 
Blessed Are the Humble

Louis Shalako

This Smashwords edition copyright 2014 Louis Shalako and Long Cool One Books

Design: J. Thornton

ISBN 978-1-310981296

The following is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person living or deceased, or to any places or events, is purely coincidental. Names, places, settings, characters and incidents are the product of the author's imagination. The author's moral right has been asserted.

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Chapter One

The Killing of Muriel Ducharme

Dawn was breaking over the eastern horizon as the city came to life. Paris buzzed with early traffic. There were shouts, horns, church and tram bells, and the roar of bus exhausts.

The window farthest from her bed was open. Cheerful yellow chintz curtains bellied and luffed and were again becalmed. Birds chirped and sang as they only do at a certain special time, when they are just back from Africa or Spain and are in a rush to claim a home and begin another brood.

Muriel Ducharme steadied herself before attempting to dress. The room was chill after removing her night-clothes.

The clock on the wall read six-twenty-two a.m. It meant nothing, only that another day had begun. The habits of a lifetime were impossible to break. The doctor had once suggested she could take it easy and sleep in, if only on a Saturday. She found it impossible and had spoken almost sharply to the doctor about such nonsensical ideas.

When she got really tired or had one of her dizzy spells, she would sit in a chair and doze lightly for a few minutes. The snickers and indulgent remarks of the maids meant nothing. They treated her like a little old lady, and perhaps that was just. That much she could accept. She could still hear people speaking in the background. The maids and the cook had gotten used to it. They didn't make a fuss or take much notice, although they might be a little careful of what they said. The help could be a mite too talkative at times. It wasn't that she didn't care for them on some human level, but they must know their places or they would soon get out of hand. It wasn't like she could ever be friends with them, although the environment a real house created was and should be intimate and friendly for all concerned.

She dressed herself carefully, used to the chill of dawn. The morning routine hardly varied, changing into clean underwear, sturdy if plain, choosing which housedress to wear this fine Monday. The murmur outside of the set of three windows, the light and air of her boudoir was enjoyable in itself. Her mind was ahead on the tasks of the day.

They'd gone without coal much of the time in the War, and no one died or froze to death. They just put on another blanket or two, and wore sweaters and coats if necessary. A smile crossed her face at some of the memories. It was in the nature of seventy-seven year-old ladies that their minds jumped about a bit, but she didn't mind that at all. It made life interesting. That was important at her age. She had done without a lot of things, as had they all, which made her present fortune all the more bearable.

The only thing worse than getting old, was not getting old.

The best revenge lay in living a good life.

Her boys had been lucky to have such a good house to live in and food to eat and beds to sleep in. They would never lack for anything, and yet people could be so selfish, so stupid.

Her thoughts could be very bleak sometimes.

It was, as often as not, first thing in the morning when that happened.

She must phone someone somewhere and lay in the fish for Friday. Last week it had been atrocious. That fish came from Monsieur Normand's. Normally she sent a girl out for it on Wednesdays, however they would have to find another place. Not after the way Monsieur Normand's assistant spoke to her. She buttoned her dress firmly all the way to the top and also habitually, found a loop of clean elastic ribbon to hold her grey hair in the severe bun she had affected since long before her husband's passing almost thirty-four years ago. The dress, a faded royal blue one today, hung almost to the floor, leaving only the fronts of her feet exposed. It was almost a reflex to take up her rosary and put it around her neck.

She stood in front of the mirror, over which was a crucifix. Bowing her head, she said the first prayer of the day. It would not be the last. The world was very wicked, or perhaps it was just some of the people in it, and one couldn't be too careful when it came to one's soul. It was a sign of humility to pray, and to pray barefoot had always seemed the best way. It was different in church of course, all those feet with all those warts and funguses—sometimes the floor was quite filthy. Even her old eyes couldn't help but notice, but this was her home and no one kept a cleaner one as far as she knew. Thoughts like that made her feel good about the day ahead.

She sat on the good-quality reproduction Louis Quatorze chair, the left one of a pair beside a small writing desk she never used, and found her stockings as laid out the night before by Sophie, her beloved niece. She was such a beautiful child and grateful to help out around the house, which made up in part for her room and board. Not that Muriel begrudged the girl. She was just at an age and what girl wouldn't want to see Paris? And perhaps make a suitable match, if one could be found. At seventeen and a half, her raven-headed charge was a bit young for such thoughts but that was the way it was these days, with all these newspaper-tabloids, and radio shows, and the posters in the Metro all full of sex and glamour.

How would it all end? No one could really say, and so she prayed for everything to work out.

Black, knee-high silk stockings, as she could afford it, they could be a bit of a struggle sometimes. Then came the plain brown, flat-heeled, sensible shoes. Although this pair had seen better days she wasn't going out so they would do. It was just her, Sophie, Therese and the housemaids today.

Her heart brightened at the thought of beginning spring cleaning, although it mustn't interfere with the normal routine. She would speak to the girls about it and let them decide.

If Olivier dropped around near lunchtime as was his wont, if he was in the neighborhood, her second-eldest son would hardly notice her shoes.

Muriel stuffed her handkerchief up into her left sleeve and pulled the curtains back to ensure the windows were fully open. The middle one had always been stiff in the guides and she must be careful not to put a crick in her back or her neck. In spite of that she leaned into it and gave it a good heave. Up it went with a groan. It was early summer and the rooms on this floor got quite stuffy as the house faced south onto the street. Big front windows admitted glaring sunlight. The sun was more directly overhead now and the narrow eaves helped some.

The whole place could use a good airing as it had been damp lately. She never could stand closed curtains. The constant throng of traffic brought life and entertainment of a kind, right into her sitting room. She would knit and listen to the radio or the gramophone, keeping a sharp eye over her world.

Snapping off the light, for electricity was very dear or so it seemed to one who had grown up without it, she left her bedroom door open and headed for the salle de bain to complete her morning toilette.

Muriel had her morning tinkle, flushed the toilet and washed her face and hands with hot water and soap. The pipes gurgled faintly behind the walls as she snapped off the light and carefully closed the door.

They rarely had visitors up here, but proprieties would be observed. It kept any suggestion of a rank smell out of the hallway and the rest of the upstairs. A plumber had once explained the phenomena, but the fix was too expensive for her liking and his air was a little too knowing.

She turned right for the servant's stairs instead of left for the more formal main stairs. Her first stop was always the kitchen. She would stoke up the boiler, as she always said, and put the kettle on for when Therese arrived.

Pausing at the head of the stairs, she studied herself in the oval hanging mirror placed there on the wall for just such a purpose. Thoughtful, pale blue eyes with a hint of warmth and humor had always surprised her when she saw them. Her spectacles were smudged. She could see it in the mirror in the glow of the small wall-sconce. Dieu! No wonder she thought she was going blind sometimes. It was the most frustrating thing. They were almost impossible to keep clean with crabbed fingers and the tremors in the hands. The girls couldn't be trusted with such a job.

Is that really me? She had always wondered, but the eyes were the windows into the soul, or so the poets always said.

She had looked better, but it would have to do.

Gripping the handrail firmly, with her head tipped forward and her glasses firmly in place, with the light in the stairwell snapped on, the grand old lady began making her way down the dark and narrow boards of the staircase.

***

Wheezing, her temperature slightly elevated as was her heart-beat, she came to the bottom step where she paused. The hall light was just inside the doorjamb as light spilled out into the front of the kitchen. Finding it, she turned it off as she stepped out into the room. The switch for this room was to the right, on the wall. She fumbled in the dark for it as the kitchen was at the back of the house and the dim light of pre-dawn wasn't making much of an impression.

The walls were very thick. The silence of the morning was special somehow, also the fact that it would be a sunny day. They said it might go up to thirty degrees later in the afternoon, but this room would remain cool in spite of it all.

An unseen hand hit the switch on the far end of the room and she gasped, hand clutching at her rosary beads. She stopped and awkwardly turned, peering to see who it was. It was much too early for the cook.

"Oh!" Her eyes widened in shock and belatedly, real fear.

"No!"

The first shot hit her high in the chest, going through her hand with its pathetic beads.

She spun to the left as she fell.

"Oh! Oh, Mon Dieu." She lay on the bottom of the stairs as footsteps approached, sounding cold and distant, echoing in her head which made whoosh-whooshing noises. "Hail Mary, full of grace..."

Her lips were moving as the second shot hit her in the back. The angle of impact and the force of the impact flung her half onto her back again. She stared up in dumb shock, unable to comprehend, let alone believe what was happening. The pain came then, and with it, the reality of what was happening.

"Why? Why?"

There was no answer given.

"The Lord is with thee..."

The sound came of a pistol cocking.

"Why?" She gaped, blood pouring out of her open mouth, eyes glazed with the pain.

There was no answer. One final shot to the head made all such questions superfluous. The impact smashed her head back onto the stairs with a loud secondary thump. She continued to stare sightlessly up at the kitchen light fixture, lips quivering. The lights were quickly turned off again, there was the smashing of glass, and then the footsteps rapidly faded on the stairs of the rear exit. A long and narrow alleyway, home to old carts, broken bottles, dustbins, and the occasional outcropping of tree or brush, led all the way the length of the block.

Half an hour later, the cook arrived, finding the door unlocked and with broken glass from a single small pane scattered both inside and outside of the threshold. At the sight that greeted her eyes, she gave a single great gasping sob. Throwing aside her packages, she put her hands over her mouth, and stared with disbelief.

She screamed, once, twice, and then again. Crying and sobbing, lungs heaving, she ran down the two flights of steps and out of the small back courtyard and around to the next house. She pounded on the rear door, repeating over and over again that she needed to use the telephone.

***

The morning was still young when the call came in.

Hubert Desrosiers, busy with his own chores, looked over, with the handset to his ear.

"Yes, he's in." He punched a lit button on his telephone and with a sigh Gilles picked up his own receiver.

Desrosiers put the set down on his desk and rose to get a coffee.

"Allo?"

It was Levain, who had been gone when Gilles arrived this morning. It was no more than established routine. Levain had a few months to go, and the odds were that he would write the test and become a senior officer. Gilles had little doubt the man would succeed. It was a matter of character, and he supposed, suitable opportunities. Sooner or later there would have to be an opening. Promotions were generally allotted in yearly batches. Any actual expansion of the force seemed unlikely, although there was always talk.

"Yes, Gilles. We have a case, an important one." Levain didn't go too deeply into it over the phone, which while secure enough in this building, might be open and public at his end. "An old woman, the grand dame of a big and important family. Sort of, anyway. Seventy-seven years old. She was shot to death. And there's more, but I'll let you see it first."

There was something in Andre's tone. Gilles felt the impulse of something atavistic stir, deep in the pit of his belly, mild enough but promising much. Life had become a little boring lately, or maybe he was just getting too much of a good thing.

"Very well." His eyebrows rose and his brow wrinkled as he took notes, listening intently.

Hubert, the newest addition to the team, appeared to be tidying up his desk. He glanced up at the coat-rack in sheer speculation, as if seeking reassurance that he had brought his jacket. He picked up his coffee cup and tried to slurp some of it down. He kept an eye on the boss.

It was a fine summer morn.

"All right. I'll be there in twenty minutes." Gilles hung up, glancing at the location he'd just taken.

Not a stellar address, but a respectable area nonetheless.

"Call for a car."

Hubert jumped up out of his chair even as he leaned over and reached for the phone.

"Allo? Car for Inspector Maintenon, right away please." He waited, again eying the coat-rack. "Merci."

He cradled the phone.

"Voila! I never knew I had so much power." Hubert had been with the team less than three months and the little demonstrations of personality were to be expected in one so young for the job.

"I'm sorry, I need you here." Gilles was firm.

He didn't tell the fellow it was part of his overall training program.

The routine was a normal one of late. There were no great emergency operations going on and so he wanted someone in the office. Detectives Archambault and Firmin, working in conjunction with a pair of uniformed sergeants, one or two gendarmes, were already out on their own investigations.

"Yes, sir."

Hubert put his best face on it, and helped Gilles with his long coat and battered grey fedora. The sun was shining in through the windows and the room was beginning to warm up. Gilles felt sorry for him but it was better not to leave the office unmanned.

"Er...Sir?"

Gilles eyed him up, and then nodded firmly.

"You are here to deal with any unforeseen emergencies."

That seemed to help and Hubert brightened up a little. What he was supposed to do about it if anything actually happened was something else.

That too, was part of the training.

Stepping out onto the street, a black sedan, long, low and positively purring with repressed power, awaited him by the curb. The driver made a hand gesture remarkably like a salute through the windshield, although he was unrecognizable to Gilles in the dark spectacles and with the brilliant glare of sunlight off the glass.

The young gendarme stepped out and held the door for him.

"Thank you."

Doors slammed.

"Where to, Inspector?"

Gilles already knew it off by heart.

"Number thirty-four, Rue Leopold."

"Ah, some guys have all the luck."

Gilles grinned shortly. Checking over his shoulder and using his turn signal, the driver eased out into the vehicular stream. The radio muttered softly in the background, but the intermittent traffic on-air was such that his first impression had been borne out. This was a thoroughly routine day in the city. Two or three dead bodies turned up like clockwork, not unusually first thing in the morning. Other than that, there wasn't much going on.

Hell, it might even be a good day. As far as Hubert went, a little personality wasn't all bad.

"What do you mean?"

"Sure beats working for a living."

"Hah!" Grinning hugely, Gilles settled in for the ride, observing the driver and gaining an impression as they went along.

The Chief, Jean Chiappe, had asked him to take a look at this young fellow and a hint was a hint. There was no denying it. It was always something different. The sheer volume of cars, buses, trucks and people seemed to get worse every day. Yet even that seemed somehow less intrusive this morning.

"People are out and about today, eh, Inspector?"

Gilles felt the eyes in the mirror upon him.

"Yes."

The conversation lapsed.

Paris in spring could be glorious, although one saw so little of it in the metropolitan streets. The parks were something else. Now it was well into summer and everything was lush and green and full of colour, as his eyes sought out the cheerful planter baskets hanging overhead from the window ledges and the wrought-iron balconies so many buildings affected.

It was a wonderful day in the neighbourhood.

The gendarme glanced in the mirror, not entirely sure, but it appeared as if the Inspector was whistling, barely audibly, and possibly even enjoying the ride.

Chapter Two

The House in Question

As they arrived, Gilles made the fellow pull up down the street. The house in question lay at the end of a T-shaped intersection.

"That's it." The officer nodded and pointed.

It was a dark, well-maintained building. Like much of the housing in the city, it was five, or perhaps five and a half stories tall would be a better description. The sides shared common walls with its neighbours.

The bottom two floors were clearly leased or rented, like almost all such places. This one appeared to have the most usual layout, which was the private entrance door on the left, at sidewalk level. On the left side of the ground floor was a men's wear at street level, on the right, a lady's wear, possibly the same vendor owning both shops. Those two shops shared a common front door and a small vestibule in the centre of the ground level.

The second floor appeared to be a bistro or coffee shop, and that went all the way across the front of the building. Above that were the private apartments, and in this case it might be the actual owners. In other parts of the city such buildings had degenerated into pure tenements, but this street was in a much more genteel neighbourhood.

It was often the case that a block or two away, fortunes were different, for better or worse, and most buildings in most cities were rather unremarkable when there were simply too many to take in with any attention to detail. But this one, an unusual chocolate-brown colour, was distinctly nice, and well-kept. Two or three good commercial leases would keep the place going indefinitely, in his estimation. This part of town was prime real estate.

Gilles patted him on the shoulder, and the car took him the last fifty metres.

"Would you like me to wait, sir?"

"Oh, aren't you coming up?" Maintenon's smile took the sting out of it.

The car was official and so they needn't bother with parking by-laws. The gendarme drove up on the narrow sidewalk and squeezed in as close to the walls as he dared. They got out on the left side.

The fellow reacted well enough by pulling a note-book out of a briefcase on the front seat and finding a fairly clean-looking hat as well.

"A man after my own heart. Thanks, Inspector."

Gilles nodded firmly, stepping up onto the curb. His companion locked the car doors, a good trait. There were no uniformed gendarmes visible, no crowd, and thankfully no press types lurking, waiting to spring into action.

"That, presumably, is the door."

"Yes, sir. I am Police Constable Emile Tailler."

Gilles stuck out his hand and they shook, which sort of surprised the fellow by the look of it.

It was possible he had surprised himself.

"I will see if we can find some work for you. Gilles Maintenon."

The blush on the poor fellow's long and sallow face was almost worth the effort.

***

There was an officer just inside the door, watching for them through the peephole.

The door opened and a lone yet palpably incurious passerby took no notice of them, although the bulky figures in the blue uniforms would be a dead giveaway that something was up in almost any locale.

"Morning, sir. Good morning." The big fellow nodded at the pair.

He closed the door firmly behind them, drawing the bolt and taking another quick look out.

"So. Where is she?"

"You go up two floors, top of the hall, and turn right." The gendarme stood poised with his pad and pencil at the ready. "If I could just take your names?"

These gentlemen were unfamiliar to him. Gilles left Tailler to fill in the details and went up the stairs to find Levain and the decedent.

***

He was nearing the top of the second flight of stairs, and the temperature had gone up by a degree or two. The light rumble of talk came from somewhere in the room, behind the wall to his right. His head was about floor level.

"Andre?" His voice sounded loud in the enclosed space, but perhaps they hadn't heard him.

He clambered up a few more steps, holding the rail as the wooden risers were dusty and he'd already slipped once with his hard leather shoes on the third one from the bottom.

"It's all right, boss. The boys are almost done."

Gilles turned the corner from the landing and went into a kitchen. It was all glazed to his left, with curtains thrown wide open, and giving a strong north light to that end of the room. The other way was the kitchen proper with its big and very old fashioned cast-iron range and oven immediately to his right.

"Well." Gilles suddenly understood why Andre sounded so smug about it over the phone.

The lady of the house, sprawled at the foot of the stairs in the far left corner, lay amidst puddles and spatters of blood. He moved around the central wooden block table and had a look.

There was a long slender sword sticking out of her chest. It lent a rather surreal air of melodrama to what was already a shattering scene. Her glasses were on her face and intact, but her eyes had that glazed and lifeless look, halfway rolled up, back into her head. Gilles approached the body and knelt. He touched her lightly on the wrist, noting she was certainly very close to room temperature.

"Oh, my. Was she stabbed in the head, then?" The blood loss was copious...

Levain neatly bypassed the question. He was letting Maintenon have it cold, like yesterday's gravy. That was just an expression they had.

"Madame was killed early this morning. The cook arrived at seven-oh-five, seven-ten or so, according to her."

"Ah."

Andre Levain cocked his ears at the sound of feet on the stairs.

Tailler came in, taking in the scene, mostly the body at first, and looking with interest at the layout, before his eyes finally came around to Gilles and Andre. Andre Levain nodded at him in neutral fashion, noting the boyish air he had about him, with his unusual height and still a bit of baby fat in the face. Tailler had hazel-brown eyes and a fairly intelligent look.

Tailler glanced at Levain in equally neutral fashion and nodded politely back.

"Sir?"

"It's all right, Tailler. You can observe the goings-on." Gilles looked deadpan at Andre. "Go on, please."

"Right. The young girl, her name is Sophie. She was out late, came home around four or four-thirty, alone in a taxi-cab. She says she can't remember the name of the company."

"Very well."

"She said she had a couple of glasses of champagne at the party, and that she fell asleep immediately upon coming home." Levain consulted his notes as if to ensure he had everything. "She says she didn't hear anything until the cook pounded on her door around seven-twenty. She's not sure of the exact time and neither is the cook."

"All right."

"There was no one else in the house. The rear door, which opens onto the alley, appears to have been broken into. Glass inside and out, nothing unusual. We're asking if anything is missing." Levain looked at his notebook. "The cook and the other girls are pretty shaken."

Gilles nodded.

"So, it looks like a sneak thief."

"That's how it looks, Gilles."

The unspoken question was, if so, then why are we here?

Gilles bit his lip in silent contemplation.

"So she was stabbed repeatedly with the sword? Hmn." It certainly fit the profile of a hasty choice of weapon. "That's very strange."

Something heavy, a blunt instrument, wielded from behind, would have been much easier to use with any likelihood of success. It was hard to conceive a self-respecting thief not hearing her coming down the stairs, but that was an assumption on his part. The thief might have been deaf!

She would have been screaming like mad.

A deaf perpetrator seemed unlikely, as they would find a less hazardous profession very quickly. There were hard floors in all directions from this vantage point. Gilles moved further into the room, absorbing it, the smell of cooking, the smells that emanated from behind the cupboard doors, spices and condiments and the raw smell of onions coming from somewhere nearby. Levain watched him silently as he got the feel of the place.

"What's in there?" Gilles pointed to a small door.

"The pantry. The usual stuff."

Gilles used his handkerchief to avoid leaving prints and carefully opened it.

Bulkier stores, jars, tins and boxes, sacks of flour and what he thought was salt, were lined up on wall shelves. There were empty baskets on the floor in the corner and shopping bags hanging from pegs close to the door. He saw a half a bushel of apples, some potatoes, carrots, nothing out of the ordinary.

The fingerprint technicians came out of a front room with their bulging valises. They had their jackets on.

"We'll fill you in when our reports are complete."

Maintenon nodded thoughtfully.

The first one made for the stairs.

The second one was more outgoing.

"We got a lot of good prints, quite a number of different ones." His attitude seemed to imply that he was just having some good clean fun. "Any place a thief was likely to touch, including the doors and knobs, of course."

"Thank you, gentlemen." Gilles could still hear faint muttering from somewhere in the front of the house.

The inhabitants must be around somewhere. He'd have a few questions for them in a moment. Levain continued.

"All right. We have a housemaid, the cook, and the niece in the parlor, which is up one flight. We have plenty of photos and the morgue boys are waiting for the body."

A familiar figure stuck his head out of the passage leading to those rooms overlooking the street out front. Brighter out there, he was backlit but immediately recognizable by a miss-shapen head, just like a big strawberry. That had been his nickname in his younger days. The shock of tousled red hair would have given him away at almost any distance. The sound of the fingerprint boys clumping down the endless stairs, for the ceilings were all three and four metres up on these floors, finally faded away with one last flurry of deep, distant voices.

The coroner was none other than the inimitable—Gilles had never found much use for the word, but it somehow fit Gaston Janvier.

"Gaston."

"You know your victim was shot three times, don't you?"

Levain laughed aloud at the sadly patient look on Maintenon's face, the deep and expressive sigh he gave. Tailler looked on as if he'd known it all along. The poor fellow had no idea of what he was supposed to be doing there. He had the uncomfortable feeling that the Inspector was making a joke of him, which wasn't very nice.

"Sorry, Inspector! I was just saving a little something for you to detect." Levain winked at Janvier.

Gilles eyed Levain in a sardonic kind of agreement.

"Ah. Ha. Yes. I see. Hmn." He looked over at Tailler with tolerance written all over him. "So, what do you think, young man?"

Tailler shook his head, completely baffled by all of the attention, but then he just grinned. He shrugged expressively and winked solemnly at Levain, who oddly enough looked away.

"Might as well have a bash, eh, sir?"

***

Gilles stood in a reverential silence, looking down at the victim. The look of awe upon her face was not unfamiliar. Always there was that huge amount of white around the eyes, smooth and shiny like porcelain. There was something pathetic in the rosary, the exposed white flesh of her heavy upper calves, one foot exposed. A shapeless shoe, having seen better days, lay off to one side about a half-metre away. Knee-high stockings. That pretty much said it all. A poorer woman wouldn't have bothered, not at her age.

He nodded, and then crossed himself in unconscious sympathy.

He sensed a question from Levain, and Gilles looked up.

"What?"

"This one could get sensational, very, very quickly." Andre glanced at the medical examiner, who looked at his watch in non-committal fashion.

He seemed preoccupied, possibly the lack of any other urgent business made him restive.

"Oh, really?" Maintenon's expression hardened.

"Yes." Sergeant Levain's eyes traveled up to one upper corner of the room, where on the other side of the house, the household awaited his questioning.

So there were more surprises then.

"Also, according to the staff, there are four adult sons. We're trying to locate them as quickly as possible but we're not having much luck so far."

He explained that there was a small, handwritten address-and-telephone book in the house, but so many entries had changed, having been crossed off and others written in, that it was essentially useless—nothing was up to date or even legible in some instances. It came from a drawer in the parlor, where there was indeed a phone. Presumably it was as up to date as the old lady could make it.

The cook's kitchen phone book was exclusively household numbers, grocers and fishmongers, the butcher and the like.

Gilles beckoned Tailler, still inwardly quaking but to all appearances as cool as a cucumber, to come over and have a close look at a real cadaver.

"What can you tell us about this crime?"

Tailler snorted in derision.

"But surely, Inspector. This is not some sordid little crime committed by poor people against some other poor person, all over a pack of cigarettes, or a woman, or an insult." He nodded at his own thoughts. "This is not a drunken squabble over fifty centimes."

Tailler half-turned, extending his arms, indicating the house in general and the room in particular, the kitchen being large, well-lit, with some amenities. Some money had been spent on the place, and in comparison to the average working class home, it was a dream residence.

It wasn't a palace, although there were some of those in the neighborhood. It was everything the usual cramped Parisian apartment wasn't, in that it had good interior spaces, good layouts and even better natural light coming in.

"All right..."

But Tailler went on.

"No, Inspector. This is a lurid, sensational sort of crime, one committed by a bourgeois person against another member of the bourgeoisie."

He was trying to imply something else.

"Perhaps even with one eye on the headlines."

Levain choked, putting his hand up to his mouth, but Gilles repressed his own most immediate response.

"Thank you, young man. Interesting observation."

Levain laughed, and even Janvier looked up with a quick grin. Nodding thoughtfully, maintaining a calm expression, Maintenon turned and engaged Janvier with a look.

"She's all yours, mon ami."

Taking one step forward and two steps to the left, Janvier raised his voice for those waiting down the hall.

"All right boys. Take her away."

Gilles, Andre and Tailler, feeling a bit better about things now, headed for the far end of the kitchen. The clump of heavy boots and the cheerful voices of the attendants reminded the world at large that this was just another average business day.

The meat-wagon boys never gave a hoot for quiet or a dignified departure for the deceased. Eminently practical men, selected as much for beef as for brains, the sounds of them navigating the heavy stretcher down the stairs clunked and thumped through the place.

Half-metre thick masonry walls and the stout, seasoned timbers of the old structure transmitted as much noise as they deadened, reducing everything to the same low frequency sound waves.

Chapter Three

Difficult for the Elderly

Maintenon glanced back down the stairwell, noting the fact that a person would have to stand on the top step to unlock the door when entering the private apartments on this level. It was a bad design flaw, one he'd seen before. It would be especially difficult for the elderly, but buildings had a long life and many changes were wrought to the interiors over the course of time. He thought he heard faint voices through the wall. The next building was definitely occupied by the looks of things, but it could have been an echo from the street below.

The only way to go was up, and on the next floor they found a long hallway switching back, left and right to the front of the house. On this level the landing was right at the back of the building. There were three or four rooms on each floor, as they passed several closed doors along the way and then Gilles spotted a uniformed patrol officer standing in an archway, several metres wide.

On this side of the arch there was a small library and reading area and then the room opened out over the street below, with light curtains partially closed against the glare of the sun.

"Morning, sir."

Maintenon nodded in passing.

Levain addressed the fellow.

"Go down and supervise the kitchen, please."

With a nod the officer left.

One of several figures, all female, stood up.

"I could make some coffee." She was a competent looking middle-aged person with a quality grey-blue working dress that had the suggestion of white flour smudges flanking a white apron. "It will only take a few minutes."

"Perhaps a little later, please, Madame." Gilles understood the waiting, the wanting to tell the story, it was hard for people, and on the other side of that they had no idea of how their lives were to go on.

It was a process, and one they must get through to have any hope of peace.

"If I might make introductions?" Andre stepped forward, as the street reverberated with the noise of a small lorry in low gear, sounding like it was barely scraping around the corner, which was only forty metres away to the east.

There were voices of children in the street down below, and a young mother spoke sharply to one of them, the information conveyed only by tone, as the words were indistinct.

"Yes, please, Andre."

The cook sat down. The other ones sat down now too. They were sitting in a half-circle at the end of the room. It was decorated in an informal Scandinavian style, much more modern and up to date than the house would indicate. It spoke of real taste on the part of someone. The old lady owned the place and all this would have to have been paid for.

Gilles wondered who had convinced her to go for that. There was much more here than met the eye.

"Inspector Gilles Maintenon, I would like to introduce Sophie Voclain, a niece, and this is Eloise, the senior maid, and..." Sophie was a raven-haired beauty.

"And I am Therese. I do the cooking." Her calm brown eyes regarded Gilles as if in challenge.

Her again. It was like she didn't want to get too involved and so she must take charge. She resented the disruption to her routine more than anything. He wondered how much affection she had held for her employer. Of course, now she was involved in a murder. He understood the mentality in a kind of revelation.

It was something she hadn't bargained for.

"Therese Herriot." Levain clarified for the benefit of Maintenon as Tailler scribbled furiously, a sign that he would not be entirely useless.

"Is there anyone else who works or lives in the house?"

"Ah." Levain glanced at his notebook. "Another maid. Emilie Salomon, she lives out as they all do, except Sophie. It's her morning off and we're making inquiries as to her status."

It was basic routine to account for the movements of all members of the household going back at least forty-eight hours, and to gather that sort of information in detail would take some time.

"We should be canvassing the neighbourhood more thoroughly, but we don't know what questions to ask, as of yet."

Gilles nodded at the low tone and brief words, his ears cocking suddenly.

"...no one reports hearing shots or anything like that, no sounds of breaking glass..." Now Levain heard it too. "...the usual thing, really. If we put more officers out there, the press will get wind of it pretty quickly."

Loud voices came from somewhere down below, raised in altercation. Sophie rose, colour high in her cheeks as she recognized one of them. The voices were clearly male. Tailler closed his notebook and without bidding turned and exited the room without a backward glance. Gilles and Levain exchanged speculative looks. The heavy footsteps of Tailler and the officer in the kitchen thumped their way down the steps. It sounded like Tailler was giving the orders.

"Who is that, anyway?"

"Just a regular motor-pool driver. It's possible his talents are being wasted down there."

Levain bit back on his reply, but they were always short on manpower and they were authorized to examine candidates. He cocked his head from one side to the other. Maintenon and the various desk sergeants had been around a long time. That was how Maintenon had discovered Andre—an accidental meeting that might have been the result of some long-standing and never-mentioned old boy network. It was all about people returning favours and ranking up markers for the future. It was the better kind of internal police politics, when it worked out. Tailler, of course, had no idea of what was up, and perhaps it was better that way.

If Tailler was a real dud, he would never even know he had been given a chance and blown it. If he had anything at all between those ears, he'd catch on quick. Some guys had been looked at more than once and had no real clue it was even happening. Maintenon could be sneaky at times, more especially if he wanted something. That thought petered out but Levain could be patient himself, an important skill which working with Gilles taught very well.

"Hmn." Levain cocked an eyebrow as the ladies waited with patient looks and the hands clasped in their laps.

Footsteps and voices were coming back up the stairs.

Tailler and the other uniformed officer entered with a gentleman, and Levain could not help but remark a faint noise that escaped Sophie. Another young woman hung diffidently on their heels. On seeing the cook, she let out a little scream and rushed forward, burying her in a big hug as the woman struggled to her feet.

"And who are you, young lady?" Gilles examined her with care.

"That's Emilie." The other, not-so-young housemaid filled in the blank, then dropped back into miserable silence.

No hugs for her, apparently. Then there was the niece.

She got a hug too. Finally the senior maid got a stiff and formal hug from the new girl.

There was nothing for it but to acknowledge Sophie Voclain as one of the most beautiful young women Andre had seen in a very long time. He had to be objective and keep his thoughts out of the official record, at least until it mattered one way or another. The pale, creamy skin, perfect proportions and elegant movements added something indefinable.

No doubt Gilles had seen it too, and as for Tailler, it was like he couldn't take his eyes off of her.

They kept stealing back for another glance.

More businesslike, the anonymous gendarme announced in an important voice that this gentleman was Olivier Ducharme. It was the deceased lady's son, who had shown up unannounced and became belligerent when barred entrance by his partner Fredric down at the ground floor entrance. This was not his usual place of residence according to a driver's license, handed over gravely by Tailler.

Olivier Ducharme was tall, dark of eye and what was left of his hair. Slightly taller than Gilles or Andre, but still shorter than Tailler, his face was long, lean, and with an aquiline profile that benefited strongly from a rakish pencil-thin mustache and highly-polished but slightly bluing cheeks. The man reached unconsciously for a pocket and came up with an ivory cigarette holder and a silver case. Olivier would have a five-o'clock shadow before one p.m. by the look of it. He was beautifully attired in a slim-waisted dark charcoal suit, white shirt and soft yellow tie with amber cufflinks and a similar stick-pin holding the tie in its proper place. His hair was neatly combed sideways over the top at the front, and he radiated the aroma of something expensive and exclusive.

Levain stepped forward and offered him a match.

"Oh, thank you, my good fellow." The characteristic arm wave, getting rid of the sulfur smell, was casual, and affected.

Gilles watched as Levain suppressed all reactions and Tailler beamed at him over Olivier's shoulder.

The shoes, low loafers in chocolate brown leather, looked comfortable and very classic.

"What in the hell is going on here?" The fellow, who was about thirty-eight years old according to the license, was suitably indignant. "Where's Mother?"

"I'm sorry, Monsieur Ducharme. I am afraid I have some bad news for you."

The man straightened up, and then his shoulders slumped as he took in the serious looks on their faces. A long breath went out of him. The ladies were bursting to tell, and his sweeping look caught the seriousness in their faces.

"What—?"

Sophie's face crumpled and she put her hands up with her handkerchief to stifle or absorb tears.

The uncomprehending, yet now dulled eyes of Olivier, sought out those of Maintenon, searching for an answer he would not enjoy.

"Please come with me, sir." Levain's inspired hand gently taking Olivier by the elbow, Andre was familiar enough with the layout to lead him but a short distance down the hall as Gilles followed, leaving Tailler in charge of the ladies for the present.

He wondered who else was going to show up unannounced.

Opening a door on the right, Levain steered Olivier into the room and paused with Gilles.

"Thank you. I want you to just keep them quiet. Send in Tailler to take notes please, Andre."

Andre Levain winked, nodded, and retreated as Gilles went on in to take the measure of the man. In a case of pre-meditated murder, the police don't run off twenty kilometres across town and start scooping up drunks and pimps from alleys and street-corners. They don't take a bunch of them downtown and sweat them in hopes of obtaining a confession.

They begin with those closest to the victim. It was good to hear their own story as told in their own words. Sooner or later they would say something stupid, or be caught out in a lie.

They couldn't handle the pressure.

***

Tailler sat in a chair in the corner, hardly breathing, pencil ready to pounce on the page.

Gilles thought the arrival of Olivier unfortunate. It disrupted the flow of routine, and there was the danger of being side-tracked by inconsequential events. It was imperative to keep control, more than anything to keep them separated, or even just quiet. The thing was to wring as much as humanly possible out of the very first interviews, before they could get together and compare notes.

He closed the door, where Olivier was already seated on a hard wooden chair. His face was grave with anxiety.

"Forgive my callousness, but I had to instruct Sergeant Levain."

Olivier took a deep breath and exhaled explosively.

"Can you tell me what's happened?"

"Yes, Monsieur Ducharme. Your mother is deceased."

The man's mouth snapped shut and his eyes widened. Surely he must have guessed something by now.

"Mother?"

There were no tears, but strong emotions. His hands clenched and unclenched. He gasped, he fought for breath. He gaped at Maintenon, mouth working on some inner rage and impatience.

"She was murdered here in this house. What was your reason for visiting today?"

Olivier stared, mouth opening and closing, as Gilles took out his own notebook, his face calm, his visage smooth and his eyes clear and focused totally on the man.

"I—I came for lunch. Usually. I mean—"

Breaking in perhaps a little too soon, Gilles asked what he meant.

"Usually?"

"Ah, yes. I mean, when I'm in the neighbourhood—"

Hooked now, Gilles allowed the man time to finish, which he did lamely.

"Ah, you know, when I'm in the neighbourhood, I try and stop in to see my poor, dear...departed mother."

Finally tears welled up and the man went into physical spasms of grief, his words broken and indistinguishable.

Gilles waited, reading off the man's driver's license and just making small notes of his address and things like that in his book for future reference.

Oui. It just seemed that it was all dull, drab routine these days, but sooner or later they would get some hint of what this all was about. The servants would help to establish the baseline of common events, and then there was the girl.

He would begin when the fellow had a grip on himself.

***

Olivier Ducharme sniffled and dabbed at his eyes with a fine linen handkerchief, stiff with starch and embroidered patterns, white on even whiter white as the saying went.

"Oh, my. Lord. What happened? You say she was murdered?" He shook his head miserably. "How—how did it happen?"

"She was shot."

The fellow gasped in horror and disbelief.

"Oh, Mon Dieu!"

"Yes, it is a terrible tragedy and you have my deepest condolences, Monsieur Ducharme. Please forgive us for what is to come, but I simply must ask you a few questions. Let's begin with the most obvious." Gilles flipped pages on his notepad and set down Olivier's name and the time of the interview.

There was no need to write down the questions, only the answers.

"Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to harm Madame Ducharme?"

Olivier shook his head emphatically, unable to speak or even to believe. Perhaps there were things he couldn't talk about, there usually was.

"What about theft? Was there anything of unusual value in the house?"

"Ah, my mother has a safe in the den. It's behind a picture. You could check that, but I don't know how much she would keep in there. Not very much, probably."

Gilles made a note of it.

"What's the combination?"

"I have no idea."

Gilles accepted that at face value as it was probably true enough. He decided to give up a piece of information.

"Mademoiselle Eloise has already shown us the safe. It is still closed and locked, so we just don't know as yet."

They were saying it was written on a scrap of paper, but no one knew where Madame Ducharme kept the paper.

Olivier accepted this without further comment.

"So what kind of car do you drive?"

"A Talbot."

"Hmn."

Gilles nodded and Tailler wrote it down.

Nothing else appeared to be missing, not even liquor or food, anything that might suggest a break-in gone wrong, a drunken lark, anything. Nothing except one small pane of glass in the back door was smashed and there were no messages scrawled in blood. Gilles gave him a minimum of facts.

"Has your mother done anything unusual or out of character lately? Did she meet any new friends lately? Did she have a significant man in her life?"

Olivier still seemed dazed as he answered the questions in a halting voice.

