 
Speak Softly My Love

Louis Shalako

Copyright 2014 Louis Shalako and Long Cool One Books

Design: J. Thornton

ISBN 978-1-927957-73-8

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.

Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

About Louis Shalako

Chapter One

It all started with a litre of milk. Or rather, the lack of one.

He'd run out completely. It was only Thursday. Shopping day was Saturday. Madame Lefebvre had laid in a fair supply of groceries before heading off on her annual vacation with her sister in Orleans. He wasn't short of food exactly, just milk. He wasn't expecting to see her before Monday.

Gilles didn't drink much milk. He wasn't a big fan of cereal, oatmeal and porridge and the like. His routine was to have at least two cups of coffee upon awakening. Lately the caseload was such that nothing much had been happening to disturb the even flow of his mornings.

He should have left a note for the milkman, really, but he was unfamiliar with the routine of his own household. By the time he thought of it, it was too late.

To have a little milk in the house might save him from a day that began badly. At work, they'd have him running his legs off all day long, with no chance of getting off his feet. Rushing out first thing, finding a familiar place and then queueing up for one miserable cup of coffee, and then finding a place to drink it, would not be his first choice. He wasn't that sociable to begin with.

Maintenon just felt like a walk.

The milk was merely his excuse.

It was good to walk alone sometimes.

It was a fine clear night in early September. The moon was up but high clouds obscured it in some places. The dark sky to the north revealed stark glittering stars down low, in among the branches, the rooftops and the chimneys. He walked softly, preferring to hear other people first, which meant that he had an option.

The park was coming up. Gilles wasn't particularly worried, although the difference between night and day could be profound. This wasn't such a bad neighbourhood. Not being a young man he had nothing to prove—as an older individual maybe a little something to fear. The statistics were clear enough.

He was also armed and wasn't afraid to use it, which made a big difference.

The fragile, hence doubled-up paper bag tucked under his left arm, Gilles turned onto the grass and soft wet leaves halfway in between streetlights. It was a habitual cut-through. There weren't too many people about. At this exact hour, most were either at home having dinner, or they had already gone out for supper, dinner, dancing or the show. Whatever. An entirely different crowd would be out later, when the more prosperous victims were coming home again. They would be mellow and off-guard, with full bellies and as often as not a skin-full of good wine aboard.

It was very dark under the old oaks and beeches. There were shadows strewn everywhere and every which way. It was disorienting, luckily the ground was level underfoot. Benches and flowerbeds were easy enough to avoid. Flowerbeds were, with their thick black humus, even darker than the grass. They were topped by dormant shrubs and those stalks which were trimmed or clipped but not totally collapsed in the way certain perennials might do—horticulture being a bit of a foreign subject to Maintenon.

When he stumbled across the body, Gilles fell forwards, almost going flat on his face. He dropped the bloody milk and put his hands out quickly in an effort to save himself from falling right into somebody's wide-open mouth.

"Merde!"

Forgetting the bag, he was up in a jiffy.

"Damnation." There was something wet and sticky on his hands, after he touched the body again in the general centre of the body mass.

It confirmed what he already knew.

He was half bent over, trying to get a good look. The only thing he could properly see was that pale oval face, and the deeper black mass of the body. A dark suit blocked out the lighter coloured leaves, but it was darker than the wet green grass. It was a formless shape, a body nevertheless.

The full, golden orb of the moon came out fully from behind the thin cloud layer and that's when he got a good look at the fellow.

"Merde."

He stood staring down at a slender male of indeterminate age, high thirties possibly. The man looked to be about average height. He was a handsome enough, clean shaven. It might have been a kind, a gentle face once, curiously unlined. Was that grey at the temples or a trick of the light? The eyes were wide open and staring, the hair tousled and lanky. The body was still warm, the blood still wet and he was a police officer.

With a quick nod at nothing at all, Gilles left the milk, the cheese, the butter and the fresh baguettes where they lay.

Turning, he sprinted back towards the light.

The sooner he called this one in, the better. There was barely a chance, but that body was still warm.

***

Inspector Gilles Maintenon lived in the city's 14th arrondissement. A running man drew attention, and there were curious looks from an obviously-married pedestrian couple as he pelted back to the corner store where he had made his little purchases.

Jamming coins in, he dialed an all too familiar number.

"Who?" Dispatchers never wasted a second.

"Inspector Gilles Maintenon. Hurry. The body's still warm for Christ's sakes."

"All right, Inspector. We have units on the way. You say this is in the Park Montsouris?"

"Yes, it's off the path and away from the lights."

"All right then." The dispatcher was calm and cool when Gilles could only wish. "You had better wait on the sidewalk."

"I'll be on the Rue Gazan. Near the lake." Pond might be a better word.

The dispatcher was speaking into their microphone and he waited on the line.

"Right. You live right near there, don't you, Inspector?"

"Yes, I went out for milk. I cut through the park on the way home. I'm calling in from the store."

"Very well, Inspector. We'll have some people with you shortly."

Gilles hung up the phone. He was a little shaken. There was little else he could do. It wasn't an insult, it was just coincidence. The odds against finding a body on your evening walk were astronomical. Quite frankly this was the first time it had ever happened to him and he hoped it would be the last.

Let other people find the damned things.

For crying out loud!

It was distressing. It gave him a new perspective. Civilians found bodies all the time and the police were often quite cross when they muffed it up. They disturbed the body or left their own soda bottles, candy-wrappers, cigarette butts and footprints all over the place. The worst one in his recollection had been a cub journalist. He worked for some socialist weekly down south, and he was just in Paris for the day or something. It was the seventh congress, the popular front. The freaking Communist International. For crying out loud. He'd found himself a body and then spent what seemed like hours photographing it before phoning it in to police. That one left a complete circle of footprints around the body, taking pictures from every angle and carefully bracketing his shots as he subsequently explained.

Looking back, Gilles couldn't quite recall, but he might have seen one or two on the front page.

The guy might have made a few francs out of it.

He looked at Madame Foubister, on duty most evenings in the small, slightly unkempt but always cheerful little store on the corner. He lived a few short blocks away and there was a kind of warmth, a kind of friendship or friendliness at least, that he had learned to appreciate since Ann's passing. No doubt she, and the lady standing goggle-eyed with her, had heard every word, which meant the next customer and the next, and the one after that would also hear every word.

"Ah, Monsieur? Is everything all right?"

He repressed a sigh, there being nothing he could do about it. It was only human nature, and anything further would only add fuel to the fire.

"Good evening, Madame. Thank you, there is nothing to be alarmed about."

She waved as he made his way out the door, brushing past more customers on their way in.

***

Gilles made his way back to the point where he had first entered the park. He found a pool of light under a lamp-post. On the chill evening air, the cry of the sirens came from somewhere not too far away.

He shook his head. Two young people were coming down the street from the northeast, a male and a female. Before they got to him, they turned. They were holding hands and giggling as they entered the park. His mouth opened. Bits of black verticality, they were too far away, and it was already too late. There were scattered lights in there and he watched them. Voices traveled across in front of him from left to right. Their shadows swept across like the second hand of a clock and he sighed deeply. He was pretty sure the body was right along there...

A scream confirmed it. The girl was hysterical.

The young man's voice was high but loud, cursing and swearing and saying it was an abomination.

He called out.

"Please don't disturb the body."

There was nothing but silence and then came the sound of voices. The girl was crying and the young man was holding her close as the pair came out of the darkness, seeking his authoritative voice. As soon as they saw him, a non-descript middle-aged man, standing a little too close to a dead man and seemingly somehow involved, the pair turned and bolted off to the southeast.

"Excuse me—please." The young man gave an angry look back, and putting their heads down, the pair ran off up the street.

Innocent. That was his first impression, and first impressions are lasting ones. Neither one of them was wearing a coat. There was little doubt they were from the neighbourhood. Hopefully they could be located quickly, although they probably knew nothing. Just what they had seen, and no more.

A loud engine and stabbing headlights careened around the corner and roared up the street from the north. A carload of uniformed gendarmes screeched to a halt right in front of him. The driver stayed in the car and the other three got out. The driver had the microphone up, lips moving and noises coming out. He was reporting their on-scene status.

"Inspector Maintenon?"

"Yes."

"Sergeant Girard. I understand you have a discovered a body? A dead one?"

"That's the usual description, Sergeant." Gilles lifted an arm like a tour guide. "Step right this way, please."

The officers snapped on their torches and followed him across the dewy grass. A moment later he was rewarded with the sight of his own footprints. Presumably. They were the only obvious ones along there. They should lead straight to the scene of the crime.

Chapter Two

Sergeant Girard and the two gendarmes went in front, lights poking ahead and off to right and left.

Gilles was at the Sergeant's heels. His hand was in his pocket, secure in the feel of the little MAB Model D, a 7.65 mm automatic. His instinct was that it wouldn't be needed.

It was just for moral support.

They strode into the darkness, following his route in from the sidewalk as well as Gilles could recall. The park was fairly large. He'd been seeking the silence, the air—the smell of wet grass and dead leaves and the precious topsoil, the lifeblood of the nation as a late president had once called it in the fatuous, pompous way that politicians had.

He reached up and grabbed a shoulder. Girard was slightly taller and much heavier than Gilles. The warmth and the animal male sweat smell was reassuring. Any self-respecting killer would have been long gone by now. Gilles was entertaining the notion that he might have surprised them in the act—either shortly after the act of murder, or perhaps right in the middle of the act of disposing of the body. He hadn't seen any sacks, blankets or shovels. That's not to say they weren't out there in the darkness somewhere. His heart was doing a little trip-hammer beat and he wasn't used to this kind of exertion. Not at his age and not for one of his constitution. Maintenon had settled into a kind of physical mediocrity with the coming of late middle-age. There was the hint, the slight burn of anger as well, lurking there under the surface. This had always been a weak point, that passion. Gilles had been looking for a nice, quiet, solitary night at home.

He sure as hell wasn't going to get it now.

"It was right around here somewhere."

His jaw dropped slightly.

"Point the light over there—"

Something light-coloured was there.

The beam caught it and the young gendarme looked over at Gilles as they all hovered there in a line.

"That's the milk—" And the cheese. The butter.

"You're lucky it didn't break, Inspector." It was a strangely unconscious remark.

He let it pass.

Reaching over, Gilles took the flash from the nearest man, who to be completely honest didn't look like he was even shaving yet.

"What's up, Inspector?" The gruff sergeant was as genuinely puzzled as Maintenon.

"That's my bag—my milk...my bread. What in the hell...?"

Gilles pointed the light at the ground. They all saw it. There were fresh tracks still embedded in the thick grass, lush and green although the trees were denuded, bare branches overhead pale and ghostly in the night when lit from below. The moon had gone behind clouds again.

"There." There was a long depression, the grass flattened in a characteristic way, an oblong shape in the right place.

"Nobody move."

They sure as hell weren't going to contradict Sergeant Girard.

Gilles shook his head in amazement.

There was a long moment as he swung the beam off into the darkness. It was difficult to be sure, but he saw what might be drag marks and more footprints, faint and indistinct. The dew was uneven, and it had been a pretty dry week so far.

"Ah. With all due respect, Inspector..."

Maintenon could have sworn the sergeant growled, low and deep in his throat, but he bit off anything further. The boy stopped abruptly. He had been about to go on.

Gilles looked over at the youngster.

"Young man."

"Ah, yes, sir?"

Gilles held his left palm upward, and pointed the hot glare of the light down.

There were quick intakes of breath at the sight of brown, dried blood on his palms and his cuffs.

"Sir. I withdraw my comment."

Gilles nodded.

That seemed sensible enough.

"Sergeant."

"Yes, Inspector?"

"I want a photographer, and more men. A lot more. Throw a cordon around the area. Stop and question anyone you see."

The sergeant nodded.

"Antoine. Call it in." The boy turned and pelted off, hopefully staying on their own tracks and not making a fresh set.

His heavy steps would be plain enough, being most recently made. It was unavoidable.

"Sir?"

Gilles looked at the other gendarme.

"Stay here. Don't let anyone come near." He looked up at Girard. "There were some young people, they came into the park. They were right about here when the girl screamed."

Standing where he was, he used the light and tried to find their footsteps. There was a paved walkway right there and bare dirt where traffic had worn down the grass. There was a line of disturbances in the leaves, bleached a lighter colour on top but darker on the bottom.

The sergeant, who seemed the quick sort that Gilles had always admired as a young man himself, nodded and pulled out his notebook. Some of them old boys made their immediate superiors, supposedly better-educated and with allegedly advanced training, look rather sick.

Gilles shoved the light in his pocket. He lifted his hat and ran a hand through what would have been hair once.

Girard took out a pen and fell into a habitual pose of which he was supremely unaware.

"Right, sir. Perhaps you'd better start at the beginning."

"That's pretty much it—I tripped on a body. It can't be more than five or ten minutes ago. And it's not here now."

Going right by the book, the sergeant looked at his watch, and out of reflex Gilles Maintenon did as well.

"Yes, it must have been about eight, eight-fifteen. Right about then." They needed more men.

There were more sirens on the evening breeze, and it occurred to Gilles that the young people in question had probably gone for the nearest phone, which would be helpful. Hopefully they had left a name, or maybe they would stay on the line.

Other than that, the sergeant and the others knew as much about it as he did.

***

It was the start of a whole new day.

"That's it?" Levain wasn't sure whether to be impressed or not. "You stumbled on a body one minute, and then it's gone the next?"

"That's about the size of it." Gendarmes had gone from door to door, combing the streets and the sidewalks, trying to find anybody that might have seen something, heard something. "We have a slew of pictures, maybe, just maybe one drop of human blood on a twig ten metres from the scene. And that's about it."

Because the twig was on a shrub between the body and the street Gilles had come in from, they were sort of assuming a direction of travel. The victim might have already been dead. If so, then where did it come from, so warm and fresh that blood from cloth and fabric had indelibly stained Gilles' coat and shirt-sleeves. Both items of clothing were now evidence, exhibits in a case.

As for the shirt. He had a clean white one in a bottom desk drawer, a fairly rational precaution in this line of work. As for the jacket, he wouldn't miss it particularly. He could go home in his old raincoat, which hung on the rack much of the time. He had another, better one at home.

Without a body, they weren't even sure if it was a stabbing or a shooting. Only that Gilles had stumbled on a man's body and that he had come away with blood on his hands.

He'd been up half the night. The bread was ruined, and when he went to use the milk the next day it was an instant reminder of the new and intriguing mystery.

Even Tailler, with all of his brash and youthful optimism, didn't know what to make of it.

"So we think that the Inspector either just missed the killing, perhaps a stabbing, or he narrowly missed catching the killer trying to dispose of the body?"

Gilles nodded.

"That's how it looks." Unfortunately, no one in the neighbourhood had heard anything resembling a shot. "The blood was so fresh—and yet I certainly didn't hear any shots."

No one they had been able to talk to reported anything of the kind.

The store was less than two hundred fifty metres away, around one corner and there on the next.

A few potential witnesses had seen other people in the vicinity. Until all of them were identified and interviewed, more or less accounted-for, they had some information but nothing compelling. Their two young people had not been located. Hopefully they would come forward on seeing the newspapers.

No bodies were found in the park. A search of alleys and vacant lots within a six-block radius, which seemed about the ultimate physical and psychological limit, had revealed nothing. Gilles might have heard a car start if it was close by. If so, he recalled nothing of the sort, and with the busy night sounds of the city, anything over a couple of blocks away would be completely subconscious in a manner of speaking.

The press had already gotten hold of the story. It had all the earmarks of a nine-day wonder, with headlines dragging a huge tale of question marks and showing mostly pictures of him, the empty park in daylight and one or two locals lucky enough to be interviewed. It was the usual bunch, none of them had seen anything. They lived right there and were foolish enough, vain enough or starved for attention enough, to answer the door when the press came pounding.

Levain made a face.

"Well, it's Girard's case now. Whoever's in charge over there." He looked over at Tailler in humour. "They must love you right about now, Gilles."

Gilles nodded.

"Yes. Without a body, and my face all over the front pages, they get all the work and nothing much to show for it. Not even glamour."

"Without a body, he doesn't stand much of a chance." Tailler was right about that. "Still, you would think. It must turn up somewhere. Sooner or later."

Gilles sat down heavily on the front corner of his desk. He still hadn't taken his hat off yet.

He looked at Tailler, one of their better acquisitions. The young fellow was learning, and under the steadying hand of Levain and the older men, his natural intuitiveness was being tempered with some solid investigative skills. Anyway, that was the theory. Some men learned by listening, Tailler seemed to learn by doing. He had curious, questioning, even nervous eyes sometimes.

"Not necessarily."

Gilles' eyes slid from one side to the other. He had a full case-load of his own, nothing really interesting but it was there. It was all stacked up neatly along the front of his desk, and if truth be told, on the long shelf behind it as well. Much of it was routine, some of it was cold and dead, and yet there were things he might conceivably work on. Huge chunks of time were blocked out due to court commitments.

For whatever reason, it was just a busy time.

Resolutely reaching up and removing his hat, he sent the battered black fedora sailing in the general direction of the hat-rack.

It missed, bounced off and then slid down the far wall where it came to rest on top of yet more files. Tailler casually picked it up and hung it up for him as Gilles nodded his thanks.

"Coffee, Inspector?"

Gilles nodded, with a look at Levain, who shook his head. Tailler grabbed the pot, turned and left the room looking for water.

Gilles, as might be expected, was lost in thought.

There were only so many ways to game it out—there were only so many things that could have happened. Things were linked and related. As soon as you had a body, you had a killer or a natural cause, an accident perhaps. If you have blood, a human or other body has been punctured somewhere and somehow. One thing followed logically from another.

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

Or something like that.

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

It was just a regular day.

His phone was ringing already.

Chapter Three

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He'd always sort of hated court.

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

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

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

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

"Hello?"

"Maintenon. This is Inspector David."

"Yes?"

"You found that body in Parc Montsouris, right?"

"Yes, but that's not my case." Still, Maintenon's pulse picked up, and why not?

David was a thorough-going investigator.

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

"Ah, yes? Go on."

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

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

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

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

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

"I see. Okay, I'm sending Gravelet right over."

"When?"

The Inspector laughed.

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

"Thank you."

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

Interesting.

***

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

Hell, everybody knew Maintenon.

"Inspector?"

"Yes, come in, come in."

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

His voice was low, precise and confident.

Maintenon had always liked people who stood up straight.

"These are the pictures of Monsieur Didier Godeffroy."

"Our missing person?"

"Yes." Gravelet stood there, more or less at ease.

"Who called it in?"

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

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

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

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

He looked at an enlargement.

"Hmn. Very well. Huh."

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

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

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

"Very well. What action have you taken?"

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

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

"And that's it?"

"Ah...so far, yes, sir."

He cleared his throat.

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

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

"Inspector?"

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

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

"Is that the man you saw, Inspector?"

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

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

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

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

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

Maintenon's eyes came up.

"How tall is your man?"

"A hundred seventy-five centimetres."

"Eyes?"

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

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

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

Gilles quickly skimmed Madame Godeffroy's statement.

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

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

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

"In other words, a knife?"

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

"Any particular smells, Inspector Maintenon?"

He should his head quickly.

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

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

Missing persons, unless they were children, all too often fell to the bottom of the list.

"Okay. That seems, ah, sensible enough."

"Yes, sir. The Inspector agrees. We are treating the two incidents as related. Until we know otherwise. And yet it is nothing if not open."

Gravelet nodded at the materials on the desk.

"The little ones are the originals. The rest is for you guys."

Gilles picked the snapshots up and handed them back.

"Please thank Inspector David for me."

Gravelet was just turning to go when Levain came in.

"Hey!"

"Andre. Holy, shit." He gave a quick look over his shoulder at Maintenon. "I heard you were doing well. Congratulations. It's really good to see you again."

"The old bugger giving you any trouble?"

Gravelet shook his head carefully, going rigid for a second, his back being turned to an unknown quantity. Levain, grinning from ear to ear as if he knew some dreadful and yet humorous secret about Gravelet, grabbed him by the arm and steered him away from Maintenon's desk and over in the direction of the coffee pot.

"Oh, I don't know, Andre. The Inspector is expecting me back." Inspector David, like any other officer with nothing pressing, no urgent calls or emergencies on hand, was hoping to escape at five o'clock on the dot and would probably have some last-minute instructions for Gravelet. "Like, five minutes ago, knowing him."

Gravelet cleared his throat nervously but got no hints from Maintenon.

There would be a shit-load of typing and Gravelet would be lucky to get out of there by six-thirty or seven.

The two went out the door as Gilles looked at the clock, and then picked up the best of their enlargements. In this picture, Didier and Monique were by the seaside, very young. Perhaps a honeymoon or vacation. The two younger males were talking outside the door, the rumble a comforting backdrop and no real distraction.

He heaved a sigh. Looking at the bland, oval, almost characterless face, no hard lines or marks of suffering or sacrifice there. He supposed it could be so. It wasn't that the resemblance wasn't there. Gilles had barely gotten a look. There was also that element of psychological shock. All of his instincts screamed against making any kind of positive statements.

With nothing else to go on, it would have to do for the time being.

It wasn't his case anyways. For whatever reason, he gave in to the impulse.

"Young man."

The door opened and Andre came in, a bright and cheerful look on his face after his little gossip and catch-up session with what was clearly an old friend or acquaintance of some standing.

"What? Oh, sorry, Gilles. He's gone."

"Merde. What can I say? It was probably him, Andre. It was either that, or it was somebody else."

More sober now, Andre gave a short, sharp nod. He understood perfectly.

Maintenon couldn't quite leave it alone—and it wasn't his case.

Suppressing a knowing smile, Andre reached and took Maintenon's hat off the rack as Gilles' eyebrows rose. Gilles looked askance as the hat sailed in his direction. Snatching it out of mid-air, mouth open, he plopped it down in its rightful place.

"And—"

"Go home. It's the weekend. It's supposed to be nice and sunny. This might be the last of our nice weather. The better half will be all over me and that's okay too. Take the rest of the day off. For Christ's sake, Gilles."

"Huh." He was probably right though. "So you're saying this rain is going to let up someday?"

It's not my case and they will handle it just as well as I could.

"Very well. I can take a hint. So I'm not wanted then—"

Tailler hooted, turning from his task. The file he had laid out end to end was hopefully not missing any pages, photos, statements or other exhibits. He gave Andre a frankly admiring look.

"Nailed it."

Gilles twitched but his demeanour remained unchanged.

Face stern and expressionless but all right with it inside, Gilles shoved his chair back. He rose in a determined fashion. Levain tossed his raincoat at his outstretched left arm on the way by and then the Inspector was marching down the hallway and headed for the stairwell.

Chapter Four

Dropped off at the front door on Friday evening, Gilles had enjoyed a quiet weekend. Any sense of tedium had been relieved by doing his own shopping. It helped to have something to do, however mundane. He strolled to the nearest outdoor market early Saturday morning. He made his own bed, and hung up his own clothes. He was relatively self-sufficient.

He'd brought the food home, putting it all away, preparing it in the sense of taking the greens off the tops of a bunch of carrots. He'd had a nap Saturday afternoon, feasted, feeling oddly youthful as he dined on a tin of this and a jar of that. Nothing beat a good tin of sardines, slathered in mustard. A few slices of cucumber cleaned the palate. He'd hit the pickles and the coleslaw, one of the few things he made well, pretty hard. There was a sense of accomplishment from that coleslaw.

The rest of the evening had been taken up with a book, cigars, cognac and the radio.

With even less to do on Sunday, he hadn't even gotten out of his pajamas until after noon. Only the fact that the telephone hadn't rung in the whole time, and that sooner or later, it surely would, finally got him into the bath.

The phone still didn't ring, and it occurred to Gilles that he hadn't heard from any of the family in a while. It didn't occur to him, not really, that he might have called them.

Better to leave well enough alone, as Levain would say.

Sunday evening, unfashionably early, he went to a favoured nearby ristorante for spaghetti and meat-balls. There was a salad, rolls and butter, and refills on the coffee. The wine was fine, and that was about all he could say for it. The place was an old standby, hot food at a good price. No waiting, no line-ups and no reservations.

Belly full and back at home in his old familiar armchair, Sylvestre, who had been following him around the house all weekend, hopped up into his lap. Gilles set the book aside and scratched the animal behind the ears. A black short-haired cat with a white muzzle, he'd always thought the name very fitting. Madame Lefebvre had initially been opposed. She'd wanted to call it Monsieur Thom. It was one of the few times he'd pulled rank on her, he being the owner and she merely the housekeeper. Even now, he still grinned when he thought of it.

The cat's claws began to knead at his red sweater and the thing curled up on its side, seemingly fascinated as it bit and tugged at a bit of loose thread. It being an old sweater, Gilles let it go on.

The phone rang.

"All right, Sylvestre. Down you go."

"Meow?"

"Yes."

"Mawrr...mawrr."

"Uh, huh."

Gilles dragged himself out of the chair on the third ring and shuffled over. It was very dark on the other side of that glass. Time just flew when you were on your own and there was nothing much going on.

The clock on the mantel said seven forty-three p.m.

"Hello?"

"Hello. Is this Gilles Maintenon?"

It reminded him of his mother, and he'd always been tempted to say no, this is not me.

"Ah, yes, who's calling?"

"Sergeant Girard."

"Ah." Maintenon took the thin black cigarillo out of the corner of his mouth.

He'd had the phone installed with an unusually long base cord. Picking up the heavy lower part of the unit, he went and stood and looked out the window. What he expected to see was a good question. His reflection impressed him as that of a terribly desperate and lonely old man. The fact that it was just the highlights, all the dark tones going transparent, completely disappearing, may have had something to do with it.

"Okay, sir. As you may recall. We sent out the Belinotypes." These were wire-photos, a real sign of the times. "All major and regional detachments, n'est pas? And the funny thing is we got a hit, almost right away."

"Where?"

"Lyon."

"Go on."

"You're going to like this."

"What is it, a body?" Gilles turned again to take another quick look out the window, some odd prickling sensation at the base of the neck.

It was dark, and windy. With the windows closed tight, he was alone with nothing but the sounds of the old place settling. It was cracking away from the adjoining properties.

"No, Inspector. They have a missing persons report. Going by the picture they sent...well, we don't know what to think."

"Interesting."

"It is."

"You know what's even more interesting, Inspector?"

Gilles waited.

"...the gentleman's name is Didier Godeffroy."

"No!"

"Yes."

Gilles stood there.

"Who made the report?"

"A woman claiming to be his wife."

"What's the wife's name?"

"Her name is Lucinde. They have two children, age five and seven. He's a couple of years younger than the wife, and she says they've been married about eight years. Their anniversary is coming up. The pictures bear an uncanny resemblance. She says he's a wine representative for Gaston e Cie. That's all I know. Sir."

"Interesting."

"So what do you think, Inspector?"

"Damn it all. Does Inspector David know about this yet?"

"He's not around, Inspector Maintenon." There was a hesitation. "His kid's in a bad way and he's a bit distracted lately. We try not to bother him, and sort of let him have his weekends..."

"Ah. What's wrong with the child?"

"Polio. The kid's about twelve."

"Oh. Ah. Not good. And you're what, on night shift or working late?"

"Shit. Something like that." He didn't even hardly know himself these days, but he'd heard through the grapevine that Gilles and his crew didn't have anything really interesting going on—just wrapping up some big ones, but mostly routine, easy stuff coming in the front door in recent days.

A stabbing here, a shooting there, a strangling somewhere else. The criminals were being really dumb these days. It was a phenomenon, it seemed to come and go in waves. It was all too easy sometimes.

Girard thought he'd do a little fishing. There were times you needed to ask a favour and everyone knew Maintenon was a pretty good guy.

"Yes. I see the problem. Okay, let me think about it."

"The Inspector will be in the office at about nine or so."

"Thank you. I will definitely speak to him."

The sergeant rang off.

Gilles wandered back to his armchair. It seemed like a long shot. It was definitely one weird coincidence.

Considering the pictures he had examined, and they had the exact same pictures in Lyon, it just seemed so unlikely. Unfortunately, by this time the gears in his brain had begun to turn over.

***

First thing Monday morning, Gilles called Inspector David. A mental picture of the fellow's long sideburns and walrus mustache were a reminder that the old guard still hung on in certain quarters. In the event, David was happy enough to give it up, having heard from Girard already.

"Yes, Gilles, and thank you." Inspector David was getting up there in years and Gilles wondered at his health or when his retirement date might roll around.

Gilles wasn't looking forward to his own particularly, but other men felt differently. It was true that people got tired after a while.

"It's my youngest boy." The Inspector had been a widower, but he remarried, his wife bearing young Frederic in her forty-fourth year.

An impressive feat. One had to admit. Gilles was a little preoccupied, or he might have asked more questions.

"We'll be more than happy, Inspector David."

The Inspector gave him a name in Lyon and Gilles jotted it down.

Roche. Sergeant. He took down the telephone number.

"Don't worry about Girard. He's a good one, and he's happy to be working with you on this one. He's like you, Gilles." The Inspector's voice took on a more animated note. "He needs plenty of stimulation."

There was a quick and dry little chuckle and then David rang off.

Gilles hung up the receiver and looked up at an expectant circle of bright and eager faces.

"Right. I have court and I'd better get going."

He stabbed Tailler with a look. He tore off the top sheet from his notebook and handed it to him.

"What's your first move?"

"Call them and get copies of their incident reports. Send them everything we've got."

"Two."

"Ah. I wouldn't mind talking to the Godeffroy woman. Now that it's our case. After that—maybe take a quick train ride to Lyon...?"

Gilles stood. His briefcase had been carefully packed, to the extent of having a sandwich and an apple in there. It could be a long day, but he'd seen plenty of those and it was unavoidable.

Monsieur Brevard had a right to a speedy trial, among other things. He was also pretty much a goner.

