Speak Softly My Love (8 page)

Even
with the heavy coat over his arm, and taking his time dismissing
the motor pool driver, who looked grateful to be nearing the end of
a long and boring day, Gilles was sweating. It was unusually warm
for late September. It would give people something to talk
about.

The
stairs were always better for Gilles than the elevator for some
reason, not so much claustrophobia as the fact that there was some
delay. It got the heart pumping and made you suck in a lot of
oxygen. He rarely ran into higher authority in the stairwell.
Especially the back one, coming up from the extremely limited
parking area away from the river. On an island the river was right
there outside the windows for much of the building’s
frontage.

The
big-shots always got themselves dropped off at the front steps. It
was a way of life with them. They got the best offices, plenty of
windows, well away from elevators and stairwells. When a new
government came along, which was pretty often these days, they got
the biggest shake-ups too. Some lived and some died,
figuratively.

Their
own space was cramped at the best of times. With Archambault absent
due to chronic ill-health in recent months, and with no replacement
in sight, it was perhaps a little better lately.

The
downside was that they still had to do Archambault’s
work.

Poor old
Archambault, and let’s hope he gets better.

Their
office was on the top floor, up under the eaves and the doves which
sometimes became quite obtrusive with their cooing and the other
mournful sounds they made.

“
Ah.” He stepped into the room, where Tailler patiently tapped
out a report and LeBref of all people was quietly hanging on the
telephone.

The
fellow, not quite a dwarf, (he had failed even in this, as a
cheerful LeBref often said), raised a languid hand in greeting. He
twitched his eyebrows and made quick, darting little notes. No one
quite knew what he was working on these days.

Other
than that, he was a pretty good guy and not to be underestimated
judging by the long list of folks put away.

“
Uh, huh…”

Firmin’s
hat was there on the rack as he took his own off and hung it up.
LeBref wore his grey felt chirper cap as usual, and he would rarely
take that off for anything. Gilles put the coat on a tine, the rack
wobbling gently but it had never actually gone over. The coat was
still damp from the morning. Predictably, Tailler had the window
sashes pushed all the way out on their obtuse angle or whatever it
was called and the pigeons were roosting just a metre or so up
above.

“
Tailler. Please shut the window.”

LeBref
put down the phone. He nodded pleasantly.

“
Gilles.” He took a file and went out the door.

Maintenon had to clear his briefcase, it was why he was
ostensibly here after all.

The
young detective got up, and compromised by cranking it furiously
inwards. He left it open a couple of fingers width and perhaps
Maintenon could live with that.

Gilles
gave his head a shake, loose lips flapping in a conscious attempt
to inject some humour into what had been a particularly humourless
afternoon. He blew like a winded horse.

“
That bad, eh, Inspector?”

Gilles
grinned.

“
Bad enough, yes. So. How were things in Lyon?” He moved
towards the coffeepot, but unfortunately it appeared to be cold and
dead in there. “Where’s Firmin? Where’s your partner in crime,
Detective Hubert?”

“
Ah, yes, sir. Ah…maybe I should make some fresh coffee.” It
was getting on for five-thirty and no one had even the slightest
idea that the Boss-man would show up.

Maintenon waved him off, as he could make it himself. This
delay now, that was intriguing.

“
So. That, bad, was it?”

Tailler
heaved a bit of a sigh and then let it drop.

“
Okay. Yeah. Boy, oh boy. We got a weird one for you,
Inspector.”

Gilles
settled into his seat. He pulled out a cigar, and struck a match.
His feet came up and he put them on the end of the desk.

“
So. Why don’t you tell me all about it.”

***

It was
all very romantic.

Didier
and Lucinde had the storybook, whirlwind romance. The sophisticated
and yet shy, well-dressed and yet hard-working young gentleman, had
stepped into a bank one day to cash a cheque. He was in a strange
town, but he had impeccable credentials. The cheque was for a
substantial amount and her immediate supervisor had run into a
family crisis, leaving Lucinde in charge. She had taken a big
chance on Didier that day. There was something about him. The
paperwork was fine, but she was a junior and simply didn’t have the
authority.

Lucinde
had left home to go to Lyon to find work. Her mother was sick. She
sent money home every week and lived very simply. She came across
in the story as a shy and yet extremely intelligent girl, living a
hundred and ten kilometres from her home village. Neither one of
them had ever heard of it. She didn’t know anyone, and didn’t get
out much due to some relatively rational concerns.

She knew
no one, and yet by coincidence, she had been having her lunch, a
sandwich brought from home and green tea from a little shop she
knew. Didier needed to eat once in a while and upon leaving the
bank, it was shortly before noon. Long story short, they had
recognized each other. Neither one having a friend in the world,
not in that town at least, it had somehow taken the awkwardness out
of it, according to her.

“
Boss, they were married six weeks later.” Tailler consulted
his notes, a bit of a laborious process. “A couple of years after
that, she gave up the job. Started having kids and
such.”

That’s
why he typed them up as quick as he could while they were fresh.
Never tear them out of the notebook, and even then number your
fucking pages.

“
Oh, yeah. They went for a two-day honeymoon in Brittany, and
it was a nice little mom-and-pop
maison
where they stayed. Ah…”
Tailler shuffled through the papers. “They have a little boy, Jean,
and a girl, she’s the younger, named Lise.”

Gilles
nodded thoughtfully.

Tailler
went on.