"Ah. I don't think so. Her life was strongly regulated by routine, and dominated by the Church calendar. I don't wish to speak ill of my mother." His voice caught but he managed to go on. "She was a bit old fashioned in that sense. Mother had a circle of friends, that much is true. They were ninety percent ladies, a few of them had husbands. One or two cranky old men, I mean single men, but she would never have had much to do with them. They were just around, part of the picture. They showed up at events, you know? Old gallants, I called them. Always smiling and being gallant, trying to get in pictures all the time. Some of them contributed sums of money for various things. She did a lot of charity work. I wouldn't know much about that. As for men in her life, that really wasn't like her. As you may well imagine."

"Who could I ask about her friends?"

"Ah, Sophie. The housemaids, to some certain degree. They must have known where she was going, if you see what I mean. They could tell you more about who came and went. Once you meet one or two friends, they'll tell you all about the others." Olivier went on after Gilles noted that down. "The committees, the little discussion groups, all that bored me. Oh, yes, my mother had a salon for a few years, when I was younger. When she talked about it, it sort of went in one ear and out the other. If you give me a few minutes, I could probably make up a list for you."

"A salon?"

"Yeah—a lot of high-brow talk and ah, cakes and coffee." They had talked about philosophy, religion, and surprisingly, a lot about plays, according to Olivier.

His mother had never been to a play, but she had plenty of opinions, based upon what she read in the papers.

Gilles nodded, it appeared to be a sensible answer.

"So where do you live?"

"Rue de Collier, up on Montmartre."

"Ah. Lovely street."

"Yes, we have quite a crew up there." His look was open and ingenuous.

Quite a crew indeed, the street was famous or perhaps notorious for a rather Bohemian outlook and quite a few poets, artists and jazz musicians residing in the area. Not all of them were by any standard successful. They were merely noisy and opinionated. They could be rowdy, but their crimes were either of passion, or political. They weren't criminals per se. A few con-artists and sponges lived among them, no doubt about that. After dark, the streets were busier than by day. Such types shunned the daylight. They preferred to be night owls, writing and painting their torment to display before the world, hopefully picking up a few francs or a hot meal and a drink in the process of their daily drama. How in the hell some of them fed themselves was a subject of much speculation, but then there was always the women. Some of them had various employments, which brought food and joy into the house.

Maintenon had always wondered how such people managed to pay the rent, but Olivier was a prime example of another sort. He came from good family and possibly had some independent means of his own.

Olivier eyed Maintenon's note-pad as if trying to be helpful, which he wasn't, particularly.

"What did your father do?"

Olivier told him about his father's career in the army, and how the family fortunes ultimately stemmed from his great-grandfather's stint in colonial administration. He had been based later in his career, in Saigon, where opportunities to make oneself useful to moneyed interests were plentiful.

"Corruption was a way of life out there, you know, back then." Olivier shrugged, as if all that meant nothing to him, which likely true anyway. "It probably still is."

Gilles had no argument there. He'd heard the same thing, and quite recently.

No one ever questions the source of the good fortune that elevated them by birth above the toil and grime of the common crowd. Maintenon wondered if he was a communist or a philosopher or something like that. He wondered if Olivier marched with the trade unionists. Too sensible, decided Maintenon.

"What is the relationship between you, and Sophie and your mother?"

"Ah. Sophie is my cousin. She's from a little town outside of Rouen, where my uncle, her father, has his estate."

"So her father was Muriel Ducharme's brother?"

"No, no. My Aunt Inez. Marcel is not related by blood."

"She's very beautiful."

Faint colour rose in Olivier's cheeks.

"I wouldn't know about that."

It was the first really obvious lie the gentleman had told. Gilles snapped his notebook shut in decision.

"Ah, one more thing. Are you married, and do you have any children?"

He opened up the notebook again, just for effect, although Tailler was busy scribbling away.

"Yes, Inspector. My wife's name is Yvonne, and I have a little boy. His name is Jean, and he will be seven in September."

"Do they live with you?"

"Yes, they do."

"And what is your occupation, sir?"

"I am assistant loans manager of a small branch of the Caisse d'Epargne. It's not far away, actually."

"Ah, very nice." Gilles noted down the location as Olivier reeled it off.

Scraping up some courage, Olivier asked his own question.

"You say she was shot? Who would want to do such a thing? It's madness!"

"Yes. That is what why we are here, Monsieur Ducharme. She was also stabbed with a sword—" Gilles was about to go on to say that it was a bit unusual, but he didn't get to finish.

The look of sheer bewilderment on Olivier's face stopped him.

"What?"

"Does that suggest anything to you sir?"

Mouth firmly closed, wide-eyed and visibly shaken, Oliver shook his head in the negative. Maintenon repressed the urge to utter a deep sigh or two of his own.

"Oh, my God."

"All right, sir. We won't trouble you too much for the time being."

"Thank you, Inspector."

Gilles snapped his notepad shut.

The man heaved a long breath. On impulse, Gilles opened up the notebook again, noting small beads of sweat on the man's forehead, although admittedly the room was very warm. Maintenon briefly skipped through the gentleman's address and phone number as it was best to be sure. It kept Olivier in the room a few more moments.

One never knew when something might come up. The man's relief at the minimal questioning was real enough, and yet he hesitated, like he wanted advice or something, a phenomenon Gilles was familiar with. Lost people abounded after such an event, and grief, depression, family recriminations and even suicide on the part of survivors was not unheard of. It was all part of the human tapestry of life and living in the modern world—people's reactions could never really be predicted with any degree of accuracy. He supposed it must have always been so. Ideally, Olivier should have taken a hint and gotten up and walked out.

"Do you have any idea of the disposition of your mother's estate?" Gilles thought for a moment. "Was she threatening to change her will or leave someone out?"

It was a gamble, but also a legitimate question, one that would be asked sooner or later. He barely took pause for breath. Olivier seemed shocked at the question, and hesitated over his answer.

"Ah—no."

"Would you say this was a well-to-do family?"

Olivier seemed surprised by the additional questions, nodding slightly with the wisp of a cynical smile crossing his mouth. This fit in with his idea of the crassness of the police. Surely there should be some decent interval. The ash was by this time over half the length of the cigarette, which Olivier barely touched. Smoke curled and curled up off of it and he just squinted through it with that lean and hungry face of his.

Finally the man reached over and casually knocked it off in the vicinity of an ashtray. He was taking his time about answering.

"As far as I know, the estate would be equally divided among the four or five of us, for Mother was very fond of Sophie. Us and the heirs of our bodies—my brother Benoit also has children of his own, don't you know. She was a wonderful grandmother."

"Do you know when she last made a will?"

"Oh, ah, I think about three, maybe three years ago."

The man's hurried response indicated his awareness of some earlier slip, but it might not be what Maintenon was thinking. The affected sort of drawl disappeared when he was more stressed. There could be something he was holding back, but it would be there, hovering in the forefront of his mind.

Gilles wrote the names of the brothers down and their phone numbers. Although Levain was probably doing the same thing with other witnesses, duplication was better than lacunae in the notes. Important cases had foundered before, when no one could remember or more importantly, prove, if a question had ever been asked—or answered. It was important to show a chain of events in the investigation.

The only one he didn't have a number or address for was Philipe, the youngest brother.

"Honestly, Inspector, no one has seen him in years."

Gilles let it drop.

"Thank you, Monsieur Ducharme. You have been most helpful."

"I suppose I must go out there." He gave Gilles a look. "Somehow or other, we must get through this. Have my brothers been notified?"

"That is a good question. I will speak to my people about it, but yes, that is the normal routine, to notify next of kin before releasing too much information to the news people."

The two men rose, as Gilles needed another word with Levain and hadn't quite decided who to speak to next. Olivier, familiar with the house, held the door politely for Gilles, whose mind was already working its way ahead.

Tailler coughed behind a closed fist, eyes bulging as he tried to control it, reminding Gilles that he was there.

Olivier seemed about to say something more, but he turned and stalked off.

It struck Gilles that he might save Sophie for last, but in terms of social status, she really ought to be next. The maids and the cook would be less intimate with the deceased, for they were only employees and Sophie was blood. That was an assumption and he'd learned not to make too many of those over the years.

"Get yourself a glass of water and have a pee or something. We start again in five minutes."

Tailler hopped up in gratitude and hurriedly exited.

Chapter Four

A Paradigm of Pulchritude

She was a paradigm of female pulchritude, and a vision of loveliness. He was especially drawn to her toes, peeking out of the end of her pumps. Some very beautiful women had less than exemplary feet. Every millimetre of this one would be perfect. She would not have big calves or big thighs. She would not have large, drooping breasts, but high, firm ones with pink nipples, as suited a young woman who had never borne children. Some women, all made up and taken at a distance, could appear beautiful, with good bone structure, good hair and good clothes. Up close and personal, Sophie had the most unblemished skin, on her neck and arms, where it was exposed below the puffy short sleeves, that he had seen in a long time. The softness of her gently-rounded countenance had not been ravaged by time or disappointment. Her deep blue eyes were clear, with only the slightest hints in the small red veins, of her late night and rude awakening. The young recovered quickly from such nights, possibly even such mornings, while the old suffered much more readily.

Her scent washed and cleansed the air, taking away everything that was foul or mundane, and left behind only the glory that was her. After holding her chair as she was seated, Gilles went around to the door.

His heart beat a little faster, as he closed it and took a seat, marveling at how aware he had instantly become at the sight of her cleavage, the soft, round arms, hands calmly clasped in her lap. The look of innocent youth did nothing to distract from the unmistakable body underneath the thin cotton sun-dress. Her ankles were trim and her feet neat and proper in the black patent-leather sandal-pumps. She had apparently taken the time to dress after the initial excitement.

Tailler's big eyes took it all in and he sat very quietly, never taking his eyes off the subject.

She looked at Tailler and looked away, lifting her chin.

The young lady, so demure in her posture, was positively stacked, if that was the proper expression. It struck Gilles that Tailler was a handsome young fellow, a gift seldom despised except by those who did not possess it.

"I am so sorry for your loss. Please allow us to ask a few simple questions."

She nodded, looking down at her hands. Her eyes came up and the second such jolt in his stomach was real enough.

"Yes, Inspector."

"Okay. Were you home last night?"

"Well, yes. And no. You see—"

"Yes—and no?"

She flushed most prettily, over the worst of the first waves of grief at this point. Then her face crumpled in recollection.

"Yes. I was at a party. I came home late, about four or four-thirty a.m. I can't quite recall, as I had a little champagne..."

"Where was this party?"

She mentioned a restaurant. They had gone on to a private residence in the Latin Quarter of the city after dinner.

"You took a cab home, right? But you can't remember the name of the company?"

"No."

"Were you alone?"

She blushed furiously, sitting up straight and biting back an initial reply.

"Yes." Short, sweet and to the point.

"And there was nothing amiss when you came in?"

She almost seemed uncertain, and then made up her mind.

"No."

"And you went to bed."

"Yes."

"Did your aunt have any enemies? Had she been in an argument with anyone lately?"

"No. I don't know—I don't think so."

Gilles regarded the girl, tapping his pen on the pad as if to annoy even the most patient person.

"So, what brought you here?"

She regarded him evenly from her chair, hands in her lap.

"It's Paris."

No further explanation would appear to be forthcoming.

He grinned unexpectedly.

"But of course." He had the desperate feeling that she was hiding much, but of course she was a young girl, full of life and love and hope and such things and he was just a scruffy old man.

"Do you have friends in the city?"

"Yes, of course."

Gilles decided not ask about gentlemen friends. He must tread lightly there.

He wondered what she was really thinking.

"How long have you been here?"

"Two years...and a half, I think. Maybe a bit more."

Her voice was low and even, and enough to draw shivers from any man.

"So you came here quite young, then?"

"I was fifteen."

His jaw dropped slightly. How old was she, then? He sensed more to the story, although girls of good breeding came up to the city all the time. It was part of their education.

It turned out that Sophie was a bare seventeen and a half years old. Food for thought when he considered all of the Ducharme sons, and Olivier wasn't the youngest one, either.

"May I ask a more personal question?"

"Of course, Inspector. If you think it will help." Her lips pursed but her eyes were on his.

"How tall are you? You seem, er, very athletic."

Her face lit up somewhat. She was just of an age. While a younger man, a cute guy, would have been more welcome, she just couldn't help herself. The attentions of any man would do.

She responded well to flattery.

"I'm one hundred eighty centimetres tall." Her head cocked to the left, as if she was sizing him up for a dance.

"I see. Do you engage in any sports?" It would be a pity if she didn't.

He wasn't surprised to learn that she was taking tennis lessons, and could golf on occasion, thanks to her father and brothers back home being fiends for the game. She went skiing in the winters, with friends, always with a chaperone, including her uncles Benoit and Olivier once or twice.

"And your family, they are all back home?"

She nodded.

"When was the last time any of them have been to Paris?"

"Oh. When they brought me up to the city." Her mother and an older brother rode up on the train.

According to Sophie, she wrote home about once a month, and hadn't been home since coming up to the big city. She belonged to a club. She swam in the pool, and exercised there from time to time, nothing regular about it, and on weekends in the country she did a little riding. It accounted for the healthy glow about her. Gilles hadn't seen such a head of hair in a long time, although his own thin straggles had once been a tousled mop of auburn hair with multi-coloured highlights. As a very small child, he had ringlets. There was a picture of him like that in an old family album. He wondered at the Ducharme's family history. He needed to know a lot more about them, and in the meantime, he put in the routine moments of questioning.

Every answer was given in a calm, level tone. She seemed very sensible, possibly intelligent.

This girl was just a little too good to be true. It struck him like that, and he couldn't dismiss it. The wriggling tape-worm of an idea, as yet just an impression, slowly began to unwind and unfold in his mind. Maintenon had seen a lot of cases, and had met a lot of unusual people over the years. There was nothing new under the sun. Murderers were the most unusual people of all, for they had stepped across all boundaries and struck out on their own in a completely amoral fashion. She really didn't impress him as that type, but one never knew.

Some cynic put it best.

Beauty is the bait which makes the hook more palatable.

While it was true that he didn't get out much, she seemed to be an unusual young lady.

***

His initial impression of Madame Herriot, the cook, was that she was a thoroughly professional woman. She had done this job for many years in any number of fine houses, and probably understood her place in the grand scheme of things very well. Now her entire world had been crushed in one blow. Nothing would ever be the same again. She was at least in control of her demeanor. It was better than hysteria.

"What time is lunch here?"

"It is at one o'clock, Inspector."

"Does Olivier usually show up so early?"

"Ah. Perhaps it is his morning off. He works Saturday mornings, I believe, and takes various mornings off as he will. In his position at the bank, he can come and go perhaps more than the junior employees."

Gilles nodded at this simple explanation for something that had been bugging him.

"Of course. Like a fool, I forgot to ask the gentleman himself."

"Yes, sir."

"What can you tell me about the other sons?"

"Oh, Monsieur. You'll meet them soon enough. But they have always behaved as perfect gentlemen to the servants and to moi. I wouldn't stand for having it any other way, and neither would Madame Ducharme."

As she recited some of the places where she had worked before, his impressions were borne out. An impressive list, not exactly cabinet ministers or stars of stage and cinema, but the names were staid, sober and staunchly middle-class. They were familiar types.

It was the cook's special prerogative to use the surname when referring to the lady of the house. The maids would just say Madame in a breathless and reverent tone. To the servant, the Madame or Monsieur's first name was almost irrelevant. It was a little lesson in social status, for cooking, and not just any cooking, but haute cuisine of even the most everyday, pedestrian nature, required training and experience. Good cooking was a valuable skill. Madame would have very definite ideas of how her table should be. It was a skill in demand and thus the cook's sense of self-worth. Hence the little privileges, like saying Madame Ducharme, almost as if to an equal. Equally important, he thought, was the fact that she had her own household and her own brood. She was married, the girls were single. A thoroughly independent-minded woman, apparently her husband had been killed in the War leaving her with four children under ten years of age.

The implication, left unsaid, was that she was doing all right on her own.

"Were you here when the boys were growing up?"

"Hmn!" She took a moment to think on it. "Olivier was here for a couple of years. Benoit moved out, I think just a few months—two or three maybe, after I first arrived. The other two were gone, but of course they come and go. Amaury has come back, once for two months while he was waiting for someone's lease to expire so he could move in. They're all over town, and they don't show up all that often. They always came when invited by Madame Ducharme. Except for Philipe. I don't know much about him."

"Do they ever talk about him?"

"Ah...no."

"Thank you." He made a note. "When was all that?"

"I started here in January, nineteen-eighteen."

Tailler carefully took down the details of the cook's home address, the name of her late husband and her children.

Maintenon was interested to learn that she had a housekeeper-cum-nanny in her own home. It accounted for something in her bearing. By this time, she seemed calm enough.

"And Olivier comes around for lunch fairly regularly?"

"Yes, Inspector."

As soon as he got down to the really important questions, she froze up again.

"It's all right, Madame Herriot." He cleared his throat.

She had discovered the body. It must have been traumatic, and yet she was composed enough when she came in.

"Just take a moment to think upon it. What time did you arrive?"

A wracking breath went through her.

"Ah—about the usual time." Her mouth worked uncontrollably.

"I see. And you saw glass on the outer step?"

She nodded lugubriously, staring out the window as if to be free of this place. Now moisture welled up in her eyes and she dabbed at it with a sensible white cotton handkerchief, which appeared to be already damp.

"And what were your first thoughts?"

"A burglar—and of course I thought of Madame Ducharme and Sophie."

"Very commendable. Naturally you feared for their safety, and so you had to go into the house, right?"

She nodded.

"So please tell me what you saw."

"I saw what you saw." She would budge no further.

"Was there anything else out of place? Does it look as if anything has been stolen?"

She just shrugged and stared far off into the distance, slightly over his head. Finally she answered.

"I don't think so—it's really hard to say." Madame Herriot dabbed at her eyes some more.

She looked at him directly for the first time in what seemed like ages.

"She was a fine person. I hope you catch whoever did this and chop their head off."

He lifted his eyes.

"All right, Madame Herriot. I understand. Perhaps we can just leave it at that, but I will have to ask these questions sooner rather than later. Justice demands that, you see?"

He could have sworn she growled at him, deep and low in her guts, but he might have been mistaken.

He closed the notepad.

On some kind of inspiration that came from he knew not where, Gilles pulled his chair up close to hers. He took her hands in his, as she fearfully searched his face, and he wondered just what she was seeing there. He returned her gaze, noting strength, dignity, and still the fearfulness in her eyes. Tailler was being as quiet as a church-mouse back there.

"Can you think of anyone who might have wished harm to come to Madame Ducharme?" The tone was gentle, and he thought she might answer. "You know I will do everything in my power to bring them to justice?"

She nodded. Then she gave a quick shake of her head, pulling her red, work-hardened hands away and sticking them under her arms. She refused to look at him, hot colour rising in her cheeks. Her jaw stuck out and it all seemed so very, very childish. But these were unusual circumstances. Sometimes people blamed the police for the most irrational of reasons.

He tried a few more mundane questions, hoping that would help.

"We saw one or two canes about the house. Did Madame Ducharme use a cane from time to time?"

She nodded but said nothing otherwise. He kept hoping she would open up and maybe volunteer something. Finally she said what was on her mind.

"May I be excused, please?"

"But of course, Madame. Please send in Emilie, s'il vous plait?"

She bobbed her head in a jerky fashion and shot out of the chair and out the door like her behind was on fire.

Interesting.

He couldn't push too hard, but he had only so much time and less patience. He was convinced she could be of help, although he had no idea of what form that might take. He could not make assumptions. Anger said some strange things. Peel back one layer, and another layer presented itself. In that sense it was like the skin of an onion. That precept was fundamental to his nature. He had to consider her safety, and her rights, among other things. It was best not to make too big a thing of it.

Unshared knowledge was dangerous in a certain kind of case. This was beginning to look like one of those kinds of cases. It struck Maintenon that maybe she just resented being dragged into it. She must have some idea of how bad it could get, with the press, and the people, and the gawkers.

Now she just wanted it to be over and done with.

***

"I am Emilie Salomon." She gave him her address, and what was apparently the phone number of the people in the flat across the hallway. Her apartment did not have telephone service. She was unmarried, and shared the flat with another girl, also in domestic service.

Gilles had once seen a survey that showed something like a quarter of a million domestiques in the greater metropolitan area, most of them female. The vast majority were unmarried.

What the English called a charwoman, surely the most unflattering term ever invented, was a real injustice in Emilie's case. Gilles found her quite wonderful, but then one must expect the unexpected.

"Did you like Madame Ducharme? Did you like the other people, and did you like working here?"

As was often the case, the answer surprised him.

"Oh, Lord." She made a face. "At first it was horrible. I really wondered if I was cut out for service at all. But what else was I to do?"

"Er, what do you mean?"

"Well, I've got to eat, Inspector. It was hard to adjust. I thought the old lady was crazy. But she just had her ways. I looked around for other work, and don't think one or two of them folks weren't crazy either. An interview is a two-way street, and at least I already had employment."

Gilles grinned and nodded. Police forgot that sometimes—the two-way communication required to obtain good information.

"Yes, interesting."

Tailler wrote it all down, nodding appreciatively.

"But you eventually reconciled yourself to your fate?" Gilles smiled at her in all openness.

She chuckled and nodded.

"And the people here?"

"They were fine. Once I got used to it, and the old lady, I mean Madame, wasn't so bad. I think she was just asserting her authority. At least in the early days, and there were one or two things I didn't know to begin with. People like her are funny about single girls."

Gilles nodded in understanding.

Emilie was a sturdy young woman, with frank, open features, and a kind of healthy attractiveness, at least to him. Seriously, what did he know? It had been years, and so he could be fairly objective. If she was in the market for a husband, she should find one soon enough.

"So, in other words...?"

"In other words, I take my pay, I go home, and enjoy my freedom, Inspector."

He smiled again.

"Ah...so. No servants lived in?"

"No, my understanding is that they did, once upon a time. But all that was years ago." The answer was calm and assured, and avoided undue speculation.

In that sense, she was well trained in the avoidance of gossip.

"At some level, people coming and going, night and day, would have driven her to distraction."

"The old lady?"

Emilie grinned.

"What's your favourite club?"

"La Moulin de Galette."

He chewed on that one for a while. On her pay it would be expensive, but then she wouldn't be buying her own drinks, would she? All she had to do was dance and be attentive. With a girlfriend or two in tow, a good time was never far away if a person was young and interesting.

They exchanged a look, a good, honest one, each liking what they saw.

Her coppery hair was barely kept back by the kerchief affected for female servants in this household—they all wore one, including the cook, in a kind of restrained, soft blue with thin vertical white stripes visible at close range.

"What was Madame Ducharme like?"

She knew what he meant.

"Very strict, very upright, and very correct. But if you did what you were told, and paid proper attention to her, it could be a surprisingly fun place to work."

"Fun?"

"Oh, God. Yes. Anything's better than hanging around all day, trying to look busy in a place where no one really cares or even notices. Trust me, that one noticed everything."

Gilles accepted that with good grace.

"Ah."

"I mean, pretending to work or doing things that don't need doing over and over again. It's just too much. She kept us busy enough, one way or another. And, she liked music on the radio and the gramophone. The days passed well enough. Sometimes one of us would take her shopping for dresses or personal things. She tipped well, on those occasions, and some don't. It was all right, Inspector."

She was referring to her employment in the past tense. Emilie was a sensible young woman and a realist. She probably wouldn't want to keep on here anyway, but then, who would? It was not unfamiliar. The place might be sold and a new bunch move in. At this point, unencumbered by the presence of Madame Ducharme, Emilie was free to speak her mind.

This was a prosperous household completely under the dominance of one old woman. The victim had to fit the crime. That was one of his theories, but exactly how it applied here was still unclear.

"And how long have you worked here?"

She took a breath, and her eyes reflected the sort of movements that people make when they are trying to recall or express something that they really should know. Under pressure, it was sometimes difficult. It was nothing unusual.

"I would say about eight, or maybe eight and a half years. It was, ah, late winter when I got the job."

"You have been here since winter, nineteen-twenty-two, nineteen twenty-three? Or there-abouts?"

"Yes. Something like that."

Her mouth firmed up, with more humour apparent in it now. This one had fully calmed down.

A strange thing about murders, people often knew instantly who did it. People weren't shy about sharing this information with police. The higher up the social ladder, the more forthcoming they might be, but even the meanest of citizens understood the value of having the cops come in when their own activities would not be threatened. The cops might even help by stabilizing an area, or a situation.

For a working class person, the tantalizing pull of this way or that way, which way to jump, was about fifty-fifty.

"Why does this place smell so strongly?"

"You mean the mothballs?" Her head jerked, perhaps she was so used to it she didn't even notice. "We put fresh ones in every fall and then again in the springtime."

They had done it just recently, ten days or two weeks previously, according to her. In the kitchen, the smell was barely noticeable, but in the study it was strong enough.

"Have you seen any unusual persons hanging about in the neighbourhood? Incidentally, do you come in the front door when you arrive to work?"

"I don't think so, in answer to your first question, and yes—I come in off Rue Leopold. I have a key." She came in at nine-thirty in the morning.

"Ah! Excellent point." He beamed at her. "Not to misunderstand me, and this is no reflection on you, my dear, but has anyone in the household ever lost a key?"

"Oh. Lord. Probably." Emilie bit her lip. "God, they keep one under the back mat. Anyone could get in, as long as they knew about the key and came in the back door."

She was genuinely trying to be of help. Emilie grinned helplessly, and he gave her an encouraging nod. This one was easy enough to draw out.

She thought one of the boys, who must be all grown men by now, had lost a key. She said she had forgotten hers at home once or twice, and had to ring up from around the corner to get the cook to let her in.

"One of the boys? Which one?"

"I think...Amaury."

Amaury was the second youngest one, according to her.

"Was he living here at the time?" He put the pen down for a moment. "All of these questions are the dullest, drabbest routine. You understand, we must do our duty. And yet it seems like such a mystery. N'est-ce pas?"

She nodded happily. Imagine him taking her into his confidence like that.

"Of course, Inspector. He wasn't living here at the time. For some reason the bottom door was locked when he popped in once. He's got what he calls a shack in the Latin Quarter."

"Oh, really. The rents are not so cheap anymore, eh?"

She shrugged, probably didn't know or didn't care to speculate.

"We don't really run in the same crowd, although I did actually see him out once."

"Oh, really. Do you know which street? The one Amaury lives on?"

Again, she shrugged, not knowing or caring. Her body language was open and accepting of him.

"Very well."

He nodded, with an attentive Tailler jotting all that down. It was typical stuff, and all innocent enough, in almost any household where a murder had not recently been committed. Tailler breathed very quietly, a wheezer or a snuffler would have been a real annoyance.

Careers had foundered on less.

"Do you recall when that might have been? Your key?"

"Who, me? Oh, maybe a year, year and a half ago. But it wasn't missing. It was home on my bureau."

Since her friend was at home when she left, she hadn't needed to lock up, and so didn't realize she had forgotten her house-keys.

"Yes, yes. I see."

They passed small talk back and forth as Gilles made a show of going back over their notes while sizing her up in terms of posture, breathing and eye contact. It struck Maintenon that she was completely under his spell. If only all the witnesses in the world were like Emilie. What he needed was incongruous details, and she showed signs of giving them to him.

"Do you have any theories? Like, of the crime?" He smiled and touched her on the knee through the dress.

She licked her lips, eyes wide with wonder.

"A tramp? A burglar?" He made no answer and she shook her head, eyes locked on his. "No?"

She leaned back a bit and he turned down the corners of his mouth as if it was of no importance.

The whole thing was exciting to her. It was a vicarious thrill, and she would undoubtedly talk about this for the rest of her life. He bent his head towards her and lightly touched her knee through the thin black fabric of her long and rather old-fashioned skirt. The question was whether she knew anything, would care to speculate about anything, or whether this was just a random burglary gone wrong where an old lady was shot three times and then stabbed with a sword. The sort of case that was going to hit the front page of the early editions, and he had nothing so far. The sort of case that would have the Boss on the horn, and the morning was well-advanced. They still needed to know everything there was to know about the disposition of Madame Ducharme's estate, the status of her progeny, and whether anyone had a pressing motive or a prior history. There was much to be done and time was wasting away.

"Keep this under your hat." Gilles spoke in a conspiratorial whisper.

She leaned in closer, eyes wide and breathless.

"Honestly, you're not really a suspect. I wouldn't worry too much about it, if I were you."

"Ah-ha-ha-ha!" She straightened up convulsively, giggling and slapping herself on the thigh.

She smiled impishly, with her hand halfway to her face, not daring to believe it. This was the Inspector Gilles Maintenon. She'd read his name in the paper a thousand times.

Finally she had the words. It took a while, but she found them.

"I thank you for that, kind sir." Her eyes went very demure, her face lowered and she wrung her hands gently in her lap.

She chewed on the corner of her mouth, and he could see why this one might have a lot of friends after working hours. She really was something. It was all personality, whereas a prettier girl didn't have to learn how to work it.

Her face came up and she gave him another smile, and he couldn't help but return it.

With a grace that would do credit to a doe bounding in the forest, she exited the room, turning as the door closed for one last flirt of the eyes.

He smiled and bit his lip, avoiding Tailler's oddly appraising look.

So he still had it then.

Chapter Five

A Contemplative Silence

After Emilie left, Gilles sat in contemplative silence for a moment. So far, no one had any big ideas. This was a bad sign.

He rose wordlessly, leaving Tailler there. Levain might have something more tangible for him.

He entered the salon, where the people were looking distinctly uncomfortable by this time.

The reality was sinking in.

Taking Andre down the hall, he cocked an ear. The cook, absent from the salon, was probably just around the corner in the kitchen. He led Andre into the study.

"We're going to get a cup of coffee soon." Levain yawned and looked at his watch. "Other than that, I have Fredric and the other uniform phoning around trying to locate the brothers, who should be at work by this time. One would assume. Work or the gentleman's club, maybe."

Gilles nodded. He was undecided about what to do about the house, but better to err on the side of caution.

"All right. There should be no problem sealing the premises. If they squawk, tell them to get a lawyer. In the meantime, send the servants home. Find that damned key under the back door mat and secure it."

Levain nodded.

"I still need to talk to the other housemaid, Eloise."

She was waiting in the other room, but Gilles was not sanguine about the chances of her adding much to what they already had.

"The only problem will be Sophie."

"Ah, yes." Maintenon thought about that.

It seemed a bit hard on the girl. The odds of her sleeping well after such an event were completely nil anyways. She would not want to be alone in the house. The problem was where for her to go.

"We'll send her to a hotel. One of our approved ones—"

Levain agreed.

"Yes." He snorted in derision. "Let's keep this puppy on budget."

Gilles agreed, although that was not exactly what he had in mind.

"No, no. I know the manager of the Vendome. Tell them to keep track of her visitors—try to get her movements in and out if they can possibly bring themselves to do it. Her life will just have to be disrupted. The others, maybe not so much. They have someplace else to go."

"What about Rouen?"

"Is she in a hurry to leave?"

Levain said nothing.

Sophie wasn't really a suspect. Not yet. They were all suspect. It would be better if she stuck around, and such things might be expressed diplomatically.

"I'll handle it." Levain was unconscious of Gilles' look of irony, but perhaps being a married man and having some kind of an outlet made all the difference in the world. "People trust me for some reason."

Gilles' lip curled up on the right side in acknowledgement. Yes, people trusted them, and they had certain expectations.

"I'm strongly tempted to tail them all."

Levain said nothing. His role was to wait, and listen.

Gilles had a funny look on his face. There were no windows in this room. That wasn't unusual in these old houses. It was between an interior wall and a hallway, smack dab in the middle of the structure. There was another residence just on the other side of the wall, where perhaps someone breakfasted and read the papers.

"We need to talk to these other gentlemen."

Tailler tried very hard to blend into the wallpaper, and Levain's eye swept right past him.

With the example, Tailler took time to look around again as well.

The wallpaper was a creamy yellow and Tailler wondered if the bulbs in the sockets were a higher wattage or something. This room was bright enough, although there could be a certain claustrophobia to it. Everything about the place spoke of thoughtful foresight with an eye to comfort and stolidity.

Levain wondered what the other boys were like. Olivier might not be typical. The whole aspect of his being there at lunch hour had its connotations, possibly some adult dependence, or at least, of mutual reinforcement between mother and son.

This business was all about relationships. He'd have to tell Gilles that one later.

Gilles as usual, was thinking it through while they waited.

As for the ladies, Levain liked them a little more Rubenesque, as he had once said.

There was no accounting for taste, thought Gilles. He wondered what Levain was thinking right about then.

A girl like Sophie made all the other women look like boys, in his humble opinion. Gilles had never had any illusions about his own attractiveness to the opposite sex. He knew his strengths and weaknesses. He knew exactly what he looked like. Never would Gilles have presumed to ask a girl like that out, not even in the first flush of youth and optimism and testosterone-laced hubris. He had to admit, he had been eighteen once, for one year and then it was over. The one time he did fall in love with a perfect specimen, the results were disastrous and long-lasting. Never again.

Emilie was an entirely different matter.

Levain shook his head and looked at his watch.

"It's still only eleven."

Gilles nodded.

"Okay. Send them home and seal the place up."

"And the girl?"

"We'll speak to higher authority. After the fact. We can drop her off in our car and supervise her when she gets her personal things. But I would very much like to know if anything was stolen."

"Uh, yes, sir. Can we put a policewoman with her? Someone from Victim's Services?"

"Formidable. Brilliant."

There was no way to keep it up, not for long, anyway, but Sophie might open up to an available woman, a stranger, one not of this household.

"As for the canvas of the neighbourhood, we have one person, he lives across the street. He recalls hearing a scooter, what he calls a machine, starting up about dawn today. He says he doesn't think anyone on the block actually owns one."

Gilles pursed his lips.

"Interesting."

Two things struck him.

"It could be a getaway—or it might have drowned out the shots."

Levain grunted at that.

"Finding and notifying next of kin is top priority."

Gilles was in never-never land.

"We'll have to arrange for an officer on the door. These guys want to go. They'll turn in their reports and findings first thing tomorrow." The technical people and the uniformed gendarmes had other calls on their time.

It was always the way.

Gilles didn't respond, he just stared off into space.

Andre thought furiously. So it was like that again. Maintenon had gone all intuitive and he was supposed to keep up somehow. The drill was familiar enough. All of this went though his head in an instant.

Gilles patted Levain on the arm wordlessly, and Levain went off to handle the details.

Maintenon's hand was up by his mouth and it was like he was chewing on a thumbnail.

His mind was not quite made up. First impressions are lasting ones, and often accurate enough. They could always use a good leg man, but in homicide this could not be a plodding, aimless individual, someone just putting in time and going through the motions, waiting for the day to end. Tailler was staring at the back of his head, he just knew it. A good leg-man had some parts, an independence of mind and an eye for the contradictions—the little warning bells that go off when something is just a bit out of kilter, skewed somehow.

They had to have a gut instinct, and Tailler had gone with his more than once already today.

The right person would have an ego—a driving force, one that set him apart from other men. Tailler certainly had that. Tailler was not cannon fodder. He'd already demonstrated as much, and as for his personal politics it seemed more designed to shock than to elucidate. Most people hated the government and the ruling classes anyway. Or, at least said they did, while offering nothing of consequence to replace it with. No one ever really likes paying taxes, and yet they could be so damned demanding at times.

Tailler was cut out for better things. He was clearly intelligent, he seemed to listen well, and he was quick on his feet. He had some initiative, and he also had a good sense of humour, which he was probably going to need in the long days and nights that lay ahead.

Gilles took his chair after a while and waited for Tailler to get him the next witness.

***

Perhaps it was a mistake, but Gilles' interview with Eloise, a dark-haired woman of about thirty-six, was a little perfunctory.

He got her name, her address, her phone number. She was divorced, not so unusual these days, and worked to support three children. One of whom sounded like he was old enough to be on his own, if only there had been sufficient unskilled work. Her two daughters were younger and still in school.

She lived about six kilometres east, in a working class neighbourhood. She had shown up for work at the usual time, nine-thirty or so, arriving by bus. Her stop was only yards away, practically right out front, and it was very convenient for coming and going.

"So tell me about the boys. Tell me about Philipe."

She pursed her lips, sitting in such a way as to accentuate her remarkably firm-looking and conical breasts. He had the impression the stanchions of her girdle must be made of high-tensile steel, but the rounded hardness of her belly was unmistakable. It was under severe restraint. She looked a bit predatory, with a foxy face and long black hair.

"That was before my time."

She had been there for years, longer than Emilie. Her previous experience and her impressive resume had ensured her place as senior housemaid.

"And Olivier?"

"He's very polite."

"How often does he come around?"

"Oh, two or three times a week. I guess. Maybe more, but he tries not to overdo it. Madame Ducharme liked her independence, but I think they worried about her and Sophie being alone here at night."

Gilles nodded gravely.

"What about the others?"

"They've both been around, of course, for luncheons and the occasional dinner."

"And recently?"

She thought about it for a moment.

"Benoit, I haven't seen him in some time. I'm off duty at six o'clock, so I really wouldn't know for sure."

"And the same with Amaury?"

"Yes, although in some ways he's my favourite."

"Oh, really, why is that?"

"He stayed here for a while, a few weeks, maybe a month or more."

"So what's he like?"

"Ah. Funny, thoughtful, and easy to look after."

"Hmn. Interesting. More so than the others, eh?"

"Yes, that's it. I knew him better, and yet I'm sure, Inspector, that they are all very nice gentlemen."

"I see." Gilles folded his notebook closed. "Well, I won't trouble you too much more. I know how awful this must be for you and all of those involved. May I contact you later if I have further questions?"

"But of course." She batted her eyelashes at him, and put her hands on the sides of the chair bottom in order to get up.

"Oh, one more thing. What is Sophie like? Such a damsel, eh?"

Eloise's eyes hardened and her lips became a thin and expressive line of disapproval.

"Well. I really wouldn't know about that."

His ears strained for any reaction from Tailler, but there was nothing. Gilles had the feeling he'd just blown it with that one, but the reaction was indicative of something deeper, something more than just professional female jealousy for a younger and more attractive woman. He wondered how bitter Eloise might be in her own right, as that often skewed people's perceptions.

He would let her sleep on it for a while. Considering all of Madarme Ducharme's friends, acquaintances, doctors, lawyers, butchers and hairdressers, the list of people they might end up talking to was getting too long already.

Chapter Six

How Did You Get Here?

"How did you get here, anyway?" The question was for Andre.

Tailler slammed the door and climbed in up front.

The girl was pale and silent in the front passenger seat. Her scent was strong and floral. She had packed three bags to go away with, which were in the trunk.

Gilles had some catching up to do with Levain.

"I got in early this morning, and I was at the desk talking to Beaudoin when the call came in. I rode with the boys."

"Ah."

Sophie, a little pale around the gills, looked around at them and the interior of the unmarked but very black police car.