"Fair enough." With a nod, he threw his raincoat over his shoulder and then he was gone, leaving a slightly impressed Emile Tailler to brazen it out.

He'd been there long enough and he really ought to be able to handle it, thought Andre Levain.

He had one or two rather pressing matters of his own. Levain was hoping to get some news back on a fellow who had run off to Martinique in the hopes of avoiding questioning in a troubling little shooting incident.

Either the local police could find him or they couldn't. He had ten or twelve other cases as well.

It was always the way.

Chapter Five

They hadn't been able to get Monique by telephone. She was either out or not disposed to answer. Perhaps the maid or cook had their day off as well.

Hubert had a year's seniority on Tailler. Every so often he belabored the point, usually on procedural matters—Tailler still struggled with the paperwork, being intimidated by senior officers and jurists. The pair of them were becoming a pretty good team. What Tailler lacked in polish and experience he more than made up for in intuitiveness. He was persistent as all hell. He had a streak of independence Hubert had never seen in such a junior man. The fact that they were about the same age and experience probably helped, thought Hubert. They were more friends than senior man and apprentice. That was a good thing and he didn't mind that at all. If you had to be stuck on a train for half the day (and if they really wanted to get home tonight then they should have been out of here an hour ago), with anyone, well.

It might as well be someone rational.

Tailler had very sharp wits, a wicked sense of humour and wasn't above having a cold beer on duty, as long as they were away from the prying eyes of higher-ups. It couldn't be all bad.

Levain was busy as hell. Firmin was eying up stacks of files. His phone in particular was ringing off the hook, and it would seem that they were it.

"Come on. Let's grab a couple of sandwiches and get the hell out of here." Hubert, not exactly an old man himself, ran a quick hand through his fashionably long hair and stuffed everything they had so far into a briefcase.

"I'm with you." The leaves were in full colour and Tailler was just in the mood for a lark.

His eye raced down a faded and yellowing train schedule. Hopefully it was still valid. They had already missed the next one. They just couldn't do it. If they stopped and had a decent meal, they would miss the one after that. It was all the same to him, although he'd better remember to call his mother—

A quick stop at the cashier's office for some expense money, and the two men were clattering down the front steps of the Quai, hats firmly jammed on due to the incessant breeze and their coats over their arms as it really was unusually warm for this time of year.

***

After several delays, and what seemed like days on the train but it was more like six and a half hours, Hubert and Tailler stood in front of their hotel.

Stricken with the notion that the expensive commercial travelers hotels near the station might send the bean-counters into fits, even more stricken that the expense might not be approved, they had found something a lot less costly.

It was a little off the beaten path, but it would almost surely be approved. For two young men in a strange town, an expense account was almost too much temptation. What they saved here, they could spend there. Hubert seemed to know what he was talking about. Expenses that were disallowed, they could pay out of their own pockets in a simple payroll deduction. It all sounded pretty reasonable to Tailler.

A taxi slid into place before them.

The driver rolled the window down.

"Messieurs? Monsieur Hubert?"

"Yes, that's us."

The place was so small, cabs did not sit out in front awaiting fares. The desk clerk, a sallow-faced fellow about their own age, had phoned for one. With a ferret of a face, and with a rather humorous air of conspiracy that Tailler for one did not share, the clerk was nothing if not unprepossessing. Tailler wouldn't put much past him. Pimping, pandering and procuring, badger game and blackmail, pretty much everything went along with a face like that.

Having spoken personally with Sergeant Roche at Lyon's central police station, they had about all the information they were likely to get. They had an appointment with Madame Godeffroy, but first some kind of lunch would appear to be in order.

Tailler slammed the door and Hubert read off the name of a restaurant, a cheap one as he had insisted, provided by their new ally behind the hotel desk. Impressed as all hell to have a couple of detectives from Paris staying with them, the fellow had nodded in understanding and then provided them with several options.

"So how do we play this?"

Tailler wasn't worried about the driver overhearing. The situation could be managed without naming names. He was referring to the Godeffroy case.

Misunderstanding his intent, Hubert shrugged in a non-committal manner.

"I can live with pretty much anything. As long as they have cold beer, that's all that's really important."

Tailler agreed to a certain extent, but the heavy red sauces were not his favourite. Since becoming a detective and feeling the pressure, his stomach had rapidly become over-sensitive to hot spices and anything acidic. He had thought driving Chiefs and Commissioners and Deputy Chief-Inspectors around was stressful enough.

Cold beer sounded good to him as well.

"I meant the lady."

"Ah. Well." Hubert's eyes took in the driver, seemingly ignoring them.

Unlike most of his breed, this one was apparently not much of a talker once initial requirements for hard information were met.

"Give up nothing—and wring her for everything she's worth."

The driver's eyes found him in the mirror and Hubert looked away. He didn't answer to anyone but Maintenon, not in his humble opinion. In certain disciplinary matters Maintenon would be the least of their problems. Other than the bare-bones information they had, perhaps the lady would identify the gentleman in their photos as her husband. It might be an emotional scene, and yet they really couldn't tell her anything.

If she said, no—that's not my husband, then the name might just be a coincidence. It was hard to see it any other way at this point in the investigation. At least she wouldn't be looking at a morgue shot.

"Hmn." Tailler was beginning to sound like Gilles.

Hubert decided that silence was the best policy and let the conversation drop.

The restaurant was apparently all the blessed way across town. Lyon was an industrial city and the capital of its region. He'd sort of forgotten its size. Any schoolboy could look it up.

He settled into the cushions for a long ride, stomach rumbling and hoping they could get out of there at the crack of dawn. Interesting as it was, variety being the spice of life, his real life was back in Paris.

***

Lucinde was tall, slender, and very blonde and blue-eyed. She was an archetype, as Gilles would have said. She unconsciously lifted a hand and pulled the fine long hair back, sticking it behind her ear to hold it in place.

It was hard to imagine someone like her ever committing a crime, or ever having darkness enter her life. And yet tragedy had struck. The odds were against it, but here it had happened.

Each person, every story was unique and to make an assumption was to be bit on the ass sooner or later. For that reason, Hubert had a prepared list of twenty questions. Tailler would stick an oar in somewhere in his inimitable way.

"Thank you for speaking with us, Madame."

She nodded sombrely, hands clasped in her lap. Stolidly middle-class by the appearance of her home, a flat in a prosperous section of the city, she appeared to be bracing herself for what came next.

"Now, these questions are strictly routine and there is probably nothing in it. Your husband is Didier Godeffroy, and he is a traveling representative of Gaston e Cie, a wine wholesaler?"

"Yes, Monsieur."

"Please call me Hubert, everyone else does. We're going to do our very best to locate your husband, Madame. In the meantime, every little bit of information you can give is of value. N'est pas?"

She nodded, intent.

All Tailler had said on the phone was that they wanted her to look at some pictures, and that it may or may not be Monsieur Godeffroy.

She was expecting photos from the morgue and she sort of shivered, and yet the two males were so reassuring, so uncertain and so gently polite—the suspense was killing her of course.

"I only wish we had some real news."

She had some pretty nice knees, thought Tailler.

Emile Tailler, seated beside her on the couch, opened up his battered briefcase, where he had everything stacked up in a kind of order. The envelope of photo-enlargements lay on top. The arrangement had been thoughtful, obscuring any other documents that she might get a glimpse of. You couldn't be too careful, and more than anything they didn't want to let the cat out of the bag. It was their case, not hers.

She had no right to any other information. He closed the briefcase and set it aside. If she was completely innocent, she would be accepting things at face value. You couldn't be too careful sometimes.

He reached into the manila envelope and pulled out the first one. He handed it to her as Hubert studied her reaction.

"Where did you get this?" She looked up, startled. "From his mother?"

Wasn't Didier supposed to be an orphan...

Didier at about twenty years old. Straw boater cap, white shirt, black vest, ribbon tie and a flower in the buttonhole.

Hubert didn't answer directly, and sooner or later she was going to catch on. Everything about the lady, the flat, the books on the shelf lining the one short wall on the end and framing the archway into the dining room, spoke of education, intelligence, and refinement.

This was no ordinary housewife.

They tried another picture.

"Ah, why do you ask that?" It was lame, terribly lame. "Is that Monsieur Godeffroy?"

Tears welled up and rolled down her cheeks as she faltered before speaking. He handed her another photo.

"God, he looks so young..." It was a university graduation picture, found by the other Madame amongst her husband's effects.

Hubert wondered why Tailler hadn't led off with that one, but let the boy go. This was interesting. The orphan must have been lucky, to get a scholarship—or to somehow work his way through school, thought Hubert.

"Is this your husband, Didier Godeffroy, Madame?"

"Oh, God. He's dead isn't he?"

This was already going badly but there were only so many approaches, so many places to start.

"We're not really sure of anything, Madame. Not just yet."

Hubert spoke up.

"This is all very preliminary, Madame Godeffroy. Your husband impresses me as a very ambitious man."

All those contradictions.

She hadn't even questioned as to why a couple of Paris detectives would be involved, perhaps she really was in shock. It took people different ways, some reacted differently. The real control freaks were barking out orders and snapping out instructions to the last; and the weak and the soft merely folded up like a wet cigar in the hip pocket.

Even through the tears, she remembered her manners. She sniffed and gasped, nose already all stuffed up and needing a good blow. Like almost anyone of her class, she had insisted on giving them tea, not exactly unwelcome as it tended to settle the stomach and dull the effects of a couple of tall mugs of cool lager.

It was his one regret, to arrive at this house of sadness, smelling of alcohol. Hubert accepted the error calmly enough. Life was a learning curve, and what was a welcome break from dull routine for the pair of them was right in the midst of somebody else's misery. You couldn't help but take it seriously sometimes.

"Forgive us, Madame. These are all very dull, very routine questions, and you have no doubt already heard them before..."

She nodded, sniffling, as Tailler whipped out his own handkerchief. Taking it, she immediately made a mess of it and Tailler gave him an unreadable look.

"It's just that we need to be really sure." Tailler pulled out more photos.

Lucinde Godeffroy looked through them.

"Take your time, Madame."

They had rather easily decided not to tell her about the body Gilles had discovered. Lyon was over four hundred fifty kilometres from Paris. They had their own blaring headlines, and the lady and those big, beautiful blue eyes had hopefully not already been tainted by the news coverage.

This far from Paris, there likely hadn't been much if anything.

"Aw..." She broke down completely, upon seeing the gentleman as a young man, standing at the side of the other Madame Godeffroy, arm in arm at some seaside village. "Oh, God. Diddy...oh, Diddy."

"So that is Didier?"

She nodded through the torment.

"For the record, Madame, we need to hear you say it clearly."

"Yes—that is Didier."

She buried her face in her hands.

"Any idea of who that other young lady is?"

She shook her head, shuddering all over.

"Did he ever talk about his old girlfriends?"

Nice!

That was one way of putting it, thought Hubert.

She shook her head, devastated.

"Do you have any idea of who that other woman, ah, girl might be?"

She shook her head again.

"No...no." It was wracked out of her in a sob.

Didier must have been in his mid to late twenties when they met. A few previous girlfriends might be a given. It was the sort of thing you probably wouldn't want to talk about too much.

He was sort of wondering why she didn't ask about the other person in the picture. How significant that might be was anyone's guess, and she was definitely a bit of a train-wreck. He wondered if she knew, somehow.

She'd already leapt to the conclusion. How could she not?

Tailler got up, needing breath and movement and almost afraid to ask about the children. Hubert made a point of doing so. Apparently they were in boarding school. That would leave her alone, just her and one or two part-time staff, a cook and a maid, which was sometimes not the best solution. They were only here during daytime.

It would be sheer hell to just sit and wait, thought Tailler.

He wandered over to the mantelpiece, where there were yet more pictures. There were Monique and Didier, him and her and the children, a good looking boy and girl, and other family photos which he presumed would be her parents. He was wondering who was who. Didier was an orphan according to the first wife or whatever she was.

"Are these your parents?"

"Yes. Didier had no one."

"Ah."

For an orphan, a ward of the state, to go anywhere in life or to make anything at all of themselves, was a real achievement. They mostly grew up in the poor-house. His own middle-class upbringing did nothing to dispel those notions. A few years in police work was an awful dose of reality. Tailler really had been sheltered, accepting that as the norm and sometimes wondering why anyone would be so errant as to choose not to live a normal life.

That was one way of putting it.

He had learned not to judge too harshly.

After a quick pause for thought, Hubert went on with the questions.

"And you two have been married about eight years, is that correct?"

Her response was muffled and indistinct, and Tailler turned away from the pictures to listen.

"Okay. How and where did you happen to meet?"

Chapter Six

By the time they got out of there, it was late afternoon.

"Whew. So that's really our boy."

Hubert nodded.

"Sure looks that way." They still had to go back to the hotel.

They hadn't had any dinner, and there was a quick stop at the Lyon police station. Without a doubt no one, absolutely no one, would have heard of them, and their benefactor, the redoubtable Sergeant Roche, would have already gone off duty. It would all take too long, eating into their valuable time off.

"So." Tailler had a way of cutting to the chase scene. "What now?"

"Dinner, a drink and a show—assuming there is such a thing in this town."

Lyon wasn't that bad, although being in a strange place had its disadvantages. It might also have some advantages. They were young and life was good. The thing to do was to accept it, let go, and let the current take them.

Hubert wanted to call home, as the lady friend would be expecting to hear from him. Tailler had endured the fellow lying flat on his back, on Tailler's bed no less, and engaging in one of the mushiest, and most endearing conversations he'd ever shamelessly eavesdropped on.

And now this.

Every coin had two sides, in his observation.

As for Tailler, other than his frail and elderly mother, there really wasn't much going on in his life at all. Before leaving, he'd made a quick call and his sister had promised to check on mother around bedtime. In his mother's case, that meant seven o'clock in the evening these days.

It really was good to get away.

"All right. One thing at a time. I'm hungry. And we really ought to go see Roche. It can't take more than five minutes. It's the least we could do for the guy."

Hubert grinned.

"Yes, it is."

Tailler was nothing if not a growing boy and that impressive frame must be fed.

They finally got into their waiting taxi, the meter still ticking inexorably over.

"Driver."

***

"Oh, my God." Emile Tailler couldn't tear his eyes away.

"What?"

Etienne, otherwise known as Detective Hubert, belched softly and eyed up the tall but rapidly diminishing pitcher of the house draft.

"Holy."

Holy was right, thought Hubert. It was like the guy had never seen a naked girl before, and for all he knew that might be true. His head was showing signs of stiffness, perhaps tightness in behind the eyes was a better description. There was a very good chance that Hubert would have a headache if not an outright hangover in the morning.

He was prepared to take that risk.

Grinning at his thoughts, he eyed his friend. Surely he could call him that. Tailler was working out pretty well and there was every indication that he would be there in another six months or so.

Each having drawn a couple of hundred francs in expense money, it was like suddenly they were flush with cash, and in between paydays and everything.

It was about time the guy loosened up. It was a co-conspiracy after all.

The club was small, intimate, and minimalist. The floors were bare boards painted dark brown, and the narrow black cracks hinted at damp cellars and dirt floors down below. The interior walls were a warm sort of ruddy multi-toned brick. They had been sandblasted back into a kind of glowing cleanliness which nevertheless revealed the history of the building. There were skylights three floors up. It was a tall, vast and narrow space, really quite beautiful, and one had to wonder what the neighbouring buildings looked like inside. Probably nothing like this.

"I have to admit, I'm impressed."

Hubert burst out laughing.

"That's what I like about you."

Mona, a lithe and acrobatic young dancer with strong Gypsy features, had finally gotten down on all fours. She went into her act on a tiger skin that must have been three metres long. Hubert assumed it was real. He'd read one or two stories where tigers figured prominently.

Hubert looked away and sipped at his brew. He was hoping that Tailler could take a hint, but the boy was apparently away from home for the very first time, and overnight in a strange city at that. He didn't seem all that good at holding his liquor. Tailler probably thought he'd had enough, but if so he was wrong.

The girl looked impishly at them, first over one shoulder and then the other. She was down on hands and knees and presenting a pretty fine cul in their general direction. The show would take in all available points of the compass. Tables surrounded the small stage on three sides. There was what would be called Perv's Row, bench seating right up against the stage. Based on past experience, Hubert must assume that the boys down there could literally smell her in all her glory. Tailler, having come in the door ahead of him, had grabbed the first table he'd seen in a kind of defense mechanism.

They were at a table more or less in the darkest corner.

Emile engaged him with a look and a nod, eyes slightly glazed as if he couldn't quite believe his luck. There was something of the look of a three or four year-old child on Christmas morning—just when they come to that age when they can truly comprehend. They become aware of the larger world around them. They can finally detect something other than their own stomach, their own bowels, their own little world of toys and play and crying all the time. They could almost hold their own shit in at that point.

There was just the hint of white around Tailler's eyes.

He's walked into a candy store and the owner has died of a heart attack—you're nine years old and you can see all the infinite possibilities inherent in the situation.

"An invoice is another name for the conscience."

"What?"

Tailler's head bobbed and a serious look crossed that pleasantly-ugly mug.

"What about...?" Tailler was wondering what she might think of all this...

"Emmanuelle?" Hubert shrugged.

Tailler looked away. The girl was staring deeply into his eyes as she rolled around, going from side to side on her back, lifting her legs wide open in a V and sliding her hands up and down her inner thighs.

Emile licked his lips, totally unconscious of the picture presented.

"Oh, boy." Hubert heaved a sigh. "You know how it is. What she doesn't know can't hurt me."

Tailler chuckled dutifully. On balance, Hubert could have done without the reminder, but in his opinion no real harm would come of it. As for the drinking, it would be interesting to see how that progressed. He and Emmanuelle were engaged, and he was saving up for a really good ring.

Until then, there were mutual intentions and promises made. That didn't necessarily mean he was enslaved to the girl. He certainly hadn't gone blind or anything like that.

For crying out loud.

He raised his glass in salute.

"Normally, I drink alone."

"Huh?"

"It's just that I can't stand alcoholics."

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

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

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

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

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

Just watching Tailler was revealing.

Fuck, it was downright educational.

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

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

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

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

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

That much was true.

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

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

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

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

Tailler leaned over.

"What in the hell is that?"

"It's a girl, Tailler—"

Didn't your father tell you anything?

"I know that. What the hell's the name of that song?"

That was it.

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

"You know what?"

Tailler, senses on high alert, looked over.

"What?"

"It's your turn to buy."

That pitcher wasn't going to refill itself.

Chapter Seven

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

His head turned.

"Hey, Andre." Firmin was implied in there somewhere.

Levain was tempted to ignore his ringing telephone.

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

Levain picked up and listened for a moment.

"Very well. Okay. Thank you." He set it down again.

Tailler was ready.

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

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

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

Levain's eyebrows began to creep upwards in anticipation.

"Sure."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This one looked like a toughie, which was good.

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

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

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

Hubert nodded and indicated Levain's telephone.

"What's up?"

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

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

Apparently.

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

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

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

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

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

He looked up at Hubert.

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

He trailed off.

Hubert nodded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hubert nodded.

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

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

"Anytime you're ready."

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

Bodies don't just get up and walk away.

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

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

***

That Monique wasn't bad, either.

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

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

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

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

Hell, I'm not picky.

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

Chapter Eight

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Uh, huh..."

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

"Tailler. Please shut the window."

LeBref put down the phone. He nodded pleasantly.

"Gilles." He took a file and went out the door.

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

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

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

"That bad, eh, Inspector?"

Gilles grinned.

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

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

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

"So. That, bad, was it?"

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

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

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

"So. Why don't you tell me all about it."

***

It was all very romantic.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gilles nodded thoughtfully.

Tailler went on.

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

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

"Did you ask about a marriage certificate?"

Tailler shook his head, a bit ruefully.

"No. Sorry. We don't even have that for the Monique woman."

"Go on."

The young fellow nodded, Adam's apple bobbing.

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

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

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

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

Maintenon nodded.

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

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

Tailler nodded.

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

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

"Yes. But we need to hear her say it."

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

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

He had been about halfway through typing them.

"And what about Monique?"

Tailler's gaze slid around to his partner.

"Yeah—what about Monique?"

Hubert slid smoothly into the breach.

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

"Names?"

Hubert shrugged.

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

Tailler nodded.

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

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

At least he had a moment to think.

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

A few files were still open.

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

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

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

"I'm just sort of thinking out loud here, sir."

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

His eyes opened and his feet dropped to the floor.

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

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

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

He'd always hated putting on a wet hat.

Chapter Nine

He could hear her talking to the cat in there as he fiddled with the key. The lock was getting old and worn and he really should have that looked at.

Madame Lefebvre had been back for a couple of days and yet events had ensured that they kept missing each other. Gilles had been leaving at some ungodly hour in the mornings and she came in for days only. Her day began at eight-thirty and ended at six.

They'd missed each other in the evenings as well.

The smell coming from the oven as he stepped out of the hallway and into the kitchen was something else.

"Hello, Madame Lefebvre."

"Hello." Her bright and bristling countenance turned to greet her employer.

He could never quite figure her out, but he thought she might still be in her late forties. A study in domestic efficiency, and he was grateful to have her.

Thump.

A lumpy, fur-covered body had dropped off a chair and that was the sound of four paws hitting the floor under the table.

"Ah. There it is."

Madame Lefebvre smiled indulgently, as she puttered by the sink and the counter.

Sylvestre came over and tried to trip him up in the usual fashion. Gilles gave a gentle nudge with the foot but it never did any good. Not with that one. The damned thing kept coming back for more.

"Hello, hello." He'd always stopped short of using her first name, although he'd come awfully close sometimes.

This was one of those times, for whatever sentimental reason. A solitary man, the fact was that Gilles lived alone and a good housekeeper did a lot to make that bearable. He was only going to get so attached to her.

"What's for dinner?" Gilles was famished.

He'd had lunch at the usual time when court recessed.

Man did not live on sandwiches and milk alone.

"Ah." Beaming at her hapless charge, she launched into a full and unabbreviated explanation.

Whatever it was, it sounded good.

Pulling a chair back, he sat at the table. Sylvestre clambered up into his lap.

"Ugh. Such a big heavy thing—"

He watched her move around the kitchen getting his plate ready for him. Her purse hung in its usual spot, and her coat and hat were on a rack by the door. She habitually wore slippers around the place, her own staid and sensible shoes placed just exactly so, on a rubber mat by the door. Fifteen or twenty minutes and she would be gone for the day. It was enough to half-listen and be appreciative. It was warm and dry and at least he had a roof over his head.

The mail and the newspapers would be in a stack by his armchair. It was a well-ordered existence in a precarious world. Some cynic had described the body as the temple in which the god Stomach was worshipped. Gilles would like to hope that he wasn't quite that bad, but work was demanding. Life was exhausting and there was little doubt that he would have let himself go without some moderating influences of the feminine variety.

Madame Lefebvre fulfilled a number of important functions, and she did a wonderful job of doing so. As for the expense, he could eat exclusively in restaurants. He did not really need a cat to survive. A simple maid service might have been a little cheaper. This obviously went deeper than that, and yet originally she had been a total stranger.

Home at last. It was strange to think that Gilles Maintenon was the centre of the cat's little world, and that for him, there was essentially nothing else but this and the job.

It was the job that was important—not the man.

The animal was purring contentedly and of course the claws came out and began to knead his thigh.

"Argh. When I find myself thinking of you, in the middle of the day, that will be the time to hang it up." The cat looked up with love in his eyes and Gilles felt a moment of guilt.

Madame chuckled softly, doing the pots and the pans and putting them in the rack to dry.

He scratched the wretched thing behind the ears, as if to make up for lost time.

Maintenon supposed he really did love the thing. He probably needed to—to love something.

We all got to have something, as the Yanks would say.

If that thought didn't humble a person, nothing would.

***

Madame Lefebvre had taken off.

After wrapping his belly around a second helping of pork Provençale with leeks and olives, garlic mashed potatoes, crusty bread thickly spread with somebody's home-made butter...cheese, a bottle of wine and you my love. His time was now his own.

Speak softly my love, for the heart can never lie.

Speak softly to me, and lover, please don't cry.

Speak softly my love, speak softly—

Speak softly, my love...for our love shall never die.

The ghost that was Ann hovered in the back of his consciousness. The house was dead quiet. Madame Lefebvre had departed for her own home and what Gilles sort of assumed was a much brighter existence. She had her own brood of adult children and consequently grandchildren, nieces, nephews. They were all good Catholics. She had two sisters living in town here and more in the place of her birth, Limoges. She seemed like a happy person, and that was all he knew.

It was an assumption. After all, he might have been wrong about it.

The chair squeaked under him. He really ought to get a new one someday.

The cat was heavy in his lap and he lifted it off. There was nothing much in the mail, the usual bills and one or two political and religious tracts. Nothing out of the ordinary.

He got up with a grunt. Making old man noises when he was alone was permitted whereas he would never do it at work.

He was in the mood for Vivaldi. The gramophone would comfort him, provide background noise, and cognac would anesthetize him. A good book, some peace and quiet and a good night's sleep. He would sit, and think, and smoke. He would have a nice, hot bath...

He'd be a new man in the morning.

A neighbour, barely an acquaintance, had accosted Gilles in the street once. He was like a long-lost friend. He'd dropped a number of vague hints, suggesting that Madame Lefebvre was an attractive woman. He'd suggested that Gilles was no spring chicken and that he had needs. He'd practically suggested that Gilles could do worse. It was none of their damn-fool business, and yet he didn't take it too personally. It was as much a fishing expedition as anything. He'd seen a few of those in his time. It was a technique he used himself from time to time. He'd just chuckled, and put him off with a joke, one that wasn't too grotesque. Gilles had wondered for a time, if someone had put him up to it. If so, it would certainly never be Madame Lefebvre herself. She really wasn't that kind of person. After a while, he'd put it out of his mind.

The thought returned from time to time, not that he was particularly lonely at that exact moment, but.

But.

He had actually considered the thought. He'd even wondered how he would feel if she rejected him. He'd wondered how one would go about courting such a woman. If he had never employed her as a housekeeper, they would never have met. In that sense it was an unnatural match, and what did that say about the human condition? They were, after all, a man and a woman. They also lived in two different worlds. Then there was the whole question of what other people would think, what other people would say. That was the most tiresome part of all, for surely it was none of their business.

The trouble was, as far as he could make out, that there was nothing sexual there—and for him, even at his age, that was still important somehow. It was a kind of romanticism. He wanted to fall in love again or something completely mad like that. If he was going to go to all the trouble of having a marriage, well. He would sure as hell, like to have sex again before he died. Maybe even just once, so why get married at all? Not that he had ever taken any logical steps. Otherwise it just didn't seem worth it. As he recalled all too clearly, it was work. That was what a marriage was, even the most happy and successful ones. It required effort, and it needed a good match.

He needed something or wanted something, or yearned for something that was never going to come this way again.

Gilles Maintenon would have killed to fall in love again. A faded smile crossed his face at the idea.

To fall in love again is to be young again. To count the cost was to die a little bit inside. Just like in the song...

That`s how he saw it. It would never happen now, of course.

One way or another, it all came down to motivation. He had too many qualms, too many misgivings to overcome. It was like he never left the house any more.

Once home, he generally stayed home. He hadn't even walked—not since that night.

The trouble was that in real life, things like love never seemed to happen anymore.

There would be no staid and comfortable marriage of convenience for Gilles Maintenon. This sort of implied that he would be alone from now on—it was difficult to see it otherwise.

While Madame Lefebvre was a wonderful woman, and a lady in every sense of the word, even in its most basic, schoolboy-chivalric way, (i.e. she wore a dress and thought womanly thoughts, she being brittle, and fragile, also a member of an alien species), she just didn't turn his crank as the Yanks would say.

One day he'd called his solicitor. He made a new will, leaving every one of his relations very small legacies. The rest went to feed hungry children in China. On some level, there must have been some element of self-regard. But for the most part, he just didn`t give a shit anymore. His estate wouldn`t be enough to make even one of the family rich, and so why do it?

Why bother?

That pretty much said it all.

Chapter Ten

They had an appointment. They'd finally gotten through to her. So far Monique was fully cooperative.

"We're just trying to get a handle on where he might have gone." Hubert, as usual, was solicitous, gentle and considerate. "How much time did he spend at home, anyways?"

"Oh, ah. Hmn." The rapidity of it startled her.

That much was clear as she hemmed and hawed, leading them into the salon and making sure they were comfortably seated.

"Didier spent a considerable time on the road, of course." Her eyes were calmer when she looked at him again.

Hubert had given her something to chew on.

Tailler wondered how he was going to like his role. There was nothing for it and they must get on.

"Okay. Before he left, how long had he been in town?"

"Ah—three or four days."

"How long had Didier been away?" It was pressure, gentle at first but Tailler was relentless. "Just before that?"

"He was gone for four days—five nights, kind of."

He nodded. That was easily understood, he'd taken the night train coming and going.

"Where did he go, exactly? Did he tell you?"

"Mâcon. It's in the Beaujolais country." She mentioned the name of a hotel, and he jotted that down, Hôtel du Nord.

"Okay, so the time before that—how long was he home for? And would you be able to sort of write all this down for us? Would you mind doing that for us?" Tailler cleared his throat. "Can you give us his itinerary, as far as you know it, for the last month or so?"

Her hand went up to her mouth and then came down.

"I suppose so. Of course. A few places, maybe."

"Did you ever drive him to the train station?"

"No. We don't have a car. He calls a taxi."

"The same one every time?"

"I think so." She supplied the name of a firm and Tailler wrote it down.

He would check a phone book for that.

"Did he take a taxi that night? The last time you saw him."

Fresh tears glistened in her eyes.

"I—I think so."

"Are you sure?"

She looked at him.

"Yes—Didier wasn't the sort to take the bus."

"Very well, Madame." His pen made motions on the page.

