Speak Softly My Love (7 page)

Tailler
laughed. Hubert thought that one was pretty good too. It was the
first time he’d ever thought of it.

That’s
not to say Hubert wouldn’t have done it in a heartbeat, because he
would have. It wasn’t just their present entertainment, either. It
wasn’t just dancers, or Emmanuelle herself. There were plenty of
women in the world. That much was true. But they were safely out of
town, no one had the slightest clue of where they were or what they
were up to.

It only
made sense to have a good time, after all.

He’d
been putting some thought into how they best might exploit the
situation.

In all
honesty, he really didn’t have any big ideas and this was probably
going to be it. For all intents and purposes.

Just
watching Tailler was revealing.

Fuck, it
was downright educational.

The guy
was probably thinking...he would be thinking of his mother and the
Monsignor. The village priest would loom large in his thoughts. He
would suddenly realize, thought Hubert with a wicked smile; that he
would be going straight to hell. As soon as God found out about
it…

If he
hadn’t already thought of it. This thought alone, was almost enough
of a reward. You took amusement in all things, and sooner or later
you had to die.

As for the music, it was predictable enough in its own
way—the girls always had to have something
danceable
in their illusory little
world. Like fucking who cared. He could take it or leave
it.

The song
ended and the girl got up abruptly. She moved like a deer or
something, going over to where the gramophone was set up in a
little alcove off to one side. As natural as breathing, his eyes
followed along. It was all part of the show, in the grand spectacle
that was life.

She
changed recordings quickly, setting the needle down with a pop,
skipping back to centre stage. Hubert looked around. They were the
most likely prospects in the place. There were only about ten or
twelve guys in there, none of whom he would ever want to talk to.
Everyone drinks alone, when you really think of it…

That
much was true.

The poor
girls did it all the time. He felt sorry for them in so many ways.
That’s probably why the average male tipped so large—every stinking
one of them trying to outdo the next guy. The girls talked to the
customers. They drank soda water, pretending it was a full-price
drink, and hoarded their tips. As often as not, they ended up by
giving it all away to some opium-eater of a poet who wasn’t worth a
crock of shit. Pretty much every damned one of them had a kid or
two stashed away with mother or grandmother. It wasn’t like
everyone didn’t know that on some intuitive level.

She really
was
staring at him. He always liked the way his heart skipped at
moments like that, although it was meaningless enough. It’s not
like they had any
real
money…

The
scratches were blotted out, the music started up in earnest and the
girl began to move.

Hubert’s
mouth opened. It really was mesmerizing. Undeniable,
really.

Tailler
leaned over.

“
What in the hell
is
that?”

“
It’s a
girl,
Tailler—”

Didn’t your father tell you anything?

“
I know that. What the hell’s the name of that
song?”

That was
it.

There
was no hope for the boy whatsoever. Hubert rolled his eyes in the
general direction of some imaginary audience.

“
You know what?”

Tailler,
senses on high alert, looked over.

“
What?”

“
It’s your turn to buy.”

That
pitcher wasn’t going to refill itself.

Chapter Seven

Their
dynamic duo came traipsing in after eleven in the morning. Gilles
was out of the office, having court again today. Firmin and Levain
were the only ones there. The pair hung up coats and hats and
busied themselves. Tailler began sorting the contents of his
briefcase, laying it all out on the desk, nice and neat. Hubert
headed straight for the coffee-pot, looking a bit bleary-eyed if
anyone had taken a good look.

His head
turned.

“
Hey, Andre.” Firmin
was implied in
there somewhere.

Levain
was tempted to ignore his ringing telephone.

“
Hey.” He put some thought into it. “How was your train
ride.”

Levain
picked up and listened for a moment.

“
Very well. Okay. Thank you.” He set it down again.

Tailler
was ready.

“
Once more from the top.
So.
How did it go?” Levain leaned back, placing his
hands across his stomach.

He
tipped his chair back and put his hands up behind his
head.

“
Yeah. Amazing. That Didier really gets around, Andre.”
Tailler glanced at his notes, but it was all still fresh in his
memory.

Levain’s
eyebrows began to creep upwards in anticipation.

“
Sure.”

“
He’s got a thing for blondes, apparently. Hot ones, very,
very hot ones.” He looked at the coffeepot but it was down to the
last centimetre. “Who knows, there may be more of them out
there.”

He
certainly hoped so, his attitude seemed to indicate. There was this
beautiful look on his face.

Tailler,
at least, had no trace of a hangover, and couldn’t help but feeling
a bit superior.

The
train ride, the fresh air blasting in the windows and innumerable
cups of the always excellent railway coffee, the only thing they
did really well, hadn’t made much of a dent in Hubert’s head. Not
to hear him tell it. His eyeballs looked red and raw, and he had
been oddly subdued all morning.

“
Ha.” Levain was there to listen and guide, but Gilles and
Firmin, their two most senior men, were going to let the leash off
the two young detectives.

Maintenon said to let them go as far as they could on their
own.

Levain
guessed he didn’t have a problem with it. There were plenty of
cases to go around.

This one
looked like a toughie, which was good.

Sooner
or later it had to be done, and this one was definitely
challenging. If they solved it, it might help their careers
considerably. If they failed it would be a humbling experience they
would not soon forget. Someone would make sure of that. It might
even be him.