"You'll be fine." Levain sounded careless, flippant.

The girl was still in shock, and yet Maintenon had more questions for her, all of them in fact.

There were things he needed to discuss with Levain, and that wasn't possible with her in the car.

The drive across the city seemed interminable, but the Hotel wasn't in the most desirable area. It was located across town, to the northeast, where the rates were a little more reasonable in keeping with present restrictions. Progress was slow in the noon-day traffic.

They dropped her off and Gilles and Andre Levain checked her into a hotel approved for such purposes in the budgetary handbook. The Vendome was a commercial hotel of fair quality and with in-house private security. The manager was an old acquaintance of Maintenon's and a few quiet words in his ear went a long way. A policewoman was in transit according to their last call from Hubert, still holding sway pending the arrival of Archambault and Firmin. She had instructions to go up to Sophie's room and just see if the girl needed anything, to answer questions and offer solicitous comments. She had been allotted four hours and then it was off.

Maintenon didn't think much of it either way, but one never knew. The young lady might spill her guts. It had happened before.

The two more senior officers, Etienne Archambault and Albert Firmin, were investigating the alley killings, knifings, which happened three days ago. That one was in a nice neighbourhood, the Sixth Arrondissement, and a people were complaining that they were afraid to go outdoors at night to walk their dogs.

As they drove away, Andre had one minor last thought about Sophie.

"A couple of the sons are married. I wonder why she didn't think of staying with them?"

Gilles shrugged. The relationships still weren't clear. How distant they might be was unknown. Some families were like that. He hadn't spoken to some family members, not so distant ones either, in several years. They were scattered all over France, but there were one or two in the city now and he'd never had any real cause to look them up. He quite dreaded running into them. There was no unfriendliness there. He simply had no idea of what he would say. Why would he go? What reason did he have to pop up on their doorstep? No doubt they felt the same way about him. It had been too many years.

If you couldn't remember the last time you had seen someone, essentially, you had nothing much to talk about except old and faded times, yellowing photographs and old bones buried in the ground. Odds were, they weren't keeping up with the rest of the family anyway.

"We still haven't located them yet."

For the time being, there was a moment to reflect, perhaps even to doze a little. This case wasn't going to solve itself in the first three hours.

"Gilles?"

His eyes popped open.

"Yes?"

"Do you really believe that a burglar broke into that house to steal something? And that he shot the old lady three times and then stuck her with a sword? All of this at six-thirty, maybe seven o'clock on a weekday morning?"

"No. Not really." The Inspector blinked slowly a few times. "We'll get permission to look in the safe, but honestly, I don't think there's going to be much to that."

If a thief had gotten into the safe, they had locked it up again. That would be a little unusual, although a good delaying tactic. It was possible Madame Ducharme had surprised them on the way out. That would imply a highly-sophisticated cat burglar, in which case he had definitely picked the wrong house. For that type of crime, the middle hours of the night were so much more likely. Those criminals studied their victims before acting.

It didn't make a whole lot of sense so far. Kids on a lark wouldn't have had a gun, not unless they had stolen it, and the deliberation of the shooting was out of profile. There were no recent gun thefts on record which matched with the profile of this particular weapon.

Also, those crimes all looked the same. Thieves were sometimes anything but sophisticated, and while Madame Ducharme lived well, such folk were notoriously cash-poor. They had it all in funds, and drew only from the interest of some conservative and long-standing investment. Their tax bills were paid out by the bank or trustee, an accountant or a lawyer. They kept very little cash on hand, and paid the staff and small contractors by personal, crab-written cheque on some respectable but relatively minimal bank balance somewhere. The cheque books, kept in a top desk drawer in the kitchen's small office cubicle, were undisturbed just like everything else, although of necessity they were taking the staff's word for it. Until something happened to contradict it, it seemed solid enough because the three of them and Sophie all said the same thing.

"Someone willing to break in, all for a couple of hundred francs, or most likely much less, is by definition unsophisticated. I don't care how drunk they are."

Andre Levain nodded, his big bland face expressionless at this explanation. It would require some digging, but they could get all that. It didn't pay to rush in, in spite of all imperatives to do just that. That was why Maintenon and men like him had some power—they had the power to resist. They had the power to resist pressure from above and without. It was an old system, but a time-honoured one.

The trouble was the motive. Murder required substantial motivation. Quick, impulsive murders, they were often about status—someone disparaged someone's girlfriend and got knifed for it, when everyone was drunk at the time and not taking precautions to cover their tracks.

Other murders, the really premeditated ones, took on certain aspects. A real motive was all-important. This was what had always interested Maintenon. He had made a science of it, like an air ace. With Maintenon, it was like stalking a kind of legal prey, although it was anything but a sport to him. It was his vocation.

Premeditated murders required precautions, and maybe that was it. Maybe that was what the Inspector was looking for—precautions.

Maintenon thought it had a kind of science to it—one that could be relied upon.

"Sorry, you lost me for a moment...I guess I wasn't really paying attention." Andre noted a short squirt of adrenal juices in the abdomen. "Pardon?"

"This murder didn't occur on a street-corner, Andre. There is a certain psychology here."

"Is this an impulsive crime, Gilles?"

Gilles stared out the window and said nothing. He just sat there chewing his lip and watching the world go by.

"No."

So the game was on, then. Levain settled back on the cushions for the long ride in the heavy noon-day traffic. They were going back to the Quai to regroup, de-brief and re-organize.

More than anything, they needed a clue other than the ones provided by the killer. Everything else was negative evidence, in that the house was, as it had always been.

"Why did they bring the gun with them?"

"What?" Andre was dozing off now.

"Why did they have the gun?" One would assume any competent thief would use gloves, although the results of fingerprint analysis wouldn't be available for a while. "Did they bring it with them? But the sword, now, that came from over the mantel-piece."

Maintenon's reasoning was simple. If they brought the gun, they acknowledged at least the possibility of lethal violence before ever entering the premises. They had put it into their plan and taken it into account. Then again, there was the sword.

A huge fireplace dominated the combination dining-room, and more formal salon in an arched, L-shaped configuration. There were weapons and a big brass shield over the fireplace, replete with crossed swords. There was a plaque with the Ducharme coat-of-arms. One set of hooks was empty.

That much was true.

Tailler took his eyes off traffic for a moment, to look back and consider.

"Because the odds are the old lady didn't have one?" Levain, groggy with the close air and the summer's sudden heat, had the insane urge to giggle.

"Exactly, Andre."

Andre thought about that one. The killer brought the gun with them—obvious, really. But that didn't prove premeditation. Not by a long shot.

"Gilles."

"Yes?"

"Why the sword?"

"Ah. Hmn." Gilles chewed on that for a while. "To send a message? But to whom?"

The driver cleared his throat, eyes round in the rear-view mirror. He was wondering when all this had to end.

"It has to be some kind of message. I agree with that."

Levain was practically biting the back of his hand in an effort not to giggle.

Levain looked at Gilles and winked. He addressed the driver.

"Police Constable Tailler. Do you know a good place to eat? Someplace quick?"

"Oh, yes, Sergeant Levain. Absolutely, and it's quite cheap and very good, too—"

The guy must have asked his name from someone while he was out of the room. It showed he had something, anyway. Levain cut him off with a wave. He turned to Gilles with a grin.

"Wow! I like that. He's just the sort of guy we need around here. Can we keep him?"

Gilles smiled inscrutably, eyes downcast and unreadable. New people had a bit of a rough time of it at first, all pretty good-natured stuff, but it could be distinctly uncomfortable until the person caught on.

"We'll see."

The radio speaker in the dashboard sputtered and crackled and Tailler's body twitched.

He glanced back, reaching for the volume to turn it up and then he positively grabbed the microphone.

"Hey, sirs. I think that's us."

He handed Andre the microphone on its long cord, right arm awkwardly crooked over the back of the seat. Due to the shortness of the wire, Andre had to lean forwards.

"Yes, Anvil, I read you loud and clear. This is the Hammer."

He grinned at Tailler's startled look.

"I've always wanted to say that."

Tailler chuckled uncertainly up front, eyes big and worried-looking in the mirror, and Maintenon indulged them both with a faint smile.

His thoughts were still a million kilometres away.

"Cut it out, Sergeant Levain. We have a message from a Sophie, staying at the Hotel Vendome. Over." The dispatcher, a familiar voice to them all, sounded calm and unperturbed, but then perhaps he had heard worse.

"Is the information critical?" Gilles didn't want confidential information, information which might compromise an investigation, going out over the air for all and sundry to hear or pick up on their home-made crystal radios.

Boys of a certain age were just fiends for radio these days, its theories, its technical applications, but more than anything, just building them and operating them. They talked endlessly on them. Young kids were achieving some quite impressive feats, such as talking to China or Japan. Maintenon didn't see that much harm in it, as long as they didn't mess with the Army, jam emergency signals, the police, or commercial frequencies. The newshounds and the radio people had them as well. They listened to the official frequencies all the time.

"She says she forgot about the cat, if that means anything to you fellows."

Levain's jaw dropped in dismay as Tailler looked calmly back in the mirror and Maintenon gave a gasp of frustration.

"What?" Levain looked aghast.

Tailler took the microphone back and hung it up. He turned the volume way down.

"I'm tempted to turn that thing off."

His superiors were tempted to agree.

"Merde. There was a cat? What else have we missed!" Gilles was distinctly unhappy, but the day hadn't begun well for him.

He'd been brushing his hair and for whatever reason realized that he wasn't just losing his hair, he was getting blind as a bat these days. The thoughts that this engendered were not particularly pleasant ones. The truth was, he'd had a few bad days lately. He had to put on his reading glasses to trim his mustache, and then his skin didn't look so good. Pure narcissism, of course, but even so. Even so.

As Maintenon stared into the mirror, Tailler lowered his eyebrows and spoke in a deep, sepulchral voice.

"I wonder what else she's been keeping from us?"

"Ha...ha." Levain shook his head in disgust. "Jesus, Tailler."

He looked at Maintenon with an odd look on his face, whereupon Maintenon became extremely upset. He reckoned why not put on a show? It doesn't cost much.

"Don't look at me! I don't want no stinking cat."

Tailler was having a hard time controlling his mirth.

"I mean it, Andre."

Levain grunted, hopefully not a preamble to a long speech.

The last thing in the world Gilles needed was to babysit some damned cat for the foreseeable future. No matter how beautiful its owner was. He was just a scruffy old man from a small town in the Pyrenees. He did not want a cat.

"The cat can wait, at least for a while. We need to go over the place again, and very soon. I don't know why, but we should do it anyway. We need to locate those blasted sons." There was some element of frustration implied.

Levain thought better of further input. Besides, he had an idea.

Tailler brought the car to a halt, almost scraping the wrought-iron posts that marked the edge of the paved street. The sidewalks were two inches higher and fairly wide at a metre and a half. These were no problem for an assertive driver in a car paid for by somebody else.

There was an obscure bistro or grille or tavern there, with the usual neon beer signs in the dark window panels, all wire and obscurity. The door was of massive maple slabs, with the fretwork of the windows repeated in its small porthole. The whole place couldn't have been eight metres wide at street level. There was a door, some decorative wood framing, the stone walls and all of the darkened windows.

The sign above indicated that this was the home of Dominic's Grille de Charbon de Bois.

"As I said, the food's not bad here and I know the beat cops pretty well. Before they write a ticket, they'll come in and let us know."

"Can they do bacon and eggs on a charcoal grille?"

Tailler shrugged.

"That's a good one, Sergeant."

He held the side door, watching for fast-moving traffic as Maintenon and Levain labouriously climbed up and out, Maintenon because his knee was bothering him again from all those stairs, and Levain due to his own sheer bulk and the small size of the vehicle's back door. He was on the wrong side to begin with, but a little mild cussing helped.

***

"Hubert."

"Yes, Inspector?"

"Have we located any of the Ducharmes yet?"

"One of them is in insurance. He has an office a few dozen blocks away. His secretary will neither confirm nor deny his existence. Let alone his presence in the office."

"Who did you say was calling?" Levain had been known to be tricky when all else failed.

"I didn't give a name." Better safe than sorry, his shrug implied.

Levain nodded appreciatively.

Maintenon debated whether or not to take off his hat. His hand hovered over the brim.

"Who? Which one is it? What is the address?" Tailler grabbed his notebook and wrote as Hubert read it off, eyeing the stranger with some curiosity.

"Benoit Ducharme. Fidelity and Loyalty Assurance Company." The place was indeed not far away, in the financial district which had recently bloated and spread over many surrounding blocks.

France, seemingly immune to the world depression due to its conservative economic policy and a propensity to obscure the facts about its actual economic status, had become a haven for foreign companies. This was especially true in the financial services industry. The corporate tax rate was low and the regulations few. While this might cause some occasional headaches for investors and police investigators, it was good for France and the majority of shareholders thought it a boon. It was only a matter of time before it got out of hand, in Maintenon's opinion.

The depression was late in coming to France. Opinion was that it would come, and some opinions said that it was here already.

"No." He looked at Andre and then Tailler. "You. Come with me."

"Yes, sir."

Gilles spun on a heel and struck off down the hallway to the stairs, with Tailler, whose heart was beating a little faster as he had no idea of what was going on, close behind.

Hubert looked at Andre Levain, shrugging out of his trench-coat and tempted to kick his shoes off. There were others in the office and they might have objections. Certainly there would be talk.

"Jesus, Christ. You back again?"

There was a long silence.

"Who in the hell was that?"

"Tailler. Apparently he's the new guy."

"Huh. That's the first I've heard about it."

"Me, likewise."

Andre settled into his desk to go over his notes, try to think up a new wrinkle, and just take things easy for ten minutes or so. Lunch was having its inevitable effect and all he really wanted to do was to take a nap.

"We got coffee?" It might help.

Coffee never tasted exactly as it smelled.

"Oh, yes, we got coffee. Boy, oh, boy, have we got coffee." Hubert scowled at the bitter black brew and bit down on further characterizations.

Levain put his hands behind his head and leveled an appraising glance at the pot on the hot-ring.

Chapter Seven

We're Going the Wrong Way

They stepped out onto the sidewalk and Maintenon, head down, strode off with a determined step.

"Inspector." Tailler put a hand on his elbow.

"Yes—what?"

"We're going the wrong way."

"Ah! Well. Now you see why we need someone like you on the job."

Tailler flushed.

"Sir, hasn't this joke gone far enough?"

Gilles had never had a son, and he felt the loss keenly sometimes.

"That's what I thought all those many years ago. Come, my good man. Where is this place?"

They stood there, a rock in a stream of humanity.

Emile presented his notes. He flipped the cover back and took a look, as Gilles regarded him calmly.

Tailler read off the address in a resonant voice, looking up again in a kind of challenge.

"Very well."

Gilles strode off in the opposite direction, face into a freshening breeze and with the tops of distant storm clouds on the northwestern horizon.

"Inspector?"

"Yes?"

"That wasn't a break-in, was it?"

"No. It doesn't seem very likely. But, I suppose, anything is possible. The real question of course is why, Tailler."

"I see that, sir. Basic theory in fact." Tailler thought it through. "There were no drawers pulled out. Depailleur said that—Frederic, our buddy on the door. There was nothing broken, nothing taken, no attempts to open the curio cabinet, which was locked—some of those ceramic figurines were worth real money. My mother has the one. It's like a girl with an umbrella walking a dog. Really beautiful work."

"Oh, yes."

Tailler didn't much care if the man was listening, he was just trying to determine his own role.

It was beginning to irritate. No man likes to be made fun of, and cops could be cruel in the hazing, he'd heard that somewhere.

"Tailler."

"Yes, Inspector?"

"Would you like to work with us?"

Gilles thought the man would either fall down or jump up and down, stomping his hat and tearing his hair out in excitement. One or the other. The thought went through the fellow's mind, he saw it happening.

"What? Me?" He took two quick breaths while he obviously considered several options.

His eyes refocused. His face turned back to Gilles. The look on there was priceless.

"Yes."

"Done, then. I'll put the papers in tomorrow, all right? Tomorrow, wear a suit, okay? It's a symbol, Tailler."

"Yes, sir!"

"In the meantime, my eyes aren't so good anymore and the street numbers are either missing, misplaced, or so high up there's no way in Hell that a man can see them. And that's maybe another reason we need you around—or somebody like you. Because none of us is getting any younger, Tailler."

Sooner or later one must pass the torch. Tailler must not falter—but then he was so God-damned youthful looking.

"Well, Inspector, the place is a few blocks further up, and then one, no, two blocks south, or southwest, I think." He covered his eyes and glanced up at the sun.

Interesting.

Gilles flinched as a bus he had initially been unaware of roared past at a good sixty kilometres an hour. His shoulder was only inches from the large wing mirror on the passenger side, sticking out on ten centimetres of chromed steel tubing. Tailler put an arm out, and Gilles tamely went along as he wanted to think and the fellow seemed to know his way around. Maintenon had seen virtually every street, alley and boulevard in the metropolitan area in his career.

Everything changed over time.

After a while, he couldn't remember the names of the streets. At the same time, they had figured so prominently in his reports, and they had even entered his dreams once or twice.

His dreams often included streets, unfamiliar yet familiar houses, the interiors of some nameless and almost formless sort. The funny thing was, it never seemed to involve murder. It was usually just some odd strangers trying to tell him something important that he just couldn't comprehend.

"What you are saying is that there has to be a solid motive for the killing of Muriel Ducharme."

Tailler didn't recall saying anything of the sort, but he was willing to go along with it.

He still couldn't believe what had just happened, and yet Maintenon wasn't known for a lot of bizarre eccentricities.

He was just one hell of a good detective.

That was a sobering thought, for one such as Tailler. Someone had just thrown a gauntlet down, he could see that much, and it was for him to see and react to.

All choices were up to him. Did he want to do the work? His guts sank a little bit, and then resounded.

Someone had once said that behind every success story there was some element of luck.

Tailler crossed his fingers inside of his jacket pocket and said a little prayer.

"Oh, Lord, let me make it through the day without making a total and complete ass of myself. Amen."

***

The insurance company wasn't one Gilles had ever heard of, and while the premises were on a prestigious block, it was located in one of the shabbier buildings and appeared to only occupy one half of the third floor. There was gold lettering on the door glass, and one employee so far.

"Monsieur Ducharme? These gentlemen would like a word with you." The secretary stood, hand on the knob and blocking the inner doorway.

She seemed well enough trained. She didn't blench at what they all heard next, as he shouted into the phone.

"Well, tell them to go pound salt, then!"

He literally growled, not so much at the secretary or the men behind her. The man inside slammed the phone down.

"People are just so stupid. Argh." He looked up, and the lady pushed the door all the way open and then they stepped in.

His face lit up and he stood. Benoit's face was tanned from fresh air and sunshine. Golf photos on the wall behind him attested as to how that had happened. He wore a brown suit with a coarse hounds-tooth weave. He was built like a barrel, with a big, wide face and a round head, with little ears, also rounded. Benoit was inclining to a bit of fat under the chin. His face was still relatively smooth and young, with laugh crinkles at the corners of the eyes. He was also quite a bit shorter than his younger brother Olivier.

"Gentlemen! Please, come in."

The secretary cleared her throat and he turned to look at her.

"Perhaps some tea or coffee for the gentlemen?" He made an inquiring glance at the strangers, one well dressed and one uniformed cop obviously attending on business.

They shook their heads regretfully.

"Sir, these men are from the Surete."

His mouth opened and his face went slack.

"Yes, of course."

Gilles stepped forward, ahead of Tailler, who, predictably enough, pulled out his notebook and looked at his watch. He wrote a heading, time and date, the name...

"Are you Benoit Ducharme?"

Open-mouthed, the man nodded, eyes riveted on Gilles.

"Yes...?"

"I am afraid we have some bad news for you."

"Perhaps you would like to sit down, sir." Tailler seemed to have both empathy and a take-charge attitude that Gilles liked.

Tailler looked at the secretary and nodded firmly, and Gilles was impressed to see her scoot off, after closing the door ever so gently behind her. Presumably she would boil lots and lots of water, or tear up sheets for bandages or something.

When Tailler had pushed the chair in just so and Gilles had taken a seat, Gilles remained silent for a minute, and then nodded at Tailler. Without skipping a beat, Tailler broke the news to the gentleman as gently as he could, but he must inform him that his mother was dead.

She had been brutally murdered.

Could the gentleman suggest anyone who might have had any reason for doing this terrible thing...?

Benoit had all the usual reactions. He seemed a man in control of his emotions, or at least his outer demeanor. Benoit said all the usual things, and asked all the usual questions. Benoit didn't cry, although he did appear shaken. He found anger at some of their questions, but no more than appeared natural to Gilles.

They patiently talked him down again.

They were just discussing inheritance, and what everyone had sort of been led to expect. That meant the brothers, any grandchildren, and other beneficiaries.

"The body will be returned to the family as quickly as humanly possible, after the autopsy."

That was how Tailler put it. He had a way of phrasing it circumspectly, worming his way in, working his way towards asking certain questions, understanding that the entire family were victims, and they had to tread very, very carefully so as not to give offence. They also needed to know a few things.

Gilles had had a minimum of input into the interview.

Gilles was more and more impressed with Tailler with each passing minute. True, much of it was right out of the book. The point was that the man had actually read the thing. Too many people promptly forgot everything they had ever known under any kind of stress. The fellow had been parachuted into a situation, and he very quickly seemed to get some kind of a handle on it. He had been given nothing, no more than the rest of them, and yet he seemed prepared to go on with it. When you got right down to it, any decently trained officer should be able to conduct an investigation. Most murders were dead simple. Tailler had the basic ability. They were all working alone, in the end.

He liked the way the man operated.

That pretty much told him all he needed to know about Tailler.

***

"Monsieur. We must ask all the usual questions, and yet this is a traumatic event in your life, n'est pas?"

"Yes, indeed, yes. I understand." Benoit held a crumpled handkerchief in his hands, but as yet hadn't shed a tear. "Please tell me what has happened."

"We're still trying to determine the time of death. Any light you can shed on your mother's circumstances may be of help to us. But, it looks like late last night, or early this morning, someone broke into your mother's home and shot her to death." Gilles wasn't spilling any more than he had to.

Gilles watched the reactions, the tell-tale giveaways that showed if a person was lying, or trying to cover up their true emotions. Benoit's blue eyes came up and met his.

"Good lord." Benoit shook his head, and looked down at his hands again. "Who did this terrible thing?"

Gilles let Tailler take over again with a quick nod.

"We are investigating and we hope to have more news soon. Can you tell us if Madame Ducharme kept a pistol in the house?"

"No!" He seemed certain on that. "That would be absurd."

"Yes, well. None of the servants, ah, nor Sophie know anything about it. We'd like to know for sure."

"Sophie? Oh, Mon Dieu! Sophie!"

"Yes. That's right, sir. But she's all right, in fact she was safely asleep when it happened."

Tailler noted Maintenon's small nod and quit speaking.

"Oh, goodness, gracious!"

Gilles couldn't quite put his finger on it, but people reacted differently to a death in the family.

"Can you tell me what you do here, sir?"

Benoit seemed relieved at the question.

"Insurance, and re-insurance, sometimes high-risk, short-term projects, as well as shipping, and other overseas investments." It sounded pretty glib, but people had a right to be proficient.

"Ah. Very specialized, then, eh?" Gilles watched Tailler write that bit down while he thought further.

"Yes, kind of."

"What's re-insurance?" Tailler would be a very useful man, if he kept asking stupid questions.

"One of the things we do is to insure other insurers. It's a way of sharing risk, and, I suppose, profit."

"Yes, but exactly how does that work?"

"Ah. Well." Benoit looked down at the desk and his eye was caught by something.

Holding it up as if inspired, they saw it was a cheque for a little over four thousand francs.

"All right. This is a salvage company, or more accurately, a consortium of salvage companies. One salvage operator has a property—they have claimed salvage on a sunken vessel. This particular one has simply run aground off the cost of Africa. But they don't have the resources, and so they put together a group that has all those resources. Like ships, pumps, barges, men, equipment, divers, you see? It's a risky business. It's incredibly expensive and complex to raise a ship, or a cargo up from the ocean floor."

"What does that actually cover?"

"Three months of operations."

"You have to insure the people. The divers and such. It's in their contract."

Benoit looked at Tailler as if impressed.

"Yes. And the vessels, the equipment, some of which may be rented or leased, and in this case, completion of the job by a certain date, including performance clauses and no-unessential-damage bonds with the owner's own insurance company. It's a very complex proposition, to salvage a cargo or a vessel." Benoit looked over at Maintenon more brightly, now that he was on his own subject. "This is not our usual, everyday business, but it's an interesting one."

He went on to tell them about a small shipping company running tramp steamers all about the eastern Mediterranean, as well as the Red Sea and the Persian Gulf. They weren't into oil, which would be more glamorous, according to Benoit, but small, non-perishable cargoes, for example oil field drilling equipment, machine tools, lorries and motorcars. It was all relatively small orders going to the shallow-water ports where facilities for big ships were perhaps not so good.

"I met the owner in school, he was one of my first contracts."

"And where was that?" Gilles thought it time to break in.

"The London School of Economics, Inspector." The answer was patiently delivered and only slightly patronizing in the gentle, confident tone.

"And of course all of that has to be insured. The rates for that are much more reasonable, as compared to the salvage end of it."

Tailler nodded his understanding, off in his own world. He wrote it all down anyway.

"You could insure a chain of shoe stores in Persia?" Tailler raised an eyebrow in query.

Benoit almost smiled.

"Absolutely." He took a breath. ""Or, I could certainly put a deal together."

He said he knew a lot of other insurance specialists and they worked together from time to time.

"You understand, sir, that we absolutely must ask these questions? And I assure you, that it is all very much a matter of routine?"

"Um, yes." Benoit slumped in this heavily-padded leather armchair, of the recliner-swiveling type.

"No disrespect is intended to the family or your dear departed mother's memory." Tailler again.

Gilles was more and more impressed with the young fellow with each passing moment. So he wasn't all clown then. Tactics of delay, even.

Benoit regarded them gravely.

"Yes, of course."

"All right then. I'll just ask away. Has your mother taken up with anyone new lately?"

Gilles wondered at Tailler's performance, as he got up and stood with his hands behind his back, and with a neutral and yet inquiring look on his mug.

"Ah...no, I don't think so." The tone indicated that it would be very much unlike her.

Those long, spatulate hands came up as Tailler made a careful note of it. Tailler refocused on the subject.

"Can you tell me if she had anything of real value in the house? Cash, jewelry, objet d'art, and all that sort of thing?"

All Gilles had to do was to sit and observe.

"Oh, no. Not really. She might have had a few things that would interest the lower grade of sneak thief, maybe some silverware, things like that. She liked nice things, of course, and she had relatively good taste. Oh, Mother." Benoit sobbed, finally, pushing the handkerchief up around his eyes and quaking visibly.

When he took the cloth away, there were small but discernable wet spots on it, and he sighed.

"I doubt if she had any real money in the house. Just enough for their daily or weekly needs."

He suggested that the head housemaid or the cook might know more about that.

"Can you tell us the name of your mother's doctor? And what about the family solicitor?"

Benoit dabbed unnecessarily at his eyes, as if afraid it was all going to break loose. His breath was ragged for a moment. He pulled his hands down abruptly.

"She was in pretty good health for her age. I suppose this will all catch up to me sooner or later."

"Yes, sir. You're doing very well." Gilles waited for a minute, watching him.

"Yes, of course." Benoit had trouble recalling the doctor's name.

A doctor right around the corner from his mother's, or so he said.

He had the solicitor's phone number and address in a rolling card file. They had helped in the incorporation of this business, according to Benoit. Tailler took the proffered card and noted the details.

"What about Philipe? Do you have an address or a phone number for him?"

Benoit shook his head.

"I'm sorry. I haven't seen him in some years. It is unfortunate. We really don't keep up. He has his own life to live."

Gilles knew an official position when he heard one. He wondered what the private one was. It might be something quite different. The sound of typing came in through the door, and somewhere in the building, heard only faintly, a door slammed.

The only other sounds were of Tailler's scribbling and Benoit's breathing. Sunlight beamed down through the high mounted windows behind him and the place seemed to be laid out fairly well. Gilles wondered if the business was doing as well as it seemed. A single claim might bankrupt them, one simply never knew. If nothing bad happened, it might suffice to generate a real independent income. The place had a certain lived-in look and the smell of long occupancy in the overlay of coffee, tobacco, and stale perfume and aftershave. The flowers in a vase on a side table in the lobby were a few days past their prime. He remembered that from the way in.

Tailler was going on.

"Ah, now. We need permission to go through the house. We want to see if anything is missing, and check the bottoms of drawers for gun oil, powder residue...n'est pas? That way we can determine if she owned the weapon. She might have had it on her when she came down the stairs." Tailler left certain things unsaid, and therefore left to the imagination.

Gilles observed intently.

"Ah...I see..."

Va ta faire foutrez! Tailler had actually impressed him with that one. Nice and casual.

"Oh, yes, strictly routine." Gilles made it an afterthought.

Benoit didn't object, and while he didn't give explicit permission, neither did he deny them. It was like he didn't want to commit to anything. It wasn't an unusual attitude. As the oldest son, Gilles wondered if Benoit would be the executor for his mother's estate. Now was not the time to press too hard.

"How was your mother's hearing?"

"Hah? What? Oh. Fine, in fact it was pretty good. You couldn't get much past her."

"Oh. Do you drive, sir?"

Tailler's question seemed to mystify Benoit, but he answered readily enough.

"A Hispano. A '30 model."

"Hmn. Nice."

Benoit seemed a little subdued by the odd-ball question. The phone in the outer office rang. There came a light knock at the door.

She might have heard something and gone down to investigate.

Benoit got the significance of the question, all right. Some of his thoughts were written all over his face.

"Yes?"

The secretary stuck her head in.

"Your brother is on the line, sir?"

Benoit looked at Gilles, who nodded firmly.

"We haven't located any of your brothers yet. Perhaps you would like to break the news yourself?"

With lips firmly clenched in a downward turn of the mouth, blinking back the faintest suggestion of fresh tears, Benoit nodded somberly and reached for the phone as the secretary went back to her desk to push the appropriate button for him.

She left the door wide open, but Tailler moved from his seat and closed it as silently as he could.

As if his back was bothering him, Tailler moved absently around the room, as Benoit prepared to break the news.

"Allo?" The usual greetings were exchanged, with some note of impatience from Benoit, obviously bursting to tell the news.

Gilles mouthed faint words.

"Which one is it?"

The response was indirect, but understandable.

"Amaury. Are you sitting down? I'm afraid I have some bad news. Yes, it's Mother. She's dead. It's terrible, it's unbelievable. It's awful, Moe. She was murdered. Oh, God."

Tailler's face came up and he looked over Benoit's shoulder at Gilles, standing with his hands on his lower back, as he twisted from side to side.

The question hung in the air, although the answer was self-evident.

Moe? A brotherly nickname for Amaury.

There was more excited talk over the phone.

"No, I don't think they are mistaken." Benoit looked again at the business card Gilles had provided. "It's God-damned Maintenon—I've seen his picture in the paper how many times."

He took another good look at Gilles as if to reassure himself.

"Yes, the police are here now. They've been trying to locate you. Yes. I'll put them on."

With a blank stare, Benoit Ducharme laid the handset on the centre of his desk and politely stood up.

"All yours, Inspector."

As Gilles came around and took Benoit's still-warm seat, Tailler stood close, note-pad at the ready to take down the details of the address.

He had a funny feeling as to where they were going next.

There was no point in talking to Amaury on the phone with Benoit right there and so Gilles had Tailler take down some information and arranged to go meet the fellow immediately.

Chapter Eight

The Mark of a Subtle Mind

"If this is premeditated murder, then it bears the mark of subtle mind." Gilles studied Tailler for a moment, mockery in his eyes.

Let the man go out on a limb with it. One never knew. A little bait might help.

"Think about it. If this was really a burglary gone wrong, we'll never solve it without a tip, and some hard physical evidence. I'm assuming nothing turns up, no one saw anyone leaving, no physical description of a suspect. So if I'm right—"

Tailler finished for him, nodding in total approval.

"Then we have a real chance of solving it. Right, sir? That's what you're tying to say."

Gilles nodded, evading Tailler's sad but beautiful eyes.

"Killers are essentially stupid, right Inspector?" Tailler thought it out. "What a tangled web we weave, when we set out to deceive—right, Inspector?"

Gilles inclined his head politely.

"And sooner or later, we'll find a loose thread—right, Inspector?"

The pair stood on the sidewalk, a few metres down the street from Benoit's building.

"Keep going."

"Yes, sir. They've given us a scapegoat, as it would be ever so easy to accept the break-in." Tailler at least wasn't being subtle. "Are you convinced either way, sir?"

"No." Gilles shrugged, lighting up one of his slender black cigars and puffing happily on it.

It seemed as if they would stand there forever.

"Wasn't there something about a scooter?"

Gilles face lit up.

"Yes, there is always the scooter." He grinned wryly. "It's a good thing we have you around, eh?"

"Ah, yes sir. I guess it is."

It wasn't a bad answer, all things considered. Gilles, feeling better about things, grinned politely and puffed smoke out of nose and mouth.

***

Amaury lived in the fashionable Sixth Arrondissement, but worked nearby.

"Well, we might as well do this."

Tailler agreed.

"It's only a few blocks, Inspector. Fine weather for a stroll."

Gilles regretted bringing his long black raincoat, but taking it off and carrying it over his arm wasn't really an option. The thing weighed a ton after a while. Lately the rain had been on-again, off-again.

The early mid-afternoon sun beat down from high overhead, glaring in the eyes even from under the brim of his charcoal-grey fedora. A line of tall white clouds hovered in the western part of the sky. Overhead it was blue at the moment, and the air was very clean. Gilles studied the faces as they walked. It was just a habit and sometimes he tried to put a story behind the face. Peoples' lives were written all over them, at least as they got older. They said you had the face you deserved at fifty. In which case, Gilles considered himself pretty lucky. His stride felt jerky and stiff and self-conscious, as if he hadn't been out in public for a while. The job kept one busy enough, but in terms of his personal life, the truth was that he hadn't gone out in a while.

It was too easy to sit home with a brandy and a good book, and go to bed early, waking up calm and refreshed by a reassuring routine. No doubt Madame Ducharme had her own set routine. Anyone that knew that routine could have ambushed her, and anyone else, a thief or burglar, anyone that knew her schedule from scoping the place out in advance, would have known well enough to avoid certain times of day. He had a feeling that timing was crucial to this case. That was about as far as he cared to take it without further information.

Tailler watched a pretty girl go past in the opposite direction, turning around and taking a good look at the derriere.

"What if it really was a break-in?" Tailler had a point.

"The question is, what would they have been after?"

"Yes, sir. It's only a little further now." Tailler would be watching Maintenon like a hawk. "If it was a real break-in, say one person, and if they keep their mouth shut, then we may never solve it."

Gilles grunted acknowledgment. Showing weakness in front of the younger men wasn't really an option, but his knee was killing him and he limped along, pretending to enjoy the air and hoping that Tailler could take a hint and slow down a little.

"Tailler."

The man held up for a moment, fully appreciating provocative looks from some of the young women. They all seemed to be immaculately dressed for the workplace, strutting along all prim and proper behind the thick-framed glasses, their feet tapping out a familiar rhythm in their high-heeled shoes. There couldn't be that many librarians in the city and probably not too many virgins either.

Another vague thought.

It was springtime and a young man's fancy turned to love.

"Tailler. Hold up. I've got a crazy idea. There's something I want you to try."

The younger fellow loomed closer, head bent down to catch the Inspector's words as this was a public place and it didn't do to just blather it all out where anyone could hear.

"Yes?"

"I wish I had thought of this earlier."

They stood muttering together as currents and eddying foot traffic paused briefly and then passed in fits and starts and seizures around them. Tailler's head bobbed in enthusiasm, and he seemed to get it right away. Some people would have needed several repetitions and he wouldn't have had much confidence in some of those people.

"Tailler. Another thing, why doesn't anyone know where Philipe lives? What's the big problem?"

***

Where Olivier was a tall, spare, balding man, and close-cropped Benoit thick and rounded, very strong looking, the youngest of the brothers, Amaury, bore little resemblance to either. He was slender, definitely lighter in the face and body, with a thick mop of longish blonde hair and a thin wisp of a mustache to boot. It was almost invisible. He had a beard, almost undetectable at any distance. Even up close it wasn't very convincing. It was when watching him walk that revelation came. Amaury walked very erect, and very free and easy in the hips, with his lower back arched and the sternum held high. He swung his arms, slightly out from his sides, with hands cocked a little on the ends of his wrists. From behind, he could very easily be taken for a woman walking along in a man's clothing.

"Gentlemen, can you walk this way please."

With all the mirrors on the walls, Gilles caught Tailler's unspoken thought and grinned in spite of himself.

No, we can't.

Clad in elegant evening attire, and this so early in the day, Amaury led them into the inner sanctum.

Tailler cocked an eye at Gilles but remained speechless.

They found Amaury at his club, The Blue Orchid. It stood up well on closer examination. It was fairly small and intimate although the neighbourhood was unfashionable, especially for the younger and the wealthier set. Gilles wondered at the rent on the street-level unit. Heads of mostly-male patrons, close together in quiet communication, gave a certain impression, as did the black, blue and red velvet theme and the décor of the hareem.

"Gentlemen, gentlemen. Come in, please." Amaury's suit spoke volumes about the clientele, thought Gilles, a kind of deep electric blue with conspicuously white pinstripes and a scarlet carnation in his lapel.

He wore were black and white saddle shoes and Gilles caught a glimpse of blue-black Argyle socks embroidered in yellow thingies when he sat down and crossed his legs like an efficient secretary about to take dictation. His aftershave was even more musky and pungent than Olivier's. As for Benoit, Maintenon didn't recall noticing it—it was totally unremarkable.

"So. My mother is dead—murdered." He shook his head. "Unbelievable."

"Yes. You have our deepest condolences." Gilles looked at Tailler. "Well, we might as well get right down to it."

Gilles studied the man, before plunging in.

"Your mother was coming down the back stairs when her assailant shot her three times with a small calibre pistol."

Amaury's mouth opened and he shook his head in disbelief. His eyes were wide and had white around the edges. To Maintenon, he gave the impression of an elaborately made-up porcelain doll, with those cheekbones and high colour.

"It was most likely a prowler." Tailler spoke up right on cue.

"But, and purely as a matter of routine, there are certain questions that must be asked." Gilles engaged the man with sympathetic eyes. "Please don't think me a lunatic, but was there anyone who might have wanted to cause harm to Madame Ducharme...Muriel?"