They gave her a moment to compose herself. She was on the verge of tears.

"Did you ever have any reason to believe that Didier might have been cheating on you?" It was like a slap in the face, and Tailler looked away.

Somehow he dragged his eyes back and she was glaring at him, cheeks flaming. It wasn't even the question so much, it was the way he said it. She sat, erect, hostile and yet ashamed of her lack of control over herself.

"No! Never." She bit down, hard, and yet he could see the thought bottom out somewhere inside there and she came up short—all those absences.

Her face came back and there was something new there.

Fear.

Anger.

Disgust.

The eyes glittered.

"No. He would never do that to me."

Hubert stepped in.

"We're trying to find out who might have been his closest friend. Can you think of anyone? What about the people at work?"

She took a breath and mentioned a name.

"Edmond. Barrault. Another salesman. They went drinking sometimes or so they said—" Now she had doubts, which Tailler himself had been responsible for introducing. "He was at head office, of course, and they traveled together sometimes."

The lady gave him yet another suspicious look. She was having the same thought at exactly the same time.

It was one of the risks, of their line of questioning, of where they wanted to go and also what they had to hold back—what they didn't necessarily need to tell her. Yet living right there, surely she had heard about the body in the park. Even if someone else did the shopping, the cook or the maid, news traveled fast. Her friends at least, would read the newspapers and remark upon it. At this point Tailler was realizing just how fishy it was getting. On balance, there was such a thing as social isolation, even among the well-to-do. There were questions of mental hygiene...

Murder, front page copy in the the more lurid journals, was nothing if not geared to the vulgar, the lowest common denominator of society. Some people just preferred not to read it! There were days when Emile basically skimmed through the paper himself.

Even so.

Fishy, fishy, fish.

The three of them sat in her modern and tasteful salon. It was the fifth-floor loft, usually the lowest in rent. What was interesting was the upper-class young couple going up and down all those stairs. That was unusual, but perhaps the compromise was worth it. The single bedroom, and the bathroom were out of sight, presumably behind closed doors. A place like this would have a small dressing room between bedroom and bathroom. Everything else was one big space, with pale wood flooring, a dark, plain green Danish couch and chairs. Some odd-ball, shiny accessories came from a prominent Italian designer. Nothing was made in Japan. There were stained glass lamps, hanging from a sort of bronze brazier. The lights were not turned on just then, and the thin pale curtains were thrown back to admit a lot of light and air. Lush plants and even a lemon tree in the corner by the big front windows rounded out what was a very nice living space. It was avant-garde but tasteful. None of it looked cheap, but he didn't know much about it. They would get around to asking about money and income soon enough.

The woman herself looked washed out. The waiting and the wondering were taking their toll.

"Did you ever wonder if he had a mistress, or anything like that?" Tailler would be asking about prostitutes and child brothels next.

He'd never seen an entire room painted white with one red wall before. The effect was stunning enough. He was supposedly trained in the art of observation.

Her face was beet red and she wouldn`t look at him.

It came with the job, and he cast his eye over the low teak coffee table, with its jumble of women's magazines and some pulpy romance magazines in digest format. There was a much-folded copy of one of the major Paris dailies. Someone had at least made a stab at the crossword puzzle. Clearly her heart hadn't been in it. There was the stub of a pencil right there and cryptic things written faintly on the margin and available spaces. She had Vu and La Vie, artsy lifestyle magazines, which was only to be expected in one of her class. One would never see them in working class homes. The cover price was outrageous even on a cop's salary. Tailler wondered who in the home read them, Didier or Lucinde. Vu for Lucinde and the much more political La Vie for Didier, he thought.

Somewhere in the background goldfinches or something cheeped and he wondered where she normally kept them. The kitchen might be their home, which would sort of imply that she either never cooked or never let them out of the cage.

The silence was going on too long.

"Well?" Hubert was back in the conversation after pretending to go through a couple of pages of his notebook.

Silence was a pressure tactic.

"Ah, no. Never. Should I have thought of it?" She was hurt, angry, and resentful.

Not unexpectedly.

"No, Madame and please forgive us. It's just that we can leave no stone unturned. It's a serious business, to go away without word. Leaving a nice lady like you completely in the dark. Or so it would seem..." Tailler plowed on. "Seems like a colossal bit of nerve to me."

He looked over at his partner.

"Yes, when I run into that husband of yours, I may very well give him a piece of my mind."

She looked away, very upset.

Hubert had agreed to take the bad-cop duty next round and Emile might as well make a total ass of himself while he had the chance. He had her rocking on her heels.

So far they hadn't provoked any uncontrolled responses. This was merely an observation, and meant nothing either way. Some people had very good self-control.

Tailler decided to make peace if he could.

"I can't help noticing, Madame. You have such a lovely home. And I guess cops can maybe be, ah, you know—assholes sometimes. Is the kitchen right there?" Emile lifted his right hand and indicated an arch behind her, the heavy vertical maple planks of the door giving that end of the room the impression of medieval solidity.

Chaillot wasn't exactly homogeneous, but this particular little street was definitely charming and he wondered about the rent.

She made a quick decision, perhaps also sensing the need to back off for a moment. There was the additional bonus of seeing the lady slide her feet outwards so as to keep those luscious knees together, and then ramp herself up out of the low settee. Her skirt had a way of hiking itself up. She paused at the edge of the couch. She was rocking back one minute and then leaning well forward the next like she was straining at the leash. Every time she looked at Tailler, his heart did this odd little flutter.

He hated his own cruelty.

What can I fucking say.

There was probably going to be no getting over it. It made the job a little tougher sometimes.

She sat there poised, blinking at them, wondering what to do.

"If that green tone was any lighter, the red wall would have overwhelmed it." To be fair, it was a very, very dark red, almost black in the way it kind of sucked the eye inwards.

She stood, so they did too. Tailler took an appreciative stock of the room.

"Yes, it really is stunning, Madame."

The green was very soft. Maybe that was the word for it.

A low, white sideboard stood out in stark relief, nothing on it but a tall pale blue vase with long-stem flowers in blue—irises, he thought. Something like that. Tailler's mother would have positively shit to see this room—he would make a point and tell her all about it later. You had your good days and your bad days. One had to admit, the work was always interesting. He had been taken out of his background. So to speak. He lived in a completely different world now.

"It really is nice, Madame."

She turned her head, giving Hubert a grateful look. Leading the pair of males, she opened up the kitchen door and Tailler went in. His head barely cleared the frame. Hubert stood in the doorway and had a quick look.

"Wow. My mother's kitchen is miniscule compared to this." The place was done in a cheery yellow and cream décor.

Tailler gave an approving look around. Maybe she really did cook. There were racks of copper pots and kettles hanging overhead. It was all very dramatic, and there was the birdcage. It hung on a tall pole, bent over at the top and curving down into a hook. There was a dedicated, carefully fitted cloth for it, with one side pulled back so the birds could greet the day and their mistress. A pair of birds were twittering away, and it seemed very pleasant.

"Very nice. I must say, it's all open, clean and modern, isn't it." The heavily mullioned windows and painted brickwork in a soft creamy colour kept it bright even without the electric lights on.

She was clearly thawing out. She was pretty good about regaining control of herself. It was always interesting to study people's reactions, not that one didn't partake of the tragedy in equal doses. The flics, the cops at least, had some degree of separation. They called it objectivity. It wasn't really, it was just different. There were plenty of emotions to go around.

They had carefully taught themselves not to feel too much.

That was the theory, anyways.

Tailler wanted to find Didier, but nowhere near as much as she would. Without that body in the park, he doubted if they would have shown anywhere near as much interest in a runaway husband. He had to bear her pain in mind. She was doing pretty well. But then, she didn't know she was bereaved, (theoretically), hence the careful scrutiny when she wasn't looking. That scrutiny must have been somewhat obvious on the intuitive physical level and Tailler would have to ease up a bit. Keeping silent as he was, Hubert was much more unreadable. She seemed pretty straightforward and above-board, but then what the hell did he really know about women. Or anyone, really.

You never could. You never really did.

"So tell me, did you or Didier have money of your own, before your marriage? We know he's a very successful man." Hubert was easing into the money questions.

She stood to inherit nothing. Her parents had been lower middle class, and her father was essentially bankrupt.

"And your husband?"

"Oh. Well, Didier started off with nothing, but as you say, he has become very successful."

Her father had been a small businessman. What that meant was anybody's guess. Presumably she wouldn't be starving to death any time soon. Or maybe she would. There was high colour in her cheeks at all the money questions. She wasn't exactly stupid.

"Well. I'm impressed. I mean that in the romantic sense. It seems that you found each other." Tailler had just embarrassed the lady beyond belief...apparently.

He caught Hubert's eye and shrugged, as she had turned away. Hubert just looked blankly back at him.

Monique was desperately trying not to cry, maybe—maybe that was it.

The lady was definitely struggling with it.

She led them wordlessly down the hall to show them the bathroom, again larger than anything either one of them had seen in their own little lives. It was a beautiful space. It was another nice recovery. She seemed to have no shyness, no awkwardness now. Perhaps it was a more familiar role, one more easily played. She had probably showed others before, and the occasion would arise again. That was one of the reasons for renovation; it gave you a project, something to talk about. Ultimately, you got to show off the results. That's what Tailler got out of it.

Next she showed them the bedroom, albeit a little hesitantly.

The room was beautifully kept up and the bed firmly and crisply made. Everything seemed to match beautifully, not like the homes of the poor where everything was a mishmash, half of the stuff lost, half the stuff found and half the other stuff hand-me-downs. Nothing in here had ever been patched, repaired and re-broken. Nothing in this place had been pulled out of an alley or a dustbin.

"Do you have a maid service, Madame?"

"Yes, but for how much longer? Didier pays the bills around here. I've always been quite stupid, er, useless, with, ah. Money and employment and a career and such things." The girl, not always the same one, came from an agency. They came in for four hours in the morning, Monday, Wednesday and Fridays.

Hubert nodded in sophistication and empathy.

"Of course, Madame." Ushering her and Tailler out again, the young detective closed the bedroom door, holding the latch and rotating the handle, making the least of noises and treating it with all the reverence that it deserved.

They were only going to hit her with so many questions and then beat it for a while.

***

Tailler retook his original seat. They were all friends again and Hubert made another show of consulting his notes. There were no ashtrays in the place. Neither she nor Didier smoked. He put that out of his head. The outside sounds were at a bare minimum.

He popped the question, the real question.

"So what sort of an income did Didier have? I mean, it must have been enough to live comfortably, but we were wondering. Did he gamble, did he have any money problems? Any big debts? Anything like that, that maybe you can recall?"

This one didn't seem to fluster the lady.

"No, nothing at all. He made good money of course, but he was on the road so much. Don't forget, Didier had an expense account. He received a base salary and commissions. His meals and drinks were paid for, his fares and hotels, travel expenses of all kinds." She looked over at Tailler in doubtful fashion but he kept silent.

Fishing around among the magazines, he pulled out the folded section of newspaper.

She kept an eye on him for a moment.

"I live very simply. I don't go out very often, and we live, I suppose, relatively frugally." She explained that the flat was bought and paid-for before she even met Didier. "He really is quite a phenomenon."

"Ah, but I sense your delicate hand in the decoration, the presentation, Madame."

She smiled in spite of herself, pleased by what was some fairly obvious flattery.

Hubert's youthful face and innocent air were going to take him a long ways in police work, thought Tailler, enjoying the performance.

"So, ah, just to go back again, did he show you his pay cheques?" Hubert's head bobbed. "He must have filed income taxes, right?"

"Oh. Yes." She wrung her hands. "He does have his little desk, of course."

They'd seen it in one corner of the capacious bedroom.

She leapt up.

"I'll just go and have a look." Her heels clattered across the bare floor and then thudded on the thick wool rug of the bedroom.

She had the door open and they heard a drawer slide out. Hubert gave him a wink and he nodded.

Tailler raised his eyebrows.

It wasn't all that late in the day. Upon their arrival she was dressed to the nines, in a conservative but cheerful yellow dress with ruffs on the shoulders. He wondered if she was actually going anywhere or whether it was strictly for their benefit. Not the sort of woman to entertain in dungarees, with her sleeves rolled-up. No headscarves, flour-streaked aprons and rough red hands in this household.

When she came back, she dutifully handed over a small sheaf of pay stubs, confirmed by Tailler when Hubert handed them over for his examination. The cheques had the company name and address on them.

"Does Didier have a personal cheque-book in the desk?"

She nodded, but didn't offer to go get it.

"Would the address on his personal cheques be the same as this address? I mean, er, some men have mail go to their offices, or to post office boxes..."

"Yes, of course it's this address." She gave him an odd look. "Sometimes I make out a cheque, to pay a bill, and Didier would sign it when he was home."

She had them all made up on the first of the month. Other than that, Didier gave her cash to run the household.

Going by the salary, plus the reimbursements for expenses, it was certainly possible that they were able to afford what was really a luxurious pad. There were a few pay-cheques, not all in sequence, just one here in May and one in July, two in August. One for the first pay period in September. Not very well organized at all. The guy was making a good nine times what either one of them was making.

"No income tax returns?"

"It has to be in there somewhere." She shrugged.

She cleared her throat.

"He got some very good year-end bonuses." Volunteering information.

She seemed to be fully recovered.

"Does Didier use an accountant?"

She brightened.

"Yes."

They plied her for a name and she couldn't quite recall the firm. There was a whole pile of stuff in the two lower desk drawers and she would have to go digging for it.

"Simon and something." That's all she knew. "There's another big closet at the end of the hall. Didier had some boxes of papers in there as well—I don't know if he ever did get rid of it."

"Okay, if we need it we'll let you know." Tailler picked up the pencil and waved the cross-word puzzle at her in mock humour—it wasn't all that funny with her husband gone but he'd been playing it heavy-handed since arriving.

"Do you take the paper regularly, or just on Sundays? I see you're a big crossword fan."

Tricky Tailler...

He read the clues for a couple of the blank lines, and solved number seven with a little thought.

Trapezoid.

He wondered what she might make of that.

The look on her face was unreadable.

"Ah, no, we just pick it up once in a blue moon. Didier, rather. Me, not so much."

Me, not so much.

Ah, but the date was right there on the top of the page—and going by the look of nervous concentration on Monique's strained and narrow face, she was aware that the question wasn't entirely innocent. That side-to-side shift of the eyes was a dead giveaway in Tiller's opinion, but of what. That was always a good question. Sometimes people just couldn't remember and yet they still wanted to answer the question. They still wanted to help.

It was possible she couldn't quite remember what day that had been. This was Friday's paper.

Tailler had it right in front of him.

It was the day after the body in the park, and that, had been front-page news. It was old news at this point. That section of the paper must be around someplace. He wondered what she did when she was done with them. It was probably lining the bird-cage, he realized.

Hubert broke it off smoothly before they got in too deep. Their questions could reveal much, to the devious mind of a killer...

"Okay, Madame, we'll be in touch." He handed her a card. "These missing person cases are a real high priority with us. Call us if you think of anything or just have a question. Oh. And see if you can find last year's income tax statement, ah. Please. And we'll need the name and branch of his bank as well."

Her mouth opened and Tailler stood there with pen poised to strike.

By the time they were done with her, the lady was more than glad to see them go.

Chapter Eleven

The two detectives had requisitioned a car, which they didn't do very often. They were on their own for a change. Their next stop was way over on the other side of the city. Madame Godeffroy lived in the Chaillot area on the north side of Paris. The company was in the other end of town. Gaston e Cie was located just below the Butte aux Cailles, near the Seine and the route out of the city to the major wine regions. Primarily in the south, there were wine regions all over the country. The firm had set its original roots down in the industrial and commercial fringe belt. What had once been near the outskirts was now well within the built-up areas. The city was getting bigger every day, a product of the industrial revolution and internal migration. Hubert picked his way through unfamiliar streets, attempting to avoid yet another go-around due to yet another one-way thoroughfare.

"Where in the hell are we? Argh." Hubert spun the wheel and the car swerved into the curb. "We forgot to ask how they met."

"Yeah, I know. It's a hard job sometimes, eh?" Tailler was still thinking about Didier—and two different beautiful women, both of whom seemed to care for him.

That was just plain unbelievable. He could not deny a moment of what could only be described as envy. There were times when you just had to be honest with yourself, although the heart pounded a little because of it.

It really didn't bear thinking about. That Didier must be a real bastard.

And I'm jealous.

Hubert made Tailler crank the passenger-side window down. Checking the mirror, he waited for a pedestrian to come along from behind them.

Hubert leaned way over.

"Hey, buddy."

The guy stopped and looked.

"Sir?" The fellow had some element of caution but seemed helpful.

"Where in the hell is Gaston e Cie, the more or less world-famous wine distributors?"

The fellow shook his head.

"Sorry. I don't actually live around here—I work down the road. We make boots. Lots and lots of boots. My bus stop is just up the street."

"We're looking for the Rue Cantagrel." Tailler had his trusty notebook right there in his lap.

"Oh. Okay. Well, you're on the Rue de Patay. You must have gone right by the turn, a left turn back there. What you want to do is to go up a block and take the next left. It's the next block. It's just that it goes on a weird angle."

They had zigged right when they should have zagged left. Hubert nodded cheerfully.

"Thank you." He pulled back out into light traffic.

Tailler left the window down, stuck his arm out and enjoyed the last little bit of their ride. Hubert made his left turn, which was quite a ways along. They went a few hundred more metres. The Rue de Cantagrel was finally there. They were still in a commercial area. There were some run-down storefronts that might have had some pretty grim little flats above them. In what was rare for Paris, they even saw a vacant lot. It was a lot more open, a mix of modernity and decay. They sat at an intersection waiting for the light to turn. Both men peered and shaded their eyes. Finding a street number that wasn't microscopic, missing or invisible was turning out to be impossible.

"...left, I think. I'd bet a hundred francs."

To Tailler's amusement, Hubert turned right.

The odds were fifty-fifty either way.

There was a whoop from the driver's side and there it was on the left side of the street. The name of the company was up on a painted signboard over what looked like a small but modern distribution facility. The street-front in red brick was narrow. The driveway was on the left. The window trim, the doors and door frames were all white. There was an administration block on the street, with a half-dozen parking spaces. In behind was a warehouse with a dozen loading docks and big doors under a wide awning roof. They saw a forklift go across from one to the other. There were a couple of company trucks and an even larger one from a well-known carrier backed in, and presumably in the process of loading or unloading.

"All right. Now we just need a place to park."

"That, Mon ami, is what the hat is for."

Hubert reached into the back seat and pulled out a dusty but serviceable gendarme's cap.

Hopefully that would keep the beat cops (flatfoots but not gumshoes) off of them for the moment, for there were signs and painted lines strictly forbidding vehicles from stopping in that section.

He set it on top of the dashboard and they got out.

"Hopefully they can take a joke." The parking slots in front of the building were all taken. "If not—"

Fuck 'em.

***

"Good day. We were hoping that you might be able to help us. We're trying to locate a Monsieur Didier Godeffroy, who is employed with this company. His wife has reported him missing." Hubert flashed her the badge.

Monsieur Godeffroy's secretary was a slim, well-preserved woman of about thirty-four. Her name was Violet Pelletier. In the inner sanctum, ferns reigned supreme, along with the solitary sound of a large grandfather clock standing outside the room in an out-of-the-way corner of the foyer. It was unnaturally loud in the oppressively still air of the room.

"I'm a little surprised by the question." She stood up behind her desk. "Is this some kind of a joke?"

They exchanged glances.

"No, why do you ask?"

"Because I was just speaking to Monsieur Godeffroy, not two days ago. He's on his way to Bordeaux, you know, for the autumn trade shows down there—"

"Bordeaux?" Tailler resisted the urge to slap himself on the side of the hat.

They'd never even considered the possibility. They were just so damned sure.

"He called. He's on a big sales trip. He said he might be delayed on the way there—something about seeing a problem customer, and yet it's a good account. He's had to put off a lot of other appointments. It's an important account. Didier sold them the original order, ten or twelve years ago. He's been servicing that account ever since. Anyway, they're real sticklers sometimes." They had every right to be, in her obvious opinion, which remained unsaid.

"And where is this?" Hubert had a note of disbelief in his voice, hand frozen in the act of reaching for a pen.

The hand finally dropped into the pocket.

"Troyes, is what he said." She mentioned a company name, they made a wine that was familiar even in Tailler's limited experience.

"Do you have a number, a hotel where we could reach him?"

"Well, no, he's on the train today. He makes all the stops, gentlemen. It'll take him a day or two to get to the real champagne country down around Troyes. Three days there and then down to Bordeaux. Then there's the whole Moselle swing he usually takes about this time of year."

"So..." Tailler licked his lips and wondered what the hell to ask first. "So what exactly does Didier do on these little trips?"

"He's a qualified taster, and he will place orders for carefully considered quantities of various vintages. He visits all major chateaus and many of the smaller ones. It's a question of quality—and getting there early with a rational offer on the futures. The very best vintages, from exceptional growing years...well. The house reserves might be kept for months and years, but when it comes on the market, a percentage of that wine will be sold to us. There's an agreed-upon price, and we have a contract. We have commitments."

Gaston e Cie sold, or distributed, wine, brandy, cordials and liqueurs. They were major importers and exporters. She slowly lowered herself into her desk, studying Hubert's identification, and then she looked up at Tailler.

"Go, on, Mademoiselle, what else does he do?"

"Well, a lot of things really. He represents the company on all sorts of levels. He's as much of a salesman as buyer—he's always traveling, you see. They talk amongst themselves. Such types, I mean. If Didier is impressed with a wine, he will tell people all about it. People, vintners and growers, stalk him almost, hoping that he will discover their wine. Sometimes it's a worthy vintage and then of course he's interested. He has a lot of power in the company, as you can imagine. Then he takes orders. He's always got his little order book with him. Sometimes we have the wine in stock. Sometimes we have it shipped from elsewhere, and we take a straight commission. He travels with a large portmanteau, and crates of half-size sample bottles in the freight car sometimes. Most customers simply rely on his word, on his taste and discernment. They might be looking for a house red at a certain price and of course he is always very good at that sort of thing."

In other words, she was in love with him.

"I see." Hubert took the plunge. "So. How hard would it be for someone like Didier to have an affair? How difficult to take a mistress, for example, and hide it from the wife?"

Her face went flaming red and was up and out of the desk. She strutted past them, back stiff and chin erect.

She opened the door and held it.

"Gentlemen. If you have further questions, it would be much better if you spoke with Monsieur Gaudet. He is in the office now, I believe, and if you will just take a seat in the ante-room."

Without argument or comment, the pair of rather subdued detectives departed her work space. Tailler hesitated, but he just had to try her again.

"Mademoiselle."

She sniffed and lifted her chin.

She wasn't budging.

"What is this about, gentlemen?"

"It's just that we need to speak to Monsieur Godeffroy."

Hubert paused. An impasse of sorts had been reached and he needed to break it. Why not keep bludgeoning, it's what I'm here for.

"We will need a list of any hotels that he may have regularly stayed at. Any phone numbers where he might be located would also be very helpful. We regret any inconvenience our visit may have caused. We certainly never intended any disrespect...to anyone at all."

She said nothing, clasping her collar up near her slightly-waspish throat. With a nod of acceptance, he went out the door. She closed the door behind her and then went down the hall.

Her walk was not a happy one.

They sat there. There was a long, red leather couch and one empty low table with a bowl of stale peanuts on it. They were almost afraid to speak. It was almost funny, and almost sad. There was this sinking feeling like they'd been had, somehow. Neither one knew what to think. They needed time to analyze. She was back in two minutes.

"Monsieur Gaudet will see you now." She was very stiff, very firm, very erect.

Very proper.

"Thank you."

Another secretary came along just then and cocked her head and eyebrows. They got up and followed her in. The backside on this one was formidable. Mademoiselle Pelletier stood there with a storm cloud for a face, face to the farthest window, either unwilling or unable to look at them directly.

***

A tall, balding man in a very expensive business suit, the gentleman was reserved but polite. Tailler wondered what the lady might have told him. Probably only that they were making inquiries, and that they were from the police.

"We were just asking Monsieur Godeffroy's secretary a few questions." Hubert was casual.

"Yes, so I understand." The gentleman shook their hands, and then studied their proffered IDs, one at a time.

He handed them back and ushered them over to a low conversation-pit, dark wool in a kind of warm chocolate brown. The wood furnishings showed that machine-age touch, narrow geometric and patterned lines, curves here and there, and the lovely classic proportions. The carpet was thick as anything he'd ever known. Hubert slowed and stared for a moment, examining some etchings on the wall. Studying the signature, he'd never heard of the guy. The place certainly looked very prosperous. He wasn't sure what he had been expecting, but this was anything but the back room of a second-hand clothing store. A firm like this would have a lot of important customers.

It introduced a whole new element.

Tailler sat, noting the factory smoke-stacks visible just on the other side of the road. There were railway tracks nearby. The route to Lyon had followed the river for a ways, probably right through here. The tracks couldn't be more than a hundred and fifty metres away. There was an unmistakeable rumble coming up through the chair and the soles of his feet.

"Please let us know how I can be of assistance."

The gentleman clasped his hands and looked at them calmly.

"Well, it's just that we'd very much like to speak to Monsieur Godeffroy. Didier. It's just that his wife, well, she's a little worried about him. He took off without a word. He hasn't checked in, for quite a while. We pooh-poohed it at first—the flics, you know, we're not all that interested in...ah, divorce—shit cases like that, eh, sir?" Tailler cleared his throat. "It's just that he's been gone for a while. Maybe he's just forgotten to leave a note, eh?"

The gentleman's eyebrows rose.

It was Hubert's turn.

"She says they weren't fighting or anything like that, uh, sir."

"I'm sure Didier would never do anything to upset Madame—I mean Monique. They make an admirable couple, and they always seemed very much in love. I must say." If Monsieur said it, then it must be so.

Hubert sat down. He crossed his legs as the fellow sort of waited politely.

They were all very good friends for some reason.

"Hmn. Disappeared, you say." Gaudet chuckled expressively.

"I understand from his secretary that Didier is on a road trip right now. Is this true? And what sort of places would he be, ah...going." Hubert seemed satisfied with this contribution as Tailler's pen took that down.

It was no act, all of a sudden both detectives were very unsure of themselves. What a bombshell.

"Didier is headed for Bordeaux. We have dozens of suppliers down there, and dozens of clients."

Tailler interrupted.

"When was the last time you spoke to him? When was the last time he came into the office?"

"Ah—" The gentleman, Vice-President of Sales and Distribution by the plaque on the door, looked nonplussed. "Ah. Four or five days ago—"

"You mean like Tuesday?" Tricky, Hubert—very tricky.

"Ah, no, sir. Ah—I'm pretty sure it was Thursday—Thursday morning. And then again in the afternoon, he was just checking his list and the itinerary. We popped out to the warehouse and had a look around! Honestly, it's more art than science sometimes. Pure guesswork a lot of the time. Especially with completely new products. It's very important to know his way around down there, as you can imagine." He went on to explain that Didier would have a long list of appointments, made ahead of time.

Didier worked in more cold calls when he could, and he was always very diligent in seeking new leads.

"So, what is this all about, gentlemen?"

Hubert shrugged, elaborately, a national trait.

"That, sir, is a very good question." It had to be about something, after all.

Shit.

Thursday.

It was like a punch in the guts.

Human nature being what it was, there would be last-minute changes and thus changes to his schedule.

"It's quite hectic, especially in the season." Christmas was coming, or so he told them with a dry but engaging wit. "Right now we have a little space in our warehouses. Didier will have it packed to the rafters in there, and in pretty short order. I took him on as a very young man and we have, ah, never been disappointed. He has one or two protégés of his own."

"It's a heady responsibility for one so young." Tailler was stalling, stalling for time and fishing for information of almost any kind.

"Ah, yes. He grew into the job, don't you know." The gentleman looked slightly amused. "He was knowledgeable to begin with, of course. There always has to be some sort of rational level of skill. Otherwise why take them on? It's just a disappointment for all concerned. So...ah, really, gentlemen, what is this all about?"

"Nothing, really. Probably just the lady getting upset and the fellow maybe decided to punish her a bit. I suppose there's no reason why he would want to talk about it at work, that's only natural. As you know, some relationships are a little bit dependent, and a little bit abusive. He took off on some long sales trip. Didn't say where he was going. It could be like that. Sometimes it's all too simple. Anyways, we're sorry to be wasting your time." Hubert rose, his thin trousers sticking to his legs and raising the hairs with static electricity.

It always felt somehow shameful, tugging them down into place again.

"Ah, when did he leave? Any idea what train he might have taken?" Tailler took up the momentary slack.

Monsieur Gaudet didn't know, but Violet should have all of that. He would just buzz her in a minute.

They could wait in the anteroom. If there were any more questions?

Tailler heaved a sigh. He stood.

"It's strictly routine, sir. Sorry to have bothered you. No doubt we'll get it all straightened out. Yeah, he'll probably show up. Sooner or later, eh? Thank you for your time."

Hubert had another question.

"Did Monique ever call here looking for him? Say last week, Thursday or Friday?"

"Oh. I really don't know."

"Okay, we'll check with his secretary."

"Yes, you're lucky. He's our senior buyer and the only one that even has a secretary. She kind of runs the show when he's not around."

Hubert nodded thoughtfully.

"It's nice work if you can get it." Tailler sounded distinctly humble by this point.

The gentleman laughed aloud.

After another round of hand-shakes, they were shown out the door by a raven-haired young beauty named Prideaux. She looked just as good from in front as she did from behind. She was personal assistant to Monsieur Gaudet himself. After another short wait in the reception area, Violet came out of her space and handed them some hastily-typed sheets.

"This is by no means complete."

"Thank you." The list was single-spaced.

There were cities and towns, the names of hotels all over the place.

"When did Monsieur Godeffroy's train leave, Mademoiselle?"

