared his throat.

“
She says they weren’t fighting or anything, He’s never
disappeared before. When he does come home a bit late, or the next
day or whatever, she says he’s very good about phoning. He lets her
know where he is and what’s up. And the trains aren’t always on
time. We have a fair amount of detail, and the odds are he’ll turn
up…ah, one way or another.”

Gilles
nodded. There wasn’t much else they could do. He studied the
picture.

“
Inspector?”

Tailler
looked up from his work. You just weren’t going to hurry
Maintenon.

Gilles
put the magnifying glass down. It almost made things worse, merely
emphasizing the fact that the original picture wasn’t very good. It
was sometimes better to hold it at arm’s length and squint at it.
It wasn’t a professional portrait, it was a snapshot taken with a
cheap camera, the subject facing into the sun. There were the usual
squinty eyes. In this print, the harsh light took away depths and
strong features, leaving them a flat shape with holes for eyes and
mouth and little more. The image was perhaps sixty millimetres
square, a contact print from a popular camera.

“
Is that the man you saw, Inspector?”

“
That, young man, is a very good question…” He gave a small
nod. “There is some resemblance. There is nothing here that says
no.” He tilted the thing away from him, changing the
perspective.

He made
a loose fist, and peered at it through the hole, isolating it,
tilting it and adjusting it, closing one eye and then the
other.

It would
almost be helpful to turn the room lights down, close the curtains,
and try it with one of the enlargements. They would think it mad,
of course.

It was like you just couldn’t be
sure
sometimes.

Gravelet
pulled a notebook out of his jacket pocket as Gilles pursed his
lips in thought.

Maintenon’s eyes came up.

“
How tall is your man?”

“
A hundred seventy-five centimetres.”

“
Eyes?”

“
Brown. Hair, kind of a mousy light brown, she says. No
distinguishing marks, weight about seventy-five kilos.”

“
Well. There is nothing in this picture to say it wasn’t him.”
Gilles hated assumptions. “For the time being, it seems like too
much of a coincidence. What was he wearing.”

“
Ah.” It was in his notes and he rattled it off. “He was
wearing a black suit with narrow pinstripes. White shirt, red tie.
Pretty conventional. A charcoal grey raincoat and black leather
shoes. She says he would have a wedding ring. He had a pocket
watch, an old family heirloom and we have a pretty good description
of that. He wasn’t the type to forget his wallet and keys,
according to her. She says they’re not at home.”

Gilles
quickly skimmed Madame Godeffroy’s statement.

“
Is there anything you can add, Inspector Maintenon? Your
impressions from that evening?”

“
Yes.” Gilles had been thinking about it quite a bit. “We
don’t know if he was shot or stabbed, or for all I know, it might
have been a spear. But I distinctly recall something rough—a very
small area. It was soaking wet, too. The fabric was distinctly
cut.”

He put
his left hand just below the ribs, off centre, left side…a hundred
millimetres, maybe a bit more away from the heart. This depended on
the physical size of the victim. One good shove and you’re gone
sort of territory.

“
In other words, a knife?”

Gilles
titled his head slightly from side to side and gave an elaborate
shrug.

“
Any particular smells, Inspector Maintenon?”

He
should his head quickly.

No,
there weren’t, he realized. Just the night and the park
itself.

“
We’ll leave that open, then.” Gravelet’s eyebrows moved up
and down and the pen hovered over the note-pad. “It’s too bad, but
these are never our highest priority.”