"No, Monsieur. The whole idea is ludicrous." Amaury's pale face, slack and trembling a bit in the lips, stared right back.

Tailler had his lines down perfect.

"Now the sword..."

Amaury turned in astonishment.

"What...?"

"It was the one from above the fireplace..."

Amaury turned from one to the other, as if they had lost him somewhere.

"Pardon me, Monsieurs?"

"The sword. Oh, I'm sorry, we must have forgotten to mention it. Muriel Ducharme was shot and then stabbed with a sword."

The look of sheer consternation on Amaury's face was interesting.

Recovering quickly, Amaury wiped his now-sweating brow.

"Oh, Mon Dieu."

"Yes, we are so sorry." Gilles apologized.

As a professional, he'd done it many times.

The real question was the significance of that look.

There was no real need to break off, in fact it might be a dead giveaway to cut and run too quickly. But Gilles would like to ponder further on all of this.

"May I use the salle de bain?"

"Ah, but of course, Inspector." Amaury led him to the door.

Opening it, he pointed down the hall. Gilles caught Tailler's eye.

"I'll just ask a few routine questions while you're gone, sir."

"Thank you. Yes, take good notes, please. Ah, I'm not feeling very well for some reason." Gilles headed off as if the mission was of a fairly high priority, the sound of the door's click reassuring in his ears.

Tailler was asking if the gentleman was married. The response was inaudible, but probably not.

If only he could find a phone, and quickly.

***

So far, no one had the foggiest notion, or so they said, of how the police might go about locating the fourth brother, or rather the second youngest, whose name was Philipe.

After returning to the office, while waiting for everyone's notes to be neatly typed, he briefly consulted with Firmin and Archambault on one of their cases, one involving the execution-style killing of a prominent counterfeiter.

Gilles spent some time going over the information they had.

It made for tedious reading, at times. His thoughts always came back to Muriel Ducharme.

There was the family of the victim, and then there was the scooter starting up at dawn—on a block where no one was known to own such a vehicle. Perhaps it was just someone's lover, leaving after a tryst. The need for secrecy might outweigh the concerns of police. Their canvas of the immediate vicinity had revealed no one who knew anything about it. One fellow had admitted he might have heard something of the sort. If so, then he quickly rolled over and went back to sleep. That was Monsieur Perrot, who even in the notes came across as a bit of an old eccentric.

Hmn. Scooter. If only they had something more.

Levain was nowhere about. Gilles looked up at the clock on the wall, and at Tailler, busy still typing up his own voluminous undertakings.

Gilles opened up a desk drawer and rummaged around until he came up with a ring of keys.

He took off a big brass one and a smaller steel one.

He found an empty key ring and put them on it.

"Here." He tossed them at a bemused Tailler, who snatched them out of the air like a winning goalie.

"Thanks, Inspector."

"You can take that desk. Lock her up when you leave."

"Ah, are you sure you don't want a ride?" Tailler looked down at his notebook and then at the page in the typewriter, his youthful face limned by the desk lamp and showing distinctly more character in the harsh shadows.

"No, that's all right. I'll take the Metro." Gilles closed the desk drawer and locked it.

Standing, he took his coat and hat and paused with his hand on the doorknob.

"We'll see you tomorrow, then."

"Yes! And Inspector?

"Ah. We start pretty early here. It's no nine-to-five job, as you have seen."

Tailler nodded.

"I was just going to thank you."

"For what?"

With a quick nod, Maintenon stepped out into the hallway and headed for the stairwell before the phone could ring yet again.

Chapter Nine

A Ball of Grey Fur

Gilles stepped into the foyer of his flat, unlocked the door to his apartment, only to be confronted by Madame Lefebvre. She held a ball of grey fur, one with big green eyes. It stared up at him from her arms.

"Oh, Monsieur! It is so wonderful!"

The thing purred and rumbled and batted at the ends of her string tie and Gilles felt his guts sink.

"Andre."

"Yes! That nice Sergeant Levain. He explained everything, and he leaves his regards. He and the family are going away next weekend. They really can't take it." Madame Lefebvre beamed at him in pure bliss.

"Er, quite." Gilles shook off his coat, damp under the armpits from the humidity.

He could distinctly smell himself, which was unusual for any rational man. A damp, dank smell, there was just a hint of sourness to it.

"Well, Monsieur. I have something in the oven for you." She turned and led the way to the kitchen as Gilles' thoughts raced.

The cat regarded him contentedly from over her shoulder as he followed along.

Damn.

But there was nothing for it. He could not think of a way out—there was no one he could call on.

They were stuck with the cat. Blast Andre, blast him. The smell was making him ravenous as he entered the kitchen, as the dining room was rarely used anymore.

She put the cat down. It was really more of a kitten. It might have weighed half a kilogram soaking wet. Grey, with a white face and chest, its belly and paws white as well, it ambled happily over to a bowl of milk set on the floor in the corner by the waste bin.

"Ah..." He stopped right there.

He'd never seen a look like that on Madame Lefebvre's face before. She was right in love with the blasted thing.

Lord, love a duck.

There was no use in fighting city hall, as people liked to say.

She bent over with her oven mitts and pulled out a large casserole dish, its clear glass lid revealing a dark brown crust as a cheesy, hearty aroma flowed out into the room.

"Oh, my."

Gilles took his seat, watching the cat and the housekeeper as she loaded up a plate. There was a salad as well.

She placed it in front of him and went to get him a tall glass of cold milk.

Sighing deeply, it was all he could do just to hold his head up a little longer, and eat the damned thing. Home did that to him sometimes. The nudge of something that rumbled and buzzed happily, circling around his ankles as he ate, was just the icing on the cake.

He looked up to find Madame Lefebvre's approving eyes upon him.

The clock on the wall said six o'clock.

"I wouldn't get too attached to him."

She pursed her lips.

"Don't you worry, Monsieur. It'll be all right." She smiled brightly. "Just put the dishes in the left-hand sink, and they can soak until tomorrow morning."

He nodded silently. Gilles didn't even know what he was eating, but it was pretty good as usual.

It's not like he actually cared anymore. That look on her face troubled him sometimes. He really didn't need mothering. All he wanted was peace and quiet, a glass of cognac, a cigar and a good book. More than anything, he wanted to be fresh for tomorrow, and if he had any ideas in the meantime, that would also be welcome.

Gilles shook his head when she turned her back to get her shawl and make her way to her own humble abode.

His mind kept going back to the look on Amaury's face when Tailler mentioned the sword.

It was the most surprised look he'd seen on anyone's face all day. It was either that, or the best acting he'd seen all day. Overall, line for line and scene by scene, he thought Tailler the best actor he'd seen in a while.

***

Gilles was having a wonderful dream. It involved a pair of young women, looking only vaguely familiar until with an unconscious start, he recognized Emilie. The dark-haired girl must be Sophie.

His mouth worked and small noises escaped him. It all seemed very innocent. They were seated on fine, hard-stuffed couches in a luxurious and elegant salon. Their lips moved but he had no idea of what they were saying. Yet his impression was that his own words made some kind of sense, even though he had no idea of what they were.

He was sexually aroused in spite of the surreal nature of dreams and the totally mundane aspects of this one. There was a rumbling noise, something stiff and bristly was tickling his nose, and the sharp claws in his neck brought him instantly awake.

"Ah...ah..." He had no idea of the cat's name. "Damn."

His head slumped back on the pillow. Outside his bedroom window, a light rain rustled the few treetops in the street below and the grey light was well advanced. He glanced at the clock, to discover he had awoken at his usual time: six thirty-seven a.m.

This brought thoughts of Muriel Ducharme, also an early riser. The memory of the lady, frozen in death, came back and he thought of the day ahead.

The cat nuzzled up under his chin, as its claws extended and retracted on his upper chest, perfectly content to stay there forever.

"Argh." Gilles sighed deeply.

Almost of its own accord, his right hand came up and reluctantly scratched the delighted animal behind the ears.

"Oh, Lord." The rest could remain unsaid.

The cat curled up on its side, sliding off to the left side of his chest, half rolling onto his back and Maintenon had little choice but to give the creature a gentle rub on the tummy, something most felines didn't care for in his experience.

Gilles couldn't deny the cat was a charming animal. He could not deny that he actually liked cats. It was the feelings that it engendered—the knowledge that everyone had forgotten the animal, that the thing had been practically abandoned without a second thought in that place.

A place he did not understand at all well, in spite of all that had been said.

"Merde." All the feelings of loneliness, and despair, all the thoughts of going through the rest of your days without a single bloody friend in the world, came rushing to the forefront.

It really didn't bear thinking about, and yet there was no doubt it would be pleasant to have a cat around the house again. He picked up the animal and brought it up to his face for a little nuzzle, the tip of his nose communicating certain elemental things to the creature.

"Little bastard."

A soft paw came up and batted him on the side of the nose and Gilles Maintenon chuckled.

He put the cat down and swung his legs out from under the covers. The day loomed before him, a lot of hard work and not much joy, but it was better than being on his own for very long.

It had been years since he'd had a cat in the house. It's not that he didn't miss them, but one became too closely attached and then there was the inevitable heartbreak when they were dead and gone.

After all these years, he still didn't dare speak her name.

***

It was eight-thirty a.m. when they stepped out of the vehicle and went up the steps.

Maintenon and Levain, with Tailler trailing along behind, strode down the echoing corridor of the city morgue. Tailler's suit-jacket was a medium blue. He was a bit baggy in the lighter blue pants and narrow in the shoulders, as if the jacket was purchased for a funeral at age sixteen.

His shoulders have swelled out since, thought Gilles.

Levain half turned to Tailler as they walked.

"Pay attention here. You may have to do this on your own someday." His grin indicated that he was joking. "No need to take notes, eh, the doctor's usually pretty reliable. And he knows how to spell all the big words. Right, Inspector?"

"Thank you, Sergeant Levain." Tailler seemed more nervous today than he had been the day before, but then he'd had a night to think on it, and to marvel.

They came to a halt. Andre leaned in and opened the door for Gilles.

"I love the smell of formaldehyde in the morning." Levain slapped Tailler on the arm and motioned him forward, looking carefully for any signs of green around the gills. "Braces a man right up, just like a fresh mountain breeze."

"Come in, come in. I haven't got all day." Doctor Guillaume was becoming increasingly peevish over the years but they were all getting used to it by now.

Tailler hung back until impaled by a glance through small round pince-nez. Guillaume had the clearest and soberest eyes that anyone had ever seen.

"Come in, young man. And close the damned door please."

Tailler sidled in closer, staring down at what was left of the cadaver of Muriel Ducharme.

"Victim died of multiple gunshots, any one of which would have been fatal within half an hour, more likely fifteen minutes. Suspect wasn't taking any chances."

He showed them the slugs, still tacky with dark residue, in the obligatory metal tray.

"Assuming no one came along and therefore no medical attention."

He even rattled the slugs around a bit as if to convince them that it was real.

"Point two-two calibre."

Gilles, Andre and Tailler all nodded attentively.

"The first shot, as one might surmise, was the one in the sternum. This was probably aimed at the heart, but with a small pistol trembles and hand-shake is more of a problem, especially if it was a first-time shooter."

"That's the shot that went through her hand." Tailler looked brightly at the doctor, who examined him over the tops of his glasses.

"How tall are you, young man?"

"A hundred and eighty-four centimetres, sir."

Guillaume gave Gilles a look.

"A little bit of muscle, eh?"

Levain snorted derisively as Tailler flushed.

"Right." Gilles looked at the slugs.

There was some deformation of the noses on two of the small slugs, and one was almost unrecognizable, torn and distorted by hitting hard bones on its trajectory through the body.

"Hence the second shot."

"Yes, young man." Guillaume looked up as if surprised by such profound revelation.

He seemed lost for a moment, and Levain coughed politely.

"Ah, yes. And that one entered the back, just under the ribs, in through the kidney, traveling obliquely through the body as she lay on the stairs and lodging against the inner rib-cage. Do the blood spatter patterns bear this out?"

Levain opened his briefcase and pulled out some of the prints developed overnight from the hundreds taken from the crime scene. They spread them out on an adjacent slab. Tailler stepped in a little closer and had a good look at the cadaver before coming over. After some perusal, they all agreed she had been probably lying on the steps when the second shot hit her.

"And then the third shot."

That was the third slug, the one in the worst condition.

"Yes. Entry into skull, instant unconsciousness, body would still take some time to bleed out."

Tailler patted his pocket but didn't take out the notebook.

"Time of death, best I can do, bearing in mind body mass, and the ambient temperature at the time of my attendance at the scene, is anywhere from about five a.m. to seven thirty a.m., which we know is too late because the cook came in at seven-oh-five, seven-ten or thereabouts." According to the maids, the place was usually a bit warm, at least in the daytime, and the old lady had a small heater in her bedroom.

"Right." Gilles nodded in encouragement.

"And now we come to the piece de resistance."

"The sword!"

Levain made as if to cuff Tailler on the side of the head, and the tall man ducked away quickly.

"Exactly. The sword."

Doctor Guillaume stood looking down at the photographs for a long moment.

"Well? Out with it, man!"

"Tailler!"

Gilles grinned at the tone in Andre's voice as Guillaume studied Tailler a little more thoroughly. The young man would hold his own among the homicide team's other members well enough.

"I believe the lady was already dead when it was inserted. The subject stuck around a while, in my opinion, because she didn't twitch or jerk when it went in. And yet it still might have taken her a while to go, a minute or two anyway."

"Which implies...?" Now it was Levain who was getting ahead of himself.

"This implies, my dear Andre, that it was a very deliberate act. Maybe even a thoughtful act, one not done in the heat of passion. Most certainly, it was not the sort of thing done by a half-drunken prowler, roaming the streets and alleys, on the lookout for easy pickings."

"Yes, I see what you mean." Gilles tugged on the end of his neatly-trimmed but greying mustache with the dominant right hand. "What else can you tell us?"

"The bullets were fired from varying ranges, as told by the entry wounds and penetration. As for the sword itself, here it is."

"Wait." It was Tailler. "The first one was from the farthest away, and the head shot was the closest?"

"Oui." Guillaume moved on, giving Maintenon a look with slightly raised eyebrows and the corners of his mouth twitching.

The sword was lying on a slab, on top of a clean white towel, on the next table over, on the far side of the corpse. Guillaume had taken his own series of photographs of it. He was thoroughly professional and had worked with the camera extensively for his entire career. They walked over and had a look.

"It appears to be an oval schlächter or schläger, I wouldn't call it rare exactly, an antique weapon, positively identified as belonging to the household. It matches the other one at the scene. Ah, let's see. Sticking out of her chest. Since that particular slug did not follow a perfectly straight trajectory, the blade cut and tore tissues on its way in, and the state of bleeding and other evidence in tissue cross-sections leads me to conclude that Madame Ducharme was definitely dead at the time of insertion." The doctor paused to let it sink in. "They stuck it in a bullet hole, gentlemen."

There were murmurs at this information.

The lab boys had taken prints off the handle, from the blade and butt end of it, and in fact there was still dusting powder visible in places. Those prints had yet to be compared with anyone from the scene, but one might naturally expect to find the fingerprints of certain members of the household and the staff. Any unidentifiable prints might have come from the killer.

"Very well."

Voices and footsteps traveled down the hallway and on the other side of the heavy door. The noise of trolley wheels rose and fell, as there was inevitably, on virtually every cart ever built by the hand of man, at least one square wheel or one axle that needed greasing. Then it faded away.

"General state of health, good. Stomach contents confirm the cook's statements. All that sort of thing. This matches with what Doctor Thibault, her family doctor had to say. She was one healthy old woman. I was on the phone with him for half an hour, and he's agreed to send her records over. I'll have fuller reports by lunchtime."

"Any unusual drugs in her system? Alcohol?"

Levain gave Tailler a look but Guillaume took it seriously enough.

"No. She's as clean as a whistle, and healthier than most at her age, even among a group known for clean living to begin with. It's a shame. This one might easily have had another twenty years in her before life really became unbearable."

Levain looked at the body on the slab and then at the others.

"Inspector."

Gilles looked at Tailler.

"Yes? Do you have an idea?"

"I keep thinking about that look on Monsieur Amaury Ducharme's face when I mentioned the sword."

"Yes. Interesting."

Tailler was insistent.

"What if it wasn't the same person?"

Guillaume, having drifted back to the tall countertop to one side, where he laid things out, looked up sharply from his notes and his slides and his specimens.

"That boy's got a brain in his head, Gilles." Guillaume eyed Tailler in a neutral fashion, as if seeing him for the first time.

"Yes, my young colleague. But the real question is why?"

"Ah. I know that look." Levain was disgusted. "The son of a gun has it all worked out. Now all we have to do is prove it."

"Is he kidding, Inspector?" Tailler looked from one to the other as Guillaume grinned, again in a non-committal fashion.

"Yes. He's kidding. We, gentlemen, are on our way."

Tailler helped scoop the pictures into Levain's briefcase, which Levain quickly snapped shut. The two men followed three or four metres behind Maintenon, head down and with his hands in his pockets as he wound his way back out through the morgue and into the dull light of a rainy morning in Paris.

Chapter Ten

Anything in Particular Strike You?

"Tailler."

The fellow looked at Gilles in the rear-view mirror. The vehicle sat where he had illegally parked in his usual fashion.

"Anything in particular strike you?"

"Hmn. It would be nice to have the gun. The lab boys might be able to get some rifling marks off the slugs. Hopefully the doctor will label those properly, one, two and three. You got a closer look than I did. Sophie didn't hear the shots. That's almost believable, given a very small calibre pistol, using the small slugs like that. Yet it was right at the base of the stairs, sir."

"I see." Gilles glanced at Levain, riding shotgun in the front passenger seat.

"Don't look at me." Levain gave a grunt. "I haven't had my coffee yet."

"I know just the place." A grin crossed Tailler's face and Gilles caught it in the mirror.

"What?"

Tailler looked.

"Oh, nothing. It's just that I'll be quickly making myself indispensible around here."

Levain's howl could be heard through the bus windows, closed up as they were to keep out the rain and smog, but startled faces looking down at them confirmed it.

Gilles grinned.

"Coffee it is, then."

Levain looked over.

"What else strikes you, Tailler?"

"The Inspector made a phone call. Am I right Inspector? When you said you had to use the toilette in Amaury's office?" Emboldened by the silence, Tailler continued. "You had him followed—or his phone tapped—or something like that, am I right, Inspector?"

He craned his neck and looked around in confident expectation.

"Watch where you are driving, Tailler."

The young man hastily corrected, shortly before colliding with a trio of male cyclists coming the other way. Their comments and gestures were eminently predictable.

Gilles met the accusing eyes of an astonished Levain.

"Oh, I'm sorry—you were off somewhere dealing with a stray cat, as I recall."

Then it was Tailler's turn to howl, with his window open, causing a flock of pigeons contentedly strutting across a small cobbled square, only a few feet from rushing wheels on either side, to burst into noisy flight.

"The truth is that my request for a phone tap was refused on insufficient grounds." And there was no surfeit of warm bodies at that particular moment in time to follow all of those people.

He briefly explained and then lapsed into silence as Tailler and especially Levain regarded him in sour suspicion.

"Don't worry, all we need is a little something. Give them what they need, they'll authorize it."

This explanation was mostly for Tailler's benefit.

***

"Good morning, gentlemen." Hubert sat at his desk, in the far corner, reading over the notes from the counterfeiting-murder case.

He was making sure the names and dates tallied with those in the handwritten notes, which was a necessary but tedious task. His job, not being directly involved, was to look for errors of fact and logic. It was worse than editing letters to the student paper, which he had done at the academy.

How could he ever guess what might have been left out? If it wasn't in the notes it wouldn't be in the reports. Yet you got used to it after a while. He sipped at his coffee and ignored the long ash and the trails of smoke going off everywhere as another Gitanes burned up in the ashtray.

It was a dirty, filthy habit, but better than smoking them, as Levain had told him once.

Gilles, as befitting his senior status and having responsibility for anything up to eight or ten officers in his section at a time, had a large desk set away from the end wall. He had another desk immediately behind him. This desk held his typewriter, for he wrote up his own reports just like everyone else. With other desks laid out in a C-shape around the perimeter of the room, it allowed them all to see the big boards, one put up on each side of the doorway, and to talk back and forth informally while working at their seats.

They filed in, taking off coats and hats and checking for messages.

There was an envelope lying on Gilles desk, on the central clear portion where he would normally work.

Levain's briefcase slammed down on his desk, and Gilles heard the snaps unfastening.

He slit it open, noting the fine arabesques of the monogrammed return address.

"Hmn."

Reading the contents, he was a little surprised, but it might make things a lot easier.

"Interesting." He stood behind his desk as they looked up, with Tailler busy checking his desk drawers, mostly to see what was in there and what he might have to get somewhere, somehow.

Presumably, he could borrow a stapler or get a fresh steno pad if he asked.

"What is it, boss?" Levain was pulling photos and files out of the case.

"We have permission from the lawyer of record for the estate of Muriel Ducharme to, and I quote, 'search and sequester' all premises and properties belonging to the estate of Muriel Ducharme, etc, etc, yours truly, sincerely and goodbye."

"Well, sacre, merde, that was quick work." Levain shook his head. "Hell, it's better than going after a search warrant. I think."

This last part was said in an ominous, theatrical tone.

"So. Benoit came through. I thought he'd totally missed that." Tailler had an interesting point. "It seemed like it went right over his head yesterday."

"He's not such a bad guy—just driven." Levain was better after his coffee.

He hadn't even been there and so it was time to shut up under Gilles withering glare.

"Yes, he did seem to avoid the topic, didn't he? Perhaps he has thought better." Gilles thought for a moment. "I suppose we'd better put some people on it."

"Okay, so I guess I'd better go over all the lab stuff, the fingerprints, the photos, the case notes from the officers on the ground..." Tailler was fumbling for some kind of direction.

Gilles grinned but said nothing as Levain looked out the window as if mesmerized.

Hubert got up and sauntered over to the left-hand counter, to a stack of stuff on the end right beside the door.

"All righty, then."

Tailler popped up out of his desk and went over.

His head turned.

"Boss?"

"Yes?" Gilles had his own note-pad open and was going over what they had learned or been told.

"Why weren't there any bowls? In the kitchen, I mean."

Mystified, Gilles looked up with a shake of the head.

"Pardon?"

"The cat, sir. No bowls." And he held up a sheaf of photos and began going through them, one by one, and sure enough, there were no bowls for feeding the cat or giving it milk.

Gilles came over and took a look for himself.

He patted Tailler on the arm.

"Hubert."

"Yes, sir?"

"Call the lab. You're going to need some technical people. One or two, no more. A photographer especially."

"And where are we going, sir?" Hubert thought he knew, he hoped he knew, but was also braced for disappointment.

He'd seen a few of Maintenon's little tricks and techniques by now, even after such a short time on the detail. The man had a way of getting what he wanted, when he wanted it.

"You and Tailler are going to search the house."

"And what are we searching for, sir?"

"Evidence of a homicide." Gilles pretended to take off the sloppy old hat of a bum or hobo, and strike them repeatedly about the head and shoulders in some half-hearted parody of a popular burlesque act.

They feigned panic and cowered from his blows.

Hubert and Tailler straightened up, looked into each other's faces, and burst out laughing.

Then they stood at attention.

"Yes, sir!"

"Yes, sir!"

Even Levain had to smile.

"And think about what you are doing. Just think about it. Okay?"

***

It took a few minutes to organize and then the younger men were off.

Without much inspiration and little further to go on, Gilles settled in to read reports, examine photographs of the Ducharme crime scene in desultory fashion and to loaf about the office in general.

Several things bothered him about the case. He reached for his notepad to write the key questions down. The first involved the family fortune. The Ducharmes were just far enough up the social ladder to have some worthwhile property, and who was in a position to inherit was definitely a good thing to know. At this point in time they really didn't have much of a reason to ask for prints from the staff and family members. That was a last resort, and one that wouldn't come to much if his rather limited theory was correct. It was either a crime of passion—some strong human passion, or it was a crime committed for gain. Gain of some kind...but what? The only thing he could think of was the inheritance, and four or five people to share in it. Then there was the long list of Madame Ducharme's friends and acquaintances.

The other question was the cab company. It would take a lot of phoning, all over town, to determine if Sophie Voclain had really taken a cab home. So far, they had nothing to contradict it. Unfortunately there was no plenty of other, more interesting ideas. The phone rang. Andre stuffed something into a file cabinet and went over to his desk and picked it up.

"Allo?" His head cranked around and he waved at Maintenon.

"Who is it?" Gilles' hand was poised over the receiver.

Levain put his large palm over the mouthpiece.

"Philipe Ducharme. He's at the front desk."

Well, it wasn't the first time.

"All right."

Gilles picked up the phone.

"Allo. Maintenon here. Who am I speaking to?"

"Sergeant Lapointe. The gentleman says he read about his mother's death in the paper and thought you would probably be interested in speaking to him."

"I see." So the man wasn't there to confess, which happened often enough. "All right, send him up."

"Very well."

Gilles heard him address someone loudly as Francois and then came the click of the sergeant hanging up. Gilles rose, and went to the far end of the room, to where an industrial grade of pencil sharpener stood clamped to the end of the counter. He wound around and around on the crank, doing three new pencils, as the pungent aroma of hot maple and fresh enamel tinged the air in an odd pleasure that took him back to his school days.

"I will take this gentleman. Please note any calls for me."

Levain sat behind his desk, playing with his own pencil. His eyebrows lowered and he glanced out the window.

"Sure, no problem, boss."

There was a knock at the door and a uniformed officer stuck his head in.

"Monsieur Ducharme to see Inspector Maintenon, sir."

"Thank you. Interview room number two, please."

Taking a fresh steno pad from the locker, carefully closing it up as the knob needed to be turned rather than the door just being slammed, Gilles sat on the corner of Levain's desk for a moment.

"We'll just make him wait a minute or two, n'est pas?"

Levain nodded seriously.

"Is anything wrong, Andre?"

The pencil snapped.

"What?" Levain looked up, mouth crooked, as he chewed on his lower lip.

"Oh, come on. Out with it."

Levain shoved his chair back to get some separation. Finally he came to some decision.

"All right. Word is, when all the other boys and girls were making it through their probationary period, and then started bidding like mad on shift assignments and detachments, your boy Tailler never bid on a shift. He didn't have any friends in the department, apparently. Nowhere in particular that he wanted to go."

"So, what of it?"

"He just took whatever the assignment of the day was. He was in the pool of unassigned officers. The funny thing is, he ended up with some plum jobs. He worked day shifts, for one thing. Everyone else has to take night shifts, and afternoons, the worst of all, but he ended up driving the Deputy Commissioner around. That lasted for three months until somebody with more seniority wised up and bumped him. They say he has good marks from the academy, incidentally."

"Well, that is their right." Gilles had an inscrutable smile.

"Yes, and Tailler never said boo. Maybe he just doesn't care. Hell, maybe he just doesn't understand the system—but then he never bothered to enlighten himself, either."

"And you are saying?"

"That either Emile Tailler is a lazy cunt—or he's a real thinker. I hope you know what you're doing, boss."

"Yes. But then, so do I, Andre. So do I." Gilles looked at his watch.

"I guess I'd better get in there. The trouble is, I don't have a clue as to what to ask him."

"Want me to rough him up a little?"

Gilles grinned.

"No, that's all right." Gilles regarded him steadily but Andre wasn't having it.

The sergeant had a few things bothering him. Gilles could see that. He would spill it in time, or maybe things would have to get worse before that happened. It was hard to say. Andre was a level-headed person, and as for Tailler, Gilles thought he saw a lot of promise there. Gilles would see that no one bumped him unless he really wasn't working out.

People like Tailler signed on with the police as a career. It was never just a job. Perhaps no one had ever asked Tailler what it was, but the man had a reason. Maybe he just needed a little reminder of what that reason was.

Gilles went to the door and went out without a backward glance, while Andre stewed over Tailler and one or two other things that had been on his mind lately.

His youngest girl was going through the terrible twos as people called it. He was labouring under a long-term sleep deprivation, which was just exactly what it sounded like.

The results were anything but pleasant.

With a deep sigh, he got his own notebook and went down the hall to the observation room and had a look at the subject. He would memorize that face. Sometimes all you could do was to keep on doing your job and to hope that things got better.

Chapter Eleven

Interview with Philipe Ducharme

The man seated beside the small interview room desk was nothing like Gilles had expected.

He entered the room, closing the door gently behind him, and the fellow stood.

They shook hands and introduced themselves. Philipe was about thirty years of age, and his grip was strong, dry and rough. He was balding, and yet the lanky strands of it were loose and uncombed. His beard was long, hanging down on his chest, and hairs from his mustache obscured his mouth.

Philipe had penetrating blues eyes of unusual warmth and intelligence, and yet he looked the part of a troubled man. Nothing he wore seemed to match with anything else. The rough brown corduroy jacket with patches on the sleeves and the stained red knitted scarf pretty much said it all.

This man lived in poverty—why? Why?

"Thank you for coming in."

"Ah, yes, Inspector. I read all about it in the paper this morning. I probably don't know anything that could be of help to you, but I figured you would be getting in touch with all of the family members."

"Yes. I am so sorry that you had to learn about your mother's death in such a shocking manner."

"Hmn."

"So."

They looked at each other across the table.

Philipe had seen better days. His overcoat was wrinkled and shapeless. The once-white shirt had a grey ring around the inside of the collar and some fluff-pills sticking up from long wear. His trousers seemed a bit big in the waist and the shoes were stout, workmanlike and scuffed on the toes.

"May I have your address?'

Philip coloured slightly.

"But of course." The address he gave was not immediately familiar to Gilles although the area was a rough one, with plenty of pain, poverty and deprivation.

"It's a flop-house."

"Ah."

Philipe realized that a word of explanation might be necessary.

"I left home at a very early age. We are estranged as a family, in some respects, although I understand the others still keep in touch."

"Yes. I was wondering why no one had your address or a telephone number. No one seemed to know if you were even still around, or if you were working or what."

Gilles regarded him with interest.

"I have nothing to do with those people. I don't have a telephone."

"Ah. And why is that?"

"Personal reasons, Inspector."

"Yes, some things are hard to speak of to a total stranger."

Maintenon left that on the table for later.

"When was the last time you were there?"

Philipe sat back, sighed deeply and put his hands on the table.

"Probably a couple of years after I left. I was still speaking to my brothers, more especially Amaury. Mother insisted I come for a family dinner---"

"You mean for Christmas, something like that?"

"No! There was no way. I couldn't handle that. No, I think she just wanted to get at me. It was horrible. Amaury conveyed the invitation, but afterwards I avoided him too. I knew I shouldn't have gone. And I've never been back since."

"And yet you can't tell me what it was about?"

"I can't explain it!"

"I see." Gilles thought for a moment. "And you never just stopped in there, looking for one of your brothers, or just to tell your mother that you were all right?"

"No. Not really. I mean—"

Gilles waited patiently.

"I mean, there were one or two times, I have to admit. I got lonely, maybe even a little bit desperate."

"So what happened?"

"I drove by, but I couldn't bring myself to go in. It was an awful feeling. Like total abandonment. And yet I did it to myself. But I could never go back there. It was all right for them. Benoit was supposed to go to the military, and originally Amaury was destined for the church. I don't know what happened there, but he was never really suited for it anyway."

"I see." Gilles wasn't taking a lot of notes, but he jotted down one or two lines for his own reassurance. "So, what's this about Amaury?"

"Yeah. I don't know how he managed to stand it there for so long, but he somehow survived it."

"Do you ever go around to the club?"

"What? Me?" Philipe shook his head, cracking a smile for the first time in the interview. "Not exactly my cup of tea, Inspector. Although, I did once borrow fifty francs from him. I went around to the kitchen door on the back there and asked to speak to him."

"Oh. What sort of a car do you drive?" Gilles waited, pencil ready.

"Actually, I have a motorcycle." He mentioned a popular make, and gave the license number and said the colour of it was yellow, on Maintenon's gentle prodding.

"Very well, sir. Ah. I would like to be able to find you if need be. Is this your current address? And do you plan on remaining there?"

"Yes. I had to move out of my apartment, as work is slow."

"And what do you do?"

"I'm a bricklayer, at least when there is work."

"And have you been in touch with your mother's solicitors, or at least Benoit, whom I believe---at least I think he will be the executor of the estate?"

"No." The tone was so miserable, so abject that Gilles had to inquire further.

"Trust me, Inspector. One thing I know for sure. I am not in my mother's will."

"Are you married?"

"No, Inspector. I am a confirmed bachelor."

"Yes, but what does that mean?"

"It means I was once married for several years." He took a breath. "I've been alone for, ah, a few months now."

It sounded like it might have been a little longer, but there were other ways to get the information. Much of what he was being told was unspoken.

"Was it so bad? Pardon my curiosity."

"No, Inspector. It was wonderful, but she's gone now." The nuances were now a little more evident.

"Where did she go? Did your wife pass on? That would be so sad, for one so young."

"No, she moved back to Hungary." Again Philipe hesitated. "After a time, after she was gone, I realized that what had once been could never be again. It was too late, of course."

"I see." Gilles' wife had been gone for years.

He could understand the man's point to a certain extent, having felt something like that himself on occasion. Being alone for too long did some funny things to you.

"What was her name?"

"Katalin."

Gilles nodded in sympathy. All of this was quite revealing in terms of the true essence of the man.

"What can you tell me about Sophie?"

"Who?" He was completely bewildered by the question.

"Sophie, your cousin from Rouen?"

"Sophie?"

"Yes, she was there. She came down from her room when the cook started screaming." Gilles was ad-libbing, but it could be highly-effective at times.

"What? I—" Then he clammed up, a look of total desolation on his expressive features.

Eventually, he went on.

"I haven't even thought of her in years."

Gilles wondered what, if anything, Philipe knew about Sophie.

That part hadn't been in the papers. The coverage, which was much the same in all the different periodicals, no matter how sensational or conservative their style, said very little about other occupants, family members, or other survivors, nothing other than that a servant had found the body first thing in the morning. No names were mentioned except the deceased.

Most of the coverage was about the victim and her contributions to charity, committees she had formed or chaired, and other good works. The reports said she had been shot to death, nothing more. With not much information to go on, staff had dug in their paper's morgue files and put something together to satisfy the cravings for the news.

It was a tightly-controlled official announcement, augmented by pictures and sidebars of other material. Gilles had refused to comment on his investigation, and his officers were under orders not to speak about it with anyone. Those were his exact words, fairly accurately quoted in the paper. There was a long silence and Gilles decided that this was not the proper moment to end the interview, at least for the present time.

"Will you be going to the funeral?"

Philipe gulped, swallowed, and stared into Maintenon's eyes, and then the tears came.

***

"When was the last time you saw Sophie Voclain?"

Philipe fought hard to drag up some memories, still sniffling.

"We were very young. Her parents, my aunt and uncle, came up to stay."

"How long?"

"I think about three weeks one summer. Anyway, she was just so small." Philipe still looked very upset, very distraught. "Practically a little baby, as I recall."

"How old were you at the time?"

"Maybe twelve or thirteen. God, I don't know."

"So what was it like living there?"

Philipe just looked sick, raising his shoulders and blinking back more tears. Gilles watched his face, which ran the gamut of a few emotions.

Gilles bit his lip and looked away, down at his notes again. Hmn.

He might have a few more questions later.

They shook hands again, and Maintenon was struck by the shabbiness of the clothes, the uncut hair and the three days growth of whiskers on his cheeks. Philipe was steady enough on his feet and yet the eyes looked haunted. The man was having trouble leaving, as if he was about to ask one more question. Gilles motioned to the door.

"I'll just see..." The uniformed officer most likely hadn't waited around.

No. He was gone. Gilles would have to escort Philipe to the lobby. They rode down in the elevator in total, uncomfortable silence, perhaps more so for Philipe than Gilles.

Philipe Ducharme looked as if he could badly use a drink, or a friend, or a priest or all of those things. He looked like a man who could really use a mother right about then.

Gilles wondered what the problem was. Why had he left, not even finishing school, when he obviously had all the opportunities and all the connections that an upper middle-class upbringing could provide?

Losing his mother was bad enough, even for someone estranged. Gilles could understand that. Maybe it was all too much for him. Maybe it was some undiagnosed but serious mental aberration. Maybe it was booze. Gilles had seen some folks taken by it when they were very young. It might be a combination of many factors, but one thing was for sure.

He needed to know more, a lot more about Philipe Ducharme and his relationship with his mother. He needed to know everything about these people, and there were too many things being left unsaid.

It was time to widen the circle of inquiry.

Chapter Twelve

Looking at Old Women's Clothing

With a photographer and a print technician still going over the lower floors, looking everywhere and documenting everything, Tailler was working the old lady's bedroom, taking things out and putting them back in. With no particular theory in mind, he began with the closets and those dressers farthest from the bed and the window. It was a fine old room, very spacious and quite bright with all the windows. Twin electric lights in the ceiling didn't seem to do much to add to it. They did throw some additional light into the closet.

He was looking at old women's clothing now.

The thought brought a sheepish grin.

There was nothing remarkable or unusual about the contents and he quickly moved on. None of them had the slightest idea of what to expect or even what to be on the lookout for. The technical people had given their names, but he had already forgotten. He'd forgotten to write them down, or rather he had been too shy to do it when they were right there.

His mind had conjured up crazy images of secret compartments, hidden rooms, and it was all nonsense. It was just a house, an ordinary house, albeit a little larger than most. Everything was of good quality, perhaps even expensive, but none of it much of an incentive to armed theft or a motive for anything in particular. He was just getting to the top drawers of the tall dresser nearest the bed when he heard Hubert calling from down the hall.

"Tailler! Get in here."

The urgency in the voice was unmistakable. Tailler stared, fixated upon what looked like a buff envelope full of legal documents in the left side of the second drawer from the top.

He could have sworn that the thin blue scrawl on the front read 'Last Will and Testament.'

Muriel Ducharme.

Tailler nodded sharply, he'd have to consult with the others before opening it anyway.

"Coming." He left the drawer open as a reminder and went off to find Hubert. Not that he was likely to forget.

"I'm in here."

Tailler found the door to Sophie's room open and Hubert, wearing white cotton gloves just as they all were, standing near a low dressing table. The drawer on the top right was open, pulled out fully and hanging on a slight angle in consequence.

"Voila."

"Well, I'll be damned." Tailler gazed down in sad disillusionment.

There was a box of .22-calibre ammunition, way at the back, barely visible under a pasteboard box of facial tissues. The box had been opened, and reclosed, judging by the marks on the folding tabs on the end. Tailler bent in close and had a look.

"All right. Get the lab boys up here. I want all this fully documented." Hubert was in charge of this little party and he wanted things done right.