"He was taking the six-thirty-five for Orleans and Tours. He was leaving Friday morning. He would be making all the stops."

Back to Friday again. Tailler didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Someone at the station might recognize his photo. One more thing to pile on the workload.

"And how long was he expected to be away?"

"At least ten days, perhaps as long as two weeks. His record is nineteen days on the road."

Hubert nodded at that. A good time to kill and run—

"Hmn."

"Did Monique call here looking for him? Last week?"

She gave Tailler a blank look and shook her head.

"You could ask at reception."

"Thank you."

At the reception desk, the girl said she hadn't been on duty last Thursday or Friday. At that point they decided to give it up while they were ahead of the game. With the story getting stranger and with no hard evidence to go on, they could only cause so much disruption without generating friction, and ultimately, complaints from the taxpayers.

There was the sense of let-down as they found the car, unmolested by traffic officers in the short time they'd been away.

"Merde. Now what?" Hubert was tempted, just this once, to let Tailler drive.

After a quick mental review, recalling the rather amateur status of his partner, he reconsidered. More than anything, he just wanted to get back to the office in one piece. Tailler was almost better with the car when they let him go off on his own—it saved a lot of heartaches. A certain amount of screaming and hair-pulling went with the territory otherwise.

"Your guess is as good as mine."

"When in doubt, let's do lunch."

"Sure. Just promise me one thing. No beer this time—and no girls."

"Boy. You really do have a one-track mind."

"That's two tracks. Don't worry, Hubert. Don't you ever give up. You'll corrupt me yet."

Chapter Twelve

Without a lot of options, they went to the nearest working-class saloon. Hubert didn't hesitate, as he who hesitates is lost. Tailler took a moment and read the colourfully-chalked menu on the big board by the door out front. For whatever reason a Reuben sandwich sounded pretty good, either that or pastrami on rye. Something exotic like that. He'd never actually had a Reuben. That had something to do with it. Just something from an old pulp magazine, Private Detective.

As a boy, he'd lived for the pulps. Look where it had gotten him, as Mother would say.

His partner didn't seem to care.

After one last look around, Tailler stumped up the front stairs, to be temporarily blinded by the darkness of the interior. Some hokey music was coming out of the radio-box. Even in France there were hillbillies. It was bolted high up on the wall. It would require a ladder to change the volume or the station. The man knew his customers. There were pool tables at the back, three or four of them that he could see. The place had an agreeable smell of beer, tobacco and fried onions or battered, deep-fried something.

Whatever it was, it smelled pretty good.

Hubert had already settled in. Tailler came in, looking around and not seeing him. He had to seek him out. It was one of those L-shaped spaces, one sometimes wondered how they did it so consistently. They were always knocking down interior walls and then building them up again. The landlord probably owned a whole row or the whole block. A big bank or insurance company or something. The face of the building was narrow. On the other side of the wall to his right was a barbershop, after that a cafe. Bars didn't need all the windows of a storefront. Bars were supposed to be dim and cool inside. Maybe that was why. The décor was predictable, cheap and generic art nouveau with a lot of wear.

There was some grime involved as well.

Hubert wasn't alone when he finally caught up.

Standing beside Hubert was quite the bruiser, and while his partner's voice was mild and accommodating, Emile didn't like the attitude. It was written all over the guy, big arms and long side-burns and a toothpick sticking out of one corner of his mouth. The pointy boots made a certain statement, and it said punk.

The air reeked of sweat and sarcasm.

The bartender was there. Not being stupid, he wasn't taking sides. The gentlemen would work it out.

They usually did.

"I'm sorry, but I didn't realize we required a reservation—" Characteristically, Hubert was trying to be polite, easing the situation by making a joke out of it. "Perhaps we do bring the tone down a bit—"

He didn't see why he should move, though. There were exactly eleven people in the place, all male. It was a prime spot, right on the end of the bar and farthest away from the cash register and entrance. The bar was clean. There were no drinks or ashtrays there. No bowls of peanuts. Playing billiards when he came in, the guy was looking for trouble. The question was, why would a good sort like Hubert ever bother to give it to him?

"Surely we can all get along." He raised an eyebrow and a glass, smiling confidently.

"Come on, asshole. This is my seat."

Tailler always wondered, afterwards that is, where it came from. It happened all too quickly for his liking.

"Beat it, punk." He slammed a shoulder into the guy, knocking him back and then stopped short as the fellow scrambled backwards, barely keeping his feet.

The toothpick went flying. Hubert set the glass down quickly.

"Unless there's a problem here?"

"You'd better believe there's a problem." The man looked carefully around, a sly look under lowered lids.

Tailler looked around to a straggle of shocked faces and then nodded.

"Let's see what you got. Punk."

Hubert rose hastily to pull out his police badge, but Tailler put a hand on his arm and stopped him. Hubert subsided, but not entirely.

Not just yet.

"It's okay. My treat."

The fellow gathered his wits and recovered his balance, half-crouching there as he decided what to do. The place was definitely quieter now thought Hubert. There was only the scratched and tinny disc going round and round on the turntable downtown at the radio station and coming in over the airways. Tailler already had the fighting stance, right foot forward, slightly turned in. His hands were at his sides, looking like a rank amateur to anyone who knew anything. The unspoken suggestion was that Tailler, wasn't really ready to start anything. He was just big, he thought he was tough and the other guy must certainly back down.

Hubert was frozen in place.

The guy was definitely strong-looking. Considering the neighbourhood, he might be tough enough to cause a serious problem. Especially if he had friends, which was distinctly possible. A couple of guys in a corner booth were halfway out of their seats, but still undecided. That wouldn't last very long. They settled in but only just, eyes intent.

There was a snick and a gleam of light from down low beside the guy's right leg.

Hubert squawked. He spun and straightened vertically in his seat as the knife appeared and the fellow lunged at Tailler. Hubert scrabbled for his gun, finding the butt and then he felt a whole lot better about things. He sat there with his hand under his coat, muzzle poking at the fabric. He could hit him from here, if only Tailler wasn't in the way.

Tailler, turning in, had grabbed the wrist of the knife hand and pulled it along. The arm, straight and low, kept going. Tailler spun with it and threw the right shoulder again, right into the guy's face. Tailler spun, pulling the arm up and over. He locked the knife arm in place with a quick forearm wrap-around that paralyzed the knife hand. With the guy's head in behind his right armpit, he gave a quick pinch to the nerve endings in the wrist, already spinning the body of his victim into a new position...

"Ah!"

The hand let go and the knife fell to the floor at Hubert's feet. Tailler turned the guy like a rag doll, big paws up under the armpits. The man's feet were up and off the ground. He dropped him hard on his heels, the man's jaws clicking, and then Emile changed the grip.

Tailler had his right hand up in the guy's face, his left knee in between the guy's legs. The man's arm was straight up and he hovered on tiptoes. Leaning forward, keeping away from potential kicks, Tailler towered over him as he pushed the unshaven jowls up, up, up...powerful hand clamped on the jaws. The guy's arm was locked in place. The free arm batted ineffectually at Emile, but he was in too close. Suddenly Tailler chuckled and relaxed, a kind of demonstration. He was taking an awful chance. He gave a playful shove in the chest and the guy half-fell onto a table, fortunately an empty one.

"Argh." The guy shook his head in disbelief.

He didn't like that very much.

The man was quick on his feet. Down low and in close, he was a handful. Tailler parried a couple of sweeping side-kicks with contemptuous ease. Hubert abandoned the bar stool and side-stepped, getting out of there as the men rotated. They circled like wrestlers, each seeking to get the first and the best hold.

One good, clean shot would do it. With six bullets, Hubert was safe enough.

He cast a quick eye around. Everyone frozen in place.

The man's hand clamped on his left wrist. Tailler twisted his arm, almost breaking the lock. He grabbed the other fellow's wrist now. Tailler laughed, straightening up.

The big detective began to pull the man closer, cocking his right arm up and back. He was just waiting, or so it seemed.

The look on Tailler's face was priceless. The bruiser decided not to go there. Tailler let go, and with the guy's arm stiff as he still resisted, he shoved him back. There was one quick backhand from the right hand and the slap echoed through the building.

The man stood there, shocked as shit and humiliated as all hell. But now he knew better.

"More?" Tailler tapped his chin with an index finger. "Come on, you little prick. Let's have it."

The poor fucker, with what was a look of forlorn desperation on his face, pulled back and then drove the hardest right-handed punch he could muster. By any objective standard of measurement, it should have landed in the jaw or throat area. Tailler stopped it dead, with a clap of his left paw, snapping up from nowhere in a split second. They stood there for a moment. Tailler leaned in and gazed deep into those troubled eyes. The man tried to get his hand away and he couldn't even do it.

Tailler let the hand go.

"Want to try that again?"

The man shook his head.

"Go sit where I can keep an eye on you."

The man looked a little askance.

"When we're done our lunch, we'll be out of your hair. No hard feelings. Comprene vous?"

The man nodded.

Unexpectedly, he stuck out a hand.

"I'm Leonard. Incidentally." He licked his lips, in all humility.

His Adam's apple bobbed.

"Emile. And this is Hubert."

"I'm very pleased to meet you gentlemen."

"Likewise."

The man Leonard nodded, sweat rapidly cooling. The bartender still stood there, still polishing that glass, still squinting at the smoke of a bad cigarette. The guy stood there for a second.

Eyes slid over.

He noted Hubert's hand inside the coat.

He backed off, ignoring the knife on the floor, only turning at the last minute. He found a seat by the back wall.

The rear exit was right there and the washrooms. He nodded at Tailler, catching Hubert's eye for a second as a waitress scurried in that direction. Emile finally looked for a seat beside the rather ashen-faced Hubert. Slowly the room came to life again. They were the centre of attention.

"That was hardly necessary."

Tailler bent and retrieved the knife. He closed the blade and hit the button. It clicked open with a flash of bright steel. Thoughtfully, he closed the blade and put it in his right-hand jacket pocket.

"Oh, I don't know. If it wasn't him, it would be somebody else." He looked around the room, where more than one interesting and hard-bitten face hastily looked to their own soup as opposed to somebody else's business.

People had settled down again. It clearly didn't pay anyways.

"What will you gentlemen have?" The bartender had found the courage.

"Beer, the soup of the day, and a very large steak sandwich for my friend here."

Hubert looked at Tailler.

"My treat. It's the least I could do."

"That's very true."

Ha, thought Hubert.

On the other hand, he was kind of useful. Strong as hell and dumb as a stick.

That was a beautiful thing to see. The trouble was that he couldn't tell anyone or they'd both be in a heap of shit.

***

They made it out into the sunlight again, with dark clouds on the horizon, what they could see of it. They were still in the warehouse district.

"We might as well call this Barrault character."

Hubert nodded.

It was better than heading back to the office empty-handed and with Gilles most likely not around. Sure as shooting someone with a big salad on their hat would grab them and give them some real work.

"All right. Let's find a phone. This guy's another traveler, so the odds of finding him in town would appear to be rather slim." An elementary deduction, in Emile's humble opinion.

Beer often brought out the best in him. That's what he'd always thought.

"There was a phone in the bar back there."

"Yeah, well—let's not push our luck." Hubert was happy enough to be out of there.

He'd just been polishing up some of Tailler's unwanted patates frites, only to look up and see that their new friend Leonard was no longer there.

This had led to certain thoughts, not the least of which was that only fools stuck around the scene of the crime.

***

Edmond Barrault was at home. Young, professional and a sophisticated man of the world, the fellow was also touchingly overwhelmed by a couple of rambunctious toddlers. There was a strange aroma in the air, one which took a moment to identify.

"Here. Sorry. You see—" Edmond handed off a baby to Hubert, whose mouth opened in dismay, but nevertheless snuggled the thing into his left shoulder.

"Oh, Lordy." Hubert felt the heat of the thing on his chest and shoulders and marveled anew—he'd held a baby a few times in his life, but they were also pretty God-damned heavy.

Shit.

Edmond bolted for the rear of the house and presumably the kitchen. One man ran in and two small boys almost immediately ran out.

"Oh, Lordy, ain't the half of it." Tailler still had a smoke hanging out of his mouth.

He still wasn't properly addicted yet. He found you had to be attuned to it, and so far he really wasn't.

The baby made small sucking noises, looking up at Tailler in friendly wonder.

Cough, cough.

He looked around, but there was no place to put it out. Okay, this is in some small way who I am—

Hubert made soothing noises, looking a bit wide-eyed at Tailler as Edmond ran after the two boys, looking about three and four years old. They scampered in different directions as soon as they made it through the next doorway. A kettle screamed in the kitchen and there were heaps of dishes piled in the sink. It was right there through an open archway. Monsieur Barrault certainly had his hands full.

"Do you want—"

"No way."

Hubert sighed.

"Dammit!" They could hear the gentleman scolding somewhere way at the back.

He returned shame-faced, palms up and shrugging in apology.

"I locked them in their room—for the moment." He blew a long lock of fine blond hair out of his right eye. "Now, gentlemen. What can I do for you?"

He looked hopefully from one to the other. At last, some adults to talk to, was the impression Tailler got. He seemed a cheerful-enough sort.

Hubert took the lead.

"Yes. We're interested in Didier Godeffroy."

A ray of understanding dawned on the gentleman's intelligent brow.

"Ah, yes. Didier."

There was an oddly flat note to it, or was that just Tailler's imagination.

"So, ah...what's he done?" Barrault chuckled, it was an obvious line and he wasn't all that serious.

A sign of nervousness.

"Where is your wife, incidentally?" Damn.

There was just something about the way a baby looked at you—all of your soul was revealed to it. Hubert had always hated any feelings of vulnerability, and there was just no way he wanted kids...ever. They had way too much power. His Emmanuelle was a real sucker for anything in jammies. The trouble was that Hubert couldn't quite see how to avoid it. In the end he would probably go down without much of a struggle—as poor old Edmond must have done.

"She's in hospital. Influenza, bronchitis, asthma." Monsieur had the sniffles as well, and no doubt the kids. "Hopefully I'll get someone to look after the boys and I can get up there and visit her tonight."

They were only going to let him get in so close. Hubert handed the baby back and Edmond took it professionally enough. There was something sticky under Hubert's foot, but he tried not to let on and make a big deal of it. The guy had enough problems already, wispy hair all askew and no socks on his feet. The gentleman was in his pajama bottoms and a housecoat. Tailler lurked there, off in the background, trying to look big and friendly.

"Ah. There you go."

Hubert surreptitiously checked his suit, but didn't see any major stains or up-chucks.

The two men chuckled while Tailler seemed to be just looking around. This place, while nice enough for a small family, was nothing like either of the Godeffroy residences. It couldn't have been half the size of either one of them. It was nowhere near as clean, and didn't smell all that good inside either. Tailler sort of wondered what the lady of the house might look like—he suspected nothing much like either of their Madame Godeffroys. Not with three kids to show for it.

Hubert looked around. Small children will eavesdrop, and if those two hadn't figured out how to open the bedroom door lock with a bent bobby-pin, then they would soon enough. They might even be working on that right now.

His childhood was gone, and yet he still referred to it.

"Was Didier a bit of a rogue? I mean, to your knowledge?"

Edmond looked completely mystified.

"Whatever do you mean?"

"Well. His wife seems to think he has disappeared, and yet we hear from your employer, that he's off on a sales trip down south. We're wondering if this sort of thing was really in character for him? Can you tell us anything about, ah, any extra-curricular relationships, encounters maybe, that he might have indulged in. You know, along the way?" Hubert took a deep breath. "Did Didier and his wife ever, uh, feud about anything in particular?"

"Disappeared? Feud?" There was a half-gasp of disbelief.

"That's what she thinks. We have a missing-person report and we have no choice but to take them seriously, n'est pas?"

Edmond's face cleared.

"Yes, of course. Why didn't you bloody well say so." Now it was his turn to check for splashes on the upper chest.

He pulled a cloth out of a side pocket of his housecoat and wiped around the baby's face and mouth.

"You guys know that secretary?"

Tailler's jaw dropped.

"Mademoiselle—"

Edmond laughed.

"Yeah, he had her too. But no, I mean the one in Gaudet's office."

He sure had their attention now.

"What? You mean—you mean the Prideaux woman?" This was one of those things that had always amazed Tailler. "So he told you about all of this? Did you guys ever go drinking, stuff like that?"

Edmond nodded.

"Yeah, sure. Once or twice, anyways."

"Did you ever try to, ah, you know—score, anything like that?" Tailler was genuinely curious, but it was also relevant.

"Oh." Barrault took a hasty look at the far archway. "Ah, no. Never. Not me, that's for sure."

"His wife says you're friends."

"I suppose we are, yes. But we, ah, me—no. I'm, ah, I'm always home on time." He smiled, albeit a little sadly.

What some men actually got away with, for however long or short of a time, really was a wonder sometimes. The Prideaux girl wasn't blonde either, come to think of it. Didier was capable of branching out.

The detectives were an attentive audience.

Edmond beamed, it was like he just couldn't wait to talk about it. This almost made sense, when one wondered just who the average young married fellow could call his friends. The scruffier ones from a previous life were often quickly weeded out, as Hubert well knew. He wasn't even married yet. Talk got around. They didn't dare open their mouths or even tell a joke hardly, for fear of distorted versions of those stories making the rounds. It always came back to haunt them, didn't it? With a certain type of woman, once you were married, it was like you were Siamese twins, joined at the hip or something. The worst thing you could do to your wife was to embarrass her among her friends.

For a frazzled Edmond Barrault, a couple of young male cops with those open, sympathetic looks, might be a golden opportunity for a gossip. The thing was to show an interest and take his mind off his surroundings. With the wife sick, he wouldn't be earning any money either.

The only problem was the baby had wet itself and it would take a minute to change.

Was that all? Hubert could have sworn it was much worse, but it might just be coming from the hamper down the hall.

Assuming they had the patience to wait him out, it appeared the gentleman would be only too happy to tell it.

***

The baby gurgled, chuckling quietly to itself in a small bed in the next room. They sat expectantly in the front room as their host hastily cleared a pile of clothes from one end of the couch.

Edmond had taken a quick phone call in monosyllables in the kitchen. He'd checked on the other two kids, and they were said to be playing quietly in their room. Either that or he'd put them down with a ball-peen hammer, or possibly sleeping-powder in the grape juice, thought Tailler.

"So Didier had some kind of relationship with this Prideaux woman?"

Edmond nodded happily.

"I almost admired him at times. There were times when I hated him, mostly at breakfast. You really have to admit. Most of us don't have the nerve—the sheer, unmitigated gall. But that guy took the cake. He really did."

"And what about the other secretary. She's quite a bit older."

"Oh, yeah." He rolled his eyes. "But a body like a hot tamale, eh?"

It was quite an expression, one neither man had ever heard. There was a moment while they considered it. Neither one of them had ever seen a tamale before, come to think of it.

The analogy was stillborn.

"And you're sure?" Tailler needed the fellow to come out and say it. "I mean, seriously?"

It wouldn't do to put words in the witness's mouth and then go ahead and write it in your little notebook. It had to come from them, with as little prompting as possible.

"Oh, yes. They kept it quiet about the office, of course."

Hubert wondered about that.

"So how did you know? Did you see them?"

"No, of course not. But Didier told me all about it. Yeah, they must be some pretty good actors. Both of them. When we were both in town, or when we were at a big show, a whole bunch of us, we talked quite a bit. Half-drunk a lot of the time. It really does go with the job, you know, although we all pretend it doesn't. But yeah, I believed him."

"You believed him?" Hubert's eyes slid to Tailler, as usual taking his painstaking notes. "He wasn't telling stories out of school, then?"

Edmond nodded.

"Well. That's good enough for us."

Edmond shook his head.

"You would have to see the guy in action. He was always hitting on them. Anything in a skirt. You might be surprised who responded sometimes. I've seen it myself."

He flushed a bit, looking about. He meant he'd seen other males do it.

"Okay, Monsieur Barrault. I hope your wife gets better soon." Hubert rose. "Didier didn't have any regular girlfriends, a mistress here in town? Anything like that?"

"Oh, God! Probably. Knowing him, sure. Anyways, gentlemen, I really must get dinner going or the little beasts are going to tear me limb from limb." A mistress would be nothing out of the ordinary, in some circles.

Barrault seemed to accept it all too readily.

"What's your wife's name, sir?"

"Rose."

"And what hospital is that?"

Tailler patiently took it all down as quickly as he could.

"Okay, thank you." Tailler tapped the final period and closed his notes.

He was hit by an inspiration.

"A rose by any other name."

"That, sir, is very true." The fellow brightened and then he laughed.

Tailler seemed to have struck a chord there.

Sometimes it was best to leave it at that.

Leaving their business cards, the pair made a hasty exit.

The baby was crying again. Some kind of fight had broken out in the back of the house and there but for the Grace of God went them.

Chapter Thirteen

It was mid-afternoon when they got back. They were lucky to catch Maintenon at his desk. Technically he was entitled to two whole days off a week. He hadn't been getting it lately, and he was owed half a day off here and there when he could squeeze it in. The department insisted that the time off must be taken, rather than paying time and a half when they didn't have to.

Their immediate superiors would say you were a fool not to take the time, and if you didn't, that was your problem because you weren't going to get paid for it anyways.

The trouble was that the work also tended to fall behind. This merely compounded the problem. Things were going relatively smoothly with no more than the usual workload.

He'd been thinking of getting a proper haircut, and he really could use a couple of new shirts.

The state of his socks-and-underwear drawer, (every man had had one of those), wasn't very good. There were things he might have been doing. For ages it seemed, he'd been thinking of doing this or that on an afternoon off. He could wander the Louvre, after all. People often did. They came from around the world and he'd never really been in the place. He hadn't seen the inside of a cinema in years. At one time, he had lived for the movies far more than he had lived for books. He had lived for Ann, and a weekly trip to the cinema was a tradition from the early days of their marriage.

Maybe that's why he never did it anymore.

"Ah, Inspector."

Tailler dropped the briefcase on the desk.

Hubert was hanging up his coat.

"Well. This thing just keeps getting better and better."

With a glance at Tailler, Hubert took up the report.

He explained about their visit to Monique and read back one or two quotes from the notes. He told the Inspector they had been to Gaston e Cie and outlined the information, such as it was, that they had obtained there.

When they got to the part about Edmond and the sort of things he was saying, the Inspector's eyebrows began to rise in earnest.

Finally Hubert trailed off. Tailler was neatly stacking his notes, papers and photographs along the cleared front edge of his desk. He looked up, studying the Inspector.

"Hmn. We're starting to get a profile of our, ah, alleged victim here."

"Yes, sir. We agree. An interesting picture. What do we do now, Inspector?"

Gilles stared off out the window, hand coming up as he rubbed his stubbled jaws.

"Hmn. That's a good question." His eyes fell to the desk.

He picked up a couple of sheets stapled together.

"Lab report. Our missing corpse. Blood on the twig. Human blood. For sure." The preliminary analysis was now backed up by further, extensive testing.

Tailler's mouth opened.

"So, what we have, sir. Is a dead man, two wives, at least two possible girlfriends, a missing bigamist, philanderer and all around man about town, and not even the foggiest notion of what the motive for all of this might be?"

Unexpectedly, Gilles came out of his reverie.

He swiveled the chair.

"Ah, yes. Motive."

Tailler sat up straighter, prepared to listen. Above and behind Maintenon, Hubert's face was intent. He was practically tiptoeing about, allowing thoughts to roam freely and not distracting the process.

"There could be insurance." Tailler had been doing some thinking.

Maintenon nodded. Hubert piped up.

"Or an inheritance—or just a hell of a lot of money in a bank account somewhere."

"Or simple jealousy. One found out about the other."

Maintenon looked around at Hubert.

"That one seems the most obvious." Blood and violence, a crime of passion. "The money as an added bonus."

Tailler had one.

"The guy got tired of it all and just wanted to chuck it. He finds some old bum somewhere, dresses him up in a good suit. He shoots him. Or stabs him. He's going to stick his wallet in the pocket and chuck him off a bridge and into the Seine. Then you come along and muck it all up. Am I right, Inspector?"

"What, Emile? And then, suddenly realizing how just how mad it all is, he decides not to go through with the rest of the plan?" Hubert was grinning, but Maintenon took it seriously enough.

Let the ideas flow. The other thing was that neither one seemed all that thorough in any of their interviews. They had to start asking a lot more questions, as you didn't always get a second chance.

"Yes, yes, stranger things have been known to happen." Gilles took a breath. "Think, gentlemen, think. What would be the craziest idea a killer could come up with?"

"It shouldn't be crazy unless the perp's crazy." One eye on Tailler, Hubert winked at Maintenon. "It really ought to be that simple. The lady figures out he's a bigamist and kills him. She says he missing to cover her backside. The other one reports him missing. It's a nice, simple theory. The only problem is if he's not dead yet! The thing you want to do next is to take a really good look at Monique. Then, go back and study the other one."

"The fact that he is still alive, allegedly, would appear to contradict that little theory."

"Yes, sir." Hubert spoke for the two of them.

Tailler was already intent on his notes, eyes going up, back and ultimately far away.

Gilles kicked back his chair.

"I will see you tomorrow."

"Sir!"

"Yes, Emile?"

"Do we write him off then?"

"No. Not until you see the whites of his eyes."

They heard him going off down the hall.

Tailler's eye came around to Hubert.

"Wow. Just like that, eh?"

Hubert snorted.

At least they had a clue now.

'We are all incompetent...'

One of the Inspector's favourite sayings. Tailler had always thought it applied to the criminals. But it applied to everyone, in their own inimitable way. He wasn't far wrong, either. Hopefully their killer wasn't an exception to the rule.

Maintenon. What a crazy son of a bitch.

***

Tailler, home at the end of a long day, ran up the stairs two at a time. They had two floors. The upper one was all his these days. The space was now much too big. There was just the two of them and a couple of cats. This was where Emile, his two brothers and three sisters had grown up. He put the bags down on the counter beside the sink. People wondered why he ate like a horse at work.

There were times he came home and he was just so damned tired.

It was just him and Mama now.

There was the faint smell of food in the air, but there didn't seem to be much going on in the kitchen. She had laundry hanging up from yesterday, on a small wire strung across the back window. He wished she wouldn't do that, as it meant her climbing up on a chair, and he was rarely home these days. The curtains on the back of the kitchen were never closed, and the windows were open most of the time. He closed all but one, leaving it open a few centimetres so the felines could come and go.

"Is that you?"

She was in the salon, knitting steadfastly in the half-darkness, squinting and ignoring the fact that the sun had long since gone down.

"No, it's somebody else." She always looked up and smiled at this point.

Entering the room, he bent over and kissed her on the cheek. Her face was getting wrinkled, liver-spotted and dry as some hairy and badly-scraped old parchment. It had actually taken a while.

It almost didn't matter what he said. He wondered sometimes, how long she would sit there in the dark if he didn't come home one day. It was a shitty kind of a question, admittedly.

It would take a while for her to catch on. Perhaps it would be more merciful that way.

Tailler snapped on the light beside her and then went over to close the curtains. With a row of big windows on the west side of the building, this and the bedrooms up above were the brightest in the house. They were usually the warmest, but there was a chill in the air. Predictably, she hadn't asked their daily help Maria to light the fire. A lifetime of relentless frugality was just too much to overcome. She would be uncomfortable sitting there without a sweater, no matter how warm the room. It said a lot about her, for she couldn't change. Sooner or later, human beings became slightly ossified.

Maria didn't have a shred of initiative in her own right. Emile himself had a little too much of it perhaps—there were no happy mediums with the typical human creature. It was either the one or the other.

Maria got five francs, along with breakfast, lunch and tea, for the daily privilege of cooking, washing up and sitting with the old lady. The arrangement had gone on for two or three years now, and suited all parties well enough. A perfect stranger, she'd answered an advertisement in the paper. Her references checked out—Emile had made sure of that, and she was now something of a fixture in Mother's life.

His salary and his mother's small pension, typical for a military widow, were adequate. His father had taken a little time to enjoy life. In retrospect, that was wise enough. He was a good Catholic. He had always worked hard, always tithing a tenth to the Church. He had sired an impressive brood. Father had been killed in 1916. Verdun, the death of many a fellow. There might have been a few francs a month in company pension from before the war, but as far as Emile knew, no one had ever pursued it.

The loss of their father had formed his life in so many ways.

Devastating as that had been, he had been young, and resilient. He was almost the envy of his friends. His mother had that ribbon, the heavy medal hanging off the bottom end. Boys came over and they would sneak into her bedroom. He would pull it out. He would take it out of the box and show it to them in a kind of reverence. His father was a hero, and that counted for something. At least at first. They took turns. They would put it around their necks and look at themselves in the mirror. They were trying it on for size.

Everyone wants to be the hero.

It was only later, when he reckoned the cost. All of those old men, all of those old stories. They were trying to tell him something. All of this sort of hit home one day and he understood their pain. Their suffering and their solitude.

He saw it in the Boss-man sometimes.

They never forgot.

There were other factors going into making him what he was, what he had become.

He had two brothers and three sisters to look after him. He was quite young when the war broke out. There were parades, men marching by, all with their chins up and shining eyes. They paraded down the street, singing their lusty and cheerful songs. He had cried in his mother's arms. His father had been absent for a couple of years. And then one day he was dead. The few visits that he could arrange when on leave, had not been enough to have the same kind of relationship as perhaps the older siblings might have had.

He understood that, and accepted that. It was the way of all things.

Just the luck of the draw.

They would have had different experiences of their father, a different set of memories. They might even have resentments, recriminations where he had none. None. He just missed the old fucker sometimes. What little he could remember of him.

They would also never share this. He was a grown man, and yet his relationship with his mother was special. It served a need in one who had been so immature, so coddled, so sheltered. They really had spoiled him. Sheltered by their love for so long, now it was his turn—and it hurt like hell sometimes.