“
She made the identification. We made sure she didn’t get a
look at Monique in there, well. The one picture—they’re really
young. Hubert wonders why she didn’t ask about the other woman. I’m
not sure I agree—they have their pride, or whatever. We couldn’t
really ask, but there were no Paris papers lying around—she had the
Lyon paper and a few ladies’ magazines right there on the coffee
table. She’s real smart, don’t ask me how I know that. We also went
through the family album and came up with one or two more photos. I
don’t know if they’re all that helpful.”

Hubert
settled into his seat. Let Tailler rattle on for a
while.

Hubert
nodded and indicated Levain’s telephone.

“
What’s up?”

“
My prisoner is all set to go. Interview Three.” With that,
Andre Levain stabbed out his cigarette. “Another sad
story.”

Smoke
curled up from the ashtray as some sort of conflagration was still
going on.

Apparently.

He put
his thumb on the offending butt and squashed it some more. Some of
them took on a real life of their own. They were
un-killable.

He took
a fresh notebook and a mental list of questions and left without
further comment. Tailler’s eyes slid to Firmin, who was immersed in
his notes, but then his fingers spurted up and the words began to
flow from the battered old ironclad on his desk.

Firmin
smacked the return and kept going in the syncopated hunt-and-peck
of the truly self-taught.

Hubert
winced, sipping at the hot coffee. Still on their own,
then.

Tailler
pulled out notes and then carefully went through everything. While
pretty much everything they had was a copy, their own notes from
Lyon were original and losing anything at all was strictly a
no-no.

He
looked up at Hubert.

“
I guess we should go and have another chat with Monique…”
There was some hesitation evident in the statement, but it wasn’t
like Hubert had any ideas. “I don’t know, we could ask around the
neighbourhood. Ask about other women…things like that. We haven’t
spoken to his employer yet.”

He
trailed off.

Hubert
nodded.

“
Just give me a minute. Where’s Gilles?” This aside went in
the direction of Firmin, who looked up as if becoming aware of
their existence for the very first time.

“
Court. Brevard. Done today, he hopes.” He grunted in
speculative fashion. “Maybe tomorrow.”

There
was a moment of silence, and then Firmin’s eyes dropped to the
keyboard and he rattled off another thirty-odd words while whatever
thought was fresh.

They
weren’t going to get much more out of him. Neither one was a
dog-fucker, but a little direction from the other guys might have
been welcome.

Tailler looked at Hubert and shrugged. Tailler had been
sorely tempted, over the last few months, to inquire. Surely Firmin
had a first name. He must have. The opportunity to ask such a
question, after so much time, was long since gone, and now
the
real
question
was how to go about asking. They must have been introduced at some
point or other.

Tailler
gave a short, sharp nod. He looked happy, like a puppy with a
brand-new tail.

Hubert
nodded.

Tailler
had nabbed that mother-stabber a month or so ago, and it would seem
the confidence was at an all-time high.

Detective Hubert, in his role as senior man, set the cup down
with a clunk.

“
Anytime you’re ready.”

“
Yeah.” Tailler grimaced, but without direction from above, he
was more than prepared to go on with it.

Bodies
don’t just get up and walk away.

He threw
the notebook and a good pen or two into his jacket pocket, standing
up quickly and reaching for the hat-rack.

Holy,
crap, he’s right on it, thought Hubert. There were worse people to
be stuck with. That much was true.

***

That
Monique wasn’t bad, either.

Tailler
had his own perspective on such things. After closely examining any
number of naked and sweet young things the night before, he was now
something of an expert. Her clothes were conservative, but they fit
well enough. The flat-chested look that was currently popular was
sort of beyond her, even with the stiff bindings that some women
affected. He couldn’t hold that against her, as he preferred
something with a little more flesh on it anyways.

After their extensive pub crawl of the evening before, he had
a much better idea of what might be
under
there. In Tailler’s own
neighbourhood, the norm was old women in black babushkas, or slim
young women who were eminently flirtatious and yet mystifyingly
flighty—it was like he had no idea of what they were talking about
sometimes. The fact that some of them only came halfway up his
bicep was distinctly unnerving. Some of them were just plain tiny.
He’d only had so many chances, and Tailler ruefully reckoned he’d
blown all of them. He knew what beauty and attraction were. The
trouble had always been putting it into
words,
in a language that women
could understand.

And then
there was Monique—Lucinde was one hell of a woman when he thought
of it as well.

Either
one of them would look pretty darned good if you could just get
them naked.

Hell, I’m not picky.

The thought was enough to send a surge of
something
cold and exciting through
the old inner guts.

Chapter Eight

By the
time the cross-examination was done with Gilles Maintenon, two
whole days spent in the witness-box, he was totally wrung out. The
defense was just doing their duty, and being paid very well for it
too. There was a lot of tension, the need to be professional and
not reactive, not to blow one’s cool under the flurry of blows.
There was the psychological hammering, and it took a lot out of a
person.

It was
purely on impulse that he went back to the Quai. The day had begun
cold, windy and wet, but by the time he got out of the court
building, the heat had become oppressive. There wasn’t a breath of
air in the streets. The scorching sun on the backs of his hands,
especially the side of the neck and the cheekbone was immediately
apparent. That was the trouble with September, one never knew how
to dress for it. You would freeze your bag off first thing in the
morning, and be dragging two coats and a sweater over the shoulder
by the time you got home.