“
Okay. The gentleman has a sort of routine but not exactly a
schedule. Oh. We told her we needed to verify that she was sole
next of kin in the event we got any information—Hubert emphasized
that it was pure routine…”

Tailler cleared his throat and Gilles nodded. One way or
another, they needed
everything
and sometimes getting it took a little finesse.
Hubert had some strengths, while Tailler had skills in other
areas.

“
Did you ask about a marriage certificate?”

Tailler
shook his head, a bit ruefully.

“
No. Sorry. We don’t even have that for the Monique
woman.”

“
Go on.”

The
young fellow nodded, Adam’s apple bobbing.

He’d
give his left nut for Hubert to show up right about now. There were
days when he was barely hanging on, by the skin of his teeth
sometimes.

“
Okay, sir. He goes out of town on a long road trip. Sometimes
it’s only a few days, sometimes a week. Sometimes its ten days. It
depends where he’s going. He can spend two weeks in Bordeaux, but
according to the lady that’s like two, three times a year max. The
company is located in Paris. She’s saying that when the gentleman
goes to Paris, it’s only for two, maybe three days at a time. There
are sales meetings, there are a lot of shows and exhibitions in
Paris. But the guy is a sales rep; he’s just as likely to be
knocking on doors in some small town in the Beauce according to
her. It’s always sell, sell,
sell
with them guys.”

“
How much time does he spend at home? In Lyon, I
mean?”

“
She’s saying two, three nights a week, most of the time.
Sometimes only one night a week. There was some hesitation. But she
understood before she married him, ah. That he was on the road a
lot.”

Maintenon nodded

“
We need to ask the same questions everywhere—the one in town
here.” He sighed. “It’s like we no sooner walk away, and we think
of another question.”

Gilles
wasn’t trying to be overly critical, but neither one had that much
experience.

Tailler
nodded.

“
Absolutely.” He rapped his pen on the desk. “You know what?
She’s just going to say exactly the same thing.”

Gilles
thought about it. The schedule was supremely flexible. Two
wives—one in Lyon and one in Paris.

“
Yes. But we need to hear her say it.”

There
were footsteps in the hall and Hubert came in. His eyes came awake
when he saw Maintenon and also the cigar, the squint, and the
characteristic position.

“
This one is like all mixed up, like a dog’s breakfast. Dead
body gets up and walks away—one too many wives.” Tailler tried to
get his notes in order again.

He had
been about halfway through typing them.

“
And what about Monique?”

Tailler’s gaze slid around to his partner.

“
Yeah—what about Monique?”

Hubert
slid smoothly into the breach.

“
Well, sir. She wasn’t home yesterday. Where the hell she
would go when her husband’s missing is a good question. Just
sitting there would be pretty intolerable, I have to admit. We went
around there and got no answer. She didn’t answer the phone when we
called later. Maybe that’s for the best. We thought we’d consult
with you first. But I was thinking of getting a list of
names.”

“
Names?”

Hubert
shrugged.

“
Names. Every person we can find who knew him, spoke to
him…shit, bought wine from him, sold wine to him…other than that,
without a body this really isn’t going too far.”

Tailler
nodded.

“
Nothing really interesting has come in so far today.” Tailler
looked at his desk phone, but nothing happened at that exact
moment.

He had a
funny feeling that would go on for some time.

At least
he had a moment to think.

Bodies turned up every day in the city. The trouble was that
none of the other ones really matched the description. One way or
another, they had all pretty much been accounted for. Hundreds of
people died every day in Paris. For the most part, the doctor
signed a perfectly legitimate death certificate. The next of kin
called the funeral director, and the priest of their choice, and
other than the grieving, other than the fact that a loved one had
passed, no one really thought much about it—the process, the
implications. A body, even an unclaimed one, had
meaning
in spite of some
nihilistic speculations that were a sign of the times and little
more.

A few
files were still open.

A boy
who had drowned three days before, (as of yet unclaimed), a dead
hooker in an alley, beaten about the head and neck and facial
areas, a wino who had apparently had heart or liver failure, and
that was about it.

Somebody
out there knew something. No person existed in a complete
vacuum.

If there
was a body out there, the odds of it turning up seemed very slim.
The whole fact that the perpetrator had dragged it off after Gilles
discovered it, spoke of a plan. Their killer probably had a very
good plan, for the disposal of said body. He was beginning to think
that Gilles had interrupted the transportation of the body—not the
killing, not the disposal itself. A public park was chancy at best,
and not for any real length of time. You just couldn’t get it deep
enough, quick enough, without leaving traces of your work. And then
what? Walk home, whistling in the dark, with a shovel in one hand
and a rug rolled up over your shoulder. Two perpetrators presented
even more problems. Whatever the motive was, it had to be enough to
compel two people to act. They had to act in a premeditated
manner.

“
I’m just sort of thinking out loud here, sir.”

Gilles
almost appeared to be sleeping, but his hand flicked the ash from
his cigar in the general direction of his ashtray.

His eyes
opened and his feet dropped to the floor.

“
Hmn. We have, or have had,
once upon
a time,
a dead man. And two missing-person
reports. What appears to be a bigamist. It is enough to go forwards
on. Right? That is for sure.”

He
blinked and took in some air preparatory to rising, and then he was
up.

“
Very well, gentlemen. Carry on. We’ll see you tomorrow.”
Taking the now much lighter briefcase and his hat, leaving the coat
behind to dry on company time, Gilles had had enough for one
day.

He’d
always hated putting on a wet hat.