It was also very precious. He had learned much, about people. About himself.

It was something that obviously couldn't last forever, and yet he knew he would miss it when it was gone. He would cherish it forever.

He sat beside her and she put her hand on his.

"Yes, mother. It is I."

She smiled, always so gentle and always so proud of him.

"Have I told you—"

"Yes, mother, you told me just the other day."

...how proud of you I am...

He was still her little baby. He supposed he always would be, in her now dimming eyes.

Yes, mother, you told me just the other day.

And it was enough—enough, already.

"Have you had your supper yet, Mama?"

She looked up, again immersed in her project, what looked like another set of booties—pale blue this time around. He didn't really want to know. It could be Carmen again, or maybe Isobel. One of them was always pregnant, one or the other, at any given time. The story would come out, just as it always did.

His mother looked lost for half a moment and then she came back to him.

"I can't remember what I had, dear."

So. She probably hadn't eaten anything then, and yet she was so deft at dodging the exact, head-on question. It was a family trait, and here it came now—

"So, how was your day?" She answered a question with another question.

At one time it might have been infuriating.

"Fine. Tell you what. I'm a little hungry. Why don't I make us something, soup and toast or whatever?" It was best to be diplomatic, that's what Doctor Gauthier always said.

He never quite knew what might set her off.

"That would be very nice, dear." The needles picked up right where they had left off. "I'm glad."

Glad about what?

But he knew enough not to ask.

"Yes, mother, it's me." He heaved a deep and theatrical sigh. "Who were you expecting? It's him, isn't it? One of these days I'm going to come home and surprise that other man. I swear by the Holy Virgin, I'm going to shoot him in the bum as he crawls out the window, slinging his trousers ahead of him."

She threw her head back and cackled, giving him an admiring look. Tailler tried to think up a new one every day. When he couldn't, her memory was so bad these days, she never even knew the difference. He'd used that one maybe a week ago. It did the job. That's all that really mattered sometimes.

It was enough to know that she was okay. She was not stressing and fussing over little things, miniscule things. If the truth could be safely told, sometimes his mother and her afflictions irritated the hell out of a dutiful, attentive and admittedly loving son.

It's just that he was still tied to her apron-strings.

He still needed her and he told himself that often. As often as he dared. We never really grow up. That was his interpretation. We just pretend that we did.

We do what is expected of us...for what it's worth.

Emile Tailler got up and went to the kitchen, pretty familiar with what was there on the shelf and in the refrigerator. He took the groceries out of the bags and put them away, preparatory to taking one or two items out again and actually making something. They seemed to have an awful lot of carrots in there.

And in the Beginning, God said, let there be carrots.

God, how mother had squawked when a bunch of the older ones pitched in and bought the refrigerator for her. Even now, she didn't really trust the infernal thing as she had called it originally. He stood there, looking inside the big compartment. The motor came on and it began to buzz and rumble down low inside the back part.

Mama seemed more or less with him today, although it might be a different thing tomorrow.

It was a sad thing, but there wasn't much anyone could do about it.

In the meantime, they would make do.

As for work, it was best not to think about it.

It would wait until tomorrow.

***

They were having a case conference.

It was high time, too.

The empty desk where Archambault normally sat cast a bit of a pall over the proceedings. It tended to collect things, briefcases, hats, old files waiting to be sent downstairs.

Andre sat there silently smoking. He had been chewing a lot of pencils lately, and had given up on quitting tobacco, at least for the meantime.

It was easier to quit chewing pencils.

LeBref had come and gone again. He was completely self-directed these days, with the blessing of all around him.

"So. Inspector. What do we do next?"

"I was hoping that you gentlemen might have some suggestions. It's your case after all." Gilles had excused himself from the investigation.

This was mostly because he didn't have the time.

"Well." Tailler was about to suggest going to Lyon again.

They had more questions for Lucinde. It was a question of how much time, how many man-hours they might justify for a possible homicide without a body to show for it. If Didier was indeed alive, there was nothing real to connect any of their subjects with the body in the park. What was interesting was that no one else, anywhere in the country, had reported a missing person with anything like the description of their victim. Their option there was to attempt to go back through years of missing-person reports, on some kind of a whim and little else. Time spent was always a ticklish question, at a time when resources were tight. If there was no way a case was ever going to be solved, then why were they digging into it at all? The line of reasoning was simple: don't waste resources.

What would be the return on investment? The thing sure looked like a fruitless endeavour.

It was also the correct attitude, ninety-nine times out of a hundred and who were they to contradict it? Guys like them shouldn't maybe be contradicting the book and established ways.

Did the two of them really think they were so good that they were going to get something when no one else could? Emile put the question to the Inspector as Hubert sort of hunkered behind his desk and Levain just listened.

This would last for about as long as he could stand it.

The kid had a point though.

There were other things Levain might be doing.

"Other than that, we don't have much to go on—just rumour and suspicion." They were speculating like crazy.

This was no way to run an investigation. Tailler said so and Gilles nodded.

The phone rang and Gilles casually lifted the receiver. He listened, not revealing any emotion.

He jotted something on his blotter.

"Thank you." He put the receiver down.

He looked up, first at Tailler and then Hubert.

"Right. They've got a dead body downriver. Sounds like it might be our boy. He's been in the water for a few days now and he answers the description—my description."

"I have to admit—I'm impressed, sir."

Tailler and Hubert exchanged quick grins. Gilles snorted, giving his head a quick shake.

The phone rang again.

Gilles ignored it.

"Andre. Do you feel like getting out of here for a while?"

"Why, sure, Boss." Detective Levain hastily clambered out of his desk and grabbed his hat.

"I've at least had a proper look." Maintenon tilted his head.

He was lucky to be there at that exact moment—first, seeing the body and now the phone call. The phone rang. Again.

"Ah, sure, Boss." Levain gave Hubert and Tailler a look.

"And what about us?" Tailler had the bit in his teeth.

He didn't want to let go.

One minute it was their case, and now this.

Levain pointed at the ringing telephone.

"I don't know, but I've got a funny feeling that one's for you." He gave a happy little smile, crushed his hat firmly down and took one last look to make sure the ashtray was okay and that he hadn't left the desk on fire.

Chapter Fourteen

Hubert sighed. He reached over and picked up the phone.

"Hello?"

"Yes, Hello. This is Inspector Jacques Delorme. Is Inspector Maintenon in today?"

"Ah, no, I'm sorry. He's just left, sir. Is there something I can help you with? This is Detective Hubert."

"Hmn. Ah. Well. Yes, why not. Look, I've got a body downtown here. It's at the Maison Rive Gauche, a kind of cheesy tourist hotel. Our girl is tall, blonde, and blue-eyed. She's been stabbed to death. The name is Godeffroy, that's with two f's."

"Whoa! That's our case, Inspector. Thank you so much for calling." He was madly beckoning for Tailler to listen in. "And she's dead? Shit. So what's going on, sir?"

"Monique or Lucinde, sir?" Tailler had grabbed the extension and punched the lit extension button, butting in shamelessly.

"Ah, according to the identification and the registry, the lady's name is Zoe."

The pair stared at each other from across the room.

Zoe...???

"...and there's a letter in her purse, where someone named Didier is asking to meet her at the hotel. The words 'second honeymoon' are underlined...and then it says, love, Didier."

There was hoarse breath on the line as the gravelly voice paused.

Tailler stood.

"We'll be right down, Inspector."

Tailler hung up. His mouth opened, and then closed. He stood looking at the phone, suddenly grateful that he had a partner to get the address and other necessary details.

"Uh, huh. Uh-huh." Hubert's pen flew as he took it down. "Thank you. We'll be there shortly. Sir."

The door didn't exactly hit them in the ass on the way out, either.

***

The tray and contents of a continental breakfast lay on the floor just inside the door. They avoided the damp stains from coffee and cream, Tailler noting the faint hint of gritty sugar between shoe and carpet.

Even dead, the woman in room four-fifteen was another looker by any standard of the imagination. Tailler studied a woman's body, one which had in death, as well as in life, a firmly rounded shapeliness. The thin silk dress clung to the form and hid nothing important. There was one shoe on the floor and one still on her foot. There was a small run in the stocking on the left calf. He could not stifle the thoughts sometimes. Did it really matter what they looked like?

There were times when Tailler worried about himself.

She was face down on the bed. The Inspector and his crew stood back and let Hubert have a look.

Tailler's eye wandered the room. The hotel had certainly cleaned up since he'd been here last. At one time it would have been smoke and grease-stained wood paneling. Now it was all smooth plaster and pale, peachy yellow paint. The area had once been high-crime, as recently as five or ten years ago. In spite of the worldwide depression, the area was making a comeback if the Maison Rive Gauche was anything to go by. It suddenly struck him that he'd raided somebody on the third floor. That was just a couple of years ago.

Tailler wandered over to the window, looking out and checking for balconies, fire escapes and skylights below. The Rive Gauche was an irregular pile of a building. The lady's name was Zoe Godeffroy according to the hotel records and her own documents. Her papers were conveniently displayed for them beside the purse on top of the white and faux gilt armoire.

She had been stabbed, according to the inspector. It certainly looked that way. She'd been stabbed in the middle of the room, turned, staggered and fell forwards, face-down on the bed, right arm outstretched as if reaching for the telephone.

"Have you everything you need?"

"Yes, the photographers, the fingerprint people, everyone's been and gone." Clad in a black raincoat, trousers of the same colour, black leather shoes with slip-on galoshes, the Inspector's costume was topped off by a grey and brown plaid deerstalker hat. "We've picked up any number of strange hairs, strange fibres, bits of toenail, odd-ball stains here and there, and it's all useless."

It was a hotel room no matter how neat and well-kept it might look.

Too many people going through.

"Would you be so kind as to forward all reports to Maintenon's unit?" Tailler was choosing his words. "All the photos, things like that?"

"Delighted."

"Thank you." Hubert didn't smell alcohol. "Tailler."

Emile nodded. He bent over and had a look at the face.

She really was a look-alike. That Didier must have a real thing for willowy, blue-eyed blondes. He examined the hair. All natural. No dark roots there.

A strong smell of expensive perfume, even in death. She'd been dead about twenty-four hours, on his initial impression. Having registered for three days, room service had discovered her.

Delorme's men, having taken that hat for granted all these years, were suddenly reminded of it when the great Maintenon's boys stepped in. Hubert would no doubt be watched closely. He was careful not to show any signs of mockery. This was nothing if not a deference community. The junior officers, flanking their chief on either side, watched him as Hubert gently turned the body over in the opposite direction now. Rigor had set in, and she was a bit stiff, but yielded with a good pull. It was like lifting a plank that had been lying out behind the barn for a while. Grass had grown over it. Her face was puffy, contorted by pressure and wrinkles in the bedclothes.

Blood had pooled in the lower portions of the body.

She had been stabbed with a long, thin blade. It was right under the left side of the short ribs. One good push. Straight to the heart. According to the Inspector, the killer had taken the knife with them.

"Oh, yeah, that's the way."

Not a bone in sight from that angle. She was wearing a cheerful, printed red dress with white flowers, stockings and a garter belt. No panties, no bra. One pair of shoes, one little cap. She had one suitcase and three other outfits hanging in the closet plus slacks and a blouse. Six pairs of underwear, hosiery, a silk scarf. The closet door was wide open. The killer would have been eyeball to eyeball with the victim. Hubert and Tailler took a good look. She had the usual collection of toiletries and cosmetics.

"Was the door locked?"

"No. We feel she let her attacker in."

He nodded.

"They usually do, don't they."

She had died open-mouthed, and he could imagine her laughing, or perhaps being kissed. Yes, that was it. It would be all too easy.

Love, Didier.

The poor woman. One short spike of awareness, and then the incomprehensible shock of pain. The eyes would widen and she would question. Those eyes would stare deeply into hers as the awful truth came. She would have clung to him...whoever. The killer was right-handed. He would have had the left arm up around behind her. He would grab a handful of hair and control her. It would have been all too easy. The heart was punctured. Blood pressure fell so rapidly, they were unconscious in seconds. Half a minute after that and they were gone.

One minute of pain and terror. Next thing you know, you're on your way to heaven.

"All right." Hubert let her fall onto the compliant bedsprings, and stepped back. "Where's the letter?"

A detective stepped forwards. He handed over a big buff envelope, with the name, the date, the other details written on it in a big, bold hand. There would be no mistakes with this guy, thought Hubert. He didn't think he'd ever seen him around, but then he'd only ever heard of Delorme.

Delorme was as crazy as a shit-house rat, and said to be very, very thorough.

Hubert carefully pulled it out using a pair of stainless-steel tweezers provided by the young detective. Guys like that should have their initials on there, their initials set in diamonds and emeralds.

He skimmed it quickly.

"Hmn. I like that: Love, Didier."

Tailler came over and he showed it to him.

"So what are the hotel people saying?"

"Half of them are not on shift, so it will take a while to interview all of them. My feeling is that it's the usual story—plenty of suspicious characters about and no one saw anything in particular. Who knows, we might get something." Inspector Delorme filled in the details. "She came in by train from Molsheim. She has the ticket stub in her purse. Arrived by cab from the Gare de l'Est. We're hoping to find the driver and confirm that. Other than that, we know very little. She checked in yesterday afternoon, went out for a little shopping and after that, no one really knows. She didn't eat at the hotel restaurant or use room service. We can ask around the dress shops. Unfortunately there are a thousand places she might have gone. Fuck, more like ten thousand. It's too bad, it doesn't look like she actually bought anything. Unusual for a woman in town for a short time—or any time at all, actually. She left by taxi around eight p.m. last evening. No one remarked upon her return, which probably means she took the room key with her. The elevator boy doesn't remember bringing her up, but the hotel is fairly busy."

Hubert nodded and Tailler stood there looking intelligent.

"Very well."

"She has a passport."

"Nice." Tailler's heart began to pound.

That was another fucking question we forgot to ask...passport.

***

It was unusual, but just like old times for Andre to be driving Gilles. They were heading for Epinay-sur-Seine, which while downstream of the city, was actually a little east of due north going by the map. The river did a series of S-turns, doubling back on itself several times. It was like a big snake as it wound its way through the hills and down onto the plain.

"Jesus, it's got to be ten or fifteen kilometres." Levain wasn't used to long periods of introspection in this job.

Either you were on, in which case you were really on and had no choice but to focus, or you were off. You could forget it for a while and just relax, be yourself and enjoy the family.

Gilles was lost in thought. He found himself enjoying the ride, and was showing all the signs of cheerfulness.

"A centime for your thoughts."

Gilles looked over and grinned.

"No way."

He reconsidered.

"Almost anything is better than sitting there waiting to testify." He had more coming next week. "It's like sitting around waiting for a tooth to be drilled."

Having done it all too often himself, Andre agreed.

They would be killing the better part of an hour each way on this trip, and there would be whatever time spent with whoever. It was a strange feeling, to have the pressure off for a while. Theoretically, if the flics weren't busy enough, then they really ought to be out chasing bank robbers and drunk drivers. That's what the taxpayers always said. It was like a kid skipping out on school otherwise.

"We'll have a quick look at the body and then decide what to do."

"Ah. I was beginning to wonder."

"They have him on ice for us at the local hospital."

Levain turned and found Gilles looking at him.

"I can't wait to see if it's our guy."

Maintenon nodded then looked away. A lot of things didn't make sense. The nearest bridge to the Parc Montsouris was probably the Pont du Tolbiac. He was mentally kicking himself. He might have foreseen this. They could have sent officers directly there.

He was kidding himself, blaming himself.

There were too many places to look and too short a time. Even so. The killer had to lug that body to the riverbank somewhere. To leave it on dry land, in a busy place like Paris, was for it to be found sooner rather than later. Dropping it from the middle span of a bridge had the advantage of putting it in the middle of the stream where the water was deep and the currents were strongest. It was dark enough at the time. They would have had until dawn.

He was a little surprised that it hadn't snagged up sooner, a little closer to the point of entry.

Bodies in rivers seemed to follow natural laws of their own. This much was true.

"That's insane—that has to be...God, I don't know how many kilometres."

"What? What's insane?"

Gilles was thinking that their perpetrator must have used a car—they must have. No one could carry a body, not even two people, that far across the city, not even at night. You sure as hell weren't going to take it on the bus or the Metro. You could hardly call a taxi. To borrow a car from someone was to eventually hang yourself and possibly them too...

He looked around.

"Where are we?

"Still in the city, Gilles." They hadn't even crossed the river yet, and Andre was working his way as patiently as he could through late afternoon traffic.

If those clouds to the north opened up and Andre suspected they would, he could count on everything just getting a whole lot slower.

Holy. It looked like they might be a while yet.

***

"You haven't started the autopsy?"

"No." The doctor gave them a wintry grin.

"Thank you, thank you. Wonderful."

Their escort suppressed a thin smile, but the great Maintenon was practically rubbing his hands in anticipation.

"Doctor Auger is an extremely competent examiner, but if you guys want to take over—" It was all the same to them.

Doctor Auger kept a neat little morgue in the basement of the hospital, La Maison Santé.

Detective Patrick Thibodeau, the officer of record in the matter, had met them at the front door and guided them through the labyrinthine halls. The hospital was badly in need of a good scrape and some paint if not quite ready for demolition. He was a man of average build and looks. He was about thirty-five, the suit looked all right and he wore a wedding band. There had always been something incongruous about a Frenchman with such a straggling, pale growth. The upper lip looked like the guy had been drinking milk, rather than having a serious mustache. One wondered what the man himself thought of it.

As for Gilles, he had resolved to shave his off, rather than tolerate one of the horrible white abominations he was seeing these days. They were all over the faces of his contemporaries. They were always so neatly trimmed, clipped and even powdered he suspected in some cases.

Lord, spare me that.

"Where was he?"

Gilles stepped forward as the Doctor unlatched the meat-locker and opened the hatch.

"Some fishermen found him. They take their wine and their fishing rods and congregate at various spots along the waterfront. This one's kind of a low-rental even for them old guys. We figured he went in somewhere nearby. Either that, or he came down the right-hand channel. He hung up on some iron. There's a popular dumping spot just along there. It was just before the end of the island."

"Oh, so the island got him?"

Doctor Auger had the big steel tray fully rolled out, the bulk of the wall composed of three rows of small steel doors. Above that were the ubiquitous glazed ceramic tiles in an unusually cheerful institutional yellow.

Gently, he lifted the white cloth from the face.

Gilles looked down. The water had been at him for a few days. The cold preserved the body, but the water was absorbed into the cells. There was a thin film of silt or something visible here and there, although the doctor had washed the face for identification purposes.

"And you think he went in right there?"

"There are a couple of bridges upstream. We figured somebody took the wallet, knifed him, and dropped him in along the bank. I'm thinking a stiletto. The entry wound is very small. See? It's a bit old-fashioned. He'd hang up pretty quick. That's a nice, professional little cut-job. A real fucking Apache, Inspector. Rather unusual, especially in this neighbourhood. Downtown, or in some of the real slum districts, yeah. At least that's what we thought at first, until somebody recalled your bulletin." He looked at Andre, patiently noting their few details so far. "We get a few suicides, but not too many. It's a nice neighbourhood."

Bodies turned up where and when they would. There were several known snags. There were eddies, currents, docks and pilings along the shore. Old barges sank at their moorings and there were a few of them down along that stretch according to Auger.

Andre watched in approval as Gilles bent in close and examined the puncture wound. It was in about the right place. Death was practically instantaneous. How much knowledge did that actually require?

The only problem was that face. He stared at it. Like his man, the face was clean-shaven, and yet whiskers continued to grow after death. There was a good stubble, at least a day's worth. At most, maybe two days. The rate of growth was different for each individual. Only some of that would have occurred after death. His dead man had been clean-shaven, at least by moonlight.

"I would like a full report."

"Absolutely."

Andre drew out their small sheaf of photos.

Maintenon took one, but that wasn't the real problem as he compared the face in the picture with that of their deader.

"Hmn. Shit. Eh?"

Detective Levain beckoned a patient Detective Thibodeau over and gave him the remaining photos.

"We need an objective opinion. Just ignore Gilles. What do you think?"

"This is the guy you saw in the park, Inspector?"

Gilles' face went all stone-like.

"Non, non, young man. What Andre means is that we want you to ignore all of that—excellent idea, incidentally. Andre. This is where we will go wrong time and time again in this case—and I'll bet our killer..."

Mouth open, Gilles handed his photo to the doctor. He wandered over to the farthest corner and found himself a seat on a hard maple chair.

"No, that can't be it—" Maintenon was off on a tangent, noted Andre.

Doctor Auger looked at Gilles open-mouthed for a second, and then took a good look at his little snapshot.

"Damn. It really is hard, isn't it?"

Thibodeau stood over the body, shaking his head gently.

His eyes came up to meet Andre's.

"Sacré merde, eh?"

Andre took a breath.

"Well. There's nothing here that says that this can't be our boy."

Maintenon looked up.

"Where are his clothes? What was our amiable friend wearing when you pulled him out?"

The doctor handed the photo to Thibodeau who kept shuffling through them, still unable to make up his mind. They were going by description and photographs, and it was a tough call. The body had no unique identifying marks, no tattoos, birthmarks, scars, nothing.

The body on the slab and the man in the photographs would have generated a similar description from any number of witnesses. His height would have varied all over the place, along with his weight. This demonstrated one of the great difficulties of police work. Everyone saw the same thing and somehow saw it differently. Even the camera had some distortion and always would. It was in the nature of the round, bulging lens and the flat, rectangular picture plane.

Witnesses described a common experience using a unique perspective, differing levels of acuity, and using different words. Some, in fact most, weren't even paying attention. Eyewitness descriptions would be all over the place, and yet here they had a chance to study at their leisure.

Gilles followed Dr. Auger.

The doctor had the clothes up on hangars, on racks, over a drain in the floor in the next room.

Gilles felt the fabric, still damp at the seams of the waistband. He went looking for the cut on the front of the jacket, squinting at it in the dim light of the utility room. The shirt, obviously, was cut as well and heavily bloodstained. He touched the cuts with the sensitive pads of his right fore and middle finger. It felt about right, but then pretty much any rip or tear would feel like that. The shoes were of good quality, the suit and shirt expensive.

"There were no personal effects. He was wearing silk underwear."

"Hmn." Gilles fingered the fabric. "Nice."

They were being asked to make subjective calls when the manual stressed the objective call. It was the basis of all rational investigation. Emotion, wanting it to be true, had no place here. Human senses and recollection were fallible and he, a trained investigator, should only expect so much of himself.

"Andre."

Levain went in to have a look.

"This suit is brown—" Maintenon's face swung around. "Silk underwear as well."

Thibodeau called out from the outer room.

"Yeah—yeah, it might be him. It could be him, what the hell. It probably is him."

Turning his head away from the door, Andre looked again at the suit.

The lady said black suit, the gentleman is found in a brown suit.

How significant was that? The guy also took off and left without a word. Absolutely none of the information they had so far could be trusted. Not without further facts. Not without corroboration, of some material kind.

Merde.

Chapter Fifteen

Hubert and Tailler were looking terribly smug as Gilles finished his informal briefing on the previous day's events. Andre gave them a long look before tearing himself away.

"Doctor Auger will be forwarding all reports here." Gilles had his buttocks perched on the front of his desk, arms crossed as the thunder rumbled and lightning cracked overhead in an unusual September thunderstorm. "He can hang onto the body for a while, and he's promised to send us the clothing as soon as he's finished his detailed examination."

Levain heaved in his chair. The two younger detectives obviously wanted to know what they should be doing next.

"Okay. So—"

"Um, Inspector?"

Gilles had turned to his typewriter, which he had on a second rather narrower desk, set against the wall and in behind his main one.

"Yes?"

Tailler, with an air of superior accomplishment, slid open the top drawer of his desk. He pulled out a big buff envelope and got out of his seat.

He took it over to Andre. Spreading the materials out on the desk, he stepped back. Levain whistled, looking up at the tall detective in astonishment.

"What is it, Tailler?"

"Heh-heh-heh. We have a body too, Inspector."

"What?"

Andre looked at Hubert, who shrugged as if he wasn't responsible for all of this mess, and Tailler took the pictures to Maintenon.

He was suitably impressed.

"And who is this?"

"That's Madame Godeffroy."

Tailler turned and gave Hubert a significant look.

It was his cue.

"Madame Zoe, Godeffroy."

Maintenon's mouth opened and he stared.

"Three...three wives...?"

"It seems terribly far-fetched, doesn't it?"

Andre leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, watching their little performance.

"They're all archetypes, Inspector." Tailler rubbed his chin. "God knows where Didier found them..."

Levain's eyebrows were climbing straight up, as if to escape from the sort of forehead that could conceive of all of this, in however limited a fashion. This was not his idea—the boys were all on their own on this one.

Tailler turned and shrugged.

"What are we supposed to think, Andre? That call yesterday—just when you were leaving. That was Inspector Delorme. She was found at the Rive Gauche, the hotel."

Andre nodded, as Maintenon studied the crime scene photos. There were incident reports, the lady's preliminary physical exam at the morgue. Dr. Guillaume was a thorough-going bastard when he ran into a corpse he liked.

She was blonde, well-dressed. The right age, size and build.

"She came in from Molsheim. In the wine country—or one of them, right. But here's the kicker. There's a letter. No envelope, unfortunately. She probably had it folded up in her purse, and kept it with her. Women are crazy about hanging onto old love letters. They were going to have a second honeymoon. The hotel's a lot nicer these days by the way, it used to be a real dump known as the Belle Bleu or something."

"Okay." Andre's head jerked a little in recognition.

He knew the place.

"It's signed, love—Didier."

Hmn.

Tailler closed his mouth and let them ponder that one.

Picking up one of the better photos of the victim, he took it and sat on the front of his own desk. Maintenon was studying the photographic copy of the letter.

He and Hubert had some ideas, but it was better to let Gilles think on it for a while.

In the meantime, Maintenon had been thoughtful enough to bring in a couple of boxes of assorted beignets, and if Tailler didn't snag one of the strawberry-filled ones quick, some bastard would beat him to the punch.

Probably Andre, he decided, as the two of them moved in at once. With Andre in his chair, Tailler had the advantage and he got there first.

"Mmn." The trouble was the powdered sugar on the cheeks, but oh, well.

"So what do you think, Inspector?"

This was just getting too damned good. Hubert was about ready to shit himself.

Maintenon shrugged.

Thibodeau and something he said came to mind.

"It could be him. It might be him. Hell, it probably is him." He lifted his feet up onto the desk, putting his hands up behind his head and eyeing the boxes of beignets on Andre's desk. "The only question now, is how to proceed."

It was one hell of a good question judging by the blank looks that one drew.

Hubert got up and grabbed one of the boxes, bringing it over so Gilles could have a rummage around in there.

"What is that?"

"Pardon?"

"I swear you were just humming—humming for crying out loud."

"Oh, that." Maintenon grunted, half-sad and yet half smiling. "It's just an old song..."

He took in a short breath.

Poor old Gilles was quite the crooner.

"...speak softly, my love.

Speak low.

Speak softly to me my love

Speak softly and tell me

Please tell me

That you will never go."

Maintenon took a breath and finished it.

Speak softly my love, for the heart can never lie.

Speak softly to me, and lover, please don't cry.

Speak softly my love, speak softly—

Speak softly, my love...for our love shall never die.

...speak softly, softly, softly, my love.

Speak low, speak low, speak low

Speak softly to me my love

Speak softly and tell me

Please tell me, tell me

Tell me

Tell me, my love

That you will never go.

To fall in love, is to be young again

And to count the cost

Is to die a little bit inside.

"...Love, Didier!" Tailler blurted it out without thinking.

Next thing you know, they were laughing their damned fool heads off.

***

"Okay. For starters, sir. Hubert and I would like to check out this Didier Godeffroy seven ways from Sunday."

Maintenon nodded.

"Yes. Get to know our victim."

"We were thinking military service. He has no previous criminal record. First thing we checked. You never know, right? Otherwise we're relying on Madame Godeffroy's personal identification. There are just too many of them around for any one of them to be taken too seriously."

"Good point."

"Also, we're going to ask about passports. Monsieur Godeffroy almost certainly travels to Spain, Portugal, Italy, Germany, Hungary at least. He's the senior buyer, right? If he's left the country, customs should be able to tell us all that. He might take the lady friend with him, even."

Maintenon nodded.

"You're not buying the body in the river?"

"We'll wait on Doctor Auger's report. Don't forget, we have two different spouses at least. Either one of them should be able to identify a dead husband. The trouble is that we have no other identification, not so far, for a body that is not in particularly good condition. No wedding ring, for example. I think we should proceed with caution there." They should give away as little as possible. "We'll have fingerprints from the body in the river. We'll have to figure out how to get fingerprints from the households in question. Either that or Gaston e Cie. Asking for that is asking for trouble, especially as we don't have too many facts."

This included the next of kin, who might be presumed to have the best odds of benefitting from the gentleman's death. Classic homicide theory, right out of the textbooks.

"Who else might identify the body?"

"Good question. If the wife can't do it, who could? Also—"

"And he is an orphan. Getting someone from work—this Barrault character. Word would soon get out. No one knows a man like his own wife."

"I want to get a few gendarmes. Policewomen, even."

Levain caught Maintenon's eye, the look of amusement difficult to stifle. Tailler was on a roll. Brave as hell physically, totally unsure of himself and his training one minute, now all of a sudden he was ticking off the points like a seasoned pro.

"I want to put them in a room with twenty telephones. If Monsieur Godeffroy really is out there somewhere on a buying trip, then let's find him." Tailler took in oxygen, and lots of it. "I got more—I think. But basically, we need to get them a list of any place he might have stayed. The longer the list, the better, and get them started on that."

"That's a lot of man-hours." Gilles opened up his briefcase.

The phone was ringing and Levain picked it up. He listened for a moment.