Tailler went down the hallway and stood at the top of the stairs. He bellowed to those below to get up there and bring all their bags of tricks. A moment later the sound of heavy footsteps rewarded Hubert's patience as all three of them came trooping in.

"All right, Tailler. Get your notepad."

Tailler gave a pained look and dug in his voluminous side pocket.

The photographer began with a series of shots of the room, the dresser, and the drawer. Getting in closer and closer, shooting the offending box of cartridges multiple times, bracketing his shots for exposure and timing, they watched in silence. The only sound was the popping of the flashbulb and the fainter sounds of distant traffic through the closed windows. The fingerprint technician laid his heavy case on the bed, waiting his turn and looking around at what was an otherwise fine room except that everything in it was one shade of pink after another. The overall effect was hideous. There must have been thirty different tones of pink in that room.

Hubert wondered how anyone, even a woman, especially a young and stylish woman, for he'd heard all about her, could ever live there or how they could endure it even for a moment.

Hopefully it was worth it.

"All right, Luc. Your turn." Hubert resisted the urge to snap his fingers.

"Stand back out of the light, please, gentlemen." The technician began gently applying the dust to the suspect areas, although any prints on the intricate brass pulls of the dresser would be fragmentary at best.

With a look at Tailler, Hubert took the photographer aside, back to the open door of the hallway.

"That makes the rest of the house even more important." He looked at Tailler. "You have a question."

Tailler nodded, almost unable to speak. Hubert was much more brusque than the senior men, with the exception of Levain, whom Tailler at least sort of understood. He was a sergeant, and he expected the men to be competent, which was just what Tailler didn't feel, mostly.

Not yet, anyway. Tailler knew a little something about sergeants. That much was true.

"I've found an envelope. It may be some legal documents. I'm not sure if I should open it or not."

"Well. We do have permission to search."

Tailler thought about it.

"Why don't we just pull it out and see what it says? We don't have to take anything away, we can have Raoul take a picture, n'est pas?" Hopefully Tailler had the guy's name right.

Hubert gave him a look of grudging approval.

"I will be down there in a minute."

Tailler nodded.

"That's all I ask."

***

Gilles came in from a quick lunch at a cafe not far from the Quai.

"Are the boys back yet?"

"Ah, no. They should have called by now, one would think."

"Never mind." Gilles looked at his watch.

His face lifted in recognition as the clump of heavy feet sounded in the outer corridor and cheerful voices announced that they bore glad tidings.

***

"Okay, Inspector."

Hubert cleared his throat.

"We have a box of 22-calibre cartridges. It has been opened and there are six missing. Found in Sophie's room."

He held up an evidence envelope, clearly labeled and initialed by the four officers.

"Unfortunately, there are no prints."

"Whoa!" Levain sat up. "I wasn't expecting that!"

His joke bombed completely but it didn't seem to bother him very much.

Hubert, Tailler, and the technicians stood there grinning and looking at each other in happy conspiracy.

"Don't tell me there's more." Gilles' voice was flat, incisive.

"Oh, wait until you get a look at the pictures. But, simply put, we have the will. They all inherit equally—even Philipe, Inspector."

Tailler stood tall in triumph.

"And there's more—" Hubert's eyes gleamed and the fingerprint man nodded in glee.

"We searched every room, including storage, closets, the attic, and the boy's rooms. They're all still made up, like it was yesterday. They are, ah, a little stuffy. She never changed a thing, boss." Tailler was doing something with his eyebrows and Gilles' patience was stretched tight. "It's like a shrine in those rooms."

Tailler grinned at the incongruity of the expression.

"Go on, go on." Gilles felt his patience ebbing.

They were just dying to tell him something.

Tailler put his hand into his pocket with a special look on his face. He reached over and gently placed a curious object onto Gilles desk, and taking a second one, he tossed it casually in the general vicinity of Levain's lap as Andre flung out an arm to grab it.

He stood there juggling a couple more, one-two-one-two-one-two...

Gilles glared at him so he stopped.

"What? What in the hell is that?"

"It's a penile ring, Inspector." Deadpan, Hubert looked at Tailler and then Levain. "I'm surprised you guys don't recognize them things." Tailler and the technical men sniggered outrageously.

"...a penile ring...?" Gilles's mouth dropped open. "Did they all have them?"

Four grinning faces nodded at him, eyes shining.

"All right...all right..." He thought furiously.

It struck him that up until now, they simply had no idea of what kind of a mother Muriel Ducharme might have been—although the penile rings, which were a circle of stout metal with sharp points all round the inner circumference, were obviously a prime indicator of that.

And he had asked Philipe what is was like living there! No wonder he was so reluctant.

Where to begin? Where would one begin? A series of thoughts flashed through his mind.

She must have been strict, domineering, and repressive, maybe even unusually so. It was not exactly unheard of. Muriel Ducharme might well believe that masturbation, hell, even just a plain, good old erection, was a mortal sin. Or maybe that it led to insanity. Or that it indicated sinful thoughts. That's all it would take, really, for some mothers. He wondered what her boys thought of all that. Not much, probably, in the grand scheme of things, and yet they were dependent on their mother for so many desirable things, including food, shelter and clothing. Schools, and books, and pocket money.

The penile ring was a device meant to prevent boys of a certain age, the age of puberty, from having a nocturnal or involuntary erection. The pain inflicted by those sharp points would immediately awaken them. For that way led to certain damnation and infernal torment. Doctors recommended them for their patients. Some of those patients would be unhappy mothers, and they were readily available at the chemist's shop, admittedly kept behind the counter and not on display.

"And you were looking for a motive for homicide, Inspector."

Oh, so Tailler was a comic now.

Even Maintenon smiled.

The gales of laughter that ensued did nothing to deter the Inspector's enthusiasm for this latest discovery. He was sure it meant something. Finally, they had something that gave him a clear look into the mind of Muriel Ducharme—and her four boys. And who knows, maybe into Sophie's as well, and possibly even the younger female servants.

"No prints on the box, Gilles. Or any of the bullets."

"Yes—and left in a drawer, too." He shook his head in disbelief.

***

"Question. Was Sophie alone?"

"That's a good question, Boss. So how do we go about finding out?" Levain spoke up first.

He gave Gilles a special look, drumming his fingers on his desktop in subtle counterpoint.

Gilles considered it.

"You mean at the party?" Tailler asked. "Or when she came home?"

Maintenon gave him a thoughtful look.

"That's a good point." They waited, and worked it out as best they could.

Gilles wasn't being too helpful.

"We need to find some of the people that were at that party, and see who else was there, and who she was with." Hubert filled in the blanks and Tailler looked on in a kind of surreal fascination. "Maybe someone took her home and dropped her off."

"And maybe someone came up..." Levain nodded with a grin. "...for a nightcap."

One minute they had nothing, and the next minute things seemed to be going very fast.

"Yes." Gilles paused, lost in thought.

"Gilles?" Levain wanted to keep him on track.

"Yes?"

"Why don't Tailler and I find out?" Levain's face was carefully composed.

"Ah...yes, why not. And I can find plenty of work for Hubert."

Tailler, still shuffling through pages of notes, looking for names and addresses of the girls she said she had been with, looked up at Levain.

"Where do you want to start first?"

Levain shrugged, as Tailler came over and sat on the corner of Firmin's vacant desk, still flipping through pages of notes.

"Let's talk to the people that had that party." Tailler quickly found it. "Ah, Beaupre. That's the one."

Gilles held up a hand.

"Hubert. No one wants to talk about why Philipe is estranged from the family. In fact they all seem to shy away from it. It's possible they just don't know, although that seems unlikely. What, was he just gone one morning? Someone would have remarked on it. Mother would have had to make some kind of explanation. Even if untrue. So far we have had no real reason to press. Not as long as the sneak-thief theory prevails. I admit that. But I would like to know why?"

Tailler looked on with interested eyes, but refrained from input.

"Something bad happened?"

"Yes, and so far we have been too shy to ask. Out of decency and respect for the dead. And the living. Hah."

He looked over at Levain. Levain looked at the coat-rack, trying to decide if he should take his overcoat or not. The season was warming up quickly. He looked at the telephone, he looked and listened to Tailler.

"Hubert."

"Yes, sir?"

"We'll need a car, and Tailler is busy elsewhere."

"Yes, sir." Hubert reached for the phone, wondering what was up behind those mysterious brown eyes, lost in thought as usual.

Maintenon had a way of generating fresh ideas. Maintenon would pull a big fat Angora rabbit out of a yarmulke, sooner or later.

It was one reason why they kept the old fellow around, or so the saying went around there.

Chapter Thirteen

Interview with Madame Herriot

Maintenon and Hubert, after ringing up Madame Herriot's home, discovered she was in.

Hubert drove like they all seemed to drive. It was a license to kill, an unfortunate expression which Maintenon chose not to use as it would be repeated endlessly among the more immature members of the team. It would also inevitably be attributed to him and these things had a way of getting around.

"Hubert."

As usual, Gilles sat in the back seat, which was better than banging his bad knee on the corner of the radio unit, and as Hubert was not particularly tall, he had the seats all the way forward. There was plenty of legroom back there. With the driver's side window open, and his own window open a few centimetres, the temperature inside was bearable. They were having an unusually sunny moment. Gilles was wondering how to pry a secret from a faithful staff member who did not wish to talk and could not be compelled. While she was not a serious suspect, stranger things had been known to happen. That bore some examination as well.

Hubert's boyishly long hair, with one lock dangling precipitously over one eye, regarded him in the mirror.

"Sir?"

"Slow down."

"Yes, sir."

He tried, he really did, but he just couldn't seem to do it.

"So, Inspector."

Lost in thought, it took Gilles a moment to reply.

"Yes?"

"They all stand to get a little money. Maybe even quite a lot, depending on their personal circumstances."

"Yes, it certainly looks that way." According to the terms of the will Tailler had found and the techs photographed, the four boys inherited equally. "And they all have cars."

They could get about without using taxis or public transportation, a much more anonymous mode of travel. According to Tailler, Amaury had a brand-new Peugeot 201.

Hubert had painstakingly copied out the terms and it was simple enough in the details. He'd briefly skimmed through it before leaving. There were funds set aside for Sophie's schooling, small bequests to staff members, not unusual in a woman of her class, and a percentage of the total had been relegated to a host of charities. These were all of a religious or missionary type—she apparently had a thing for girls in convents, not so much the nuns in Europe as for education in Africa, India, and places like that.

That percentage was to be divided evenly across the board.

So far they didn't really know the total amount, but the building itself was worth a considerable sum.

"And even Phillipe—"

"Yes."

Not exactly phrased as a question, but it would be good to know some facts. Philipe had left home very young, and yet the old lady had not cut him out of her will. He said he hadn't been around in years, too.

That was the trouble with a murder investigation. Only one trail led to the killer, all other trails were bogus. They all had to be followed up, and yet at this point Gilles still couldn't rule out a random burglary-gone-wrong, which were notoriously hard to solve by mere detective work when there was a minimum of physical evidence.

If that was the case, they could only hope that someone knew something about the crime. The police could only hope that they would either come forward voluntarily, or that someone in trouble with the law would have knowledge, even if it was just a rumour. Knowledge that could be used as a bargaining chip. That sort of thing took a lot of time, and sometimes years went by before they got a solid tip.

"So what are we after?"

"I don't know—that is the hell of it."

"But it has to be something bad, right, Inspector?"

Gilles smiled thinly.

He thought about it for a moment.

"Yes, Hubert. Philipe did not leave because of a...a win."

"A what?"

Gilles tried again.

"He did not leave because he won the Olympic skiing event. He did not leave because he got a really good job in Argentina—not at that age. It must have been some strong disagreement."

"Philosophical differences?"

"Hah!" Gilles took another look at Hubert. "That's a good one."

The answer was long in the making.

Finally he spoke.

"No. I don't think it was philosophical differences—but you never know, eh?"

"Just a couple more blocks now, Inspector."

Philosophical differences.

That was one way of putting it.

***

Therese Herriot was looking for new employment, judging by the newspapers scattered all over her dining room table, the dull grey mass of the want-ads looking dismal enough in spite of the large overhead light fixture and a bay window on the end of the dining room.

Sighing, she looked up from where she sat at the end of the table.

"The coffee is very good." Hubert was good with the older women, Gilles had noticed that before, but this one was evidently a strong and self-possessed person.

Hubert knew the way, though.

"Philosophical differences?" She had a note of disbelief.

"Yes. In short, why did Philipe leave?" Hubert had reassured the lady that it would go no further.

A small boy entered the room, bearing an uncanny resemblance to his mother in the strong, yet sensitive features, eyes wide with interest and Gilles wondered how long it had been since he saw an adult male in the house. Those big eyes were all over him and Hubert.

Pictures on the wall showed what he presumed was the boy's father, a typical poilu, complete with a pipe in his mouth and eyes squinting against the sun. War pictures always brought him a moment of sadness. Memories of the War had eventually faded for Maintenon, except for those very occasional moments of vulnerability, when he chose to wallow in them. Such photographs, cracked, wrinkled, and dingy as they often were, brought it back in all too vivid colours.

The silence was going on too long and he was sure she was aware of that. Rather than try and stare her down, Hubert kept breaking eye contact and looking disappointed.

"I really couldn't say. That was just a bit before my time."

"Yes, he was very young—" Gilles flipped through his notepad. "Around fifteen, fifteen and a half, eh? This Madame Girard, we haven't been able to trace her. She's mentioned in some kitchen accounts, going back a few years. You were employed while she was still there."

"Yes?"

"Did you ever talk of such things?"

"Well..."

She turned and engaged her son.

"Go and play, Marcel."

Never taking his eyes off the two forbidding strangers, although Hubert did a passable job of looking cheerful and innocuous, the lad shuffled out of the room. Gilles wondered how far he went. There was silence from the next room and yet Maintenon had the impression the kid hadn't gotten far.

"As long as I'm not working, I can't afford to pay for help."

Both men nodded their understanding, Maintenon allowing his gaze to travel back to the photo of her husband in some unspoken attempt at communicating directly to her heart.

"I'm sure you will be back to work soon." Hubert was optimistic, which was all right as far as it went.

The economic picture was unpromising lately and people were hanging onto their jobs. There might not be the usual turnover. With one such as Madame Herriot, accustomed to a certain salary and status, it wouldn't be so easy to just go out and find another job. Another thing, she was getting older now.

"Do you have any prospects?" Gilles' voice was gentle and considerate.

"Not really." She picked up her cup and nursed it a while.

There would be no rushing this woman. Of all the staff she had been there the longest. Her character was very strong. She would either tell them something or she wouldn't.

As if sensing this was not the time, Hubert sipped rather noisily at his coffee and reached for another biscuit from the small decorative plate she had provided.

"Hmn. These are wonderful." He looked ingenuously at his superior. "Are you sure you won't have one, Inspector?"

Dutifully, Gilles took a couple of biscuits, and found they were sweet and light and flaky in his mouth.

"Mmn. Mmn. Yes. They are good." He nodded in approval at Therese Herriot. "Very good."

Perhaps that was all it took, a little sensitivity. The lady sighed deeply and looked away. Gilles' heart soared momentarily. Her eyes came back to them. Her head lowered.

"You must promise never to tell anyone. You did not hear this from me."

"But of course, Madame Herriot." Depending on what came out next, there were several tacks Hubert might take.

Any sort of shock tactics would just shut her mouth for good.

Hubert had initially tended to conspicuous displays of personality, back when he first came on the job. Gilles concentrated fully on the wafer. Perhaps they should have come after lunch.

"She was very strict with the boys. She was also a little bit strict with Sophie, but boys are different."

"Ah." It said nothing, but signified much.

Emboldened, she went on.

"Madame Girard was a tippler." She stopped right there, maddeningly enough.

Hubert nodded sagely.

He looked at Gilles.

"Ah."

His eyes swept back to the lady.

"I think Madame Ducharme knew all about it, and that's why I was taken on as an assistant cook. When she found my skills acceptable, Madame Girard was let go."

"And?"

"She was a little bit drunk one day and she liked to talk. She told me the story. I don't know if it's true or not. Which is one reason why I would prefer not to repeat it."

"Of course." Hubert nodded in a serious manner. "A woman in your position hardly gossips about her employers. We understand your reluctance. We've thought about all of that, don't you see. But if you can help us to catch a killer, that would sort of take precedence, no?"

Hubert could so easily muff this. Gilles sat back, and thoughtfully eyed up the dish of biscuits.

"But she believed it?"

"Oh, yes."

That was a good question, and Hubert was doing well with her.

Gilles' hand snaked out and he took another biscuit.

His eyes came up again to meet hers. Maintenon bit into the thing and gently savoured it against his tongue and palate.

"So, what did she tell you?"

***

As they got in the car and drove away, Hubert's troubled, clear blue eyes sought out his in the rearview mirror.

"Wow."

Gilles nodded shortly.

"Yes."

Hubert shook his head in disbelief.

"Well, it just goes to show you, eh?"

"What?" Maintenon was lost in thought and far, far away.

There were a few moments of silence as the younger man focused on his driving. He looked back again.

"You can never really tell about people, eh, Inspector?"

The remark was lost on deaf ears, and the ever-philosophic Hubert shrugged, waggled his eyebrows up and down, and wondered where they were going next.

***

"Say what?" Levain's face registered complete astonishment. "Whoa. Start from the beginning."

There had to be more than just the bald statement.

"Madame Ducharme was very strict, very correct, and very, very Catholic."

Hubert piped up.

"Also, she had no critical faculties..."

Gilles gave him a glance and he shut up.

"Madame Ducharme was the sort of woman who tucked her beautiful boys into bed at night. She had the habit of pulling their arms out from under the blankets. Apparently she did that to each and every one of them, night after night."

"Idle hands are the Devil's tools." Hubert grinned fiendishly.

"Where is Tailler?"

Levain sighed deeply.

"He's out, chasing down some leads. The Beaupre's haven't been home all day. I authorized a car for him."

"Oh, really?" Gilles thought about that. "Well, good for him."

"So tell, already."

Gilles cleared his throat.

"Philipe stayed home from school one day. According to the story, as told by this Girard woman, he was about fourteen years old. Maybe a bit older."

Levain nodded, recalling what he had been like at that age.

"It's unclear whether he was really sick, or just faking, as boys sometimes do." Gilles' eyes were glazed over in some fascination with what he was seeing in his head, in the past, in the lives of the Ducharmes. "She walked into his bedroom..."

"And caught him wanking!"

"Hubert!"

"Yes, sir."

The meekness would not last, but Levain gave him a cool look as well.

"And so then, she beat him."

"Yes. According to Madame Girard, she beat him senseless. He was black and blue all over."

According to the story, she had beaten him with a cane.

Levain slumped in his seat.

Hubert looked at Gilles.

"My old man was pretty good with a belt. But, looking back, he, I mean, my mother and him, well, they must have known."

Levain gave him a sour look.

"What are you getting at?"

"Boys of that age go through a lot of tissues. Or leave a lot of crusty old socks."

Levain rolled his eyes.

Gilles' mouth twisted in a lopsided grin.

"Yes."

"But she was shocked? Completely outraged? And she beat him?"

"That's what the lady said."

"Do you want to put more effort into locating this Girard woman?"

Gilles shook his head.

"No. But it goes to filling in the picture of life in that household."

"And Philipe left just as soon as he could support himself?" Levain shrugged.

"Something like that." In Maintenon's opinion, the two events might be unrelated, but it was something to go on.

"What about Sophie?" Levain was getting ahead of the story.

"An interesting question. When pressed, Madame Herriot said, and I quote, girls are different."

Hubert snorted.

"Yeah—yeah. Sure they are."

Levain looked thoughtful. In a few short years he'd have the opportunity to find out, wouldn't he?

"Girls are different—they can get pregnant. Boys can't."

"Little girls are made of sugar, and spice, and everything nice, and little boys will grow into men, and men are evil to a certain kind of mindset." Hubert was irrepressible. "And man is the instigator. They pursue women, whose only proper role is to be chaste, innocent and coy. Submissive, even. Right?"

Gilles had nothing to say to that.

"So what do we do now, Gilles?" Levain was the only one who could get away with that handle.

Hubert himself had never tried. He had no intention of ever trying it.

"I think...I think...Amaury."

Levain's eyes lit up.

"It's a place to start, Boss." He thought further. "It sort of puts those penile rings into their proper perspective, doesn't it?"

"It certainly does, Andre." A strange and serious look stole over Maintenon's face and he looked very sad for a moment.

Heaven save us from over-protective mothers.

"Did your parents ever beat you, Inspector?"

Gilles' expression was priceless.

"Cheeky rascal!"

"We'll take that as a yes, then."

Levain rolled his eyes and reached for a cigarette. Hubert looked inquiringly at Levain, who pulled out a second one for him.

They had assumed Gilles wasn't going to answer, and when he did, it surprised them.

"Yes. My parents spanked me. When I was small, Mama used a fly-swatter, and later, Papa used the belt. And on my bare butt, too." Gilles smiled in a strange, fond remembrance. "Nothing out of hand, looking back."

His eyes stabbed Hubert, just about to speak.

"And no—it wasn't for, ah...sexual things."

Hubert blinked but said nothing.

Tailler came in just then, the brim of his hat just brushing the top of the door-frame, with a palpable air of triumph sort of following him into the room. The sound of voices in the hall was cut off by the closing of the door. A match scraped and sulfurous smoke twirled and eddied and caught at the back of Hubert's throat when he got a light from Levain. It was a flavour he strangely liked to some degree.

"Well, if it isn't the all-conquering hero."

"That's me, Sergeant Levain." Tailler, inevitably, not being anyone else and already pretty set in his ways, reached into his baggy overcoat and pulled out a pair of notebooks and his shiny silver pen.

Gilles wondered what all of this was costing Tailler. He must be a bag of nerves when he goes home at night.

"Ah, to hell with it. Call me Andre. Everyone else does."

Hubert's face came up and he made a face.

"Merde! There goes the neighbourhood!" It was good to see Levain loosening up with the fellow, as in Hubert's estimation the guy would be all right to work with.

He might even go far. There was just something about Tailler.

"Hah." Emile Tailler gave a tight little grin. "Wait until you guys hear this."

Chapter Fourteen

Where to Begin?

"So." Tailler seemed at a bit of a loss as to where to begin.

"Start at the beginning, please."

"Sorry, Inspector, it's just that my thoughts aren't always so well organized." Tailler glanced at his notes. "Ah. Sophie Voclain was unescorted, ah, not directly at least, by any males at the dinner, which was formal and expensive. The people paying the bill were the parents of one of her girlfriends. It was mixed company, and was to honour their thirtieth wedding anniversary."

"And where was that, again?"

"Hector's." Tailler pulled out a well-folded menu and handed it to Levain. "It's in the Tenth Arrondissement, on the Rue du Fauborg. Good place to take the wife." He meant Levain, being unmarried himself, and presently, no real prospects of his own in sight.

He didn't know much about Hubert at this point, although he did know Maintenon was single. Levain unfolded it, took a quick look and passed it to Hubert. Hubert was engaged, but on his salary, there was just no way.

"Egads."

"It's not exactly cheap, eh?" Hubert got up and brought it over to Maintenon. "I don't even know what half of this stuff is. Never even heard of it, quite frankly."

Gilles looked at it briefly. He knew of the place, but had never been there. It was way out of his price range, and for a single male, probably not much fun. You would have to reserve some days in advance. You would most likely get a small table by the serving doors unless a person was very rich. In which case, you would probably never have to eat alone anyways.

"The people she was with were fairly predictable types." He read off a list of names.

Gilles had a theory about human archetypes, the sort of crap he gave out in press interviews when he wanted to throw them off onto another tack. Either that, or he just ran out of options.

"Do any of these fine people have employment?" Levain had a note of some disdain in his voice.

"Ah. Maybe not that kind of crowd, Sergeant, ah, I mean Andre. But yes, the old man is pretty rich and they say he's something big in business. I have all that here."

Levain nodded thoughtfully on hearing that.

Tailler collected his thoughts.

"And then the three ladies went on to the party at the Beaupre residence. Along with this Abel Voisin gentleman, described as a friend of the family, and who I think, looking at the notes, is quite a bit older than any of them. Apparently he arrived on his own, and he left the party early by all accounts, departing for places undisclosed." Tailler was getting a bit confused by all the information he had taken in, flipping quickly to the next page.

"And there's more, I take it."

Tailler nodded.

"Yes. There was a young man, seen with all three ladies, and while I don't have his name yet, I think we might be able to get it."

"How?"

"Well, the lady in question is very attractive, and my impression is that the other ladies are unlikely to be, ah, dogs."

Gilles' head bobbed as they followed along.

"There are the girls themselves, and this other fellow."

Gilles squinted, but said nothing.

"You're right, Inspector—these girls probably all have phones and will talk amongst themselves, and we probably can't prevent that from happening without tipping our hand." None of Sophie's friends and acquaintances would be poor or working class people. "We'll be careful what we ask and how we ask it, right?"

Tailler was working along as best he could, but someone would have to help him out once in a while. Immediate family was first circle, friends were the second circle and outside of that was the third circle.

It occurred to Hubert, at least, that these were all assumptions, but pretty good ones so far.

"So?" Hubert chewed on his lip. "Who do you want to talk to? The host? Or maybe better if we see the hostess?"

"Possibly. But I have the names of three or four other young men, who were also at the party, and yet not seen directly with the ladies. If you take my meaning, and maybe we can find out who this guy was."

Levain winked at Gilles.

"I like the way your mind works!"

Tailler regarded the sergeant with a long look, seeking any signs of mockery.

"...and I was thinking that one of them might be able to help us...theoretically they might have asked, like, ah...who is that pretty girl with old Pierre...n'est pas?"

Gilles nodded.

He looked at Levain.

"All right. Who takes this one?"

Levain pulled his shoe off to remove a small stone that had been annoying him. The sound of it hitting inside the round metal waste-basket gratified him on some small psychological level.

"Hubert?"

"Yes, Andre?"

"Feel like a drive in the rain?"

"Absolutely, Andre."

Levain tugged and grunted and finally got the shoe back on. He laced it up again, but not too tightly. He didn't plan on any long walks today. Hubert's hand was already on the telephone, and Gilles' nod was all he needed to call down for a car.

Satisfied with the outcome, Tailler gratefully pulled off his steaming coat, hung it and his hat up on the rack. With no real direction from Maintenon, he settled in to his desk and put a fresh piece of paper into the typewriter. Tailler began typing out a list for them as they waited.

They weren't bad guys, he could see that much. They just wanted to see if he would be any good. He had that part figured out by now. After a brief hesitation, he found the beginning and began a rather efficient hunt-and-peck that was already showing signs of increasing speed and competence, as the tempo and the occasional cuss-word indicated.

Gilles Maintenon felt singularly uninspired lately, but he was chewing on his lip.

What they needed above all else were facts—that and a rational theory of the crime.

It was his theory that all criminals had some reason for their actions, which was basically the same as saying that motive was the Holy Grail of any homicide investigation. A compelling motive was the first nail in the coffin.

So far the only possible motives were theft or inheritance. No one had admitted to any big grudge, everyone said she had no enemies. No one new had recently entered the picture. In which case, why three shots? The first one would have put her down and allowed an escape. It spoke of making sure. Someone wanted to make sure. That one in the head, fired at point-blank range, said everything. The sword now...the sword was something else.

***

Madame Beaupre, via Tailler, had provided them a list of guests, although she admitted that some new people had eventually shown up, quite late, and some of them were unknown to her. At the time, she didn't make a fuss as the party was quite successful and they weren't making trouble or getting out of hand. There were a half a dozen whose names she hadn't quite caught.

Hubert and Levain scored a hit on their first try, using an old tactic. They were just dropping by as they were in the neighbourhood.

Don't ever think cops don't lie to people. Hubert felt quite sly and even fairly proud of it. They do it all the time. It was right out of the manual, which wasn't supposed to get around to the general public but inevitably did.

Sophie's friend Ginette Quirin lived with her parents at an upscale residence, in the St. Nom le Breteche suburb. It was over an hour's driving time from the Quai. With Hubert at the wheel and Levain squished in the passenger seat, there was time for the sergeant to appreciate the occasional bouts of sunshine. The country was much more open now. They had another name nearby, a male located five or ten kilometres further out. A few were central, and some of the other names were clear on the other side of the city. Hopefully someone was home.

They finally found it after some slow cruising and reading the signs on gate posts.

"This has to be the place."

Levain just grunted softly.

Between St. Germain en Laye and Versailles, the area had a mix of farmland and patches of forest, now all fully in leaf. Being so close to town, the roads were good although traffic at this time of day was light. The rain had stopped, and in the distance patches of the gentle landscape were lit up by the sun, bringing warmth into the spectrum after the grim darkness of the morning downpours. Many of the houses along this stretch were large, all on separate lots of their own. Quite a few had extensive beds of flowers, large trees in the yard, and long drives in from the gate. This one seemed larger than most. The grounds were beautifully kept. The farmhouses, which had been there the longest, were the oldest and smallest, and behind many of them lay open fields.

First they had to deal with a maid in uniform. Grudgingly, she went off.

Madame Quirin finally came to the door, a kind of fastidious disbelief on her face.

A tall, slender lady about forty years old, she stood in the doorway looking very unhappy. The maid hovered in the background blinking, trying to look deaf, dumb and blind and succeeding only in looking posed and insincere.

Hubert calmly explained to the lady that they would like to ask her daughter a few brief questions. Both men showed their badges, taking their time about it so as not to appear hurried with the lady.

She didn't seem too pleased by that, and not the least bit intimidated. Quite the reverse was true in Levain's observation. He stood back and let Hubert smooth her down. Gilles was right, the fellow was quite good at it.

There was the faintest tremor of distant thunder, and the horizon to the northwest was a very dark blue-grey, although Andre didn't actually see any lightning. Finally she admitted that her daughter was home and that they could come in. Perhaps the incipient monsoon and common hospitality had something to do with it and Hubert was being charming enough.

Luckily the father was not at home, having an office in the city. The lady of the house informed them that her daughter was a late riser, causing Hubert to look at his watch in a kind of wonder. It was mid-afternoon. She never thought to call anyone, especially not a lawyer, Levain noted with gratitude. They wouldn't get a damned thing out of them once the lawyers got involved and there was no real need as far as he could tell.

"She will be down momentarily, officers." The lady, tall, spare and beautifully dressed in an haute couture frock, all black with a string of large pearls around her neck and clearly smelling of jasmine, turned and went up the stairs looking for her daughter. The maid went bustling to the back of the house in response to some invisible signal.

Rich people were so seldom fat, thought Levain. The daughter might tend to ignore the maid, or not take it seriously enough. The mother was best for this sort of thing.

They took adjoining chairs in the part of the front salon furthest from the main entrance door.

Hubert folded his hands in his lap and settled in to wait.

Levain gave Hubert a look which he took to mean that he should be on his best behaviour. Andre had told him to take the lead in questioning before they knocked. Not particularly nervous, Hubert didn't have a lot of questions, but he would ask the more obvious ones and see if anything came up. He was familiar enough with the case and the routine. Maintenon had been sending him off on his own more and more lately. When he got to the end, he would ask Levain if there was anything he might have forgotten. That was his plan as far as it went.

He felt surprisingly good about it. It was a team and he had learned to respect their abilities.

They waited in the salon, not surprised with Madame Quirin leaving them there to cool their heels. She was distinctly not pleased by their visit. That much was clear already.

Police meant nothing but trouble.

"An inferior class of people..." A grinning Hubert whispered hoarsely and winked.

Levain put his finger up to his lips.

"Shush."

The wait seemed interminable, but it was only about eight minutes and then they heard talk from the hall above. The ladies descended the staircase, the younger woman looking fresh and vibrant with her dark brown hair thick, fully combed-out but not in any formal arrangement, and clad in a white cotton sundress and sandals. She stood out as young and wholesome, although her mother wasn't bad either, at least in Hubert's eyes. Her shoulders stood out as perfectly formed and her skin was healthy and vibrant.

Eight minutes to dress and come out looking that good—that's what Hubert thought.

Like gentlemen, they rose, and taking the lead, Hubert stepped ahead of Levain, making a stiff little bow. He introduced Levain and himself to the girl in level, reassuring, but businesslike tones as Levain caught the sound of birds in the extensive shrubbery outside.

The ladies were seated, Ginette in the middle of the pale, floral-patterned couch, knees close together and turned sideways, and with her hands on the edge as she leaned forward attentively. She had wonderful legs. Her mother took a low padded reading chair in dark blue, assuming a powerfully impressive pose, her hands on the ends of the arms. She was both upright but leaning back with her bottom firmly jammed in at the angle. She was ready for anything, thought Andre. Her gaze was more on the side of her daughter's face, while the girl made a slight moue, and focused completely on Hubert, ignoring Levain.

Andre turned and took his seat a few feet behind him, ready with his trusty pen and pad. Like a teacher or mentor, he settled in to audit Hubert's progress.

"Thank you so much for coming down." Hubert looked at Madame Quirin. "Now, I would totally like to reassure you ladies. This is just routine, but we, ah, we were really hoping that you can be of some help to us. Basically it's just one or two minor questions."

The mother's heard turned a hundred eighty degrees and she stared at a side door, as if listening for the mailman or to determine if the cook was really back there in the kitchen. The silence in the place was uncanny. Levain knew somehow that the servants were eavesdropping. It only stood to reason. They would be ready to rush out in defense. The curtains, white sheers on tall windows that went almost from floor to ceiling, billowed slightly so Andre knew the windows were open. The room was so big, any noise from out there was faint and distant. On a whim, he gave a little sniff, as something struck him as quite odd. There was no smell of cooking, or food, or dogs or cats, and he looked around and saw no sign of ashtrays, an unusual thing in his recent experience. They really did travel in different circles.

The girl seemed aware of her mother's attitude.

"All right." She bit her lip and watched as Hubert turned and wandered around some, putting his hands behind his back and looking down at the floor.

He came a little closer to Levain, as if studying the dark tiles, waxed to a sheen that went on for days, or at least into the hall as far as Andre could see. Hubert remained standing.

Hubert turned. His head came up.

"Honestly, Madame Quirin, you have nothing to worry about." Now he had her attention, and yet her mouth was set in such a firm line.

She continued to glare, and his smile did nothing.

"Oh. Yes. Hah! Why am I here."

For a moment Levain cringed, thinking Hubert was going to slap himself in the side of the head or something. The girl even grinned a little, eyes dropping, and with mother still set there in bronze and watching like a hound waiting for the leash to be unsnapped. Levain understood the technique well enough. Let's see what the boy does with it.

"We were wondering about this young man, the one at the party."

"Pardon?" Ginette looked at Levain now, as if in confirmation. "Which one?"

Her mother pierced Levain with a look. Hubert tried to keep control.

"Well, the one that was there with you, and Sophie, and, oh, was it Barbe? Ah, Barbe Eymard? And I believe..."

"Which party was that?"

Levain saw Hubert's jaw go slack, but only for a moment, and then he gave a boyish grin. He turned and exchanged a quick glance with Levain.

"Hah. That's a very good question. Well, I mean the one where the all of you went out with Delphine's parents. Ah." He patted his side jacket pocket but didn't take out a notebook or anything. "Ah, Tourangeau? Does that ring a bell?"

The girl's eyes went unfocused for a moment and then she gave a blank look first at Levain and then her mother, who stabbed Levain with another look, him seeing possibly a bit of paranoia there.

"You went to dinner, at Hector's, right, with Monsieur and Madame Tourangeau? Their anniversary?"

Comprehension and then recollection dawned. At last she knew what the young and decidedly handsome officer was talking about.

"Oh!" She gave a quick nod, and then tipped her head from side to side. "Oh, yes. So what do you want to know?"

"You went on to a party at the Beaupre's place? Right?"

"Yes. What of it?" Feisty, but what one wasn't these days?

Levain still liked her for it, and as for Hubert, he appeared to have damp patches of sweat at the base of his scalp where the hair began. Hubert was still a young man, thought Levain with a wry inward acknowledgement. This one sure wasn't a suspect, not in anything adult, anyway. She wasn't stupid, and neither was Hubert. She just lived in a different world. Crime, and criminals, would be the furthest thing from her mind. The events of yesterday were gone forever, for every day was the same, an endless round of pleasure and diversions.

He couldn't quite recall when he'd last been to a party, not the kind she and Hubert were talking about. Levain cleared his throat.

"That would have been, ah, June eleventh...sorry. Or the evening of the tenth." The older woman examined him from head to toe, and then seemingly she relaxed or breathed, or simply settled a millimetre or two deeper into the padding.

So it was about the murder, then.

No doubt mother had read all about it—and retained much of it. Well, her little daughter couldn't have had anything to do with that, could she? Something else, maybe—but not that.

She nodded at his odd look and then turned her attention back to her daughter.

"We were wondering if any particular young man, possibly even an older man, might have been paying any sort of unusual attention, or showing any kind of special interest, in, ah, your friend Sophie? Either at the party, or at the restaurant." The girl's hand had gone up to her mouth and her shining eyes and sudden jerk of the whole body caught Levain off guard, and Hubert, head down again, didn't appear to notice.

"Ha-ha-ha!"

Hubert looked up.

"I'm sorry, Mademoiselle. Did I say something funny?"

Even the old lady had a dutiful half-grin on her face, as her daughter turned and regarded her in astonishment and a couple of quick spasms went through the girl's abdomen. She gave a small gasp.

"Is he serious?"

Madame shrugged and, mouth opening, turned to take in Hubert and then she met Levain's eyes.

"Pardon?"

"You mean like a boyfriend?"

Hubert's jaw dropped.

"Er..."

"Or a lover?" Her timing was impeccable, and Levain could see why she might be a lot of fun to be around. "Or a sugar-daddy? Types who had offered her the moon? You know, like, oh, how would she like to be their mistress, and, oh, I don't know, maybe like set her up in a fine penthouse somewhere, some little love-nest up under the eaves?"

Hubert's jaw dropped further, and Levain noted the sudden hot flush of the fellow's cheeks.

"Ah." It was like his brain locked up just then or something. "Er..."

"Ha-ha-ha." Ginette sat up, leaned back and crossed those shapely legs, giving Levain a clear and appraising glance all of a sudden. "Hah!"

Andre had a lot more experience than Hubert. He resisted the urge to stare at those legs.

Hubert blew out air and looked at the mother. The girl had him rocking on his heels. She wasn't done yet, either.

"Or, how about some guy who just won't take no for an answer, or some drunk, sometimes two or three of them, all making improper suggestions, not shy with their paws, just having a little fun. And, and, I'm talking some really nice places, exclusive after-hours clubs and such you know, or, or, men who are just plain infatuated, and you can see it written all over them, with the innocence of lambs. Or, strange fellows you never heard of, calling up in the middle of the night, always sending flowers around, and, ah, would that be that the kind of thing you mean, officer?"