"Hold on." He caught Gilles' eye.

"So?" Maintenon shrugged elaborately. "What have we got?"

"Dead girl. Strangled. Found on a front porch. We're wanted."

"Hmn. Very well. You and I will take that one—and leave these beautiful young people to their work."

Gilles pulled off a shoe and turning it upside down, gave it a shake. Levain relayed the information back. They were on their way. Hanging up, he phoned dispatch to get them a vehicle, and in this case he figured a driver as well.

"Sir?"

"Ah, yes, of course." Gilles put the shoe back on, mystified as there hadn't been anything in there and yet it was like a sharp little pebble or something.

He stood up experimentally. Whatever it was, (or had been), it was gone now.

Andre was making quick notes and looking at the clock.

"Andre."

"Yes, Gilles?"

"Phone downstairs. It doesn't seem like such a busy day. Tell them we need, ah, four or five warm bodies for a little project."

"All righty then." Levain lifted the receiver, his finger a blur as he dialed.

The desk sergeant didn't seem to be giving him too much of a problem going by this end of the conversation. Tailler leaned back on the front of his desk, braced with both hands, looking studiously casual.

Levain hung up and stood. Gilles already had his hat, and with the weather being changeable, he had his coat on as well.

"Okay. We'll see you in a couple of hours."

The door closed behind them.

Tailler looked at Hubert.

Hubert looked at Tailler.

"See? That's how it's done, Hubert." He straightened up, and went over to stand looking out the window, arms crossed, very tall all of a sudden.

Hubert had the impression Tailler had always wanted to command troops in battle.

"Sure. Let's just hope we get something...and soon."

***

Less than sixteen minutes later, heavy shoes clomped in the hallway.

A loud knock came at the door.

"Come in, come in."

Tailler and Hubert had quickly found a conference room that wasn't being used. Using Maintenon's name and a little fast talking, they had reserved it for at least the next forty-eight hours.

Tailler's mouth opened.

The first uniformed gendarme bent his head and came in, shoulders blocking out the sight of those behind him.

"Sir. Reporting as ordered for unspecified duties..."

"Yes, yes, come in. How many are there?"

Two policewomen and this big one. Tailler gave him another look

"All right." He handed them each a thin file folder. "We've grabbed a room. We're getting some additional phones rigged. What's going to happen, is that you're going to be calling the numbers on the list and asking a few simple questions. If there's no number listed, go through the telephone exchange—and if you get a number, write it down. If you get a hit, you tell them to hold on—better yet, hang up. Then you come running and find one of us."

Hubert was still pounding away at the typewriter.

He came to the end of the document in question. Sitting up straighter, he cranked it up and out of the machine.

He looked around.

"You."

The big male cop responded.

"Me?"

"Anyone. Get over here and copy these documents. We need it quick, because we want to get you guys started."

He got out of his chair and the bulky fellow, fingers like sausages he had, quickly took his place.

"How many copies, sir?"

"Make it six—no, eight. You can only do a couple of carbons at a time." Hubert pulled out a drawer and showed him the paper and thin carbon sheets.

"Yes, sir." He peered down at the page, inserted fresh sheets, and then began pecking away.

Hubert looked at Tailler. "Any other ideas?"

"Yeah. Take the ladies down the hall, show them where they'll be working. While you're doing that, I will write up, ah, some quick little briefing notes. They need to know exactly what they're working on."

Hubert nodded. He had an idea. Nipping to his desk, he quickly sorted through his materials.

"Here." He picked the first one he made eye contact with. "Take these down to the photo lab and tell them we need six or seven more copies of each—the file number is right there. Tell them to bring it up to Room Three-Sixteen."

He looked over at the officer typing, and raised his voice.

"You hear that? Room Three-Sixteen."

A hand came up in acknowledgement.

"Yes, sir."

Hubert nodded at Tailler.

"Okay, we're off—"

"And?"

Hubert cracked a quick grin.

"Keep up the good work, Emile—we're doing okay here. We'll get some more people when they can spare them." And no sooner, in other words.

The look he received in return was kind of hard to pin down. There might have been some demur, in there.

"The great thing about being cops, is that we're never going to run out of work." Their acolytes chuckled at the unexpected response, the tone spot-on.

Sad, but true.

Poor old Tailler was just a bit out of his depth but struggling manfully to stay afloat.

That look pretty much said it all.

***

It was a very good thing that Hubert had put some thought into briefing their untried, untested, impromptu little team.

Barely a half an hour later, they were all hard at work.

"What? Oh, Monsieur Godeffroy. We've been trying to reach you all day." Looking very white around the eyes, the policewoman on the end of their long table turned and beckoned furiously.

Hubert was momentarily riveted to the spot, then galvanized into a kind of twitch. Here was their big chance. This was the unexpected rearing its ugly head. Always when you least expected it.

Sacre merde, he had no idea of what to do.

"Holy." The hoarse whisper cut through everything as he threw his pen at the back of Tailler's head and that conversation was quickly cut to a bare and shocked silence.

Tailler stared at him, rubbing the sore spot. Hubert pointed at the policewoman on the other end of the table.

"...and how are you today, Monsieur Godeffroy?"

The room was a babble of talk, with three of them and Tailler going one minute, and dead quiet the next. All eyes and all ears were frozen in place.

The policewoman, turning back to the conversation, appeared to be listening. She'd gotten a hit and the switchboard had put her right through.

"Ah, yes, Monsieur. We were just wondering if your refrigerator was running—" Almost choking on it, she managed an insane giggle.

You could have heard a pin drop in the room, and then with a sudden wince, she pulled the thing away from her ear and quickly put her finger on the button.

She turned to Hubert.

"Where was that, exactly?"

She nodded, pencil in hand.

"It's some little village. Just north of Chalons sur Champagne. Hotel d'Esprit. What do we do now, sir?"

"That was good thinking, Jeannine. Outstanding! I thought my heart was going to stop dead. Just dead, there." He had to ask. "What did he say? Did he say anything?"

"Well." She rolled her eyes. "He has an extensive vocabulary, sir."

They all looked at him and then laughed when he laughed.

"I don't believe it." Tailler was right—

Hubert was finding it very hard to accept that they had located their missing husband.

Just like that, right out of the blue.

Tailler was the first to hang up the phone. Dubiously, having barely gotten started into the work, the other two reluctantly cut it off with a click. They could always call back and try again.

"Okay, we need a minute to think about this one." Hubert rose and with a look at Emile, headed for the door.

Tailler got up out of his chair.

"All right, people. Hmn. What I want you to do, ah...now, is to call around. We know where he is. So, let's find a map somewhere and narrow these lists down. He's been gone for a few days now. He's using his own name. He must have been staying somewhere. There are hundreds of vineyards, vintners, dozens of fine chateaux in the vicinity. It's also wine country, Gaston e Cie is a big company and this guy is well-known up there."

"In short? We just keep going?"

"Exactly. Er. As best you can. Things will change in five minutes or five hours. That's just the way it is in homicide—" He loosened his tie. "I'll, uh, be back with you as quick as I can. But use your heads. We want to find this man, and maybe we have. Or maybe we haven't. And so far—so far, we have no idea of what's really going on here."

He patted Jeannine on the shoulder, and followed his partner, who would have presumably headed for their regular squad-room.

"Sir."

He stopped.

"Yes?"

"What if we need to go to the bathroom?"

"Then find one of those too." He cleared his throat. "Okay. You get a break every two hours, five or ten minutes, no more. You are not goofing off. One at a time. You are under my authority and Detective Etienne Hubert as well. Don't let anyone take you away from this duty. You guys are mine, okay? Tell them to come and see me first, n'est pas?"

Three sober and serious faces looked at him and nodded.

"Yes, sir." At this stage of the game they were just parrots, really, two of them anyways.

The two dumb ones.

Jeannine had just saved their asses.

Chapter Sixteen

"Oh. Sorry." Hubert almost rammed the door into the back of Inspector Maintenon.

Maintenon turned and looked at him inquiringly.

"You guys are back pretty quick."

Levain spoke up.

"Not much to it. Whole thing solved in five minutes. By the time we got there, a witness had coughed up a name. They saw the whole thing." Uniformed gendarmes went straight to the fellow's front door, where he was apparently waiting for them to arrive.

He had surrendered peacefully enough. He was still being processed and would quickly become another statistic.

"Well, that's handy."

Tailler was standing there, chewing his lip as Gilles took his hat off and hung up the jacket again, moving at a measured pace and clearly with his thoughts elsewhere.

Finally he turned.

"So. How are we doing?"

"Oh, yeah." Tailler nodded firmly. "We got a hit, Gilles—Inspector. We never would have expected it, but Jeannine, one of the lady cops, actually spoke to the guy."

"Oh, really."

Tailler stood there with this lost expression, not quite wringing his hands, but clearly a little stunned by the development. After all they had put into it.

Hubert quickly explained how Jeannine had handled it, to an approving nod from Levain.

"Okay." Maintenon went to his desk and sat. "So. What do we do now?"

Tailler nodded. He licked his lips and tried to think it through.

Gilles leaned back, put his hands behind his head. His eyes closed. Hubert thought he'd better help his friend.

"He was located in Chalons de Champagne. We have our people calling around, sort of backtracking. We're trying to get confirmation of his movements—cities, hotels, wine producers, that sort of thing."

Gilles gave Tailler a nod. In the background, Hubert waved a piece of paper. It looked like LeBref or somebody had taken a message.

"According to the Army, Didier has never done military service."

He got nothing but a blank look from Emile in return.

Hmn. Maybe it wasn't that important after all.

"Sir. We think maybe it's time. Time to ask Monique to identify the body—if that's all right with you?"

Gilles nodded, without opening his eyes. They all saw it.

"So in other words, play dumb? We know nothing until someone tells us otherwise...?"

Maintenon nodded again.

"Hmn."

A wise policy.

"Ah...yes, sir."

"We have one or two other questions we've been meaning to ask her. Also, we might get a few more people sent up over the course of the day. For our little phone project. Then we have this itinerary from Monique to check out." That one went back a month or a bit more. "Oh, and Didier has never done military service."

Hubert looked at Tailler with a raised eyebrow.

"I think that's about it."

Gilles nodded.

"Very well." He sat up and opened his eyes, blinking and then giving them a quick rub with long fingertips.

Maintenon looked at the clock and then he looked at the coffeepot. There was never going to be enough time in the day. He looked at Hubert, still standing there as Tailler dropped down into his desk chair in anticipation, one way or another.

"Very well, gentlemen. Carry on." His eyes fell.

Gilles lifted the cover of a dusty buff file folder. He took out the first page and began to read.

Tailler opened up one of several notebooks lying on his desk.

He was looking for her phone number.

"Monique, Monique...Monique."

***

They were playing their cards very close to their chests.

Hubert had been the one who called Monique Godeffroy. She sounded cold, and distant on the phone. He told her very carefully that they needed to speak to her and asked if she had any major appointments for the day.

When she said that she didn't, he arranged for the two of them to go around straight away. How in the hell he had become second banana was a good question, but Tailler was the one with all the ideas today.

When she answered the door, their initial impression of the woman was confirmed. Monique would spend forty-five minutes in front of the mirror every morning, regular as clockwork, every day, no matter what happened. It would have killed her not to. It was like she had just spent forty francs, not on her shoes but on the feet themselves.

Tailler's own feet, encased in those hard leather clod-hoppers all day long, pounding hard pavement as often as not, could, on occasion, be a bit gruesome. Her toes looked like little candies to his suddenly depraved eyes—he had no idea of what was happening to him lately, and there were times when the bizarre juxtaposition of psycho-sexual elements was just too much.

It was just too much to bear sometimes.

It's not that Tailler didn't feel terrible for her. Obviously, he did.

Of course he did. He very much did.

The trouble was that little element of doubt.

He was also a cop, and this whole thing stank to high heaven.

Does the Pope eat fish on Friday?

He sure as hell does.

It's just that simple sometimes.

Even a missing husband wasn't enough to interfere with what was clearly a strong need to present a carefully-composed face to the world. Not for one such as Monique. In a way, it wasn't very likeable. It was merely beautiful to look upon. Tailler knew he would never really understand.

He doubted if anyone ever had, but her hair was a silken cloud, her lips were ruby-red and her teeth still sparkled.

"Thank you for seeing us so promptly, Madame." Hubert took off his hat and stepped over the threshold.

She led them into the salon. Tailler jumped right in with the questioning before she could properly get them seated. The two detectives remained standing as if time were precious, which it was, actually.

"Madame Godeffroy, we were wondering if Didier had a passport. He must have traveled outside of the country from time to time." Tailler's tone was pleasant.

The longer they could keep her mystified the better.

"But yes, of course." She stood there in forlorn, hopeless beauty.

She had intuitively picked up a hint of something, right out of thin air.

They stared right back.

"Would you like me to get it for you?"

"Ah, yes, please. Really, it's strictly routine, Madame."

The lady turned and stepped out of the room. They could hear her rummaging in a desk or dresser in a room somewhere near the back, on this floor still.

There was a little flip of the guts when she came back and she had the passport in her hand.

They desperately tried not to let on. Tailler nodded encouragingly.

Tailler extended his hand and she gave it up readily enough. He took a quick look at it, various dates and stamps going by in a blur as he riffled through the pages. Monsieur Godeffroy had been to Italy six or seven weeks previously. Nothing unexpected.

"If you don't mind, we'd like to hang onto this for a while." Tailler uttered a deep sigh. "Monique. I'm afraid we might have some bad news for you. And yet we don't really know. In such matters, it is always best to be sure."

She looked like a scared rabbit.

He slid the passport into his right-hand jacket pocket as her eyes followed.

Her hand went up to her mouth. Her eyes were wide with shock, and somehow she knew—just like the other one, Lucinde.

She knew.

"It's Didier."

"We don't know that for sure, Madame." Hubert to the rescue, but there were only so many ways they could play it.

Tailler pulled out the morgue photo, their best one, and showed it to her.

She gave a quick sob, and then slowly subsided onto the couch.

Tailler turned abruptly, going to the window. He put his hands behind his back, striking a pose of commanding rigidity.

He'd been sort of wondering how to act.

This would have to do.

Hubert settled down beside her, knees close to hers and taking her lovely hand into his own. Those lush, curving eyelashes batted back tears. Her scent washed over him.

"This is very hard for you. But we need to have someone, someone who knows Didier very well, to come down and have a look at the body. Honestly, we can't even really say if it is Didier—your husband. There's no identification. The trouble is, Monique, that it might be, and we really need to know for sure. You're the only one that can help us."

Tailler turned, sighing again, as Monique Godeffroy's face fell into her hands and those lovely shoulders with their perfect, bird-like bones, heaved and shook with the shock and the grief.

With a look at Tailler, biting his lip and kind of hating himself for that moment, Hubert reached over and put an arm around the lady.

"It's all right. Just take all the time you need."

She wept, falling over against him and there wasn't much either one of them could do about that. He had a left hand so he brought that one up as well.

He had to admit, it was stimulating.

"There, there."

Tailler's guts were tight. There was such a thing as duty. Unpleasant as that might be sometimes.

"We have a car waiting outside, Madame Godeffroy. Is there someone we could call for you?" The lady was dressed well enough, he suggested rather gruffly, as if overcome with his own emotions.

It might even be true.

"We could call a friend. You don't have to go through this alone."

Tailler was all mixed up inside, at least to a certain extent. It wasn't easy for any of them, but they still didn't know. Telling her that seemed to help, for she sat up again.

Hubert patted her wrist.

"We really don't know. We really do need your help."

She looked at poor Hubert with tears streaking her mascara and leaving two big trails down her cheeks.

"Thank you, gentlemen. I shall be quite all right." The lady would do her best.

Hubert stood as Tailler turned and headed for the front hallway.

"Okay. Let's see about finding you a coat." Some kind of a hat, maybe.

***

"It's not him." The lady sniffled, then her face turned and there was this look.

"What?"

She smiled. Teeth showed. She giggled and sniffled some more.

The lady sagged in relief.

"Are you sure about that?"

She turned and had another look.

"Oh, God. Poor man—but no. It's not him. This is not my Didier."

The two detectives regarded each other, as if in a state of mild astonishment.

"Okay, well. Huh. Well. What do you know?" Tailler was making an ass of himself and he came to a full stop.

"If the lady says it's not him, then it's not him." For a minute, it looked as if Doctor Auger was going to shake Monique's hand.

As it was, he gave a quick, odd little bow. Then he stood at ease, hands behind his back.

He had all kinds of experience dealing with this sort of thing. The detectives were caught a bit flat-footed.

He crossed his arms and gave them a happy nod.

So. What are you going to do about it?

Hubert, and especially Tailler, were relative newcomers to the game.

"Oh, thank God. It's not him. Huh." Hubert took her arm. "Terribly sorry about all of this. Madame Godeffroy. Thank you so much for helping us out. Uh, huh. I guess we'd better get you home, eh?"

She turned, hugging herself in the cold and the damp, still looking at the man on the slab. The sheet was drawn down only enough to show the face.

"Tell me something, Madame." Tailler figured it couldn't hurt to press a little.

She was still giddy with the relief, and for whatever reason, perhaps disappointment, he couldn't quite help it.

"Yes?"

She stopped and waited, Hubert right there, standing at her side. He regarded her with clouded, questioning eyes.

"Does this gentleman look anything like your husband? Didier? Anything at all. I mean. He's the spitting image, at least in our opinion, in the photographs and such."

She took a step back again. She looked at that cold, dead, waxen face, eyes mercifully closed.

"Oh, yes, I can see why you wondered—there really is a resemblance. But that's not my Didier."

Auger gave a subdued nod. That seemed clear enough. You couldn't really do much better than that.

Tailler bit his lip.

He looked at Hubert.

"Okay. It looks like we are out of here." He turned and gave the Doctor a quick and rueful grin. "We'll give you a call. Thank you for all of your patience."

"Not at all, my dear boy. It's why they keep me around, after all." He gave one last look at Madame.

They weren't exactly messing about with that one, were they? The door was slow on its double-sprung hinges. Their voices faded off down the hallway.

"...we're so terribly sorry, Madame. We know how very upsetting this must be, and we thank you for your forbearance..."

He could still hear their footsteps.

Her response was muffled and indistinct, but there were only so many things she could say. His gut twitched and he snorted gently, careful not to be overhead by a sensitive public. The door touched the frame and the latches clicked into position. He could go back to being himself again, a true scientist, for only then was he happy.

It was in the nature of his job, but he was always the last one to find out why.

As an expert examiner, giving testimony in court, he had always managed to keep a special kind of detachment. It didn't pay to get too involved. He was not paid to speculate.

All he ever did was look at the body and write a report. He read it back in court and then answered questions as best he could.

That's it. Job done.

He had to wait until it was in the paper just to find out what really happened.

There was more here than met the eye.

Thoughtfully, he covered the face of their anonymous victim, and put the poor fellow away again.

With an internal monologue that never seemed to shut up, Dr. Auger was never lonely.

Chapter Seventeen

"Once more into the breach, dear friends." Tailler was frankly tiring of long train rides.

The countryside was, if anything, prettier than the last time through.

The train rumbled along a valley, low hills on each side sprinkled with autumn wildflowers and vineyards, grain and cattle. It was all very well. The streams were picturesque.

Big deal.

"That's all right. I could use the sleep." Hubert squirmed and scrunched down in his seat, trying to get comfortable.

He would probably feel like hell when he woke up, cramped and uncomfortable as it was. But the thoughts of a nap were insidious, and there were only so many things to see out the window, so many things to talk about.

He was about done talking and more than anything, thinking about the case.

"What do you think of that woman in the Rive Gauche? Love, Didier. Seriously. And that knife wound—I'll bet it matches the one from Gilles' mystery man." Tailler's fingers sought the confiscated blade in his pocket, but they were convinced the weapon had been more like a stiletto.

As soon as they got back, Tailler planned on putting two reports side by side and comparing them—the knife wounds in (or of) their decedents sure sounded like the same killer.

A short blade might have reached the heart if it was really pounded into the body. There were no signs of bruising around the wound, according to the Inspector. This was true in both cases. The trouble was he couldn't quite recall the exact wording, and two different doctors had examined two different victims.

Hubert heaved a deep sigh.

"Leave it alone, Emile. I'm sure there is a very logical, perfectly innocent explanation for all of this."

"Yeah, sure there is—the guy faked his own death, got up and ran away after Maintenon falls on him, boots off to Lyon for a quick weekend with the second wife. Then it's off to Bordeaux to buy and sell a few hundred thousand bottles of the finest." Tailler stared out the window, glad the sun was on the other side of the carriage now. "And then, a quick nip back to town to shove a knife in some blonde lady's guts. Pop in, see the wife, have dinner, bang her once or twice—and then it's off he goes again." He gave Hubert a look. "Nah. I could never happen."

"Not without a motive, Emile—and the explanation is a lot simpler than that."

"Why don't you tell me what it is then?"

Hubert gave a disgusted snort.

"Because I don't know what it is yet, dummy."

Hubert turned, wriggling and cursing lightly

He managed to get curled up on his left side. His legs contracted, bending at the knees, and it seemed as if he was really going to do it.

"You can't sleep like that."

"Not with you talking I can't."

That seemed logical enough.

***

"The first thing we do is ask about the passport."

Tailler nodded.

"Got you."

Reaching out, he rang the bell and they patiently waited. They had called ahead before leaving Paris. Lucinde was expecting them. That had been a tough call, and they had argued about it, whether to call ahead or make it a surprise visit. She knew they were from Paris and they could hardly say they were just in the neighbourhood. You never really knew what to do sometimes.

It was a good thirty seconds before there was a response.

"Yes?"

"Detectives Tailler and Hubert—"

Hubert cuffed him on the shoulder and he shut up abruptly.

"Oh, yes. Please come up." The door latch clicked and the pair stumped up to the third floor landing where there was a small, neatly kept lobby and three doors.

She was door number three.

On their light knock, the door opened and the lady let them in.

"Please come in, gentlemen."

A short hall led them into the salon.

Lucinde stopped to formally greet them.

"Hello. How are you."

They made the usual social noises and then settled down to more serious matters.

She took a seat on the sofa, and Tailler studied her intently. Lucinde was not totally grief-stricken, yet she was definitely an unhappy person. The burden that she bore, in the disappearance of her alleged husband, would be hard enough on anyone. To her perceptions, Didier would be everything to her. The effect on her, try as she might, was profound. Her face, with its softness and roundness of countenance, beautiful only a couple of days before, had become drawn, haggard, with long lines bracketing the mouth. If only he could peer past superficialities and see into their heads sometimes. Her eyes were a shocking blue. He'd noticed that before.

"Well. Now that you're sitting down—" No, that was wrong, thought Hubert.

This was no time for levity.

"Please don't be alarmed, Lucinde. But we have some information for you, ah, maybe. We need your help. This might be a very great shock."

"It's Didier. He's dead—isn't he?"

They had been sort of expecting this.

"No—no, please don't think that way." Tailler had been regretting such cruelties lately.

Emile had wondered if he was really cut out for the job, not so much the tragedy as the duplicity. Tailler opened the envelope and took out a thick wad of photographs. That's when he remembered, or appeared to. Maddeningly, he hung onto the pictures as she stared at the package in his hands.

"Oh. I almost forgot. Does your husband have a passport?" He cleared his throat. "It's just that, ah, we were wondering at the possibility of him leaving the country."

She nodded.

"Yes, of course." She looked at Hubert, wide-eyed and innocent.

She stared at the photographs again, from a few metres away.

"Where does he keep it? If it's there, at least it limits our search to Metropolitan France, and, er, ah, overseas departments."

"But of course." She rose, as gracefully as ever, smoothing her skirt in the most unconscious way.

Tailler waited until she was halfway to the bedroom door. He set the materials down. Emile got up and followed along. Assuming it was there, he was prepared to practically grab it out of her hands.

The thing was, if Didier Godeffroy was a killer—and there was no real way of calculating the odds of that, they didn't want the bugger to get away.

He rounded the last corner.

"Ah." The lady stooped slightly and pulled out the top drawer of the desk.

He came up beside her.

Tailler's mouth opened. There was a passport book lying right there along with a few other documents. Chequebooks, et cetera.

"Please don't touch that, Madame."

She froze in the act of reaching for it.

"Monsieur."

"I'm sorry, Madame, I really am." He turned and raised his voice. "Hubert."

"I'm right here."

"What...is it?" She stared, hand up to her throat, her face pale. "Something terrible has happened."

Hubert came closer.

"My friend." Tailler took out a small camera from his side jacket pocket.

He set that down on the bedspread for a moment as Tailler led her away to a corner. Throwing the curtains wide, he made a big show of pulling on clean white cotton gloves. He used a pencil to pull the drawer a little further open. Hubert turned on the bedside light, pulling it forward to the edge of the table to throw a little more light in there.

He carefully snapped a dozen shots, all bullshit of course, but it had the desired effect of totally mystifying Lucinde.

Theoretically.

Hubert put the camera away and Tailler dramatically stepped forward with the envelope.

Hubert lifted out one...no. Two passports.

He paused for dramatic effect.

"Do you have a passport, Madame? One would assume so, am I right?"

She nodded, staring at the offending drawer. Hers was in there too. He slipped that out and had a quick look.

"We went on a cruise—"

"Oh, how lovely."

"Did you and your husband ever fight? Did he ever threaten to leave you, anything like that?" Tailler's voice was calm and cool, and it was just sufficiently distracting.

Tailler put an arm around her as Hubert, head down and seemingly intent, blocked their view with his own backside. He took a quick look before stuffing both passports into the envelope.

He didn't let her see that part and he slid the drawer closed decisively. She looked puzzled but not frightened. He made her watch as he licked and sealed the tab, and then he and Tailler signed their names across the flap. They got her initials on there too. It was all nice and voluntary.

"Very good, Madame. This may be of very great help to us. May we return to the salon? I'm sure we'll all be much more comfortable in there."

They got her seated on the couch again.

Tailler stood over by the window, and Hubert, with that wonderful bedside manner of his, sat again on an angle, his right knee touching her left knee. He took her hands in his. Tailler came back and picked up his envelope of pictures.

"Okay, Lucinde. Please prepare yourself for a shock, and yet we must not leap to any hasty conclusions. I want you to be totally objective here. This is no time for raw emotion. Comprene?"

She nodded, almost too frightened to speak by this point. Whatever was coming, she knew it had to be bad news.

Tailler made his decision. Straight from the shoulder with this one.

He placed the first photo on the coffee table in front of her. Hubert picked it up, helpfully holding it so the light fell on it properly. Her hands were shaking as she took it from him.

It was one of the post-mortem pictures, one where the subject's eyes had been thoughtfully opened by a cooperative Doctor Auger for this particular shot. Such photos had been known to be successful in helping to identify victims and missing persons before.

Her mouth opened. She stared, all colour gone from her face.

"Is this your husband Didier, Madame Godeffroy?"

A single tear issued from the one duct that he could see. Presumably there were more on the other side to balance that, but the lady didn't answer. They needed to hear her say it.

"Madame. I wonder if I could ask a very great favour of you. I know this is really tough—" Detective Hubert chewed away and finished the thought. "We have a body and we need to have you come and identify it. The really big problem is that it's in Paris—just a little town on the outskirts, actually...kind of a suburb."

Tailler showed her another picture, and then another. She fixated on first one, and then the other.

It was the same old problem, but this was the wife—or one of the wives. In death, with water soaking into the body, and collisions with rocks, pilings and underwater obstructions, well. It hadn't done the body any good. The face had become an amorphous blob of flesh, discoloured but not badly cut and bruised.

"It's okay, Madame." Hubert tried to take the pictures back but she resisted.

He could wait a minute longer, as she took another look.

"It certainly looks like Didier, and yet not Didier—he was an orphan, you know. But this could be a twin, perhaps older, a little heavier. You know, an older, fatter version of Didier."

Was it merely denial? An unwillingness to accept.

She looked at them in a kind of lucid wonder.

"Oh, of course—you've never met him."

"Madame, I know this is short notice and this may be a tragic time for you. If only we knew for sure. What I am suggesting is that you accompany us, this afternoon. Right now, in fact—" This with a quick glance at his watch. "...by train, to Paris, and we'll try and decide if this is your husband. Didier. And I know that it is...really, a terrible thing to ask."

But.

Tailler cleared his throat.

Her mouth hung open.

"The thing is, Madame, that if we were to get a move on, we could be there by early evening. We could view the body. I know, if it's not Didier, it really is a terrible inconvenience. Outrageous, really. But if it is him—and I certainly hope it is not for your sake, Madame, but if it is him, then really, wouldn't you want to know?"

She stared at her feet for a moment. Lucinde lifted her face.

"For sure, I mean."

"Of course you're right, but must we leave right now?"

He nodded soberly.

"I thank you so much. It really is better if next of kin makes any identification. Anyways, would you have a marriage certificate, anything like that? You're listed as Madame Lucinde Godeffroy on the passport, right, that's good, but if you had anything else that would be wonderful. N'est pas?"

Her eyes went to the clock on the wall. Her face was like stone as she rose and headed for the desk again.

"I don't know—I think it might be here somewhere."

Chapter Eighteen

In the end, all she could find on short notice was a wedding picture, a clipping from the Lyon daily newspaper. Her hands were shaking and her lips quivered when she gave it to them. There was the date and their names written in a tiny feminine hand on the right-hand margin. She had no idea of what happened to their papers. They might have been lost in a move or even during spring cleaning. She certainly must have had a birth certificate when applying for the passport. The lady was a bit rattled. Neither she nor Didier had liked keeping a lot of dusty, mouldy old boxes around.

"That's us."

"Thank you, Madame." Tailler put the clipping into his precious envelope, jammed his hat back on and they headed for the coat closet. "And don't worry about expenses and accommodation. There's plenty of provision in the budget for what we call, uh...special services."