"Er...ah...ah...well, ah, yes." Hubert cleared his throat.

She was trying desperately hard not to collapse in stitches and Levain could see a certain irony in the question as well.

Levain bit down hard and sternly repressed his inner child and tried not to meet the old lady's eyes just then, although his slight head-shake pretty much said it all.

Andre was paying as much attention to the rest of the room as the three of them. The mother seemed a lot easier with things now, for the first time taking her eyes off any one of them. No, she was following the action intensely, and she came right back to Levain after a glance at a window and the clock. He blinked almost as if in acknowledgement, then looked down and sort of filled in one place in a doodle he had been making.

A weird habit. Andre vaguely wondered just how much it would take to keep up a place like this. The rich led such uncertain lives.

As the girl settled in for a long spiel, with Hubert still looking a bit sweaty, Andre was glad he had plenty of space left in this particular steno pad. It sounded like she might have an extensive list, although they were mostly interested in the night in question. Hubert seemed to be taking the right tack with both of them.

Just let her talk, and maybe we'll see a glimmer of pay-dirt in there. It would all go into Maintenon's fertile brain, and in time, maybe they would get lucky.

Chapter Fifteen

A List of Names

They ended up with a fair dozen males on their list, but one or two might be unlikely according to the girl's special emphasis, and there was probably more where that came from if they needed it. Hubert didn't let her go more than six months back in terms of relationships or crushes or squeezes or whatever people were calling them these days. At some point in the discussion, Hubert had the mother and the daughter in the palm of his hand. It was an oddly impressive feat, when the old lady began reminding and prodding her daughter about certain names.

Women of that type sort of relived their youth through their society daughters, and these two were close and on some reasonable terms, for whatever that was ultimately worth.

With no opportunity to consult with Hubert, Levain set one or two names ahead of the others as to priority based on what he was hearing. One name in particular stood out. He was at the party and had danced several times with Sophie. Immediately after imparting that bit of information, the girl went blank. To Levain this signified something of importance, as she was forthcoming enough on pretty much every other male individual at the party in question. She must have had a good memory. The party had seen as many as thirty or forty people at its peak.

To a girl that age, her social life would be the number one thing in her life. Simple psychology. So why didn't she remember the name of the boy who danced with Sophie? All she would say was that they were all leaving. Her mother was right there, or she might have said more. There was that. Her own privileged backside was on the line.

Since they were so close anyway, Levain used the phone in the back of the kitchen while Hubert chatted in animated fashion with the lady of the house in the front foyer, silhouetted by the soft glare coming in through frosted glass panels and wrought iron scrollwork beside the door. The girl had gone back upstairs again, possibly to catch up on her beauty sleep. Hardly necessary, but it would be very much in character.

From this end of the front-to-back hallway, Hubert sounded animated but reassuring, and in fact Madame Quirin had warmed up considerably upon the realization that her daughter really wasn't in any kind of trouble.

Levain sensed some underlying subtext, in fact that should have been obvious. One reason for what was sometimes referred to as the Prince Charming approach. Mother was worried about her daughter, all of nineteen years of age and out and about at all hours of the night. Whether there might be much more to it than that was someone else's problem for the time being. There was an expression for girls like Ginette. The word was 'gooey,' where that came from was absolutely beyond Levain but that's what the younger guys said all the time.

Gooey. Where do these expressions come from?

There was no answer at the number he was calling. They could come back later. It was a long drive, but they had a couple of dozen other prospects. Unfortunately, the young man at the top of his list was on the southeast side of town, and they were way out in the northwest.

With one final goodbye, Levain collected Hubert by the elbow and the pair stepped out into a glorious bit of sunshine, one that presaged another big downpour. The driveway steamed and the oaks dripped glistening drops and the birds cheeped in speculative fashion but kept it down a bit as if expecting more trouble.

Thunder rumbled, much closer now, and on that note the sky to the west lit up with a thin web of lightning.

"Come on, let's go."

Hubert's door slammed shut and he reached for the ignition. The big four-point-five litre engine roared into action and a hint of blue smoke rolled past Levain's window. Hubert shifted into gear and eased it around on the circular gravel drive, smooth but very narrow, and headed for the road out front.

"Where are we off to then?"

Levain had made a decision.

"Let's go see this Aron Saunier character." Levain read off the address and Hubert turned out quickly in order to get ahead of a farm tractor chugging towards them with some kind of cultivator dragging along behind.

There was another strong rumble of thunder and the woodlot immediately to Levain's right flickered in warm greens and strong shadows as they entered the forest proper. Small spots of rain appeared on the windshield. Hubert took his left hand off the wheel and checked his watch.

They'd be lucky to be back at the office by four o'clock or so. He might even get home in time for dinner for a change, if they played their cards right.

"Huh." He glanced over at Levain.

There were one or two names on their list, ones that might have been a little closer on their way, but he agreed with Levain once he heard the reasoning.

There were plenty of men of all ages interested in Sophie Voclain. This one seemed to have some favour with the lady herself, and of course that was the key. According to Ginette, she'd been dancing with him once or twice at parties and that was about all she said. Hmn.

She slow danced with him, according to Ginette and did polkas and foxtrots with some others. That said much, possibly...maybe. Aron Saunier sounded like the kind of young man that wouldn't be too welcome at the Ducharme residence. This would be a very good reason to meet up at parties.

The rain came down harder and Hubert turned on the wipers, at first smearing bugs and road-grease across the windshield. He pumped some washer fluid and eventually the windows cleared, the more so as he adjusted the heater controls and set the fan on full blast. Slowly the fog around the edges of the windows crept back from whence it came. The dampness and the heat were stifling. The car itself smelt of petrol leaks and something else, probably just mildew from damp rugs.

Levain noted the rock-steady trajectory and the fact that the speedometer never varied from a steady one hundred and twenty-five kilometres per hour. A wry grin took over for a second.

Driving skills were important, but it took more than that to make a good cop.

Considering his short time with the unit, Hubert was working out well. He seemed to learn in leaps and bounds, and so far he wasn't known for cutting corners.

"No effort is truly wasted, Andre."

Andre's eyebrows rose up his forehead as he contemplated this notion. He had this crazy feeling he'd heard that one before. It was good to hear the young ones parrot theories back at you sometimes.

It made one feel old and so very wise.

"No. I suppose you're right."

The radio, turned down very low but still on in case of dire emergency, crackled softly with distant thunder. There was the swish-swish of the wipers and the tires on wet road, and other than that a light rain on the roof was the only sound. With a long drive ahead of them, Andre slouched down as low as he could in the seat, bringing his knees up and making sure the door was locked.

Then he twisted around to the left, put his head down and promptly went to sleep.

After a time Hubert looked over.

Well, that's gratitude for you.

***

Levain woke with a start when Hubert pulled into a parking lot a few short blocks from their destination. Hubert needed to go to the bathroom. It might not be a bad idea to get something to eat, maybe a cup of coffee or something. It was turning into a long day. Driving in adverse conditions was tiring and yet Andre got a nap.

The contrast with their last stop was stark. This neighbourhood was one of working class roots. There was some poverty, perhaps even indigence judging by a couple of characters who shuffled past, rheumy-eyed and with at least a week's worth of stubble on their cheeks. The beautiful trees and planter boxes were gone now, replaced by weeds and scrub in the occasional vacant lots. There were too many kids not in school and young men standing around on street-corners.

"We're ahead of the rain, anyhow." Even as Hubert spoke, fresh drops began spattering the ground, darkening the pavement.

The two men picked up their pace towards the front door of a small bistro, Anton's.

Hubert held the door for Andre and then stepped in.

"It's better to eat here than in the car." The skies opened up and the rain poured down.

They stood there, looking around as cops do.

"A sandwich is a sandwich." Andre peeled off to the right.

That sounded awful mysterious, but Hubert agreed more or less. Leaving Andre to find a table or a place at the U-shaped lunch counter directly to his right, he kept going, left and back further, until he spied the signs for the restrooms. He guessed Andre would go for a booth, as the stools along the counter didn't have backs on them. He paused, calling out over the intervening heads.

An incurious bunch, none looked up.

"Order me something, Andre..."

"What?"

"God, anything—a sandwich—something with meat on it." Hubert pursued his course, not looking back.

His bladder was about to burst. The sense of relief was immediate upon arrival. Thank Heaven for small mercies. The noise rang around the grubby room with its solitary, white-painted plywood stall and two urinals. There was the usual aroma, half disinfectant and half near-misses from guys like him. Generally, we can't smell our own urine in our own clean and tidy bathrooms. This was different.

It was condensed, enclosed, and fairly pungent. So much for the observations, now for some thought.

It was pretty obvious Andre was checking him out, possibly even testing him. He'd been with the unit for such a short time. The notion was troubling. He puttered about, thoroughly washing and drying his hands, checking his bland and homely mug in the mirror.

What was he going to ask the kid? There was a small flutter in his guts. All he could do was to follow set routine and hope for the best. With a sigh, he took one last self-appraising look. It was a fairly intelligent face in the mirror or so he thought. It was all the reassurance he was going to get. He headed for the door.

Just do your job, and that was it.

When he returned to the main rooms, he wound his way through and found Levain seated at a corner table, with the brightness of the street at his back and looking out over the parking area. This would be lucky to hold all of six small cars. There was one other car and their own. Across the lot was a brick wall, painted with a sign for an apothecary. Presumably that would be the next building, and that was about it. The other car was most likely the owner's or manager's, judging by the exclusively male patrons. None of them looked prosperous. One young fellow, he looked like he was just grateful to have a place to go at all, and a franc or two for a sandwich.

Levain took in the lanky black locks, the gypsy beard and the rough plaid jacket in thick serge. The fellow kept his head down and his attention on his soup. He wore black construction boots and Levain figured he worked at least part of the time. His experienced eye took it all in. One or two others might have qualified as old codgers. They all looked local, harmless and even aimless enough. He quite liked the place, complete with black and white checkerboard floor tiles, white zinc ceiling panels in high floral relief and the dark cabinets lining the back of the bar. The doors were all of glass and revealed pies on raised plates, pastries under bulbous glass domes, stacks of plates and glasses and cups and such. Cash register on the counter by the exit to his left, it was the usual layout and yet totally unique, reflecting the tastes and personality of the owner. The fans turned and the motors hummed. There was quiet talk from the other end of the room. Windows on the street and parking lot sort of offset the dead yellow light from above, alleviating any tendency to make shadows. Everything was equally dim.

They could have been anywhere in the world.

It was like you just recognized the place. You knew what the coffee would taste like before you ever ordered it. Levain was familiar with the phenomena. It was a combination of many things, restauranteurs often being immigrants, many from the same part of the world, many of them using the same suppliers, all of them having certain thoughts and ideas about what a family or neighbourhood restaurant should be. They had limited funds and could only price the meals so high. It all went through his mind. Those who had any talent or science enough for it would thrive. This place looked like it had been around a while. Cops saw a lot of coffee shops and cheap restaurants—that much was true. They all made their coffee the same way, essentially, using the same machines and the same brands. It was always dark, a bit bitter, but definitely made of coffee, and to cops, it was the stuff of life sometimes. Put a little cream and sugar in there and it still tasted like coffee.

No matter how hard you tried, you could never make coffee quite like it at home.

Andre called it Greek coffee, for want of a better term, and was sophisticated enough never to say it out loud. Andre was becoming more philosophical with old age—or perhaps middle age would be more accurate. The place, with seating for at least a hundred, had a bare dozen patrons, with one or two at a table near the back door, around the corner of a right-angle by the bar and kitchen, and the rest lined up at the lunch counter.

"Sit down, for Christ's sakes."

Hubert had been sitting all bloody day. He carefully eased himself onto the end of the seat, and slid further into the booth.

A slim waitress arrived, looking to be late thirties, possibly early forties, with pinched but passable looks and her strawberry-blonde hair looking oppressed and imprisoned rather than effectively presented by a black barrette up top and a ribbon at the back.

She put a small pitcher and two glasses down, found paper coasters in her side pocket, and gave them each a napkin of thick but faded red textile, Hubert wasn't quite sure which kind, and then she deposited a salt-shaker from her other pocket.

Andre promptly reached for it. He poured out the first one, and put a little salt in that foam.

With a smile and a cheery 'bonjour' for Hubert, who gave a tired grin and a small wave in return, the lady turned and left them to their own devices. Her soft low shoes and the turning of the fan sort of impressed themselves on Hubert's tired senses. Yes, he thought, you really wouldn't want to serve tables in ridiculously high heels all day. It was an incongruous thought for a male.

"I hope you like pastrami on rye." Levain nodded thoughtfully. "Fries and gravy, too. Lots of coleslaw."

A drop of saliva flew out of Hubert's mouth, causing a reflex action of his arm, but it missed the table top. His own reaction startled him. It happened that fast, and it was totally involuntary. There was a lesson here in all of this. A lesson in life. Did Andre know that was going to happen?

Possibly!

"I ordered extra pickles too." Just the way the fellow liked it.

Hubert almost glared at him, the look was that intense. He was hitting all the beats, though.

"Yes. Thank you." With gratitude in his heart, and a bit of wonder at all the buttering-up, Hubert watched Andre pour him out a briskly-foaming, short, straight-sided glass of beer.

Raising the glass, Hubert tasted the foam. Smacking his lips a little, he savored it and then took a long pull. He set the glass down and looked around.

"Oh, man, that's good."

Hubert would not argue with that. Off in the background, he heard a sharp ding and saw a girl, a different girl, looking up from where she was wiping down a table, and then she put her rag away and headed for the kitchen portal. Odds were that it wasn't their order. Pure detective's hunch.

Andre lit up a smoke and had another gulp from his glass.

"So, what do you think?" Andre regarded him with a level look through the tendrils of blue vapour.

"Gorgeous. And the old lady wasn't bad either."

Andre snorted.

Pretty much everything you learned eventually had some bearing on the case, or it was simply discarded. He had a feeling they were onto something with the kid.

There was another ding and Hubert, who was half facing in that direction, saw their waitress go to the portal and pick up two platters.

"Oh, boy." He almost rubbed his stomach, the moment was that good.

Levain grinned, reading his thoughts and able to estimate where the fellow was looking by the position of his eyes. He was kind of looking forward to lunch himself.

Chapter Sixteen

Aron Saunier, Last Known Address

They got back in the car, with Levain in the passenger side again, as he'd done more than enough driving in his early days. He reached for the microphone as Hubert crept through the blocks, looking for the address.

Levain turned up the volume.

"Control. This is Sergeant Andre Levain. Special Homicide Unit."

"Sergeant Levain." The answer came straight away, for the impression was that it was a slow day in the city.

As if that could ever really be said for a place like Paris, but most of the low-toned calls he had overheard during their drive were dull and mundane.

"Do we have any record of an Aron Saunier? Last known address was..." He read it off.

They were in Belleville, a sort of raffish hilltop neighbourhood. It was the second highest hill in Paris after Montmartre.

"Hold on...stand by..."

"Roger."

Hubert brought it to a stop. They sat in the car, Levain holding the microphone and watching passers-by, and some light vehicular traffic, a large proportion of which were small and medium-sized lorries.

A bus pulled up across from them and disgorged a good crowd of passengers.

"Levain."

"Here."

"Aron Saunier, one conviction, September nineteen twenty-nine, theft..."

"What for? What kind of theft?"

"Pilfering from the workplace."

Levain nodded.

The dispatcher went on with two other counts, one was shoplifting and one was theft from a vehicle—a case of beer that fell off the back of a truck. Even the desk sergeant found that humorous, judging by his tone.

"December nineteen-thirty, assault. June thirty-one, hooliganism..." Levain took the details as Hubert maneuvered slowly through the streets, pulling up in front of a tenement-style building that had seen better days. A good percentage of the upper windows had no glass and one large pane on the ground floor was secured with plywood.

It was like one street was decent, as if the area was undergoing some sort of revival or transformation, and then the next street was more of an alley, and the buildings were decrepit. This one fit the latter category, with trash cans lined up at one end of each façade, cats and bags and rags scattered all over, bottles sitting empty on porches and stoops. There was an unspoken message of hopelessness anywhere one cared to look. Up the street, a mongrel dog wandered from post to post and stoop to stoop. Again, there were too many aimless people about.

One man had gotten off the bus and then just stood there.

The business premises on the ground floor appeared long vacant. There were more of the plywood storefronts just two doors further up.

"Anything else?"

"Ah, a few vehiculars, do you want them?"

Hubert looked over.

"Sure—why not?"

Levain smiled a thin smile, one that barely touched his eyes.

"Just a quick precis—merci."

Two speeding, one false license and one improper turn, some parking tickets, a handful of them, and now they had a picture of Aron Saunier—a cop's picture. Such pictures could be extrapolated, not least from supporting evidence such as their present surroundings.

"What about that assault?"

"Going by the report, it sounds like a bar fight. He won, but the other guy had a lawyer—and they at least knew his name or where he might be found. He paid a fine and did ninety days in juvie."

"Understood. Levain out." He reached and turned the speaker volume down again.

Saunier was barely twenty—he'd been drinking pretty young and there was the assault charge. Levain sighed once more, and they were pretty much ready.

Hubert switched off the engine.

Levain belched quietly, the gas stinging the back of his nostrils. It was a lunch worth having, and without having to rush either.

"Okay, Sergeant. He lives right up there." It was the third floor.

Faded yellow curtains had been pulled out of the windows by the breeze, which indicated something. At least there appeared to be occupants.

"Interesting how Ginette even knew the address." They'd spent almost an hour with the Quirins and there might be a few things they had missed. "You never really know when it's safe to quit."

Levain nodded but said nothing. They got out and found a bell-board, with eight buttons, numbered and with bits of tape beside them with surnames hastily scrawled, barely legible in some cases.

"Three-oh-two. Saunier. I think." Hubert pushed the button and waited.

The names were barely readable, and he had to go by pure shape. The shape of the scrawl was near enough.

Levain eyed the door, but the lock appeared to be operative. Sometimes they weren't, which made it a lot easier for police. Broken electric locks were usually left open to all. After a short pause the speaker crackled some garbled gibberish.

Hubert uttered some garbled gibberish of his own in a loud and resonant voice.

The man was truly inspired sometimes.

The door lock clicked and Levain grabbed for it.

He gave Hubert a look.

"After you."

With a polite nod, Hubert led the way up to the third floor landing where there were exactly two chocolate brown painted doors, one on the right and one on the left. The walls were a faded peachy colour. The steps continued switching back and forth up another two floors from the landing.

A radio played softly, but it was in the apartment behind them. The one they were interested in seemed dead silent, but then they heard a clunk and what sounded like a match striking. Someone coughed and that's when Hubert raised his hand and knocked firmly but not overly-loud. There came some indeterminate sounds and then footsteps falling on thin carpet over hollow boards.

With no peephole, the rattling of a chain—it was probably being put on rather than being taken off, was no surprise, and then a dark eye was peering at Levain and Hubert through a seventy-five millimetre gap.

"Yes?"

The man studied them suspiciously.

"We are from the police. We would like to speak to an Aron Saunier, please."

The man uttered a deep sigh of resignation.

"Yes, he's home." The door closed and then the chain came off and the gentleman let them in, where a homey smell of cooking, mostly fried meat, and tobacco, and sweat and steam quickly enveloped them in its sticky embrace.

It was the smell of bacon and tobacco, thought Hubert as he waved clouds of stale smoke aside.

The man, shuffling along a short and rather dim hallway, wore slippers, baggy pajama bottoms and a housecoat with an undershirt. Lanky white hair stuck out all round, including upper chest and no doubt the armpits. He had long sideburns and a patch of bushy grey hair that went from ear to ear and nowhere else, not even a vestige of it on top anymore. Hubert looked at his watch, briefly struggling to remember today's date. He had at least three pens with him.

Stopping inside the front room, judging by the windows and the yellow curtains, the man turned to his right.

"Aron! Someone is here to see you." He glanced back.

"It's all right, sir, he's not in any trouble." Levain kept his hands in his pockets but Hubert looked around, taking in the seediness of the place.

The couch sagged, the arms were ripped on the armchair and stuffing was exposed. The end tables were miss-matched. The one picture on the long wall was a faded print of some clipper-ship at anchor in a cove with palm trees. The picture hung crooked. The walls showed brighter patches were someone else's pictures had hung for quite some time. The ashtray overflowed and there were several dirty glasses strategically placed here and there. There were no coasters, judging by the prominent rings he saw on the coffee table, mostly on one corner area. Beside the door was a crate full of empty beer bottles, with a couple of much larger brown bottles standing beside it.

It was all very impressive.

The man nodded glumly as ashes grew on the end of his cigarette. When he took it out of his mouth, he held it so very carefully, so as not to accidentally knock it off on the rug, but the rug looked distinctly grimy, pounded black and flat in the entranceway from a thousand people over the years. When he turned, his housecoat was tattered in the area of the behind. Judging by the room they were in, someone was sleeping on the sofa. The blanket was thrown hastily up over the back of the couch and there were two pillows on the right end of it. On balance, Levain thought it might be the old man, who didn't seem all that ambitious. He looked to be about forty-five or sixty.

From somewhere off in the distance they heard a toilet flush, very reluctant it sounded, and then then they heard thumps from sock feet as the young man came down a side passage beside what was probably the kitchen.

Then Aron was there, freezing on the spot when he got a good look at them.

They flashed their badges in perfunctory manner.

"Is there someplace we could talk, Monsieur Saunier?"

The young man looked defiant and a little bit scared.

"What's this about?"

Hubert was bang on again, his tone perfectly friendly.

"It's really nothing to worry about. We would like to ask one or two questions about a party you were at."

The startled look on the kid's face was priceless. Levain wondered about that as the kid actually relaxed, air coming out in a big rush for some reason.

"What—a party?"

"Yes, you know." Hubert made a show of consulting his notes. "Ah. The thing at the Beaupre's place. Nice crowd. Beautiful neighborhood up that way, eh? So what brought you up there?"

"Ah...ah." Levain watched thoughts go through Aron's mind.

If only he knew what those thoughts might be.

***

"Okay, so you heard about a party somehow, and one or two of your mates were there too. How did you get in?"

"Renou's girlfriend...?" There was clearly a question mark on the end but Hubert let it pass. "We tagged along with them. She went to school with one of them."

"Who?"

"Ah, one of the other girls. At the party." He seemed genuinely puzzled, and hadn't quite caught their names.

"Which girl, again?"

Aron couldn't seem to recall. It was all a haze, they were a little tipsy, nothing serious, but you know.

There were quite a few people there, or so he said.

"All right, that seems clear enough."

They stood at the far end of the hall. Andre turned and had a look into the living room. As Levain had sort of expected, the father had stretched out on the couch upon their exit and pulled a thin sheet up over him and sort of stared up at the ceiling. A fog of bluish cigarette smoke still lingered, just about face level. It was headed this way with the bathroom door open and the breeze from the northwest.

The young man was less defensive now, which was a good thing as it showed an inclination to cooperate.

In the small window visible through the bathroom door the branches of a thin Lombardy poplar wavered back and forth in a light breeze and it was very hot and stuffy in this end of the flat. Half the branches were dead, pale twigs amongst the greenery. Beyond that, seven or eight metres or so, was the back of a more prosperous building. Levain noted the high stone walls, and the narrow alley running through. Yet they hadn't seen any way in to the back courtyards, going by the end of the block. Paris was like that, one wondered how people got to their back door sometimes, tradesmen making deliveries and the like.

They had gone past the kitchen, with the table where they obviously ate as there was nowhere else to do so. Up against the adjoining building, the kitchen had no windows. Then there was one side door, and a shorter door panel right beside it, obviously the cheap flat's one and only closet. It was two adult males in a one-bedroom flat, and a small one at that.

"So in other words?"

"All right, we crashed the party. But it was okay. No one said boo. We brought a bottle of our own. We were just there to dance."

"Ah, yes. So what is your relationship with Sophie Voclain?"

The boy's cheeks flamed beet-red. He sort of flounced his head and looked away, then glared at them in defiance.

"Just some girl I know, okay?. Why?" Coal black eyes bored into theirs in turn. "What's it to you?"

Levain bit back his own questions and just let Hubert go on. It was fascinating so far, if only just to watch. He wondered if he was missing something, being stuck in the same crew all the time and never getting to casually observe another professional in action. Hubert was really gaining confidence lately.

"Yeah, okay. It's just that we were hoping you could help us, maybe with the names of some of the other males that were there. You might know some of the ladies? N'est pas?"

The kid's mouth opened and he looked better somehow. More thoughts went through his mind.

"Ah, sure. Okay. No problem."

"Um..." Levain broke in, all humble and lovable.

"Yes, sir?"

"What were you drinking, sir?"

"Oh. Rum." The kid seemed surprised by such an innocuous question, but of course men like Levain liked facts.

The kid sized him up again and then dismissed him.

Cops liked checking facts, and one little inconsistency would be enough to raise the bug-like antenna. The kid had been in trouble before, and he thought he was tough. All young men do.

All that other trouble was just kid stuff, thought Levain.

Levain pulled out his notebook and kept on playing the role of humble sidekick. With detectives in plain clothes, the customers rarely knew the difference anyway.

First they got the names of his compadres as he called them, these being Barrande, Nicollier, and Renou. David, Jean and Louis, respectively, and then they asked the name of the girl who knew someone who knew someone who was having a party, Madeleine, and by this time the kid was considerably more relaxed. The leather jacket hanging over the bedroom door was probably his most prized possession, realized Levain.

"So, how did you guys get there? Did you take a cab, a bus, the Metro, or what? Someone live in the neighborhood?"

"No, we all got machines, man."

"Huh?" In that moment, Hubert looked as dumb as two sticks.

Levain could have hugged him at that moment, for the kid continued all on his own initiative.

"Yeah, mine's right out back." And turning to Andre and beckoning politely, he led and they followed, squeezing up one at a time to the tiny bathroom window, to look down into the alley below, partially obscured by the treads of a rusting iron fire escape.

There, chained with a brass padlock to the base of a solid-looking tree, was a newish-looking two-wheeler. As to whether it was a scooter, a large moped-type bike, of a make which Levain had seen a few before, or an actual motorcycle, perhaps one of small displacement, Andre couldn't quite make out. There were branches in the way. He couldn't tell if it was blue, black, or all metal-flake, currently the rage in some quarters.

That was easily rectified.

"Oh. I love bikes. Do you mind if we take a look before we go?"

The kid smiled for the first time and took another look at Levain.

"Why, sure...I guess." Aron was pretty proud of that bike, he probably lived for it, and the girls of course.

They moved back out into the hall. Andre had seen enough.

Hubert had more questions, and by this time the kid was softened up pretty good. For one thing, it sounded like they were leaving without him, and for another, the kid would have said anything and agreed to anything, (within reason, thought Andre,) just to get them the hell out of there.

He was at least attempting to be polite. Andre had expected a lot more defiance.

"What about this Abel Voisin?" Voisin was at dinner with the Tourmangeaus.

His name was on the list of party guests. Hubert had the list right there.

"Ah. Sorry, I forgot all about him."

"And why is that? Is he the forgettable type?"

Aron sort of half-grinned and shook his head.

"I suppose so, yes." He shook his head again, and then went on. "I don't know. He just showed up there. I really didn't think much of it. I figured he probably knew someone."

"How old do you figure he is?"

"Oh, God! About forty, maybe less." To Aron, forty would be some old guy. "He sat on the couch and talked a lot. He drank a fair bit, and ate something right near the end."

"The end?"

"Well, yeah, just when we were all thinking of leaving."

"And approximately what time was that?" Hubert had a note of finality, a kind of satisfaction in his voice that was unmistakable.

"Oh, God. Maybe three, three-thirty in the morning."

The kid didn't seem to be wearing a watch.

Hubert nodded in approval. The sounds of footsteps came overhead, disruptive in their suddenness. It stopped just as abruptly and then came the sound of urine hitting a bowl from the seated position. It was most likely a woman. The two genders were that different. Simple observation.

"Thank you, Monsieur Saunier. You may have been of very great help to us."

Aron was more cheerful than when they first came in, and then that's when Levain popped the question.

"So. Does she really like you?"

The kid looked like a deer in the headlights, and then he flushed beet red, and then he wouldn't look at them except with his mouth all twisted up in bitterness.

"Fucking cops."

Andre clapped him on the arm.

"It's okay, son. I know. I've seen her." And then he turned and stumped off down the hallway.

They stood in an embarrassing silence for a moment, and then Hubert cleared up one or two minor details and checked that they had the correct phone number. It was actually a store across the street according to Aron, but Hubert wanted it all to seem like poor, dull routine. The kid was calming down fairly well, he noted.

"So, are you working at all?" Hubert was in no hurry to leave in spite of Levain's apparent impatience.

By this time he figured it was all part of the act. There were subtle variations, or so he had heard.

"Yeah, I got a job."

"Oh, good for you. Lots of people out of work these days. So, where are you working?" The economy was really only good on the front pages of the papers.

Hubert could say that much for it.

"The Savary Textiles Company."

Hubert had never heard of them, but he jotted the name and street down. It wasn't too far away by the sounds of it and the kid said he walked to work sometimes and rode others.

"It depends on whether I have the petrol."

That all seemed logical enough.

"Is that your father?"

Aron nodded, but then corrected himself.

"Sorry. My step-father."

"Oh, really." Hubert pondered that. "Huh. Do you guys have the same last name?"

"No. Sorry, I should have thought of that. His name is Raymond Gilbert."

"Middle initial?" Hubert was being a bit relentless, but as long as he had him...

"Pierre."

"Is he working? It's his day off, right?"

The boy allowed that his father was ill and had been for some time. A hunted look came over his face upon speaking the words. Nodding, Hubert could think of nothing further to say. It put the peeling paint and shabby furnishings, the smell of grease and cabbage, into a whole new light.

The kid was paying his own way, or at least Hubert hoped he was.

He didn't want to ask about the financial arrangements. The kid had his dignity and a good cop would leave him as much of it as he possibly could. Until further notice. And a horrible feeling it was sometimes, too.

Hubert put his notebook away and on some odd impulse, maybe to try and take some of the sting out of it, he stuck out his hand.

"It's been a pleasure meeting you."

Almost beyond his control, pure reflex, the kid's hand came up and they shook briefly.

"Thank you, Aron."

"Ah—you're welcome."

Another lost kid.

There was probably something else he should have said, but for the life of him he couldn't think of anything good. The doorway back into his own life was just ahead.

"Hey!"

He spun.

"What's your name?"

"Hubert."

The kid dove into the bedroom and came out with a sheaf of pamphlets.

He thrust a small bundle of them into Hubert's hand and then his hands dropped helplessly to his sides.

Without even looking at it, Hubert nodded in a friendly manner and then went looking for Andre, who was most likely down at curbside by this time. Aron was about four years younger than Hubert. What a gulf that was sometimes.

Chapter Seventeen

Alphonse Durand, a Legend in the Force

Gilles sat at his desk, waiting for a friend from another department to call on him, reading reports, going over his thoughts on several outstanding cases, and writing up a final report on an arrest he had made last week. He had a few files like that to do, a small stack on the left front corner of his desk. File folders held shut with rubber bands. A man's life, summed up in an instant for judge and jury. Those people were at least safely behind bars, awaiting trial, still, one caught up when one could.

From time to time his thoughts returned to the Ducharme case. It was hard to say if they were making any real progress. Not every case got solved, admittedly. The trouble was that for some reason, without knowing her, Gilles somehow liked Muriel Ducharme. He liked her in spite of himself. It was just one of those unexplainable things. In spite of all her faults, barely hinted at by anything so far, he had a sneaking kind of affection for that certain type of battle-axe. They had their rights just like anyone else, and some of them did a lot of good in the world.

If nothing else, they weren't wishy-washy, weak characters. They knew what they wanted and how the world should be. They needed no validation.

Sometimes the police knew who did it, but didn't have the evidence to even lay a charge. This was not one of those times. The very class of people they were dealing with made gathering a case together more difficult, cynically it must be said, and he had often allowed that poor people were easier to convict.

But if Gilles Maintenon was to charge someone, he had bloody well better get the right guy. For one thing, he had to live with himself. It was his only proper attitude, and one he had instilled into the heads of his men with a heavy if symbolic hammer.

The case was unusual in the fact that he still had no sense of who the killer might have been. As usual, this revolved around the question of why.

No one ever did anything for no reason.

The fingerprint reports were conclusive: no prints that could not be accounted for by family members or household staff. And yet there were even a couple positively belonging to Philipe. For the most part, his prints were on the insides of closets, and inside some little-used drawers in his old bedroom, but there were a couple of oddballs, for example a row of four under the edge of a small brass and marble coffee table downstairs. He'd probably helped move it years before, and now it was a memento of those better times. It was a piece of evidence that meant nothing until some theory of the crime took it into account—and they still had no theory of the crime, although one or two suggested themselves well enough.

Philipe had been gone for years, by all accounts.

No prints on the box of cartridges.

Gilles' head came up and he stared into space again. He was almost certain he'd heard something, a familiar cough that could only belong to one man. His face changed, he was back in the room again, and Tailler saw it happen.

A knock came at the door. Tailler was rising when it opened. At first a head appeared, looked around the door and sought out Gilles. A scruffy old man took in Tailler as if reassuring himself that this was indeed the place. As Tailler sank down, the hunched form straightened up and entered, gripping the edge of the door with fingers like sausages. They were the hands of an old farmer, and very strong still, thought Tailler.

An unprepossessing figure shuffled in, shaking off a battered fedora and checking out Tailler and Firmin with sneaky, pale blue eyes. His eyes swept the room, taking in everything, and nodding at the open windows and fresh air.

"You guys do yourselves all right up here, eh?" He had just the voice for it, deep and tobacco-brown.

"Alphonse!" Gilles rose to greet his old friend.

"Tailler, this is Inspector Alphonse Durand, a legend in the force."

Firmin smiled, looking up and down again quickly, intent on his paperwork. Tailler nodded dutifully, bobbing his head in acknowledgement of the gentleman's second appraising glance.

Alphonse was neither short nor tall. He was not old or young, he was not thin or fat, neither was he dark, and he was not light. He was just sort of grey and buff and charcoal all over. No one had ever seen him clean-shaven, so, the popular question was, how did he maintain the perpetual three-days growth on his cheeks?

No one knew.

Maintenon's old crony looked like he hadn't changed in years. The truth was that he hadn't, and his habitual look never changed. He was a man everyone recognized after a while, a man who blended into a crowd and could be trusted, a man you could talk to, a man of discretion, and a man of many talents. Alphonse had friends in low places, all of them useful from time to time, possibly, but only for the right price.

Sometimes that price was freedom.

Drop or reduce this charge and I'll tell you a secret.

Pay me some money and I'll betray a friend.

You help me, I help you—that sort of thing.

Tailler, of course, had never even heard of him.

Tailler settled into his seat and pretended to be working on his own report. The keys tapped lightly as Gilles pulled out a chair. If Emile Tailler was going to make any sort of impression at all on the three pages and two carbons beneath those keys he would have to pound away a lot harder. But of course then, he wouldn't be able to hear, would he? There was probably no fooling Maintenon, either. He was on thin ice all the way.

Sometimes a man just couldn't help himself.

Maybe it would be better to just go through the exhibits one more time. It wasn't enough to look busy, one had to be busy. Otherwise they would just find a worse job for you, send you off on some errand somewhere.

Detective-Inspector Alphonse Durand relaxed, ready for a good long talk. Gilles went to the urn and made a cup of coffee for Alphonse. The simple gesture told Tailler just how high the fellow stood in Maintenon's estimation. If Maintenon liked him then that was good enough. It was all Tailler knew anyway. The man had a low-pitched, snide way of talking out of the side of his mouth, which went very fast and it was like half the words Tailler didn't know. The man smoked like a chimney. This was too much for Maintenon, who brought out one of his own thin black cheroots, a prized idiosyncrasy according to various newspaper reports, and Tailler thought he was privileged to be the proverbial fly on the wall. If only he knew what they were talking about. Clouds of smoke billowed from that corner of the room, even Firmin looking up in annoyance but saying nothing.

They exchanged a look, and then Firmin went back to his reading, the corners of his mouth tugging back a smile.

It was all underworld talk and Tailler almost gave up on trying to eaves-drop.

Firmin, exchanging a polite nod, a half-grin and a wink with the newcomer, pushed his chair back with a scrape, and got up and headed for the door, taking a file folder with him.

Maintenon gave him a wave of acknowledgement and the door snapped behind.

Tailler kept pecking away, sort of mystified but trying to keep his head down.

What he heard next was intriguing.

"All right." Alphonse sipped noisily. "Word on the street is: exactly nothing."

Gilles nodded attentively.

"No one is saying anything except that they wish they had a mother like that—you know, like rich. Or even just fairly rich. Some of them guys would do their mother in a heartbeat and take their chances. People like to talk. But with nothing known to be stolen, we don't know what we're looking for, or what to ask for."

The trouble with asking was that it released information back into the environment.

"I see." Gilles sought the proper words. "We have no idea if anything is missing. I find that very strange, if it was a genuine burglary. And a frame-up, a real set-up, would be even more likely to leave—or more properly remove—some compelling piece of evidence to back it up."

Gilles was in two minds on this case for that and other reasons. The other nodded.

"I agree." He raised his eyebrows at the taste of his coffee. "We'll keep our ears out. That's all I can promise."

Even the offer of substantial money had not helped. There was nothing to go on, not for the cops and not for the professional snitches. Those were trusted sources and Alphonse gave no details, but Gilles understood his challenges well enough.

If a few pieces of silver could solve a case, he was all for it.

Alphonse disposed of a considerable budget, with a finesse that was rare in the trade.

"I'm sorry, Gilles. It's nothing unusual. But if the right type of people had been involved, you would think, there would be talk, some kind of talk on some level. So far, nothing."

Thieves liked to brag, as the saying went. Alphonse ran half the stool pigeons in the city, and had done so for twenty years.

All of this was definitely food for thought.

On the other hand, the sheer lack of evidence told its own story. Maybe there was nothing there to be found, and so now they must look elsewhere.

"Simply put, Gilles, the rarer the object, the more priceless it is, the longer it takes to fence. It's so much harder getting a proper price. Precious objects can be identified. Something like silverware, people can sometimes off that in their own immediate circle. They sell it to a buddy, or use it to pay off a debt."

As both men knew, in order to sell something, one had to talk about it, describe it, put the word out, and cautiously try and sell it to a stranger.

"Someone feeding a habit?" Gilles had thought of all this already.

"Yes. Maybe."

Unfortunately Madame Ducharme wasn't into that kind of possession, or décor, in the case of objet d'art. There was little enough jewelry in the drawer, only her wedding ring, some earrings, hat and hair-pins, and one or two spare rosaries. None of that was missing and the safe held only documents and the weekly expense money seemed to be properly accounted for by kitchen receipts and the like. There were seventy-two francs and some small change still in there.