Lucinde took a deep breath and steeled herself. Her hands were together, clinging very tightly to her purse, and she stood very straight as she fought for self-control.

"Is there anyone you might want to call, Madame...Lucinde?"

"Oh, shit. I'd better leave a note for Celeste. The maid. She might worry."

"Okay, let's do that quickly now."

Rather than allow her back into the flat again, Tailler pulled out his notebook and flipped it open to a clean page.

"Okay. Here we go, let's keep this nice and simple. Only that you're going away to Paris for the evening and that you'll be back tomorrow afternoon at the latest. You'll call them from your hotel. Something like that."

She scribbled it out, putting the pad flat on the wall at face height and writing it out pretty much as he said.

"We'll just leave that on the coffee table." Hubert scurried to the salon with the torn-off sheet as Tailler helped the lady on with her coat. "Say, when does Celeste come in, anyways?"

Lucinde told them Thursdays and Fridays and the pair nodded.

Tailler's mouth was terribly dry and this was going to be as awkward as all hell. It had to be borne for all of their sakes.

"I must say. You're really being a good sport about all of this."

There was the most barren ghost of a grin from a somber and very preoccupied Lucinde Godeffroy as he turned the knob to let them out.

***

It was probably the longest train ride of their lives.

The two of them sweated it out, immersed in the heavenly aroma of a healthy young female, immaculately prepared, painted, powdered and polished. What she thought of all this could only be imagined.

It really was kind of ignorant, Tailler had to concede.

After dealing with her children, who were away in school in Switzerland, and Tailler's mother, there wasn't much left to talk about. She seemed genuinely interested that Hubert was engaged, and smiled sadly as she looked out the window after that little tidbit. Silence fell over the three.

It was a good thing the detectives had an agreed-upon plan. Other than that, they would consult in the men's room when circumstances arose.

The lady sat in the middle. There was no way they were going to talk about anything important with her there anyways. It was times like this when they realized what strangers, people really were. To speak of the weather was too boring and too predictable. To speak of politics was to argue, Tailler was convinced, although he doubted if the lady's politics or his partner's, were all that much different than his.

It was hardly an occasion for cheer.

Current events, celebrity gossip and the latest films, who was playing at the theatre or what was the latest best-selling book, would quickly tend to pall over something like five hours on the train. There was no way in hell they could just sleep.

She was very quiet and not asking a lot of questions, which was a relief.

The lady had more important things on her mind. In spite of all, Tailler still wanted the lady to like him—there was this urge not to offend, to appear...well, as something in her eyes. Anything, rather than the incompetent and bumptious fool he knew himself to be. Maybe, someday, the confidence would come more naturally. At times the quiet was overwhelming. It was a kind of chivalry, perhaps, tempered with strong physical attraction.

The landscape under low cumulus held no comfort for her. For Tailler it was losing interest, and Hubert was quite frankly close to dozing off. Tailler had the impression that Hubert and Emmanuelle were keeping some fairly late evening hours.

Nice work if you can get it—more power to them, in his opinion. Emmanuelle was surprisingly plump in Tailler's opinion. He'd only seen a picture. They'd never actually met. Emmanuelle was filtered, seen only through Hubert's little anecdotes.

Finally the train drew into the station. All three were famished. They agreed to a quick snack in the station itself. Sandwiches and coffee, which didn't take very long at all. It did some good, but not much.

After viewing the body, no matter what happened, it seemed unlikely that Lucinde would have much of an appetite. To provide her with a hotel room was one thing. Yes, she would have to eat, and she should eat. The notion that Lucinde would find any great comfort or pleasure in the company of two bearers of bad news seemed terribly unlikely.

What were they supposed to do, suggest dinner with the lady? The option was to just leave her alone, although it was awkward. Climbing into the cab, Hubert gave directions and they headed off in the direction of the Maison Santé.

"Not much longer now." Tailler, with her in the back seat, resisted the urge to pat her on the back of the hand.

He'd already done it about fifteen times and was aware of how it looked. Hubert had been solicitous, which was fine. Hubert managed to keep his hands to himself, when all poor old Emile Tailler wanted to do was to take the lady into his arms and comfort her.

What might happen after that didn't really bear thinking about. It was pure, childish fantasy. What really bothered Emile was the thought of someone like her, winding up with a real skunker like Didier.

She might not even be a widow yet—but they would know within a half an hour or so.

After that, one way or the other, things could get awkward. At least then they would know.

***

It was the same process as before. Tailler introduced her to Doctor Auger. After some small preliminary remarks, which were meant to be reassuring, he opened the hatch and pulled out the sliding slab.

Hubert had found a seat in the corner by the door, wanting to study the lady's reaction.

"All right. Madame, are you ready?"

She stood there at the side of the table and Doctor Auger lifted the cloth covering and exposed the face.

There was no hesitation.

"Oh, Didier! Oh, my God, poor, poor Didier."

Bawling her eyes out, Lucinde fell forwards onto the body, as Tailler's head whipped around to meet Hubert's eyes with a stunned look. Doctor Auger was patting her on the shoulder and the back, making soothing noises as the pair of detectives stared into each other's eyes.

Hubert stood, approaching Lucinde. There was only one way to play it in his opinion, and that was strictly by the book.

Don't give up anything.

"Please, Madame." Hubert took her by the elbow, four of them crowded around the upper end of the slab. "We understand that this is a terrible tragedy."

"But we need to talk." Tailler had little choice but to wrap a long arm around the distraught, downright hysterical woman as she kicked and cursed in terms that were not very lady-like.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her lips quivered as she tried to answer.

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

The tears still flowed.

"Does he have a brown suit?"

She shuddered.

"Yes."

"Ah—do you know if it's still there—" Merde, but he couldn't help but ask.

That one was a giveaway—

She shook her head, eyes red and raw.

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

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

"All right, Madame. We'd better get you to a hotel."

"Can't I...can't I just sit with him for a moment?"

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

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

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

"When—when..."

"Take your time, Madame."

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

Dr. Auger cleared his throat.

"The remains will be released in due time, Madame."

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

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

It was the final blow.

"Oh..."

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

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

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

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

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

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

Finally they were done.

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

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

"I'll see you tomorrow."

Hubert nodded.

"Flip a coin?"

"What do you mean?"

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

Tailler slapped his buddy on the shoulder.

"Forget the coin. I'll do it."

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

"Taxi! Taxi!"

Chapter Nineteen

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

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

Just everything.

"Argh."

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

"Good morning, gentlemen."

"Good morning, sir."

Levain stared blearily at Gilles.

"Where's Hubert?" The Inspector looked around. "Where's Firmin?"

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

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

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

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

"So."

"Ah. Yes. Well. We have, ah, news, sir."

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

He looked at Levain.

"What the hell's wrong with you?"

"Argh. A miserable cold."

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

"Where's Hubert?"

"Ah—"

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

"Here he is, Inspector."

"So. Tell us all about it."

"Okay."

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

It was half-full and he made approving noises.

"Well, sir, it's just that Lucinde identified the body at Maison Santé. She says it's her husband, Didier, and yeah, it just broke her up completely, sir. Ah."

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

"On the plus side, we got her passport along with Didier's—his, ah, other one."

Gilles nodded.

He bit his lip.

"Two passports—nice."

Tailler could only agree.

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

Tailler had a bad case of too many unknowns.

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

"I'm thinking that he had two wives, and two passports. Basically."

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

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

"Hmn. Interesting."

"Ah, yes, sir. It sure is."

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

Hubert coughed again.

"Emile. Passports are stamped, coming and going."

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

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

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

"Yes, but you can still try her again. Unless there is some kind of collusion between the two women, her husband is still a missing-person case. What if she just says she never had one? She might have never been out of the country. As far as she knows, her husband is missing. That only lasts as long as Didier doesn't call home. Right?"

Tailler stared at him like he had two heads.

"Oh, yes, sir. Sure. One of them must have killed him—and then killed that other woman too. Right, sir? It's like she found out about the other woman. She goes a bit nuts, decides to cut them both. I know it sounds crazy sir, but that's all we're getting out of it so far—"

Gilles nodded.

"I suppose it could have happened that way. They say truth can be stranger than fiction, Emile."

Gilles gave Levain a look. Andres' eyebrows climbed and he shook his head. Hubert responded to a similar look with a shrug.

"My feeling is that we'll never find the knife."

Maintenon nodded in Hubert's direction. It wasn't even that important, unless it had fingerprints on it. But it would have gone into the river or more likely a sewer somewhere.

"So, ah, sir. What do you want us to do next?"

"Oh, that's easy, Tailler."

"It is? Okay, sir. I'm sure that's all very true. If you wouldn't mind dropping us a little hint?"

Gilles cracked his first good grin of the day.

He got up and headed for the coffeepot on its cast-iron hot plate. Pausing where Tailler stood leaning against the front of his desk, he nodded. Turning back, he took another look, a good look, at the big fellow.

Tailler stared, willing him to answer.

Finally he spoke.

"I want you to keep going, Tailler."

"Argh." Levain pulled out an already damp handkerchief and blew his nose like a trumpet.

He really was suffering.

As if sensing Tailler's oblique scrutiny, Levain looked up.

"Okay, Emile. What's your next move?'

Emile grinned.

"We move our pawn ahead one square."

Levain grunted appreciatively.

Tailler looked over at an expectant Hubert, who was quite frankly at a loss, although one or two half-baked ideas had presented themselves. Such things often had a way of doing that, usually about the same time as his head hit the pillow.

"Feel like a train ride to Molsheim?" Tailler looked at Maintenon but saw no signs of disapproval. "We'll be gone for a couple of days anyway."

Hubert tipped his head. He also took a quick glance at the boss, who seemed to be mentally elsewhere. He was almost done his coffee. He slurped it down.

"Sure. Why not."

The phone rang and a ready hand picked it up.

"Hello. Maintenon speaking."

***

From Paris to Molsheim was a good six or seven hours by train. Since they were going to be away overnight, it was a little more complex than just dropping everything and bolting.

Their sense was that they had gotten a bit lucky on their first trip to Lyon. This was different—they knew what they were looking for now. The understood the problem a little better. They had called ahead, using good sense and proper protocol, and made contact with the Molsheim police.

They were expected, possibly even welcome.

Hubert had called Emmanuelle. Tailler spent what seemed like hours on the telephone. First he had to get hold of a sister. Any of the three would do but they were all out when he first tried. That was the worst feeling, just sitting there wasting time and looking at the clock half the time. The pair of them occupied their time in planning. They had to draw cash, and then figure out what if any materials to bring with them. In the end they decided to leave everything but a minimal number of photos. What they needed were fresh pens, clean notebooks and long list of questions.

Good questions.

Tough questions.

They would be thorough-going bastards.

They were busy enough, fielding the occasional foray from the other detectives. Tailler finally got hold of his sister Emily and made arrangements for her to look after their mother for at least two days. She promised to get the others to help out if became a big problem. Things came up in her life unexpectedly, what with kids and a husband of her own to look after.

Then Tailler had to call his mother and deal with her questions and concerns. Disruptions to her routine were sometimes upsetting to the old lady, and he soothed her as best he could.

They decided to take the overnight train, which doubled their travel time—apparently it made all the stops, but at least they would arrive, relatively fresh, early enough to put in a full day. They had some ideas on that score. The last thing for both men was to nip home by taxicab, pack a quick bag and say whatever goodbyes were appropriate to their situation. Hubert had a parakeet, and then of course there was Emmanuelle.

Tailler had never slept on a train before, so he was a little worried about that. He'd just have to deal with it. Hubert had been to the south on a summer vacation with his parents as a boy of twelve or thirteen.

The only thing he could really say was that back then, the berths seemed a lot bigger.

***

There was a certain tackiness involved in not having a proper shower before work. Arriving in Molsheim little worse for wear, Hubert and Tailler rented a car. They got directions to the police station. Their man, acquainted with Gilles somehow from their war years, was in. They spoke to him and let him know they were working in his area and what the case was about.

Hubert told Inspector Descamps about Zoe Godeffroy. Zoe was a local citizen and she had been found dead in a Paris hotel room. The decedent had been stabbed. Descamps asked few questions.

Tailler went into it briefly, the fellow nodding sagely when he got to the bit about too many wives, two victims stabbed in the guts, all that sort of thing.

"It's a little complex."

The gentleman had a dry little smile in a face like a bloodhound. He was all bloodshot eyes, sagging jowls and ears that seemed just a little too big. Those eyebrows badly needed trimming. The eyes were warm and blue. A certain intelligent light danced around in there.

"Ah, good old Gilles. He gets all the really interesting ones." His eyes wavered and he nodded. "Then we shall leave it to you two gentlemen. We're here if you need anything, and we'd certainly like to be kept apprised of events."

"Thank you, sir." They were dismissed, and Hubert stood.

Tailler nodded in thanks, hat in hand.

They knew better than to think he was the easygoing sort.

With just the hint of a blush, Hubert was the first to stick out a paw. They shook hands like old friends and then the door thudded behind them. A minute later, they were dropping down the front steps to where their rented sedan awaited them.

***

"Okay, where's the address. We need the map." Hubert had compromised by letting or perhaps making Tailler drive was a better description.

Hubert wanted to think, to see, to observe. He wanted the map in his lap and his mind on the case. More than anything, he wanted to keep a leash on Tailler, who could be overly enthusiastic at times when calm, cool professionalism might have been a better choice.

Tailler could use the driving practice. Admittedly, it was a strange town. It was also so much smaller than Paris. Considering the price of a day's insurance, a little damage might be simple justice. The trouble was that big deductible or Hubert might have suggested it. He would only be half-joking.

Emile Tailler got the little Peugeot family saloon into gear. Hubert thought it rather pretty in a very dark green. Emile stuck his left arm confidently out the window and his hat firmly wedged in place. He had his head cranked fully around and was looking to enter traffic, which did not look unmanageable. The place was so small, what looked like a farm tractor rumbled past, and then a lorry, heavily-laden with wicker baskets of poultry. He dutifully checked the mirror.

"Hold on, give me a second."

They were more or less in the centre of what was a pretty small town. Tailler looked over.

"You know they make Bugattis here?"

"They also make some pretty good wines around here."

Something caught Hubert's eye and he took a moment to appreciate a rather attractive young woman going past on the sidewalk.

"Hmn."

"You just forget about all of that."

"You get to drive. I get to do the thinking, right Emile?" He'd sort of twisted the concession out of Tailler.

He wondered how long that might actually last, now that he had a minute to think about it.

Studying the map with his head down, Hubert's lips moved in what might have been a silent prayer.

"All right. We're facing the wrong way. We need to go back the other way, about three blocks."

"Your every wish is my command, mon ami." Biting his lip in pure bliss, for Emile was probably the only gars in the whole world who didn't know how bad he was, he eased out the clutch.

With one foot on the brake, the car strained at the leash.

Hubert's mouth opened, as for some unknown reason Tailler's big, big hands were cranking the steering wheel all the way to opposite lock.

The engine revolutions mounted and Hubert was just about to speak.

No.

It was starting already.

The left foot slipped sideways rather than smoothly pulling back. Tailler dropped the hammer at about 3,500 rpm and the car was nothing if not willing.

"Whoa." Hubert clung on to the door handle and the edge of the seat as his map slid, the pencil spun and disappeared down beside the seat and blue smoke came in the window with that acrid burnt-rubber smell.

He was jammed up hard against the passenger door, tires screaming.

The car body slewed from side to side as Tailler straightened her out with a flick of his big, strong wrist and did a quick gear-change into second.

He looked over, just as happy as a cauchon en merde.

"Okay, how far up?"

The revs and the speed were mounting.

"Watch the road."

For crying out loud, Tailler.

***

Molsheim was a nice little town, with the elevation changes coming closer together than back home. There wasn't quite the density, and the urban forest, big lots and the wide-open fields where nothing much at all was going on, was quite alien to the both of them.

Emile loved being out in the country, behind the wheel, free as a bird.

They were just west of the town, more of a big village, with the low heads of the mountains hanging before them and the morning sun behind them.

"Is that the Jura or the Vosges?"

Hubert looked over.

"That, Emile, is a very good question."

They had the address from the hotel registry from the Maison Rive Gauche. It turned out to be legitimate. Zoe Godeffroy lived in a small pension-style flat in a small building on what were the outskirts of town. They had made one wrong turn, and Hubert was temporarily stumped by a dead end road. By spinning the map around and staring out over the town from a small prominence, he was able to get a general sense of what direction they should have been going.

"Left."

Tailler, of course, hat tipped back and temporarily besotted with the experience of driving, began leaning into a right turn.

"The other left!"

Tires squeaked as the guy reversed his turn and barely made it around.

"Sorry."

"No. No, way. You're doing that on purpose, Emile."

Tailler just grinned, shaking his head.

After some driving, some of the time going way too fast and some of the time going way too slow, always impulsive and unpredictable, the irrepressible Tailler had finally and triumphantly drawn to a halt in front of an unprepossessing edifice. The street was narrow, cobbled and the balconies and window boxes on the upper two stories loomed low overhead, blocking out what little sun they got as the street ran east and west.

"Voila. We have arrived."

"I can see that for myself."

All in all, it hadn't been too unbearable. He'd noticed that before, in Lyon. Being in a strange town was oddly liberating. No one knew your name, and so it was difficult to be embarrassed. You knew that you would be leaving again, and very soon. The engine ticked in cool-down mode, and poor old Hubert just wanted to sit there a minute and catch his breath.

It was like nobody cared—nobody.

When Tailler pulled one particularly bone-headed move, Hubert had merely laughed. It was just too outrageous to take it seriously.

Going head on into oncoming traffic on what had to be the only one-way street in town.

Poor old Tailler.

Realizing his error, and timing it magnificently, Tailler of course did the unthinkable. Rather than stop, or pull over, and thereby reduce the possible impact speed, he stomped the throttle hard to the floor. He'd accelerated like a mad whore, even shifting up when the revs got high, crossing in front of the oncoming vehicles in a screeching, fish-tailing turn that had lost them a hubcap. Tailler somehow made it into a cross-street a scant second before a collision that would have had an impact velocity of about a hundred and fifty kilometres an hour.

Would talking to Tailler help? Hubert rather doubted it. What the boy needed was a lot of practice and some skills in reading the road. Maybe even just road signs. In a quick mental review, Hubert conceded that Emile only had fifty or a hundred hours in total behind the wheel. From that perspective, they were doing pretty well.

In other words, to hell with it.

"Okay, let's see if we can find a landlord, a neighbour, an acquaintance...a friend."

Hubert got out and Tailler locked the doors.

Hubert was at the street entrance, studying the names, the buttons and their options.

"Here we go. Ada Bellerose." There was no time like the present.

He pushed the button. If there was no response, there were a half-dozen other tenants listed.

They would try almost anything.

No one home, or the bell was broken.

He tried the next one. No response. A unit up on the right side on the second floor, had totally blank, black windows. There were no curtains in sight. That one might be vacant although there were names beside all the buttons. It appeared to be all private individuals, rather than small businesses.

"Merde."

"Try them all." Hubert pushed and there was nothing happening.

Perhaps they were all at work. Deaf people, old people, paranoid people...people had the right not to answer the bell.

Tailler, standing off to one side, perhaps not being able to see the tags and the apartment numbers, reached over and pushed the button for Zoe Godeffroy.

Hubert felt a bolt of tension or stress run through him when he saw that—but what the hell were you going to do. It was harmless enough, and Tailler was always going to be Tailler. Hubert's knees were still a little shaky after the ride. He had no idea of what to expect at this point—it was either a let-down or an anti-climax, when there was a long pause and exactly nothing happened.

"Here, let me try."

Tailler started with Ada Bellerose again, as Hubert began to have serious doubts about either Tailler's or his own sanity.

The thought was instantly dismissed when some lady answered.

Chapter Twenty

"Hello?"

They looked at each other. It was a soft, youthful and feminine voice.

"It's probably the maid..." Hubert's hoarse whisper shocked the stillness and even the birds.

Tailler took it smoothly enough as the sparrows took up their chorus again.

Hubert was so tempted to kick him—but Tailler floored him again.

"Ah, yes, bonjour, Mademoiselle. We're looking for a Zoe Godeffroy. Ah, she doesn't appear to be home. I was thinking we might be pushing the wrong button—maybe it's broken, right?"

Here comes that kick, boyo—

Hubert stopped himself just in time.

Why am I so angry, he asked himself...sure, we agreed that I was going to do the talking.

Sure, we agreed he was going to take his time and drive carefully.

But what did we seriously expect, anyways?

No sense crying over spilt milk—or worrying about what might have been.

"Are you a friend of hers? We'd like to speak to you if we may."

"Well, I don't know. Who is calling?"

They stared at each other.

No!

But what the hell.

"Ah, well...yeah. I'm Detective-Sergeant Emile Tailler. My partner is Detective Hubert. We're from the police, Mademoiselle. It's strictly routine. Just a few minor questions. You might be able to help us and Zoe. You're not in any trouble. Neither is she, that's what we think, anyways. I can certainly assure you of that, Mademoiselle."

Fucking Tailler had his hat off, crumpling it in sweaty hands. Hubert had never witnessed such sickening sincerity.

Holy.

Hubert could only watch and marvel.

The window beside the doorway was open, and while curtains billowed from within, Tailler heard a dry hacking cough in there so he shut up.

Why didn't the guy answer his bell, the stupid bastard.

"May I be permitted to know what this is about?"

"Yes, ma'am. Ah, it's just that we're trying to locate, ah, the next of kin of a Didier Godeffroy. He's a wine merchant—" From Gaston e Cie.

She hit the buzzer before he was done and then they were in the lobby, which smelled heavily of carbolic soap and furniture polish. Chilly as the north-facing lobby was, the temperature climbed markedly as they went up the stairs.

***

Ada's apartment was up a second flight of stairs, number five. It was the rear apartment. She flung the door open even before they were properly there, looking out and down the hall for them. The young lady took a good hard look before deciding not to bolt back inside. That was one of the reasons why plainclothes cops always dressed like plainclothes cops. They could hardly be mistaken for anything else.

She exhaled.

"Please come in."

The detectives shuffled in through the door, removing their hats and taking a quick peek around. It was fairly large, very clean and yet it smelled of fish. Another good Catholic, apparently.

It was after breakfast, she must be readying it for lunch or perhaps dinner.

It was a long ways from the sea, thought Emile, noting a big crucifix on one end wall of the living room. There were a couple of very narrow palm leaves stuck in behind it, faded and dry-looking. His mother had the same thing, replacing them every year on Palm Sunday.

The young woman before them was tall, slender, with high, cone-shaped breasts. Her hips swelled appreciably below the narrow waist, nicely outlined by trim blue slacks and a beige cashmere sweater. The long sleeves were pulled up to the elbows. She had brown eyes and the most coppery thick tresses Tailler had ever seen. It was difficult to tell if she was wearing any sort of makeup at all, although the aroma of a healthy and normal woman's home was really something when you weren't used to it. She was barefoot, which he liked very much. It made a nice impression, one of cleanliness and perhaps the kind of luxury a poor kid could only dream about.

He concluded that she was indeed another beauty. That didn't necessarily make her stupid, nor did it entirely assure her innocence.

"We're terribly sorry to bother you, Ada, is it?"

"Yes. What's this about? What's happened to Didier? Where's Zoe?"

"Well. It's not quite that simple. We'll get to that in a minute. What is your relationship with Mademoiselle Godeffroy?"

"She's just a friend—a good friend."

"You're not married then?"

"Ah, no."

The one was handsome, the other one a bit ungainly. Still, they were men.

"It's okay, we understand your feelings."

She coloured, then smiled in spite of her distaste for their intrusion, and what often appeared as bad manners. There were two policemen in her living room, prying into her life and plying her with questions with absolutely no explanation.

Tailler reached and drew out his wallet.

"We really are from the police. We would like to speak to Zoe. Or Didier, if we can find him. We basically just need your help, that's it. But it's ticklish. People have the right to privacy, after all—or maybe we could tell you more."

Hubert cut in using his most dulcet tones.

"Can you tell us anything about Zoe? She's not home now, is she? And please, trust us. Just a little bit, just for a minute, okay?"

The lady turned and wobbled slowly in the direction of the couch, but then turned and chose a stuffed chair with rolled arms and a deep, curving back.

She stared at them with fear in her eyes.

"So. Why don't you gentlemen tell me what's going on—I mean...what do you want to know?"

It seemed they had stumbled on Zoe's best friend. Her intuition, her instincts were fully aroused.

One could hardly blame her.

***

Zoe Godeffroy was no relation to Didier Godeffroy. They had met, predictably enough, at a wine industry exhibition. It was the autumn season. Something like that. He was there representing his company, and at the time she had been personal assistant to a gentleman who was the president of another little firm. He had been attracted to her, and she to him, in spite of certain obligations to her employer. Apparently they'd once had an understanding. Ada skipped lightly over that part while Hubert took notes.

"He asked Zoe out to dinner. They laughed about having the same last name." She gulped.

The males exchanged an involuntary glance.

Her eyes shifted, and she studied her hands.

"She was lonely, looking for a husband, it seemed to me. They soon became lovers."

You could almost hear in the background, the monotonous languor of the violins, zinging away on the old heart-strings. Ada took it seriously enough.

"Would you know when she was last home?"

"She went away for the weekend." She sighed, looking them right in the eye. "At least, that's what she told me."

"When was she expected back?"

"Certainly by Monday morning."

"Weren't you worried about her?" Tailler's voice was gruff. "I mean, she's not back, right?"

Her eyes searched theirs.

"Yes, of course. A little bit. Zoe's a grown woman, what am I supposed to do?" The girl wrung her hands gently.

"Hmn." Hubert took a chance. "You wouldn't have a key to her place, would you?"

Ada stared at them wordlessly. Finally her eyes fell.

"What is this about? Has something happened to her?"

"Honestly, we would just like to speak to her."

"Well, she isn't home."

"And you're sure about that."

At some point she'd had enough and was becoming restive. Her eyes strayed once or twice to the phone. But the face always came back to them.

"What's happened to her—what's happened to Zoe?"

Tailler ignored it.

Ada was becoming upset. They kept going back to the same questions.

"Where's Zoe?"

"Please, young lady. Let us ask the questions."

The girl either didn't know or could keep a secret.

"How often does Didier come here?"

"Every so often."

"For how long? A couple of days?"

Hubert would have preferred if Tailler didn't lead so much, but Ada agreed.

"Usually, yes."

"I see."

Tailler pulled out a picture. It was the one Monique had provided.

"Is this Didier Godeffroy?"

She barely glanced at it.

"Yes." She practically spat the word.

He showed her the best one from the morgue.

"Just for confirmation, is this the same person?"

"Oh, God." She took another look, eyes focusing clearly, mouth slightly open. "Yes. I suppose it is."

Her eyes came up and she regarded Tailler.

"He's lost weight since then."

Tailler raised his eyebrows but said nothing. Neither one of them had really thought of that, but the clothes seemed to fit the body, (in both of their cases). Just one more headache, he thought. One more handful of question marks.

Tailler showed her a picture of Zoe, a reproduction of the one on her passport. The trouble with Zoe's morgue pictures was that she looked just a little too glazed, a little too obviously dead.

"Is this Zoe?"

She squinted at the photo.

"God, that's an awful picture. Yes, that is her."

With open mouth, Tailler watched in sick fascination as she reached over all on her own initiative, flipping through their collection of photos with no remark. Some of those photos were Monique—and some of them were Lucinde. She didn't catch on, apparently.

Hubert sat watching, almost afraid to move or even breathe.

There was more, lots more. At some point, having helped to destroy the young woman in some small way, they had no choice. It was time to make some hurried excuses and get the hell out of there. It seemed to Tailler that they were destroying their own case somehow. The whole thing was beginning to bug him.

"So tell me, what did you think of Didier?"

"Well. He's very handsome. He's always so beautifully dressed, and of course they made such a lovely couple..."

"Okay."

After getting her phone number they made their exit.

He was sort of proud of himself though. They had gotten what they came for, without giving up one damned thing.

Hubert had, out of a sense of self-preservation, grabbed the driver's seat. Unfortunately, Tailler had taken the key with him.

"Come on, Emile."

In no mood to argue at this point, Emile handed it over wordlessly.

He heaved a deep sigh.

"All right. Let's go."

"You did okay there, Emile."

Tailler nodded.

"Sure. Huh. Then why does my head hurt so?"

"Yeah. It is getting complicated. But maybe we can still nail some of this down."

***

They were in town for the day and they must make the best possible use of it.

They found other Godeffroys in the phone directory. It was a nice, small town. Call a number, and ask for Zoe. Sound nice but dumb on the phone, very polite. As dumb as two sticks, they were. That was Tailler's expression, not Hubert's. As long as they got something, he would be okay with it. A half a dozen careful phone calls later, they had found that Zoe Godeffroy was a local girl. She was real. Zoe was somebody's daughter, a niece, a cousin. She was the correct age for the Rive Gauche victim, and she was described in such a way that they were convinced that they were not being presented with an imposter—such was their befuddled thinking at this point in time. There was just no way to know the truth.

They checked at the post office, the local grocery stores, coffee shops, and, in a fit of inspiration from Emile, some of the higher-end shoe and dress shops. People knew the girl by name and by sight. While they were getting a few raised eyebrows and no doubt causing some questions to be asked, they were the police. In a homicide investigation their writ ran very large. In their own minds, a vivid mental picture of Inspector Descamps hung there, watching their performance. Surely some of this would get back to him. Surely some of that would get back to Gilles...

The people they talked to all said the same thing: that's Zoe, sure looks like her, but it was a real bad picture or something.

While waiting for room service to bring up their meals from the kitchen, Hubert got on the horn to Paris, almost sure the ferret-faced switchboard operator would be listening in.

He was in luck. Levain answered the phone, and put Gilles on as Hubert checked his watch.