Gilles gave up as much information as he got.

What she did have, a few small figurines, the expensive crockery, some small, decorative items, were left untouched.

Finally the discussion, which was as much talking shop as anything else, came to a standstill.

"I'm sorry I can't be of more help, Gilles." Alphonse's eyes glittered in another quick look at Tailler.

Gilles nodded philosophically. Drugs and alcohol, gambling, prostitution, they all had their own serene logic, a logic that paid more heed to the jungle than to staid, middle-class value systems. People were always shocked by that, but that was why they were called criminals in the first place. They played by an entirely different set of rules. People were surprised to hear that criminals had rules, but it was just an alternate social system, one separate and distinct from normal society.

If Alphonse couldn't get it, it didn't exist. Criminals, regular, ordinary criminals, professional or otherwise, hadn't done this crime—which was a pure conclusion, one based on totally negative inductive reasoning.

Or something like that.

***

After Alphonse left, a pleasant half-hour of gossip and reminiscence that had been, Gilles was looking considerably more animated.

One of the technical men came up from the subterranean labs with a big buff envelope. The door still stood open to allow free rein to a light breeze coming in off the river, and he walked in looking for whoever was there. It was completely impersonal to them, and Gilles had always appreciated that fact. They were objective and theoretically it made them more honest. Test results must be totally reliable.

"What have you got?"

"Report on the box of cartridges." He began to read off the case number but Gilles just beckoned him forward with impatience.

"Ah." Gilles took it and settled in for more reading after a glance at the clock. He lit up another smoke.

After the man left, Tailler looked over.

"Who was that other fellow?"

"Oh, just an old friend."

Maintenon quickly read the first page and then flipped to the second. It was concise enough.

"Ah. Yes."

"What?" Tailler got up and came over.

He took the report.

"Just that the bullets are the same as the ones fired into Madame Ducharme."

Tailler read the notes quickly. The slugs were a well-known brand, manufactured in France, and probably available at a thousand places within twenty or thirty kilometres. The techs were still saying it must be a revolver. Again they noted the pattern of rifling marks inside the barrel.

That was hardly unique.

The trouble was the plethora of new guns being designed and released to the public in any given year, in countries all over the globe. The lab didn't always have access to them until one turned up in an investigation or they acquired one for testing. Why they put that in there was anybody's guess, but the case was still not going anywhere and they liked to be of help. They were insisting, and theoretically that wasn't like them. With huge lots of ammunition being produced and distributed, that information would have been almost useless, and the technical boys hadn't been able to nail it down in terms of lot numbers or production date. Six bullets missing from the box. Ergo, a revolver. Yet there were five, six and seven shot automatics, very small ones. This included .22-calibre weapons. Tailler shook his head and stopped thinking about it.

"The bullets could have come from anywhere, the gun probably the same. They could have bought it anywhere. That's not to say that we won't go looking, but only as a last resort."

Gun shops and pawn shops, department and sporting-goods stores, the list would be endless and time-consuming. It would take a lot of manpower. The thing might have been stolen and bought for fifty francs in a bar. It might have been around for a very long time.

Maintenon was thinking out loud to not much avail.

"Just the sort of thing you would half-expect, eh, Mon ami?"

Tailler snorted. He had no idea of what the Inspector was saying.

That was one interpretation.

"What do you think, sir?"

Maintenon shrugged.

"Let's see what the boys can drag up, and then maybe it's time we had another little talk with Sophie."

Chapter Eighteen

The Insides of His Eyelids

It was getting late in the day. If they were lucky there would be no major calls in the next half an hour or so and then the next shift could take it. Gilles had his eyes closed and appeared to be dozing in his chair, although Tailler had his doubts.

He was probably just thinking, while closely examining the insides of his eyelids.

With a half-smile on his face, the young detective rose and headed for the washroom at the end of the hall. When he got back Levain and Hubert were just taking off their coats, the windows beyond them blue-black with another thunderstorm. With a renewal of the rumbling and quaking, it was dark enough out there so that the room almost appeared bright in contrast.

They sure were getting a lot of rain lately.

Gilles was sitting up, blinking and shaking his head to clear it of its unaccustomed fog.

Hubert took his desk and then Levain went to the coffeepot, cursing mildly at the ten or twelve millimetres of thick black fluid in the bottom. He took a cup anyway, after a glance at the wall clock.

He took a sip.

"Merde."

"How did it go?"

Levain looked over at Maintenon.

"Oh, so-so. How about you?"

Gilles shrugged. He glanced at his watch. On a thought, he picked up the phone. He dialed the number of the Hotel Vendome and the operator quickly put him through to the assistant manager.

After a brief query, he pulled a notepad close and jotted down a series of telephone numbers. He followed each one up with a series of times and dates, these times being when Sophie was known to have left, although she could have sneaked out at other times. As they all agreed, there being at least three doors with public access to the building and a fair amount of traffic inside at peak hours.

He hung up the phone, looking down at the numbers. This was a good example of the use of time and patience. It was a lesson, one he would go over with Tailler later. That and a few contacts made a big difference sometimes.

A little patience made all the difference in the world.

The pair made brief reports, with Gilles looking pleased when he heard about Aron Saunier.

He got up and went over to Levain's desk, taking his own book with him.

"What's Saunier's phone number?"

They compared notes.

"Well, well, well."

Tailler looked on in anticipation. He was pretty sure of what was coming next.

Sophie, using the hotel switchboard, had called Aron Saunier—or at least the number of the public phone in a store across the street from his apartment building, only just the evening before.

Tailler's eyes met Levain's as the boss took a little turn around the room, hands behind his back, moving his lips silently, head down and lost in thought.

"And he never let on to you?"

"No, Gilles. In which case, he's surprisingly good, by the way. We know he's dealt with cops before. But there's no guarantee that he even got the call—"

Or even knew about it, in Andre's estimation.

There was just no way to know either way, unless they asked the storekeeper, who might very well blab about their visit.

Tough call, but Maintenon could see the justice in it.

"All right." Gilles bit his lip.

He stumbled to the coat rack and put his hat on in an absent manner. He slung his jacket over his shoulder.

"We'll play it that way, then." Without another word, he reached for the door handle.

After he had gone, Tailler looked at Levain and Hubert in astonishment.

"What was that all about?"

Levain could only shake his head.

Hubert had a word for it.

"He's thinking, Tailler. He's thinking."

"Oh. Ah. Now I get it."

Levain grinned in feral fashion but said nothing, eyeing the clock himself.

Tailler put his face down to his typing for a moment, knowing that in another twenty minutes or so he could finally go home. One thing for sure, he would have to start over, as the bottom copy was almost invisible in his last few pages.

All of this thinking, he wondered. It's harder than it looks. He was finding that out.

If anyone ever thought to ask, he didn't have the foggiest notion of who had killed Muriel Ducharme. If it was up to him, the killer was free and clear and probably knew it.

***

Gilles stepped out into the rain, feeling oddly cleansed by it, and decided to take the Metro rather than his customary taxi. When he got off it meant a few extra blocks of walking. It was just impulse. He owed himself that much once in a while. He'd been known to take a bus sometimes, too. In spite of the damp it was quite warm, steamy in fact, but he reluctantly pulled his jacket on and set off. It gave him a better choice of pockets to stick his hands in. He had plenty of time to kill before tomorrow.

It was not a blistering pace, nor was it an amble. It was the walk of a man with somewhere to go but lost in his thoughts, some of which might have been personal and private.

***

The Metro was no busier than usual, perhaps even a bit light on passengers today. The traffic would start to pick up in another half-hour or so.

Gilles was in an odd mood, he couldn't quite place it. He wasn't getting any younger, maybe that was it. Life was passing him by. That other life. The one you heard about, the one that other people lived. The one that always seemed just beyond your grasp.

He saw it all around him. He sat at the back of a car, in a corner, on an angle. The hour was still a bit early so there was plenty of space. He always enjoyed the endearing little vignettes, a mother with her shopping, and the two small children clinging to her and asking questions constantly. The sound of her patient voice was a Godsend after a long and trying day of doing nothing and getting nowhere. Other people's kids never failed to cheer him up.

The love of action was the greatest sin of the age, and he was not immune to it. His life was fast becoming very quiet, very hum-drum, and very mundane. He needed some action.

Maybe that was the problem.

Hum-drum.

Hum-drum.

The roar and clatter of the train in the tunnel was a suitable backdrop for his thinking. It blocked out all that was extraneous. Even the train was trying to tell him something.

It never would have occurred to Gilles Maintenon that he was unaccountably happy at that exact moment in time. He was aware of distinct and not unusual feelings of love towards his fellow human beings. No one was perfect after all and it wasn't wise to expect too much. There were the rough-hewn faces and faces polished smooth as if by sandpaper. There were old women ridiculously over-dressed, optimistic that someone might find them attractive still, and young girls who affected to dress like they were in the cloister. There were the young men trying to look tough and succeeding in only looking silly. Some looked ridiculous. Some looked very professional, and most looked just plain frail, and human. The young people, especially of the lower classes, had a uniform and he tried not to stare. It was only a stereotype, they weren't all like that. It was mean to shock. He understood the need, the mentality, but then, they said it themselves in so many ways.

They weren't exactly shy about it.

This was his city. Intimidating at first, he'd come to love it as only the widows and widowers can. While youth was certainly wasted on the young, they had the good fortune and satisfaction of being young in Paris. It had something going for it. For those not born there, it really was a beacon, of something, call it life, call it hope. Call it what you will.

Some called it desperation, and he understood that too.

He knew this city well. It was where he had lived all of his adult life, for better or for worse.

He observed the people around him with an unabashed curiosity, one not always welcome in a big and forbidding city, such as Paris was fast becoming. The city had overcome many things in its long history, but the modern world might be too much for it. He was still a stranger, a function of any big city being anonymity.

He had the anonymity of the crowd.

Perhaps it would all end someday.

Actually he doubted that very much. Paris—and Parisians—would always endure, and he found himself smiling at his own rancid pomposity. But it was true. It was true. People were swarming in from all over, not just from all over France but from all over the world. It was a sign of the times, and of the city's allure, holding out the promise of a better life. It was the same thing that had drawn Maintenon. He was a bare eighteen years of age when he signed the application for the academy, the love of action rearing its ugly head again.

The young Gilles Maintenon had gotten all he had bargained for—and much more besides.

Against his will and against rational politeness, he cracked the biggest grin he'd felt in a day or two. It felt good, even as someone down the way caught sight of it and wondered.

A florid middle-aged man on a seat halfway down on the other side, right by the door, looked over, as if to say 'what?' but then thought better of it. Gilles looked a little too happy, a little too open, for his liking. He might be too talkative. He might be a real bug and invite himself home to dinner.

Gilles almost laughed aloud.

One thing Gilles had decided on.

There will always be a Paris, and therefore, a France.

That seemed logical enough.

What a pompous ass I have become.

Tailler had no hate in him. He had no anger, and that was good. It was written all over the boy. He was good with people and had already proven useful. Levain even, was warming up to him, and Andre had excellent instincts. A cop who had a little too much anger inside of him would inevitably pervert the job and do a lot of harm, not just to the people, the citizens he served, but also to the department and the whole ethos of policing.

Tailler had a brain in his head, and showed no signs of being lazy or dependent. Quite the reverse was true. He had some independence of mind, a rare trait in today's world.

Gilles liked that very much, and it was in that moment that he decided to keep him.

***

In a small deviation from their normal routine, Madame Levebre was gone by the time he got home, which was only slightly unusual. They saw each other for forty-five minutes to an hour in the mornings, and fifteen minutes to a half an hour in the evenings, five days a week. She came in for four hours on Saturday mornings, leaving enough pre-cooked dishes so that a happy bachelor could muddle through a weekend on his own.

The arrangement served both of them very well.

She had left him a note, and some food, and all he had to do was to put it in the oven and set it to such and such a temperature, so-and-so on the timer. Wait for so long, and voila. Or so she said in her note.

Gilles was hopeless at cooking. When he first hired her, he rapidly gained fifteen pounds, over a six-month period, but then she began serving different foods and possibly smaller portions. Not particularly well-educated, like her counterpart Madame Herriot, she was more than intelligent and had learned the art of diplomacy along the way. He smiled on the thought. He could admit privately that he had some sneaking affection for her, although he liked the relationship just the way it was.

He marveled at how quickly he was learning to look for the cat, but on that thought the animal strolled in languidly, pausing to stretch first the back legs and then the front. The thing sat, licked a thigh, then a shoulder, and then it looked up expectantly. It was like they both spoke at once, although the cat might have been a little quicker on the draw.

"Meow?"

"Ah, yes, right. You want some food." He could not help but smile.

There was a small maple chair that he sat on to remove his shoes and the cat came over and started playing with the laces.

"Argh, you little blighter." He pulled the shoe away and put it on the mat.

The thing was right on the other foot though.

"Come on, kitty!" Finally he got the laces undone.

The cat was a reminder of the case of course, and then Tailler had noticed no bowls or dishes or food for it in the kitchen.

The cat mystery.

"Come on." He went looking for the food Madame Levebre had laid in for the creature.

She had persistently taken to calling it Monsieur Thom, even though Gilles was equally insistent that they couldn't keep it.

He found the food, and stooped low over the dish. The thing looked at him with such trusting eyes. Then it pushed his hand aside to ram its nose into the bowl. There was always a little ache in the heart when it came to stray animals, and his early days on the beat had not been enough to iron that out of him. He supposed he ought to be grateful. Poor old Maintenon still had a heart after all these years.

And he was grateful, in that he still had a heart, but more than anything he needed a hot shower and a cognac, in no particular order, but then he was getting hungry too.

Chapter Nineteen

After Pouring a Cognac

After pouring a cognac and sitting it beside his big leather armchair to air a little, he turned up the heat and opened the windows, just a crack on each of the hand-cranked panels. The flat was modern enough in its own way. The sounds of the city would keep him company, that, and possibly a good book, although he couldn't think of anything he particularly wanted to read—not offhand.

Essentially there were no new books on his shelf. That left only the old books—a sad thought but there wasn't much he intended to do about it.

After a long and stinging shower, hot as hell, leaving his skin pink and sensitive, he shaved carefully and then put on baggy boxer shorts and some thick woolly socks. He never bothered with slippers these days as Madame Lefebre kept the place spotlessly clean. He pulled on his embroidered black silk lounge jacket and headed down the silent hall.

There were times when he had hated this place. There were times when he had loved it, as he did now.

Sometimes a man had no place else to go, but home.

It was true that at one time, he had the bad habit of traipsing in and out with his hard leather shoes on, and the floors had suffered in consequence. Someone had once said that the ultimate luxury would be to live barefoot. Gilles wiggled his toes inside the loose-fitting woolies.

Whoever said that knew what they were talking about. How many places in the world were actually like that? You couldn't even say that about most people's houses. Gilles had seen the inside of places where you wanted rubber boots and a gas-mask, yet somebody still lived there.

In that sense he was a very fortunate man.

***

Taking the casserole dishes out of the refrigerator, putting them in the oven was no problem. Figuring out which knob to turn was no problem, and although he fiddled with it a bit, he was pretty sure he had correctly set the time to forty minutes, and then when it buzzed he would check on it.

Having finished its meal, the cat was back again on his maple chair looking at him with love in its eyes.

"Yes, come on."

The thing jumped down with alacrity and followed him out into the salon, their routine already becoming well-established. The thing was well trained, and eminently suggestible. He lowered himself into his chair with a sigh as the cat jumped up on the arm, purring loudly. He'd forgotten his smokes, and it would be a while before even the semblance of a smell came from the kitchen.

Thom crept into his lap, opening and closing its paws as all cats do.

"Oh, hell."

He settled back and reached over the animal's back to get at his drink.

The rain beat down outside the windows. The sound was soothing as the cat worked his own little magic on a much-jaded Gilles Maintenon.

Fiery liquor burned its way down into his guts.

"Blast you, kitty. I need my smokes." Putting the glass down, he picked up Thom, heaving his body up and out of the depths, and took the contented creature along for the ride.

They must be in his jacket pocket.

***

Gilles for some reason couldn't sleep, perhaps he was overtired. The cat, of course, followed him to bed, perhaps sensing a real opportunity here.

When he finally laid down at eleven or so, with the light off, there was a kind of red vaporous mist floating and swirling around on the inside of his eyelids, like dancing cigarette smoke. For a while, he worried that he wouldn't be able to get to sleep. All kinds of crazy thoughts went though his head.

And he had the whopper of an idea.

It was so good he laughed out loud, fist-pumping there in bed, and thinking that for sure he had to try it out. He had a pen and paper right there on the bedside table. The light was off and the room kind of chilly or he would have made a note of it. He settled down again to try and sleep.

It was well after midnight.

Run, rabbit run.

He grinned, wide awake with his eyes closed. When he was younger, back home, they had hunted rabbits. Rabbits often lived under brush-piles. Ergo, one hunter climbs on the brush-pile and jumps up and down.

Rabbits run in all directions, after that it's time for the hunters, all of whom are in a group or a line off to one side for safety, to take a shot. Rabbits would often go twenty-five metres, turn sideways, stop and look back, as long as they weren't being actively pursued. It was easy enough to hit them with a shotgun.

Human beings were a little different, of course.

He lay there with Thom curled up, the animal flat on his back, with his head at Gilles's armpit and all four legs curled up in the air. It was certainly charming, but at some point Gilles had to roll over or even just move around a bit. Finally he turned over, shoved the indignant cat onto the corner by his pillow where it curled up with no more complaint, and then he slept in spite of himself.

The next morning he couldn't even remember what his idea was. It was very frustrating, and he tried several times to regurgitate it back up out of his subconscious mind, sitting there with his limited breakfast, rarely more than a croissant with butter and at least two cups of coffee.

He had no idea of what the idea was. He had learned to trust those instincts, those subconscious little jabs from deep down below. These thoughts often came back later under the right circumstances.

Madame Lefebre, in her usual vibrant morning form, was watched as usual by Thom, laying in the exact square middle of the room, which was her expression, not his. She made a big show of going around the animal on her trips to the counter, the sink and the stove. The cat took it all in stride.

His housekeeper loved every minute of it, engaging the cat in visual by-play and talking to it constantly.

With luck, the thoughts of the night before would come again. It was like a dream, perhaps it was a dream—so fleeting and so easily forgotten in the night.

Whatever the hell it was, it must have been a doozie.

Chapter Twenty

Council of War

With everyone in the office by eight-thirty, Maintenon called an impromptu council-of-war.

Firmin, Archambault, uninvolved as they were, still took an interest. Archambault's black eyes glittered. Firmin, setting everything aside, always the stickler for detail, always reading something even when he was talking to you.

Tailler settled in behind his desk with slightly hooded eyes, very much the junior man all of a sudden. He'd seen and heard enough to realize these guys were real pros and probably the best in the business to be working with Maintenon.

"Yes? Are we ready?" The boss was clutching for straws. "We need ideas."

And there weren't too many so far.

"Gilles, no sneak thief cleans up after himself, not after shooting some old woman three times. They don't hang around long enough to go get a sword and stick that in too." Archambault nodded firmly at Levain, as they'd been talking back and forth while waiting for Hubert to make a tardy appearance.

Archambeault was referring to cartridge cases, in the case of an automatic pistol. One more vote for the revolver. There were no cartridge cases. Either someone had picked them up, all of them, or there weren't any in the first place.

Tailler had a paper sack, his lunch with him, and it was already stained. It was already thirty degrees outside and they were barely into morning yet.

It wasn't even that cool when he left the house at six-fifty, thought Levain. It looked like they were in for a hot, and probably wet, summer.

"I think he's right, Gilles. Let's face it. The boys will inherit the money. No matter how stoutly they declare they don't want the money, don't need the money, never expected the money—it's all bullshit." Levain had a very good point.

There was always the money. He had more.

"Sophie's a young girl. She might not be all that eager to attend this fancy-schmancy Catholic boarding school. Oh, sure, it's in the Alps and everything."

Sophie had twenty-five thousand francs coming to her from Madame Ducharme's estate. To a young girl like that, it must seem like a lot of money. And it was, too, but not at her current lifestyle and rate of expenditure. Was she smart enough to figure that out? It would pay for some schooling and the rest would give her a small start in life. At some point she might have to actually work—or get married, which was undoubtedly what Madame Ducharme and her own parents would have intended for her.

Then again, thought Gilles, there was that for motive—Madame Ducharme might have been pressing for a match with some forty-nine year-old, old-family Colonel, bald, skinny, yet with a paunch, bad breath, a glass eye, false teeth and a wooden leg. Sophie wouldn't want any part of that, Gilles was convinced.

She would be expected to marry some staid and respectable, pious sort of a man, a man with a good name and a good income. She would marry a good Catholic—that's how Madame Ducharme would have seen it.

"And Benoit is the executor—yes, I like that." The estate could still pay out, and if she decided not to go to school, what could Benoit really do about it then?

Not much, or at least, not much without making a big stink.

At that point, she could go anywhere she wanted, and probably would. The thing was only in effect until her twenty-fifth birthday. All remaining funds minus trustee fees would be paid out at that point. Young girls weren't exactly known for such foresight and planning when it came to money and murder. Stranger things had happened, though.

"The problem, as the Inspector sees it, is how to proceed." Grinning, the senior detectives not directly involved in the case met Tailler's eye in sardonic regard, and he was sure his neck flushed, but he tried as best he could to stare them down.

Firmin chuckled a bit and slumped back in his chair. His eyes came up again and he seemed friendly, at least. Archambault was forbidding. Steeling his nerve and taking a deep breath, Tailler plunged headlong over the abyss—or something like that.

But he felt he had to do it.

"Look, Boss, I want to crack this relationship between Sophie Voclain and this Aron Saunier person. Does anyone, gentlemen, and I know you are all that, but just think about it. Do we seriously believe that Sophie sleeps alone or that she has never had anyone up there in her room?"

Gilles looked at Levain. Levain gave him a wink.

"Or that she's never snuck out in the middle of the night, or that the old lady had never forbidden her to go out? Or that she's never come home late and had to make excuses, like saying she had a flat tire? By that I mean an escort, a taxi, whatever. I mean, a lie is a lie, why not make it plausible? And don't all kids do that?"

Tailler addressed these questions directly to Gilles in all seriousness.

"What are you getting at?" Gilles wasn't all that accustomed to being the one under interrogation, which made him smile a bit.

The really dumb questions from junior staff were nothing new. He'd had a million of them.

"Psychology. One, she was the only one of the five who most directly benefits, and she was in the house by her own admission. Two, she admits she came in late, which accounts for her not hearing the shots—she was, we are to assume—assume, gentlemen, and I know how you hate that word..."

"Well?" Gilles sighed at the look on Tailler's face.

"We are to assume she had a few drinks and fell into a deep sleep that only ended, well after the cook discovered the murder."

The fellow had a point there.

"Listen to him, Gilles." Archambault exhaled. "He's not so dumb."

"Yeah—but the question is how to go about it." Gilles shoved his seat back on a forty-five degree angle.

He put his feet up and examined the ceiling for a while.

Tailler was lost in thought, and then he grabbed a pen and jotted something down with Gilles watching him silently.

At this point, Tailler was still shy about throwing it out there. It would only take a phone call or two to find the answer to one question. Strange, how some little thing could bother you like that. Hubert got up and went to the coat rack on some impulse.

"Interesting." Hubert pulled a wad of pamphlets, looking a bit the worse for the rain and humidity, out of the capacious side pocket of his jacket.

He'd just remembered them as he read through, looking for glaring errors and omissions, in that particular page of his report.

"What is it?" Tailler lifted his chin yet again, noted Gilles with sly satisfaction, not looking at Levain or Firmin and Archambault just yet.

"This is all commie stuff."

Firmin stuck out a hand. Hubert gave him the wad and he idly leafed through it. It was the usual crowd, preying on the working class like lepers, handing out pamphlets to people on sidewalks all over town. Bus stop agitators, Firmin called them. This bunch—there were half a dozen organizations among the heap, appeared to be mostly incompetent. Few could spell, fewer could write, and some of them didn't even appear very familiar with their own ideology. It was a lot of crap.

"Huh." Firmin looked up at Gilles. "A pearl amongst swine."

"What is it?"

Firmin got up and brought over one pamphlet in particular.

"Your boy Aron can actually write." Firmin pointed at an article on page two.

News from the Labour Front.

Gilles' eyebrows twitched and then he read the piece thoughtfully. Aron Saunier was the byline. It was a mish-mash of social democracy. So Aron Saunier had some political and social ambitions. He liked the kid already. He grinned wryly.

"Hey, Gilles." Levain caught his eye.

"What, do you have an idea?" Gilles wasn't impatient, exactly, but they needed an entry point.

"The government hates communists. So does the Chief."

He let it sink in for a moment.

"I got a question for you, sir." It was Tailler again!

"Yes. Fire away."

"What is the significance of the key under the mat by the back door there? I mean at the house."

Gilles stared at him. He opened his mouth and just breathed. He made them wait.

"Stay out of my dreams, Tailler." They all laughed at the sheer unexpectedness of it, but Gilles was perfectly serious. "Honestly, I haven't figured that one out yet."

The young fellow's eyelids rose in disbelief.

"Doesn't it seem likely that the killer used it and then put it back? But why?"

Good question, Gilles felt like saying. The one they had recovered was soaking wet from being under the mat. No prints that could be successfully lifted, although there were numerous smudges.

"Tailler!"

"Yes, boss?" He suppressed a shudder.

"What is your theory of the crime?"

There was a sick, hollow feeling in Emile Tailler's guts when he responded.

"That Aron Saunier went up to her room. Or someone very much like him. They played sucky-fucky or maybe just swapped a lot of spit for a while and then he went home. He came out, snuck down the hall. The old lady got between him and the door. Maybe he came down right after her—you know? One way or the other, they surprised each other. Maybe he carried his boots, right? He had to stop and put them on. He didn't hear her coming, or maybe he tripped and she started squawking. I don't know."

Levain studied Tailler.

"Well. He does have a criminal record, even a violent one, ah, to a certain extent."

Levain thought about the gun.

"It could be his gun, eh, Inspector?"

Gilles studied the faces of Firmin and Archambault, who just looked at their hands.

Finally Archambault looked at Tailler.

"It's another place to start." He met Maintenon's eyes. "Anyway, we'll leave you guys to it. We have to be somewhere else."

Their bulging briefcases confirmed it as they made hasty goodbyes, heading for parts downtown as Tailler tried very, very hard not to say anything at all for a while.

Levain and Hubert busied themselves at their desks. For all intents and purposes Gilles was a million miles away, biting his lip, studying his blotter, almost black with all of the numbers, names, notes, and scribbles from a thousand days.

Hubert sighed, ignoring them all as best he could, and set a fresh sheet in his typewriter.

The boss really ought to put in for a new blotter, thought Tailler, although after only a few days his own was showing a few notes jotted down on it. His head had absorbed a lot in such a short time. It was bulging at the seams for Christ's sakes.

The phone rang. Levain grabbed it in heartfelt relief.

"Yes?" He wrote something on his blotter.

"Hubert!"

The man almost jumped out of his seat, being perhaps too intent on typing up the last of his reports.

"Yes!"

"There's a dead body just down the way. Over the hill and through the woods. Would you like to attend with me?"

"Why, certainly, Sergeant." He gave a wicked grin at Tailler. "You get the next one. I hope it's a floater."

"Hubert."

Lowering his head in mock shame, the fellow gave Gilles a submissive nod and followed the rapidly-departing Levain out the door with his coat on his arm and his hat in his hand.

***

Maintenon appeared to be asleep again. Tailler was haunted by the sound of ringing telephones down the hall, faint voices on the other side of the partitions, feet clunking past the door, all the sounds of a busy building at mid-morning. Everyone was busy, and they all seemed to have a purpose. They, at least, knew what they were supposed to be doing.

So far, it was better than waiting on a hard wooden bench for someone with brass and tinsel all over his hat to need a ride somewhere. It was really interesting work, now that he thought about it. What a bloody marvelous opportunity. He had no doubt that people would tell him how lucky he was. They would tell him to do his best and just go for it. They would pat him on the back and congratulate him. Emile Tailler was just plain petrified.

That was the truth, naked and unadorned, if only he cared to admit it. His guts churned, with the fresh stabs of adrenal juices whenever he acknowledged his personal fear.

This lull in the action couldn't last.

"Inspector?"

"Uh-hmn...?"

He really was asleep.

"Do you mind if I make a couple of calls?" No response from the Inspector. "It's about the case—the cat I mean."

"Snerk-snerkel-snum...snum-num-num..."

Tailler nodded at the irony. The old guy must be pretty tired, but they said brain work burned off the energy. Whether that was true or not, he didn't know. He really was on his own, and definitely a little bored. He felt like an idiot. He was oddly resentful at the way he'd been thrown to the wolves, in spite of which he still liked them, all of them, very much.

He was a cop, after all. In the final analysis, it's not like he needed an excuse.

Again, there was this shot of adrenaline at the thought of just doing it.

Left to his own devices, he snaked up the handset and peeled two or three telephone numbers out of his notes. With a pen at the ready, aggressively hovering over a blank spot on his desk blotter, he dialed the first number.

There was the usual distant sound of ringing, oddly subdued and quiet in the blaring outdoor noises. There was traffic out there and a gusting hot breeze coming in from the window behind him. After yesterday's rain the air was at least clean, with the faint hint of wet manure from the surrounding lands tickling the nostrils. It was a reminder of the whole basis of life, death, decay and renewal.

"Allo?"

"Ah. Bonjour. Madame Herriot? This is Acting-Sergeant Emile Tailler, of the Surete." He kept a close watch on Maintenon, who was snoring lightly, then stopping abruptly with a snork sound.

His eyes never opened, and he wriggled unconsciously in his chair, with his feet up on the left end of the desk and the chair wedged up against a heavy steel filing cabinet that Maintenon kept right there for just such a purpose. His chin was on his chest. More light sounds came from Maintenon.

"No, no. It's nothing to worry about, and I'm sure you'll be glad to know it's not another darned bunch of questions. Heh-heh-heh."

He listened intently, watching the Inspector. Madame Herriot prattled on a bit, sounding lonely and discouraged by her lack of employment. He made sympathetic noises while she talked. Finally she got around to listening mode.

"So what is this about?" Her tone was resigned, rather than eagerly helpful.

"I just thought you would like to know. And I'll call the girls too, and tell them, so don't you worry about that." He had it all mapped out.

He wanted to get his statements in without having to answer any questions.

Even if he woke up, Maintenon need not be the wiser—it all sounded pretty legit so far.

"Oh? And what is that?"

"I just wanted you guys to know that the cat is well, and that it's being properly looked-after and everything."

He pulled the headset away and put his palm firmly over the ear-piece.

He could feel her voice vibrating against his slightly-sweaty skin.

He put it back up to his head.

"Yes, yes. Oh, thank you. Very well then, thank you, and I promise I will keep in touch. Bonjour."

He quickly put his finger on the button and killed her shrill voice. She seemed a bit confused and not a little angry. He looked at the next two numbers, and then he looked up at Maintenon. Liquid fear shot through him as he regarded one hard brown eye regarding from a slightly twisted head position.

"Tailler."

"Yes, Inspector?"

"What's going on?"

Tailler filled his lungs, and twisted his chair to more directly confront Maintenon.

He was about to cross the Rubicon, figuratively speaking. Emile Tailler was committed.

"Madame Herriot says they never had a cat. Not in the whole time she's been there."

Maintenon's feet hit the floor so hard that they stung.

"Nom de Dieu!" He was awake now. "How stupid we can be sometimes!"

Maintenon got up and went to the coat-rack, taking his hat first as was his odd little habit. He squashed it down firmly.

"Sir?" Was he going somewhere then?

The Boss took a long and patient look at him.

"Tailler."

"Ah, yes, sir?"

"You have just earned yourself a plate of steak and eggs." Those warm and intelligent eyes regarded him with surprising affection. "My treat. Come on, Tailler. There's a little place not too far away."

Orders were orders and there was no sense in arguing. Tailler beat it to the coat-rack.

Chapter Twenty-One

The Bells

The life of the city, just as in ancient times, was regulated by bells. Just as the church bell behind them began to toll the noon-day mass, a mess of humanity, men and women in smocks and dungarees, spilled out of the gate of a red-brick factory lined with tall windows on three floors. The bulk of them went to the right, and several eateries down there attested to their likely destination. Some went left, as there was a cheaper coffee shop down that way by their own observation, having quickly circled a couple of blocks in a figure-eight pattern on arrival. Some milled around the entrance, smoking and chatting amongst themselves in small groups that ebbed, flowed, broke up and then formed again.

Tailler's belly was so full, and now he was wondering, where in the hell were they supposed to go if they had to take a crap?

According to the name on the front it was a textile mill, but they had also seen people pushing wheeled walk-along racks of shirts, pants, suits and especially women's dresses down the sidewalk, going a full six long blocks and entering the front courtyard of another factory.

A returning line of empty racks indicated some ongoing process of subcontracting and work being put out. They watched as another freight delivery lorry slowed, turned in to the Savary works yard, and back-and-forthed until it was lined up at a loading dock, one of three on the south end of the building.

Tailler moseyed on up, four or five blocks, on the far side of the street, and when he returned he informed Gilles that it was an apparel company. Neither man had ever heard of them, but that meant nothing as even the fanciest names ultimately had to put the work out to jobbers of one sort or another.

Hence the name, 'putters-out,' which was a term going back centuries, but perhaps not translating so well these days.

A pale Aron Saunier came out. Across the street, Gilles stood at a bus stop reading Paris Match through dark glasses. The first editions were on a newsstand nearby. Aron bought something from a pushcart vendor, it looked like an orange, and then headed straight towards Gilles although Tailler was strolling south, or to Maintenon's right this time.

Without moving a muscle, Gilles continued his pretend-reading and then the young fellow fooled both Tailler and Maintenon. It was the one thing they hadn't counted on. He passed two metres to Maintenon's left.

Aron went straight up to the church, mounted the tall, blackened marble steps, and went in the oaken Gothic door without so much as a look around. Gilles stomach went all cold at the realization that they really hadn't reconnoitered very well. Aron in a church? What if Sophie was in there, for example.

Tailler was back, pulling out his own paper. He held it up in front of him.

"What do you think, sir? He would recognize you. But I think I should go in. Right?" Tailler had studied a mug shot of Aron Saunier, ever so briefly.

Gilles nodded, and then folding his paper, he stuck it in his pocket. He held up his left wrist and checked the time.

"I feel like a stroll, but I'll be just around the corner."

Tailler nodded and Gilles moved south now, because there was a side-chapel entrance on the intersecting street. The younger detective, as if he owned the place, as indeed in some sense he did, went up and entered the church. He was a member of the flock.

The light was glorious in these old piles, he thought, picking out a few figures kneeling in the front pew. There was no one else about, except the priest and one boy.

Tailler always thought of it as a stage, but that wasn't right. It was a kind of performance, he supposed. They were performing their rituals.

Aron was in the second row, kneeling, lost in prayer, apparently. There was an emergency exit on the wall to the right of the altar, and the side-chapel on the left, and other than that probably one or two exits on the rectory, attached somehow to the back of the building. There were usually a couple of doors behind the altar and the hanging effigy of Christ, doors tucked away behind wing partitions left and right.

There was not much to do except be seen if he stayed much longer. The priest was looking at him. Sooner or later someone would turn to look and see who it was. Tailler turned and went out again, head down a little and very conscious of the Monsignor's eyes boring into the back of his skull. He found Gilles and they consulted some more, once more dispersing to good vantage points.

After forty-five minutes or so, the kid came out of church and went back across the street. Fifteen minutes later, he came out pushing a rack of dresses, following three other employees, two women and a big fat fellow, huffing and puffing and giving it all he had by appearances. What was compelling was the sight of a stray cat, barely out of kitten stage, following the last one up the street—and that person was Aron.

By this time the men were taking turns lounging around in the mouth of an alley while the other took a turn sitting on the dented but shiny lid of a garbage can. The smell was tolerable, even enticing in some ways. It was an adventure, Gilles told Tailler with a twinkle in his eye as they switched places.

"So what do you think, Boss?"

"You decide."

"Ah—ah, we can follow him, and keep him under surveillance all day long." Tailler looked up with a shrug from his garbage can. "What good does that really do us? Or we can just go around later and talk to him at home."

Gilles watched Aron Saunier gamely pushing his cart up a slight incline, all four of them working really hard, and nodded.

"Yes, this isn't going to get us anywhere." Gilles had seen enough. "So what then?"

"If we don't like the answers, we arrest him. Search the place. Ask him if the girl is a communist? Right?"

Gilles grinned at that one.

"I don't know. But it's time we got out of here."

Tailler got up and the two men headed to the south or right, and then made another right, and not far along was their car, less than a block and a half from the factory.

***

They had it timed down to the minute. They were back at the apartment address, waiting in the car, a block and a half up the street.

Aron Saunier started work at 7:30 a.m. He had an hour for lunch and two fifteen-minute breaks, unpaid. He got off at five o'clock, and since it was payday, he would probably make a quick stop at the bank and then the grocer's.

It was five-thirty-eight p.m.

They watched him come up the street with a paper sack of groceries under each arm, with the obligatory baguette sticking out the top. They had little doubt there would be wine and cheese, perhaps a lump of sausage wrapped in brown paper in there. There would have to be some bacon in there obviously, maybe some eggs and some milk and a carton of cigarettes.

They turned to look at each other in disbelief as a taxi pulled up, the window on the right-hand back door rolled down and Sophie Voclain stuck her head out, waving frantically. A stunned Aron Saunier looked wildly around at her call. Then his eyes darted right and left, up and down the street.

"Do we go? Do we go?" Tailler was in knots, frozen with one hand on the latch and one on the car seat all ready to shove off.

Gilles reached over and squeezed his arm. He said nothing.

Sophie clambered out hurriedly. Aron's mouth was going.

She thrust money into an outstretched hand, and slammed the taxi door. She took one bag and Aron's hand and the two made for the entrance.

They waited until the lovers were inside.

"Okay. Now we go. You take the back alley. I'm on the radio."

"Yes, sir." Tailler left the key dangling in the ignition, noted Maintenon.

Good form all the way with Tailler. Gilles could cover the entrance while awaiting help from afar.

***

The four of them huddled beside the apartment door, Gilles, Tailler, Levain and Hubert. One of the other tenants had buzzed them in without asking any questions.

There was some talking inside, including the older man's querulous voice. They heard the ringing note of a cast-iron frying pan hitting the stove element. Cupboard doors opened and closed. The girl was talking, facing the other way probably. They couldn't make it out. Aron was answering in very short sentences, voice trending upwards, often high and tense at the end of a sentence.

Gilles caught Levain's eye and nodded.

Andre put his shoulder down and with a short push from his strong legs, popped the lock, the chain and the deadbolt all in one easy smash. The door was old and the frame had been kicked in one too many times. Andre had mentioned that in their quick and dirty little briefing down below, and he was absolutely right.

"Stay where you are! Nobody move!" Andre led in, then Hubert, then Tailler.

Maintenon stood in the doorway. Andre and Hubert, headed for the kitchen, ran smack into Aron Saunier coming out. The kid had a big carving knife in his hand, but Andre grabbed an arm and twisted it away and Hubert got him in a headlock immediately.

"Just simmer down." The three of them froze like that for a second.

Andre reached over and Gilles took the knife.

The kid started to wriggle and buck.

Right about then was when Sophie started to scream.

She stood in the kitchen door, eyes bulging at the struggle primarily, but also recognizing the detectives. Her hand flew up to her mouth.

"Sophie Voclain, Aron Saunier, you are under arrest." Maintenon spoke as the girl shuddered into silence. "And if you don't cool it, young man..."

"Va ta ferre foutrez!"

Andre rapped him on the top of the head with his knuckles, and he wasn't exactly gentle either.

"Argh!"

The kid slumped in surrender, almost falling limp to the ground. Andre manhandled him and marched Aron in the direction of the couch as Maintenon stepped aside. Hubert, confronting the girl, merely pointed. With tears gushing down her face, she hung her head and complied. The look she gave Gilles was vicious. Tailler hovered off to one side, ready to conk someone if required.

"You, sir."

"Me?" Raymond's face was ashen, but he was sitting up straight and not moving about too much.

"Your son is in a bit of trouble."

The man slowly collapsed into himself, looking intently into the angry red face of his step-son, as Levain, Tailler and then Maintenon, after putting the knife in the kitchen sink, went to the rear and began to thoroughly take the place apart.

Hubert stood between the subjects and the door with one hand in his pocket as if looking for his gum.

"You do not have to speak to me, and you do not have to answer questions. If you do choose to say something, I may write it down and use it against you in a court of law. Comprenez vous?"

Three faces regarded him with hostile distaste in varying degrees. The eyes said it all.

He told them all about their rights and asked if they understood. It appeared that they did, although the old man might not have too much to worry about.

The three men in the bedroom had gone very quiet.

Maintenon came out, holding a small revolver, dangling it by the trigger guard so it swung gently in his hand. The sounds of Hubert and Levain ripping the place apart were still there in the background.

The look of absolute shock on the face of Aron, Sophie, and Raymond was either completely sincere or some of the best acting Hubert had seen in some years.

Chapter Twenty-Two

A Scarred Tabletop

The scarred tabletop had seen a thousand interviews. The ashtrays stank permanently. There were burn marks on table and floor. The brown linoleum was scuffed from a thousand chairs being thrown back and forth, the walls dented and patched from fits of rage, impotence, fear and frustration. The human animals caged in this room all had certain common feelings, reactions, and fates. The room had seen it all, and absorbed a lot of punishment in consequence. A few got to go home. A few went away, some for a short time, some for a long time, but none for a good time. Some went on to the guillotine, and so the room smelled of animal desperation. That smell didn't take too long to sink into the subconscious.

Each interview was the same, and yet it was different every time. They stood watching from behind the mirror.

"So I guess you know what this is about."

There was no response.

Aron Saunier was sullen, angry, scared shitless one minute and defiant as hell the next. He was also surprisingly cooperative and a little bit contradictory. He could be manipulated.

"So where did you get the gun?" Hubert was friendly enough, and so far the word murder had not been mentioned. "Why didn't you get rid of it?"

It was hard to believe that anyone could be that stupid. Aron's life was flashing before his eyes, his future life, and it was not very good.

"Go to hell."

"But you just said, if we leave Sophie out of it, that you would sign anything." Andre Levain's forbidding stare keenly probed the young man's face, but Aron refused to look at him. "Isn't that what he said, Hubert?"

Hubert nodded.

"Yup. That's what he said."

"Has it ever occurred to you, young man, that maybe sweet little Sophie, ah, might be, ah, setting you up?"

Hubert sounded apologetic, bored even.

"No!"

The two detectives nodded sagely while the thought worked on him.

"I have no idea how that gun got in there—where did you find it?"

On the other side of the one-way mirror, Tailler stood deathly still at Maintenon's side. His superior's sudden nod meant something, Emile Tailler was sure of that, but what did it mean?

"It was in your dresser-drawer, way at the back. Underneath your Sunday-best underwear."

"No!" The youth sobbed.

He put his head down in his hands.

"Aron."

The young man was crying.

"Honestly, Aron."

There were sniffles as he raised his head, face wet with shiny tears.

"Did you give Sophie a cat?" Hubert was soothing, comforting.

Aron nodded, devastated by his present surroundings and the awful knowledge of what was in store.

He'd read all the stories. Recently there had been a long feature series on prison life, with photos of Devil's Island, maximum-security prisons and everything, in one of the working class rags.

"Can you tell us a little bit more about the cat, please?"

Levain sounded incredibly gentle at that moment in time, thought Tailler. He really is good, even if he doesn't seem to like me very much.

"I—I surprised her with it."

"Okay. When was this?" Back to Hubert again, and the fellow seemed to latch onto his friendly face.

"Please tell us what happened." Hubert was now the insistent one.

"It's a nice cat. I was thinking of taking it home, but there's just no way."

"And?" Hubert bored in.

"We came out of the party and I just sort of scooped it up. I put it in my jacket while she wasn't looking. She was still saying goodbye to a couple of people. We rode home on my scooter. We went to her place."

"Ah." Hubert engaged Levain's eyes.

He looked back at Aron.

"So you just scooped it up."

"Yes! So I am a fool. Big deal."

"A fool in love, eh, my young friend?"

The young man wept some more, yet keeping his head up and staring at them in hate and despair. He was borderline hyperventilating and had totally let himself go. He had no more defenses.

"How did that all work, incidentally?" Levain had decades of experience and this was practically boring him by the sounds of it.

Gilles grinned in genuine appreciation. It was a kind of cheap theatre and the actors were bored.

"Yeah. She went in, bustled about, making sure her Aunt was asleep."

"And then she gave you the signal?"

"Yes, sir."

"What was that?

She turned her bedroom light off and on and then off again. Simple and direct.

"And then?"

"And then I used the key under the mat." He parked a couple of blocks away so the old lady wouldn't hear his machine.

"You came in by the back door."

"Yes." He unlocked it, and then stuck the key right back.

He did the same thing on leaving. He went out, got the key, and locked up. It was better than taking a chance on losing the key.

There was a long silence.

"I never did nothing! We, we never did nothing! Sophie, I swear to God, she never did nothing!"

"So when did you bring her the cat?"

"It was the night of the party." Aron's voice was broken, rasping, and he could barely get it out.

"You grabbed a cat and stuck it in your jacket. Then you took her home. Huh."

Andre tried tripping him up a couple of times but it wasn't happening. He resisted the urge to look at the mirror on the wall.

"Wasn't she wearing a dress? A skirt?"

Aron said she hitched it up and sat behind him. Clearly Sophie had some parts, some independence of mind.

"Did you have any thoughts on how she was going to feed it? How was she going to keep it?"

"She was going to ask her Aunt. She was going to say it was hanging around by the door when she came home and she couldn't resist."

It wasn't all that far-fetched, when Levain thought about it. You'd think he would have pitched the gun in the river, though.

Levain had important questions, but the kid was a broken shell, and it hadn't taken more than five minutes. It spoke volumes about his state of mind. He hadn't been charged with anything yet. So far Aron hadn't even asked as to why they showed up at his house. The poor guy would be shitting his pants right about now. He still hadn't asked for a lawyer. He probably couldn't afford one anyway. Yet even making the demand would give him some delay, a time to think and get a grip on himself.

The kid's mind didn't seem to be working that way at all. He was totally resigned.

It meant little, of course, but the impression was nothing like that of a hardened criminal.

Actually it meant a lot, but proved absolutely nothing as far as juries were concerned. It wasn't much in terms of exculpatory evidence. One of the Inspector's theories was that all actions had meaning, but the Inspector could be tiresomely obscure at times. At least in Andre's opinion.

"How did you get in? Did you use the key under the back mat?"

Aron nodded.

"Please put it in your own words." Levain's pencil stood poised over his notepad and the boy subsided into a fresh paroxysm of lament.

"It's okay, Aron." Hubert reached over and patted Aron on the shoulder.

"Just leave her out of it! Leave her out of it! And I'll sign anything you want. Go ahead—just type it up and leave me alone!"

"No, Aron." Levain's voice was gravelly and yet all paternal. "I'm afraid we can't do that."

"No?" Aron's face was mask of rage.

He looked like he was about to leap across the table and thrash them, but good.

"No, Aron. We want the truth."

Aron stared into the eyes of Hubert.

"Sure. Sure you do."

"No. I mean it. Just tell us about the cat, and Sophie. We'll start with that just for now, okay?"

Tailler grabbed Maintenon's shoulder and squeezed, and Maintenon lifted his hand off as Tailler whispered hoarsely.

"Boss. Boss. They didn't do it—"

Upon which Gilles grimaced, and turning, he patted the big fellow on the shoulder.

"I know, Tailler. I know."

If it wasn't so necessarily dark in the observation room, the look on Tailler's face might have been priceless. The voice came again.

"Did you kill Madame Ducharme?"

"No, sir. Please—"

"What time did you leave?"

Tailler was so close to another outburst of whispering. Gilles nudged him with an elbow.

"Ah, God...I don't know. Maybe about six, or more like ten after..."

"The key was still there, right?"

"Yes! Damn it, yes!"

"Was the window in the back door broken when you left?"

Saunier shook his head in hopeless submission.

"No. Sir. The window in the back door was not broken."

"All right. Now we can go." Stepping around Tailler, Gilles let himself out.

With not much else to go on, Tailler followed the Inspector out of the room on quiet feet as the partition was thin and the doors tended to clunk when the latch snapped in.

***

"All right, Tailler. She's had plenty of time to think about it."

"Ah, yes, sir."

"Any questions, Emile?"

Tailler's jaw dropped. He closed it firmly. He gave Gilles a confident smile.

"No, sir. Let's hope I think of something."

Tailler opened the door to interview room three and Maintenon eased his way into the narrow observation room between it and interview room one. Tailler had insisted that Gilles be right there in case he faltered, and he was, at least for a time.

Their voices were faint but audible through the glass.

Tailler started off with some innocuous questions and then asked her about the box of shells in her dresser drawer. Her shock was total, and her hand flew up to her mouth. Sophie's vehement protestations of innocence were getting in the way of further questions, but Tailler soothed her down again with some difficulty.

The fellow was doing fairly well, and the girl, assured of good legal defense, and having all of the arrogance of the upper class person who was truly innocent, was much more composed than her beau. She was so eager to refute everything that the thought of shutting up never even occurred to her. Gilles thought that was a good sign.

"So, ah, it's safe to say you guys never took a cab home from the party?"

Silent, she bit her lip and shook her head. She didn't try to explain or justify it.

After a while, Gilles tiptoed out, secure in the knowledge that Tailler was asking all the right questions, some of the dumbest questions, and some that mattered little either way. He seemed to be taking good notes and the girl was confirming what Aron had said about the cat. As for the really important question, Maintenon was saving that for later and Emile had very clear instructions not to go down that road.

As for the gun, she said Aron didn't have it on him when they were together and Maintenon accepted that at face value. It's not like he couldn't have stashed it downstairs or outside if he really meant to use it. But why would he do such a thing? Sophie appeared to have little guile in her makeup, and no doubt that was one of her attractions. She was a very beautiful woman, and a very nice kid! There were some contradictions there, which seemed natural and not contrived.

But the killer had finally done the complete job. Having set up the crime scene, probably in a big panic, possibly having been surprised by Aron and the girl, they had now provided a handy scapegoat. They had done some subsequent thinking since the commission of the crime.

The state of mind of the killer was everything.

He was interested in the killer's state of mind. The killer might have scoped out Muriel Ducharme, not realizing that Sophie was a little more unpredictable.

They were worried. The case was not solved, and neither had it been closed or dropped. So a simple solution had been thoughtfully presented, a nice, easy little proposition for the big, dumb policemen, traipsing all over the place in their clod-hopper shoes.

Tailler was right. There was a certain psychology to the crime. Had Tailler actually said that?

A classic it was too, with the two young lovers, caught between the Capulets and Montagues as it were. In his mind's eye, Maintenon could imagine how it was done. The killer could simply go in while old Raymond was ill, sick, drunk or asleep. Maybe in the bathroom. If caught in the act, the killer might have even shot Raymond, or beat him to death. It would have been another crime to blame on Aron. The lovers had known each other for three or four months, ah. But there was the impetuousness of youth, again, simple psychology—for the jury to consider. The best time to plant the gun would be immediately after the kid had gone to work, when odds were the old man would quickly go back to bed. There was even a fire-escape on the back of the building. Levain had noticed that when taking a quick look at the kid's motorcycle. Up the fire escape, take a quick peek and have a listen. The windows had no screens and in fact when searching the place the bedroom window was all the way up, propped up by a stick, with outside air blowing right through the place from front to back.

Into the bedroom. Open the sock drawer and shove in the gun. Beat a hasty retreat on soft shoes or stocking feet. Raymond would be there to testify. No one had been in the house except for his step-son, who could be a bit of trouble at times, but they were all each other had.

It was a cinch that Madame Ducharme would not approve of Sophie's relationship with Aron. She would have made a big fuss. She would have made certain demands, certain statements. She would have presented an ultimatum, although the staff had mentioned no such thing.

The young lovers had their ostensible motive.

With twenty-five thousand francs coming to Sophie Voclain, and the disadvantaged boy to take the fall, a jury would buy it, if that was how the police cared to present it.

As for Maintenon, no. He wasn't buying it, at least not so far.

It was just a little too pat for its own good.

***

Gilles and Levain had made special arrangements. The young lovers were released, after some delay, upon a signed promise to assist them further and not to change addresses without notifying the police. According to their shadows, they went straight home, Sophie to the hotel and Aron to the apartment. They took a cab together and she had dropped Aron off. Further developments would be reported promptly.

Then they sat back to wait.

As Gilles said, 'we have stomped the brush-pile.' It was almost meaningless to Tailler and even Hubert, who looked forward to learning a new wrinkle.

They sat in the office, air blue with smoke and genial cussing.

Levain finally arrived back after a private tete-a-tete with Alphonse, who had been provided with plenty of warning and numerous copies of recent photos of the two love-birds and every other person of interest on his extensive list.

They had their own problems.

"That's a lot of manpower, Gilles." Levain dropped into his seat.

To follow nine people, to keep them under surveillance, required at least two men for each subject at all times. It took a shitload of cars, among other things. Two shifts of twelve hours each, eighteen men and women, plus supervision and backup. Plenty of briefing time, a half-dozen officers brought in on overtime, and all of them highly-skilled individuals.

"Don't worry. It won't be long."

"Because I suggested that Sophie might like to call her uncle and let him know that she was safe and sound. Am I right, Boss?"

Gilles smiled thinly. Tailler had nailed it, but no sense letting the boy get a swelled head.

"Don't worry, Tailler. It won't be long now."

He raised his arm and looked at his watch.

"Okay. Thank you everybody, and don't forget to put in those overtime chits."

"Awww!"

Hubert for one was incensed, but he grabbed his coat and hat readily enough and was the first one out the door. He was followed by the heavier and more deliberate tread of Andre Levain.

Gilles felt the studious eyes of Tailler on him.

"Yes?"

"What's going on now, sir?"

"We have some phone taps out. Every damned one of them is being watched. Other than that, we wait."

"And the chief didn't give us any problems on that?" Tailler looked very thoughtful.

"Nope."

Tailler chewed on that one for a while, and then, rising, he made his way over to the coat-rack. If there was one thing that they could all count on during any given day, it was that coat-rack.

"Tell me about the key, Inspector? Please?"

"The key is meaningless, Tailler."

Tailler stared at the coat-rack for a minute, and then wordlessly, went home. The door snapped shut behind him. There was a lesson in all of this. An officer in the hallway nodded pleasantly in passing. It was a sign of something, he thought. If only Tailler could figure out what that was.

***

Unlike the others, Gilles stayed put. They had worked hard, and had earned some rest. Old people, and he felt old just then, have their uses. For one thing, they needed little sleep, and for another, the overtime meals weren't bad. He could hold the fort for a while. Actually, he thought they had a window of a few hours, and with luck, then things would either start to happen, or they wouldn't. In that event, it would be back to square one. All he had to do was to phone down to the desk and the sergeant would sign a meal chit for him.

The restaurant was right on the way home, although tonight he thought he would probably just have somebody drive him.

Chapter Twenty-Three

In Bed with Monsieur Thom

It was ten-thirty at night. Gilles Maintenon and Monsieur Thom were in bed. Gilles was reading the French edition of a tiresome and not-very-enthralling thriller by a prominent English author and the cat was merely being contented. A couple of years after his wife's death, after much soul-searching, Gilles had finally had the room redecorated. He had a new bed and furnishings, a thick rug in dark green and handsome teak dressers. More than anything else, the two lights, wall-sconces on each side of the bed, made a difference in a room that had been pallid and dingy after long years of occupancy and his wife's illness.

The phone rang. Hardly missing a beat, he put the book down. Gilles picked up the receiver to his right.

"Yes?"

It was Alphonse.

"One of our birds is on the move. It's Benoit—and he's not headed for home."

"Really? Were there any calls?"

"I was just speaking to them guys." He meant the phone-tapping operation. "They say Benoit called Olivier and Amaury. Not Philipe, nor anyone else."

According to Alphonse, the conversations were guarded but factual. The oldest brother simply relayed the news as told by Sophie. Now they knew Sophie and Aron had been arrested, and released, and what kind of questions the cops had been asking, according to Durand.

The brush-pile has been stomped.

"Any idea of where he's headed?"

"He's at the Gare de Lyon, Gilles." There was buzzing on the line. "That's where I'm calling from. I have a team with me."

"Ah, good, good. Be very careful not to lose him."

"And if he tries to get over the border?" The natural assumption was Switzerland.

He must be seen to make the attempt was all Maintenon would say.

"...and then grab him by the collar and drag him back here."

There was a chuckle.

"We can do that."

"Alphonse—"

"Yes, Gilles?"

"I owe you a big one."

"Sure, sure, that's what they all say. Look, what about these other guys. Are we going to pull the tails off of them?"

"No. No—leave them."

"Really?"

"Yes."

Alphonse would pry when it was time, and not before. Gilles liked being thorough, and he seldom got it wrong when it really mattered.

"All right, Gilles." Alphonse abruptly hung up and Gilles went back to his book. It now seemed even less compelling than before, if that was even possible. It was no good. He was going back and forth, back and forth over the same passages and not getting a word of it. He grimaced and then grunted in disgust. Finally he looked at the cat, put the book down and said one word, not printable, but a word nevertheless.

With a sigh, thoughts all jumbled as usual, he snapped off the light, put his head down, wiggled under the blankets, and tried very, very hard to get to sleep.

***

The next morning four detectives attended at the residence of Olivier Ducharme. At nine a.m., they had telephoned the bank and discovered he was not at work and had not called in sick. No one there seemed to know anything about it, but he was fairly autonomous in his position and the secretary had been sort of covering for him. The secretary admitted his appointments had not been cancelled and claimed that she hadn't heard from him yet this morning.

Madame Ducharme, Olivier's wife, came on the maid's call and the pair reluctantly allowed them entry. Although they had a warrant, they were polite and respectful of her tragic dignity.

She dismissed the maid.

"He has told me everything."

Maintenon doubted that very much.

She pointed at a set of formal rosewood stairs going up and around in a spiral into a glowing golden cupola and the next floor landing.

Standing aside and then going into the front salon, she stood looking at a wall full of family portraits, with the light from the bay windows side-lighting her face. From behind she looked very posed, and yet he could see that she was devastated by whatever Olivier had told her. He hardly needed to ask, by this point. All in good time, he thought. Poor woman. Her life would be shattered, and she was entirely guiltless. She would suffer much in the days to come. The kids were in school and so they wouldn't have to see this. They would be devastated too.

Gilles followed the men up the stairs, looking for Olivier Ducharme. By the looks of the luggage standing by the door, Monsieur Ducharme was planning to go somewhere.

***

Amaury was at the club. The normally bright red neon sign in the left window was dark. A paper sign on the inside of the door said closed. Checking the handle, the door opened and there were a few lights on inside, even at this early hour. There was no one about. Tailler led off, with Levain, Hubert and Gilles trailing along in a kind of informal patrol line, although only Gilles had any real military experience. He had trained Levain, and now Levain was taking it up on his own initiative.

Amaury, in a grey cotton suit with white waistcoat and black and white shoes, his prim white Panama with the wide red band sitting on the corner of the desk, awaited their coming with patient fatality.

"Gentlemen." He rose but did not offer to shake hands.

Tailler looked at Gilles who nodded shortly.

"Amaury Ducharme, you are under arrest for the murder of Muriel Ducharme, and various and sundry charges of which you will be duly notified..."

"Tailler."

"Ah, yes, sir." Emile snapped the cuffs on him.

The prisoner offered no resistance.

"Read him his rights."

Tailler managed a passable job of it, although he seemed oddly out of breath and not a little excited by his first homicide arrest.

Interesting, thought Gilles. He hadn't really considered that.

He'd been doing this a little too long. All he ever got out of it these days was a curiously futile feeling, and the most awful kind of humility the next morning.

"Do you have any idea of where your brother Benoit Ducharme might be?"

Andre thought Amaury might be about to speak, but some sense of brotherly loyalty betrayed itself.

Monsieur Ducharme shook his head firmly.

"All right, we're off then."

Hubert and Levain took the prisoner to their car and Tailler and Gilles spent the rest of the morning tossing the place but found little of interest. Other teams were going through Olivier's and Benoit's residences and offices. It appeared to be a perfectly legitimate business enterprise, basically a bar and restaurant with nothing on the face of it, other than the décor, to indicate that it was an establishment catering almost exclusively to the male homosexual crowd. While there were certain ordinances in place, the police tolerated them as an outlet. It kept it off the street-corners and out of the alleyways, at least to some degree. If it got a little too notorious, that was another story.

The business seemed profitable and Amaury would have been able to look forward to a comfortable, if somewhat uneventful life. At the end of a tiring session, Tailler had one more question.

"Sir."

"Yes?"

"What about Philipe?"

"Ah, yes. No evidence." Gilles explained that first he wanted to see what the brothers had to say for themselves. "He is also under surveillance."

Tailler nodded his comprehension. On this busy street people continually stepped around them. The young man locked up, taped an official seal on the door and they were on their way, but not before Gilles had a quick word with a uniformed cop who was on this beat and coincidentally right there a few steps away.

Chapter Twenty-Four

No More Stops along the Way

There were no more stops along the way. Benoit had spent a day in the popular ski and resort town of Jougne. He seemed to be moving around a lot and they concluded he was looking for tails. He did not register at a hotel, for example, where he would have to give a name and might be remembered. They were five kilometres approximately from the border. The next stop was over the line in Switzerland, so they broke off the heavy surveillance and waited at the train station.

Sure enough, Benoit showed up just after the dinner hour. Benoit and his tails, looking much more like tired and harassed travelers now, bought tickets on the busy platform and took seats on the train. Durand and a side-kick waited until the conductor moved through, taking tickets and tearing off stubs. The man went into the next compartment, moving along fairly well. There was a lurch, a whistle, and then they were off. Durand nodded at his partner and the pair rose from their separate seats as if headed for the dining or saloon car on some sudden impulse.

The train was moving towards the frontier when Benoit Ducharme felt a hard hand clench onto his shoulder. As Alphonse Durand's mouth opened to inform him that he was under arrest, the man bolted up like a startled bulldog. A hard left shoulder rammed into Durand's chin, throwing him back into his partner and knocking him back too. That was why Durand actually had three good men with him on the arrest.

A good whack on the top of the head from young Jacques Bernard's baton brought him to his knees with tears streaming down his face and blinded by the pain.

"Argh! Argh! Argh!"

The man was an animal. Three husky young officers wrestled him into submission, legs kicking and sweat flowing, all of them shouting and cursing into the shocked silence of the first-class carriage. A heap of four bodies heaved up and down at Durand's feet. People on each side of the aisle pulled the extremities in out of harm's way, flinching back from the flailing arms and kicking legs.

Durand leaned in across the seat, grabbed the emergency cable and gave it a good yank. To his evident satisfaction there sounded a loud alarm bell, and then came the jerk of something being done with the brakes and the power up front.

The bell was abruptly switched off. The conductor ran down the length of the train. Durand could see him just in the next car though the adjoining segments of glass. The boys dragged the suspect to his feet. Ducharme tugged and yanked and cursed and spat, but it was to no avail.

He said some awful things.

David gave him a quick smack in the face and he shut up. He hung his head in shame and submission, which did not go well with the expensive brown suit he wore.

"Sir?"

"Yes, Madame?"

"Is that man under arrest?"

"Yes he is, Madame."

She nodded, and then looked away and straight ahead, ignoring this unwelcome intrusion into her safe and sane existence. What a shoddy little man, and she wasn't necessarily thinking of the prisoner.

"David. Find his luggage. Jacques, take charge of our guest."

He nodded at the conductor, stopped dead a good ten metres away.

"You, sir. Come here for a moment." Benoit would have something on the baggage car.

"Yes, sir."

They were barely out of the station. The train was definitely slowing down. The train lurched to a jolting halt. They were quickly organized, and the husky young men took Monsieur Ducharme down the steps and out into the gloom of the night with Durand following. Stars glittered overhead and the distant tops of snow-capped mountains underscored the freshness of the cold night air.

"Jacques, read him his rights. David, get us a car. Alain, keep your baton handy. All right, let's go."

They had another long ride ahead of them. With a little luck, they would be back in time for breakfast.

**

Tailler was impressed, and still at a loss to explain how it all came together.

"Let's see if I have this right." He cleared his throat, and got up from his chair.

Striking a pose not unlike Gilles at his most maddening, bringing a wry grin to Levain's face at least, he wandered around the room, head down, hands clasped behind his back.

"This friend of yours, the officially-approved financial consultant."

"Roger Desjarlais."

"Yes. According to him, the three boys, Benoit, Olivier and Amaury, are all successful businessmen."

"That would appear to be the case." Gilles watched the performance amiably enough.

"Benoit was breaking even, paying the bills and his potential for the future was considerable." Benoit had some skills in risk assessment. "And poor old Benoit was caught at the border with substantial cash, a couple of thousand francs. A thousand in gold—real gold. And a bank book under an assumed name, showing substantial cash deposits in Geneva. All of this was the proceeds of his own work, er, somehow."

It sounded good so far. None of that money showed up in his books, interestingly enough.

That bit was still mysterious.

"Olivier, working at the bank, was in a trusted position. He made a good salary, his house was practically paid off and he had savings, savings which grew month by month. He was certainly good with his own money. Amaury, same thing—he was putting away a pretty good little bundle for retirement. He had a nice apartment, and his business receipts were steady, maybe even rising slowly from month to month. All he had to do was control his costs—and ah, possibly try and stay out of trouble."

"That seems accurate so far."

"So why then, did they do it?"

"Because they couldn't wait, Emile."

Levain gave Hubert a look.

"Our young friend is so very naïve!"

Hubert bobbed his head in appreciation, but he had reports to go over from their latest case. A dead body in an alley, no marks of violence, no identification, and no money or wallet left on him. No missing-person reports that corresponded.

"But why? Why, Inspector?"

"Madame Ducharme could have lived at least another ten or fifteen years in her state of health. She might have gone another twenty years, or even longer."

"And wouldn't her estate just have grown and grown and grown?"

Roger had put all that in the consultant's report, and would be testifying at the trial as things presently stood.

"Yes, Emile. But there is always the allure of ready money. And they must have hated their mother at times. Call it a bourgeois sense of entitlement."

That was one way of putting it.

"Why is Amaury cooperating while the others won't?"

While still consulting with an attorney, l'advocat, Amaury Ducharme was making noises that he might be willing to testify against his brothers, under certain conditions, for example avoiding the guillotine.

Spending the rest of his natural life on Devil's Island was a more tempting option.

Assuming he signed something, almost anything really, it was a guilty plea from one member of a conspiracy. The others were dead meat at that point and their advocates would tell them all about that in potent terms. The lawyers might be conferring amongst themselves and it was a bit of a crap shoot as to who might crack first.

"Because deep down inside, where it really counts, he believes. He believes that he is evil and that he must be punished. That is the sort of idea that he might have gotten from his mother, and from subsequent events. His orientation, if you will. And yet the funny thing is, she was never as hard on him as on the others. She called him her special boy, not without reason. But he gave her less trouble, as it should seem."

Now that they had some arrests, follow-up interviews with the staff were going well.

"I see, Inspector. Because he's a homosexual?"

"Yes, Tailler. Because he's a homosexual." Gilles spoke in a flat and even tone.

He was reciting facts, nothing more.

Levain winked at Hubert.

Catching the interplay, Tailler flushed.

Then he spun and impaled Maintenon with a look.

"Ah, but what about the sword—surely the prosecutor would like to know about the sword?"

"I want to see how Amaury jumps first. But Sophie Voclain put it in there."

Hubert and Levain, the only others presently in the office, grinned at the look on Tailler's face.

"She stuck a sword in her dead aunt?"

"But of course, Tailler."

The tall, intelligent, and very confused young man shook his head and looked wildly around at the others. He clutched his head in theatrical fashion.

They had the impression he was about to tear his hair out at any second.

"But why, Inspector, why?" Dropping his arms, Emile Tailler went to Gilles' desk and leaned heavily on it with his knuckles.

He stared into Maintenon's face from a half a metre away.

"But why, damn it!"

"I very much doubt if she herself could answer that question. Did she really have any idea of what she was doing? How it would be perceived? Surely she must have—"

Levain laughed.

Gilles looked up, contrite now, his little mischief over and done with.

"I think she must have known, or strongly suspected who did it, Emile. She could never make the accusation, not without some moral courage. It would be impossible to prove in her eyes. She wanted to send a message."

In Gilles' estimation, that message was a big part of the reason for Benoit's panic and the reaction of Olivier and Amaury.

"What in the hell was the message?" Tailler looked at Hubert, and then Levain in frustration, as if willing them to intervene with the boss.

"The message, simple and impulsive, is due largely to the fact that she heard the shots. She came down, probably down the back stairs. Who knows, maybe she thought Aron did something stupid. She saw the body, she ran back up, over and down the front staircase."

Gilles took a breath, seeing it in his mind's eye.

"She took the sword for her own defense. She might have heard their voices. One thing for certain, if she heard the shot then she probably heard the glass being broken in the door."

They used the key, put it back, and broke the glass on the way out, as he saw it. It left a very distinctive and disruptive noise right to the last possible moment. If a neighbour heard it and got suspicious, they weren't on their way in for a wait which might be fairly long. They would be running away down the alley, backs turned to the observer. Someone had thought it all out beforehand, using a kind of predictive psychology.

"Forgetting about the cat..."

Gilles looked and Hubert subsided.

"Examining, or I mean, seeing, the body, recalling the voices that she might have heard, or must have heard. She stuck the sword in to tell the police that this was no ordinary crime. She told the killers that she knew it was them. The cat was the furthest thing from her mind, at that exact instant in time." Levain and Hubert exchanged looks. "She was telling the killers that they weren't going to get away with it. And therefore, she was putting her own life in some danger. Now, and this is just my opinion, they would have thought long and hard about another murder. Especially not another one in quick succession. Sophie is not exactly intelligent. She's not particularly stupid, either. Her sheer lack of panic, her ability to go on with a very convincing act, as it turns out, almost speaks to a lack of any real imagination. And possibly, a lack of moral fibre."

In Gilles' opinion, her act was impulsive and took no account of possible consequences.

"Why not tell us?"

Levain cleared his throat.

"She was in a state of shock and panic. Once she stuck that sword in, she was in a very awkward position."

Hubert piped up.

"I'll say." He looked at Tailler.

The young man, another dreamer about his own age, and a lot of fun to work with, had run out of steam. Hubert took up the slack.

"So. What about Sophie?" He eyed Maintenon in speculative fashion. "And are we to believe that all three men were in the house?"

"She'll tell us when we ask properly. We will tell her we know how it happened. We must try not to lead her to the water. I think she will drink on her own. But first I want some press. On the boys. On the case. And we will probably have to give her some reassurances. Ultimately, she will help us to convict them." Gille went on after a moment. "With Olivier to scout for them, being fully aware of his mother's routine. I'm sure they scoped it all out. The best time of day to kill her would have been early morning—especially as they all had to be at work shortly thereafter."

The same held true for planting the gun. It must have happened in the off-hours for them.

They had three men to do the work.

That sort of operation would take little more than a quick reconnaissance.

"But why three of them?" Tailler was still not getting it. "And I still think the key was significant.

"Because it's the only way they could trust each other—" Hubert already had this part figured out.

"Yes. They had to share the crime, share the guilt, and share the risks and rewards. Otherwise it was no good. They simply didn't trust each other enough to do it any other way. There's no telling when they first conceived of the crime. Probably not so long ago. No more than a few weeks, maybe two or three months at most. We'll ask Amaury when the time is ripe. You know what is really strange? The brothers love and care for one another in some way...they are blood after all."

There was a long silence.

"What about the damned key...?" Tailler was incensed, but then he had a right to be.

"All three men shot their mother. Benoit first, then Olivier, then Amaury, from the oldest to the youngest. It fits psychologically. They handed off the gun, each firing once. Now that their pictures have been in the paper, with a little luck, a gun-shop owner, a snitch maybe, may come forward and let us know which one bought the gun. And once we have one of them, we have all of them."

Tailler still wasn't finished.

"I agree that wiping the gun and then hiding it in his drawer seems very stupid, even for an unsophisticated person like Saunier."

Gilles nodded vigorously.

"Exactly. Far, far more likely to not wipe it and just throw it in the Seine. Saunier had a motorcycle and the river not far away. All he had to do was drop it from the middle of the span and it would never be seen again. But psychologically, or more properly, logically—there was nothing else for the real killer, or killers to do."

Assuming that Saunier wasn't the killer, the perpetrator throwing the gun in the river implicated no one. Yet in Gilles' opinion, they might have gotten away with it in such a scenario. They had been hoist with their own petard, as the saying went.

"They were a little too clever for their own good, Emile."

There was nothing but silence and the song of birds in the room.

"So...what is the moral of this story, sir?"

"Blessed are the humble, my boy. Blessed are the humble. As for the key, Tailler, they probably had one still on their key-ring. One of them, anyway."

Peals of laughter rang out from the two more senior detectives, and Maintenon allowed himself a small grin of self-indulgence.

Tailler wandered back to his desk and stared out the doorway, left open to let some air through. The day was very hot, and a little bit confusing.

Now it was time for Maintenon to pontificate.

Putting his hands up behind his head, in his favourite position with his feet up on the end of the desk, he began to talk.

"History is nothing more than a register of the crimes, follies and misfortunes of mankind, according to a famous British historian."

Tailler searched his eyes.

"And we are the thin end of the wedge." Their eyes were locked. "We are the sharp end of the stick. The knowledge that the entire police force was looking for them eats at them. It is a prime deterrent to the sort of crime that we just investigated, Emile. Most people are unwilling, in the casual analysis, to take the chance, the risk. But this was a crime of insufferable arrogance, Emile."

Emile Tailler nodded in comprehension, at least he hoped so.

Chapter Twenty-Five

What's Your Mother's Name?

Levain made a noise. A little crushed at being dragged off in the middle of what was turning into a truly fascinating performance, Hubert grabbed his hat and coat and dashed off after Andre Levain.

Maintenon got up and slowly approached Tailler's desk.

"Emile."

"Yes, sir?"

"What is your mother's name, again?"

"Helene, sir."

Gilles proffered a small, flat box.

"Why don't you take the rest of the day off."

Tailler stared at the box as Gilles put it on the desk.

"Oui. Why don't you go on home, and show your mother Helene what's in that box, Sergeant Tailler, and then when you come back tomorrow, say about eight o'clock or so—"

"Inspector—I, I, I...I haven't earned this." The young fellow was positively shame-faced.

It was like he was about to cry or something. He blinked and swallowed and couldn't quite meet Maintenon's eyes.

"No. That's very true. But you will earn them. And you can't work with us unless you have the proper rank. There's always a catch, eh?" Gilles patted him on the arm. "Go on, wear them with pride and confidence, Emile. You are going to be just fine."

Warm brown eyes regarded Emile steadily.

"You'll have to start boning up for the exams, of course. Naturally, with our help, you will pass with flying colours."

With the tabs, officers of equal rank but a little more seniority could no longer bump him from his spot. It was a permanent assignment. Gilles Maintenon looked after his men.

Emile Tailler stared at him in astonishment, unable to move, or speak, or even think. He lifted the lid and took a quick peek.

The whoop that came out of Emile Tailler at the sight of his shiny new sergeant's tabs could be heard from one end of the building to the other, and rightfully so. Inspector Gilles Maintenon of the Surete, and a famous homicide detective to boot, didn't exactly hand those things out like candy.

At least that's what everyone said.

After Tailler had dragged himself off towards home, banging into walls and doorframes on his way out the door, much to Maintenon's amusement, the telephone rang.

It was the chief, Chiappe.

"Gilles. The government has fallen."

Gilles glanced at his desk calendar, open to the page for Saturday, June 20, 1931.

Laval had finally met his end, and long overdue it was, too.

"So?" Gilles snapped a peevish answer. "How does that affect me?"

Chiappe's voice began to squawk. Chiappe's days were also numbered, being too closely tied to the political names of the day.

One wondered how long he might hang on, after his usefulness was over. Gilles Maintenon only cared on some superficial level. Jean was likeable enough, and left them alone to do their jobs when his own ass wasn't on the chopping block. Jean Chiappe still had plenty to say and apparently no proper father confessor to talk to.

Gilles hung up the phone in disgust, no further discussion being welcome or necessary.

Same shit, different day, at least that's what Andre always said.

Doors opened and closed down the hall, voices came and went, and the best part of all was that Gilles got to keep the cat.

Anyone that passed his door might have overheard his good-natured muttering as he tucked into another stack of file folders.

Anyhow, screw them if they can't take a joke.

And here he was again, working on a weekend.

End

Louis Shalako began writing for community newspapers and industrial magazines. His stories appear in publications including Perihelion Science Fiction, Bewildering Stories, Aurora Wolf, Ennea, Wonderwaan, Algernon, Nova Fantasia, and Danse Macabre. He lives in southern Ontario and writes full time.