"Hello."

"Hello, Inspector. This is Hubert."

"Ah. Hubert. How are things in Molsheim?"

Hubert had thought it out carefully. If they were indeed eavesdropped, rumours would spread like wildfire in a little place like Molsheim.

"I'm afraid I can't speak completely freely, sir. However, we spoke to the subject's best friend."

Maintenon cut in.

"Which subject...???" Busy enough with his own cases, thought Hubert.

"Ah, yes, sir. The subject. Of our inquiries. From the Rive Gauche." Beyond that he would go no further, although calling in from the local police station was an option.

Hubert simply hadn't thought of it in time, being more intent on dinner and a shower.

"Of course."

"Gilles. We can go to the police station and call you from there. But this is a big one—that's for sure."

"What do you mean, a big one?"

"It's a revelation. We spoke to the neighbour-lady at some length. We've been asking around town about the subject. I really can't tell you much more than that. It's an open line. Our subject hasn't been seen in some days. She left last Friday, the day before the Rive Gauche. She knows our friend D. We have independent confirmation."

They had even found a maitre'd and a doorman, both working the same little downtown restaurant. They had been shown the photo of Zoe and the ones of Didier and the look-alike victim. They remembered seeing the couple together, at least once, having an intimate dinner.

There was a long silence.

"Very well. How soon can you get back here?" Gilles understood their eagerness, but there were any number of ongoing cases and he needed the manpower.

"Yes, sir. We can't think of a whole lot more to do here—maybe find the church where she was baptized. A birth certificate would be nice. We may have to come back, actually." Hubert consulted with Tailler.

Having anticipated the question, Tailler had the answer.

"Ah, sir. Emile says the first train leaves at six-twenty. That gets us home by noon anyways."

"Okay. We'll see you tomorrow afternoon then." The inspector hung up.

He was probably busy as hell, and short on manpower.

Hubert hung up.

"So?" Emile sat in an upholstered armchair and Hubert was on the end of a couch so short it might more properly be called a loveseat.

"So. We take what we have and go home. We'll run it past Maintenon and see what he thinks."

Chapter Twenty-One

The next afternoon Gilles, Levain and Firmin were all in the office. The two younger detectives arrived and quickly unloaded their briefcases. Having come by taxi straight from the station, they still had their overnight bags. These were dumped at the end of their respective desks. Gilles was on the phone taking notes and asking questions. Levain nodded pleasantly. Firmin gave them a blank look, and then a wave and a grin. He typed for a moment, and then looked up again, as if only now remembering who they were.

They hung up coats, put their hats on the rack, and got cups of the rather cold coffee that was left in the pot.

Hubert took his chair and Tailler glanced through his notes.

He looked at the room and cleared his throat.

Maintenon beat him to it.

"So."

"Yes, sir. We spoke to an Ada Bellerose. The address from the passport in the Rive Gauche killing was correct. The lady in the Rive Gauche was—near as we can make out—the real Zoe Godeffroy. Ah...maybe." Hubert continued as Gilles gave a quick and approving nod. "Ada knows quite a lot about Zoe, as they are best friends. She says, Zoe hasn't been out of the country in five or six years. That's confirmed by the stamps in her passport. Why she had it in Paris, we don't know. Here's the really neat thing, Inspector. Ada knew exactly who Didier Godeffroy is. She says the pair met at some function somewhere and they had some kind of relationship. She was holding a few things back, for the sake of her friend's reputation if nothing else. She used the term lovers. There was nothing we could safely tell her. There's some love or affection there, at least on Zoe's part. She had the same last name, pure coincidence, but it probably led to their original conversation. I mean, when he picked her up. Didier was nothing if not a quick study."

"So the basic premise is that Didier stole the passport—or someone who knew something about them, Inspector. The real question there is why Zoe herself, would bring it to Paris. We figure Didier brought it and left it there." Tailler had a thought. "The victim's fingerprints are on the ticket stub. We really ought to get one of Zoe's kin to have a look at the body."

"I see."

Tailler looked up from his notebook.

"Ada didn't have all the intimate details, but she says Didier always called ahead. Zoe knew when he was coming to town. He sent her letters, flowers once or twice. When we asked if Zoe had a home phone number for him, that's when Ada dried up." That part was understandable enough. "We asked if they had ever spoken of marriage, whether there was any kind of commitment, and that's about the time Ada began to tire of us."

She simply wasn't telling one way or another.

The odds were that both Zoe and Ada knew about, or even just suspected the existence of a wife, in Paris or elsewhere. Zoe might tell Ada everything. Ada was only going to tell them so much. Didier would of course be feeding Zoe a story. The trail of lies could be revealing, or so Tailler saw it. By the time they were done, the young lady was becoming quite fearful for her friend. News of the killing would break her up.

She had two cops grilling her and after a while she was pretty upset with them.

"She knew Didier was in Paris a lot and didn't see Zoe much. Once or twice a month, sometimes for pretty short stays. We asked that question early on, then dug deeper. She says Zoe and Didier were very good friends for about the last two, or two and a half years."

"So what's your plan?"

Gilles' eyebrows rose as Hubert passed the buck by turning and looking at Tailler.

"Well, sir. We want to get search warrants. For both Godeffroy households, as well as Zoe's place. Ada might have a key. She probably does, but she wasn't about to just let us in so she played dumb. As to whether we can include his business premises in there, that's a tough call. It would be tough to establish a connection to Gaston e Cie except for the fact that he's employed there. The real question in a warrant is what do we expect to find there? My guess is nothing. It's difficult to see how anyone at work might have benefited from his demise. The whole thing is just too complex for someone bucking for a promotion. Why not just rat him off? Surely the boss, the firm, would absolutely hate employing an infamous bigamist. That, is a question we haven't really asked. It's a question of do we have enough? Sometimes it's just the judge you get, sometimes it's just the way you say it. I would sure as hell prefer not to lie to a judge, and claim a lot more than I really have. But this is by no means clear-cut."

"So what do you hope to find?"

"So far, we have the fingerprints from the body in the river and the body in the hotel room." They had little bits of evidence from here and there.

Gilles nodded sharply.

"I would very much like to clearly establish who's who—and who's what." Emile thought further, as long as one must have a wish list. "We can set our people to tracing Didier on the train. I would like to see some confirmed hotel stays. Real sightings from real people, people who know him well. The train schedule can't prove his guilt. What I expect to find there—hopefully—are some pretty big gaps when he could have been in Paris. When he shouldn't have been." Like for example the Rive Gauche case. "I'd shit bricks if we could find someone who saw Didier and Zoe together on the train, coming to Paris when he should have been somewhere else."

"Ah." Levain's eyes glittered at the prospect. "Now we're cooking with gas."

"The odds are the girl never received any letter. It's a prop, pure and simple. He wrote it wearing gloves and brought it along in a pocket." The killer would have used the lady's dead hand to put her prints on there, while wearing gloves himself.

You put on the gloves, peel off a dozen sheets right off the top, and then write your little note. Same thing with the envelope. If there even was one. A fresh box would be opened, wearing gloves, the same procedure basically. Tailler could see it in his mind's eye well enough.

That's how the trick was done.

"Yes. I'll tell you what. Take an hour or so, longer if you need it. Your little staff on the third floor have nailed Didier's whereabouts. He is in fact in Bordeaux. It took him a while but he got there, and we have his hotel room and everything..."

"Yes, sir."

"Write it up as best you can, and I'll have a look at it." He gave Tailler a look. "What's our theory of the crime?"

"Damned if I know. We need to know who's who—and who's what, before we can go much further."

"Okay. Off you go, then. And Hubert—you might want to let the hired hands go back to wherever, unless you feel they might be needed?"

Hubert chewed on that for a second.

"No, sir. Let's give them some legwork—we'll start at the local train stations. If we don't get anything, we can think it over and decide again. Because honestly, when you think of his travel itinerary, his history I guess, there's just a shit-load of places to canvas. And let's leave Didier out there for a while." When the time came to bring him in, Hubert wanted something tangible to bonk him over the head with.

***

Tailler had typed it up as best he could.

"This is not going to wash, Tailler. I asked you, what is the theory of the crime?" They were usually so much better than this.

Gilles let the application for a warrant fall to the desk.

It was a big case, a complex case. Tailler he could almost understand, but Hubert had more experience and even he had been loose, too loose in the questioning, too loose in the thinking.

Tailler pursed his lips. Hubert looked worn out, a man with no ideas.

"I don't really have one. But bigamy is a crime, and abandonment is a civil crime. The man had two wives, God knows how many affairs, girlfriends, one-night stands probably, and sooner or later his luck had to run out."

Tailler was struck by an inspiration.

"I got an idea, boss." He went to their pile of exhibits.

He pulled out three passports.

"Okay, boss. According to the ladies, each of whom knows about one passport, these both belong to Didier. Right?"

Gilles shrugged.

"Now you are at least thinking, Tailler—that's what I want to see."

Tailler picked up the phone.

Hubert looked mystified.

"What are you doing?"

"It's just that I don't believe anything anymore."

Tailler's forefinger spun the dial.

"Hello? Who is this?"

Hubert stood waiting, Gilles went back to reading files.

"Ah. Can you send a fingerprint technician up to Maintenon's office?"

Hubert listened open-mouthed.

"Thank you." Tailler hung up. "We're lucky, they have someone available right now. He's coming right up."

***

Their fingerprint technician was done working. He looked up from the passports, frowning.

"Well, we have a couple of good prints from each one. They are from the same person." He handed over the big magnifying glass. "This is our male subject."

Next it was Ludinde's passport and the prints from the body in the Rive Gauche.

Tailler had a look, Hubert had a look, and then Maintenon had a look. They compared the prints on the passports with the enlarged reproductions of the prints from the female subject, taken by the examiner, Dr. Guillaume at the city morgue.

"They are not a match."

"Are you sure?" Tailler was a little upset, although it was definitely a long shot...

The technician shrugged.

"It's the best I can do, anyways you can see for yourself."

The technician had carefully examined the passport from Lucinde. There were good prints, many of the same person, but obviously some from customs officials as well. With an anonymous print, there was no way to determine gender.

The technician, a man named Proulx, next compared them to the prints taken from the woman in the Rive Gauche. There were only so many ways he could say it.

"Well. There you go. They are not a match—none of them."

"Hmn." Tailler and Hubert were mystified.

"Okay, so that didn't prove a damned thing."

"You're wrong, Emile." Maintenon chuckled.

All of this was in the written reports. Tailler doubted everything, which was an interesting state of mind. He would go over it and over it until he dropped if he had to—

"It sort of indicates the man in the river was not Didier—and the woman in the hotel was not Lucinde."

"Well. Since you put it that way—"

Tailler beamed at Maintenon, and then Levain.

"All right, thank you." Gilles dismissed the technician, who put his brushes and powder bottles back in the briefcase and departed.

Maintenon looked at Emile Tailler.

"Sit down, please, gentlemen."

The pair reluctantly did so.

"You had an idea there, Emile."

"Ah, yes I did, sir."

"Care to tell us what it is?"

Tailler bit his lip. He looked doubtfully at Hubert, who looked at Gilles and then Levain.

"I have no idea what he's on about."

"It's a process of elimination..." Emile heaved a deep sigh. "Okay. I think I know what happened. They've done a nice job on us. We desperately need search warrants, for three premises at least—otherwise we are never going to get them."

"Who's them, Tailler."

Tailler's eyes were far away.

"Inspector."

Maintenon was the most patient man Levain had ever met. These young guys had potential, but not much discipline. Their minds were all over the place—especially when you let them go off on their own. There were one or two holes in the training that needed to be filled. Yet Tailler was clearly chewing on something. It was the old problem.

They needed to get their ducks all in a row.

"Yes?" There was nothing there but gentle amusement.

"When you stumbled on that body in the park...that was Didier."

"Well. I have been sort of wondering."

Hubert made a little snork sound. Maintenon wasn't trying to be funny.

"All he had to do was to be tripped over. All he needed was for someone to report a body. The odds were they would head for the nearest phone. Almost anyone would have done the exact same thing."

"You're saying he was alive then?"

"Yes. He cut the coat, and probably made some little nick in his arm, or something. The coat had to have blood on it. There was a lot of blood according to the lab report. That's great if he was actually stabbed. But what if he wasn't? It was merely for effect. If he was waiting for you, specifically—and he lived right in the neighbourhood, Inspector. He might have seen you around. And you've got a hell of a lot of credibility. His wife says he was wearing a black suit. Yeah, they have a bit of a fight. But before leaving, he nips into the bedroom. Changes clothes...and the brown suit already had the cuts in it. He might have even provoked a fight. It would take less than a minute. All he has to do was to put fresh blood on there." Tailler would bet on it, the man would have a big, half-healed gash on him somewhere. "He's on the way to the park and he sees you going into the store—yeah, that's it."

He might have even had a minute in the darkness to freshen up the blood.

"And what did all of that accomplish, Emile?"

"It convinces the great Gilles Maintenon that there is a body in the park—a body that was subsequently removed by means unknown."

"And why would he want to do that?"

Hubert and Levain stared at each other. There was a simultaneous shrug. Gilles' eyes were on Tailler, not without signs of amusement.

"Confusion. Mystification, so his wife could call in a missing-person report, and then, not too long after, good old Didier comes walking in the door, very much alive. Because he was planning to kill another man—one who, just by the luck of the draw, resembled him well enough."

Gilles nodded.

"Go on."

Tailler shrugged.

"I can't. We don't know enough. We don't have a motive. We still haven't identified the body in the river—my sense is that we never will, not the way we're going at it. Because we're actually pretty good at that sort of thing. Those bulletins are all over France—and we've already had our one good hit. And that, sir, was in Lyon. Didier's second spouse. And it wasn't even a picture of Didier. The resemblance must be pretty close and we can see that for ourselves." Tailler took in some air and went on. "If we take a photo of the river victim and show it to the neighbours—what are they going to say?"

He waited. Gilles shook his head.

"I don't know, Tailler—" There was promise here nevertheless. "And who, Emile, was the blonde woman in the Rive Gauche?"

Emile Tailler turned and found his desk. He sat heavily on the seat, staring up and out of the window for a while.

With a sigh, Maintenon was about ready to get back to his own files.

"Ah." Tailler sat up. "Ah!"

"Well, Tailler?"

Tailler locked eyes with Maintenon.

"If I tell you, will you get us those warrants? I mean, you can do it, right?"

There was such a thing as a friendly judge, and Maintenon had been around a lot longer than either Tailler or Hubert.

"Yeah—I might."

"Okay, boss, then listen. Listen good. You are really going to like this one."

Levain chuckled softly, giving Emile an admiring look. The guy had only been with them for three or four months, for crying out loud.

Persistence was better than nothing. The boy certainly had his share.

Chapter Twenty-Two

All three of their warrants were to be executed at once. For reasons that were rather more political than practical, it was anticipated that Gaston e Cie would cooperate willingly. As it was, their name should be kept out of it as far as that was possible. Before approaching the firm, some solid information would be helpful.

Levain and Tailler had been elected for the house in Paris. Gilles and LeBref were to search the house in Lyon, while Firmin and Hubert were in Molsheim.

"Are we ready?" There were six hulking cops on the sidewalk.

Levain gave Emile a nod.

"Go for it."

Tailler pushed the button beside the street level door labeled Godeffroy.

"Yes, hello?"

It sure sounded like Monique; but then how the hell would he know...

"Madame Godeffroy?"

"Yes, who is it?"

"This is Detective Emile Tailler. I have a warrant, duly signed and issued by a competent authority, to search these premises for evidence related to a homicide."

There was a long pause.

Tailler looked at Levain and bit his lip. He caught Sergeant Richard's eye, as he stood with the axe casually over his shoulder. They had a master key from the landlord, but there were interior doors and closets as well. It would be interesting to see how she handled it.

Tailler was just about to speak when the latch clicked.

"So. She's going to be sensible, then." Levain grabbed the knob, whipped the door open and then they were all clattering up the stairs.

A lot could happen in thirty seconds when people were desperate and the jig was up.

***

They had been very patient.

With the chase most definitely on, Gilles as senior member of the unit had taken the simple precaution, once Didier's (the real one presumably) location was firmly nailed down, of dispatching a pair of plain-clothes officers to shadow him. Once their shadows called in and confirmed that they had him under proper surveillance, Gilles had given the boys the go-ahead for the operation.

If Didier ran or went to ground in a major city, they might have one hell of a time catching up again. In order to avoid arousing his suspicions, they couldn't even freeze his bank accounts. In what was very odd, phone taps to all three households indicated he wasn't calling them and they weren't calling or trying to call him. It might be hard for a wife or spouse to locate him on impulse. One would think he would call home once in a while, and let them know where he was, and how he was doing.

Their monitoring of the lines at Gaston e Cie had recorded several long and involved business conversations that left little doubt they were dealing with the real Didier.

That was an interesting moment.

Days had passed and the tensions mounted.

Now it was different.

With regular updates from their officers calling in from stations on the way, it was clear that Didier was finally heading home for Paris. He could still branch off at almost any point along the way, almost up to the last minute. The wine-producing regions of France were diverse and scattered all over. It was only when he got up in the morning, left his hotel, took a cab, made his way to the station and bought a ticket for Paris, that's when they knew for certain he was really coming.

More than anything they wanted Didier to come home. The timing and execution of their warrants was predicated upon the fact that Didier's train came in at approximately ten-forty-two a.m. from points south and west.

Once he bought that final ticket, his fate was more or less determined. One of their field officers called in hurriedly. Their quarry had actually boarded and one of them was on the train with him. As soon as the second shadow hung up, there would be two of them on the train with Didier...

They were coming home.

Any change in plans, even one unexpected move on his part, and his shadows would grab him and slap the cuffs on him without hesitation. They would grab him and drag him in by the scruff of the neck if that's what it took.

Lucinde let them in without a problem and quickly stood aside as they went to work.

"What is this all about, gentlemen?" Her dignity was tragic, her countenance stern, although her lips trembled.

Gilles looked her in the eye.

"I may have a few questions for you. In the meantime, please sit down on the end of the couch and don't move, Madame."

Her face white with suppressed emotions, the lady had turned and did exactly what she was told. The redoubtable Jeannine stood there, arms crossed, keeping an eye on her.

***

In Molsheim, Detective Etienne Hubert stood looking around the room. They were accompanied by a detective and a sergeant from the local detachment. They would of course receive all due credit in any subsequent news conferences. Inspector Descamps hadn't stinted them a bit of manpower. The thought that their detachment would share in any glory probably didn't enter into it—not too much, anyways.

The air in Zoe's flat was stale but relatively odorless. Her houseplants were definitely getting dry when he pulled off a glove and stuck a finger into the soil. It was very quiet and all the windows were tightly shut. There were no pets. She had a little milk in the fridge. When Hubert smelled it, it was sour. There were perishable items, looking pretty limp by now, and the potatoes when he found them were spotted and beginning to smell.

He wandered the place in his cotton gloves as the technical guys, local people, went about dusting for prints.

He raised his voice.

"Look for anything masculine. Anyplace where a guest, especially male, might have touched."

He thought about it. Fingerprints were the most damning evidence. The bathroom, the bedroom...which side would the woman sleep on?

She would shove further in from the side they got in on, and that would put the male beside the bedside table and the telephone.

"Check the alarm clock and the telephone."

The fridge, maybe. Not the stove. She had a little bar alcove at one end of the salon, mostly for show thought Hubert.

Someone knocked at the door and the men inside Zoe's apartment froze for a second as if stricken by the most abject guilt. With a look at Firmin, Hubert went to the door.

It was Ada Bellerose.

"Can I help you?"

Her face was flaming.

"You! You bastards. What's going on in there?"

Hubert shrugged.

A uniformed sergeant appeared at his shoulder.

"There is no need for alarm. Other than that, you can read about it in the papers, Mademoiselle."

Gently, ever so gently, Hubert shut the door in the young lady's face.

"Sir?"

A little thrill ran through Detective Hubert.

"Yes?"

"I think we've got something."

Following the voice, he went into the bathroom, a small but attractive little room up under the back eaves.

"What have you got for me?"

"It looks like a man's shaving kit."

Hubert grinned.

He gave the sergeant a look.

"Okay, men. We're looking for fingerprints, strands of hair, dead whiskers in the brush, and fibres from the man's coat. Mud from his shoes. Male personal hygiene items, cigarettes, pipes, a gross of condoms, you name it. Leave no stone unturned."

"What about the rug?" The grinning young gendarme, crowding in for a look, had a point, thought Hubert.

"Pull it up when we're done and look for money—stuff like that. Right?" He gave the sergeant a quick look.

The grizzled veteran nodded.

"You heard the man."

Firmin gave Sergeant Paquet a wink, receiving a blank look in return. Hubert was so wound up, it was like the poor guy just couldn't stand still.

***

Didier Godeffroy, every inch the picture of the perfect businessman, la parfait négociant, stepped off the train into the shrill babble of the platform crowd, and was immediately confronted.

A perfect cliff of a man in big shoes, grey trousers and a long black raincoat stepped directly in front of him. A wide-brimmed fedora shadowed his eyes from the hot glare above. A sturdy woman with a face like a potato was at his side. Her hair was in a tight bun and her cap hung half sideways, pinned on a precarious angle. Their eyes bored into his as others crowded him from behind.

"Didier Godeffroy?"

"Yes?"

The woman held up a shiny official badge while the man-ape stood there watching his reaction carefully, arms held loosely at his sides.

"There's not going to be any trouble here, is there sir?" The deep rumbling voice matched the man.

"No, no, of course not." Didier stared in apparent confusion at the badge. "Who are you people? What is this about, please?"

The lady officer spoke.

"If you would come with us, sir, we would just like to ask you a few questions."

People eddied and swirled around the three, Didier with his baggage at his feet and the other two oblivious to all around them. Their focus was entirely on him.

His eyes flickered left and right. He became aware that he was under scrutiny from certain other rather cold-looking ladies and gentlemen. They stood off to each side, cold in the sense of being watchful, motionless and emotionless, rather than from the temperature. He tore his eyes away.

"Where are we going?"

"Leave the bags, sir. Please, sir, just turn around and put your hands on your head."

Didier's jaws dropped as the big officer spoke and the female stepped slightly off to one side, pulling her coat back and it was obvious that she had her hand on the butt of a weapon.

"Whoa." He gulped. "Okay, okay—no problem."

He raised his hands, nice and slow and then he was quickly spun around by the clamp of a hand on his collar bone area. An iron grip took hold of his right wrist as the emotions ran through him. For a moment there it looked like, it sure felt like, he would bolt. The steel ring snapped on his wrist.

He sagged at the knees and then fought for composure, his posture straightening in spite of all odds. He took a long, hard breath, his darting, shocked eyes seeking something above the level of their heads.

"Ah..."

"Keep that left hand up there." The lady was the total professional.

There was the momentary gleam of a wedding ring.

He gave her the look of a frightened rabbit confronted by the fox. His eyes were everywhere, the heart-rate shooting skywards and the adrenalin making his knees knock.

His body gave one massive twitch, but he remained in some semblance of control over himself.

The opportunity passed, and he never would have made it anyway.

There was nowhere to run. There were trains before and behind his narrow platform. All avenues were blocked by officers in bulky shoes, ill-fitting trousers, and shapeless jackets and coats. The cuff was on his right wrist. His left wrist was seized and brought down.

His hand was yanked into position and then he was secured.

"Who do you people think you are—"

"Look on the bright side, Monsieur Godeffroy. You won't have to carry your own bags. You won't even have to tip us."

The lady gendarme waved off a porter as he came along, recognizing Monsieur Godeffroy perhaps and not seeing that there was some action here he might not want to be involved in.

It all clicked in and he sought their hard eyes in confirmation—he knew cops when he saw them. The old fellow, all dressed in blue and with the regulation cap, stood there gaping, hands clasping the handle of the cart. Another impatient traveler plucked at his elbow and dragged him rather unwillingly off. Clouds of steam and gaggles of tired travelers straggled past in the light breeze.

"I want to speak to my lawyer."

"You'll have all the time in the world, sir."

The big male gendarme leaned across in front of the prisoner, turned his head and gave Jeannine a quick and admiring glance.

The arresting officers, taking an elbow each, his arms cuffed behind him, frog-marched an ashen-faced Didier Godeffroy down the platform, through the concourse and out into the bright, marvelous autumn day.

It really was perfect weather for September.

***

With one prisoner in custody, the woman calling herself Monique and the one calling herself Lucinde had been ordered not to leave town. They were under non-stop surveillance by teams of officers working in shifts.

On their own, Hubert and Tailler never would have been able to pull it off, but with Maintenon and Inspectors Delorme and David pulling for them, they had gotten all the resources they needed.

Monsieur Godeffroy had been allowed to call his lawyer. He had been booked and processed and was sitting in a holding cell.

Their teams in Lyon and Molsheim had, essentially, twenty-four hours to get the goods and return to Paris, although the public prosecutor was good for one twenty-four hour extension. After that, they would have to go to the judge and show cause for holding Monsieur Godeffroy any longer.

The team from Molsheim having returned triumphant, Maintenon had pulled more strings.

They had taken over the biggest conference room they could find, luckily on their own floor this time. All the desks and tables had been pushed together in two lines, tables in one, all about the same height, and the desks in the other line. Each subject and each aspect of the case got their own big table as detectives wandered up and down, organizing everything they had. Tailler had a big blackboard with a time-line on it, and references to railway schedules, salient events, eye-witness reports and ticket stubs seized so far...it was all coming together beautifully.

They had their exhibits lined up, neatly tagged, bagged, labeled and identified. When the team from Lyon came bounding down the hallway with their boxes and materials, they were rapidly redirected by Firmin to the appropriate room.

Tailler had taken to calling it a think tank.

Gilles and Levain were off on a case of their own, but after a noisy greeting, the small group settled down. There were just Hubert, Firmin, and Tailler. The gendarmes had been sent back, with some effusive thanks, to whatever duties they had originally been pulled from.

Now it was just a case of making sense of what they had.

Tailler stood awed for a moment as Firmin and Hubert hunched over the phone, and mumbled away at their one and only clear desk in the corner.

With fingerprints, hairs, shaving kits, bloodstains, bodies, time-tables, railroad and the killer's as well, it had become fairly overwhelming.

"Oh, boy."

This was going to take some doing—he knew what must have happened, what could have happened, what might have happened. Now they just needed to prove it.

First things first.

Fingerprints.

***

It was time for les enfants terrible to spell it out.

"Are you ready to tell me what happened yet, Emile?"

"Yes, Inspector."

Hubert nodded firmly.

Sure. Why not.

Hubert began.

"Well, sir. We have Didier Godeffroy's fingerprints all over, all three domiciles. We have hairs from his head, most likely, according to preliminary analysis. It's difficult to see where else they might have come from. We've asked around and there are no other interesting males in any of the women's lives. We have Didier's whiskers from the razors. What's interesting, is that with the decedent from the river, the look-alike, we can't find his prints anywhere in any of the premises."

Reports stated the unidentified victim's whiskers, were in general thicker and perhaps a bit darker than the real Didier's. This part did sort of throw doubt on all other evidence regarding whiskers, as it was simply not possible to be conclusive. All their experts agreed on that.

"I see."

"Okay. This is where it gets fun, Inspector. I have to admit, it took me a while to figure it out."

Hubert raised his hand like a schoolboy.

"I give Emile full credit for that—this is all his idea, Inspector."

Gilles snorted gently, as Levain grinned and Firmin gave Hubert a blank stare. The young detective coloured slightly and shut up.

Tailler looked shy for a moment, but then plunged on.

"Okay. The lady in the Rive Gauche—her prints are all over the Paris residence of Didier Godeffroy. And the hotel room—and nowhere else. Yet they were on the ticket stub, although the ladies of a certain class still favour gloves, and the weather was cool that day. They were on the letter." He cleared his throat. "So—she had gloves with her. She came in wearing a spring and fall jacket. I noticed it at the time. The stations are cold inside, and she would have bought the ticket and stuck the stub in her purse. She might have been wearing gloves—or, more usually people just toss them."

Train stations and the sidewalks around them were littered with just such cancelled stubs.

Gilles pursed his lips and even Firmin looked impressed.

"Go on, my dear boy. Go on."

Tailler stammered and cleared his throat.

"What's interesting is that the prints from the body in the Rive Gauche don't match any of the prints in the Zoe passport. But all the passports are a mess of mostly unidentifiable smudges. When we look further, we can match up prints from Zoe's house, to fragmentary prints on the Zoe passport. Did I get that right?"

He was pretty sure he had. He glanced through his notes, but that was what it said. He tried again.

"Now, eliminating the maid and the cook and one or two prints that clearly don't belong to anybody—I'm a bit unsure there, but surely Monique, and even Lucinde, couldn't have been that isolated. The most perfect servant will miss the odd print when cleaning, waxing and dusty. But they can linger for quite a while—"

Gilles coughed and he broke off.

"...getting right to the point, sir, is that the prints of the lady calling herself Monique appear in the Paris household and the Lyons household." His eyes went far away. "What's interesting is that the servants haven't been seen in a while. The theory is that they've been let go and any documents are missing somehow..."

With none of them talking under advice of counsel, it would take some time to find them.

Levain nodded, a quick little jerk of the head.

"And the fingerprints of the lady calling herself Lucinde are found in the house in Lyon as well as the house in Molsheim. It's a regular fucking shell game going on here, sir."

Gilles exhaled in a kind of admiration.

"The body in the park really did get up and walk away. In the absence of other leads, other reports, it's the only sensible explanation. Following Didier's movements, and we have hotel confirmations going back quite a ways, there are a couple of big gaps. There are two big, beautiful windows of opportunity, one for the Rive Gauche killing. Also. He was out of the house for the alleged body you found, Inspector. The time frame is perfect. We have officers interviewing station attendants all up and down the line, and we expect to get their reports. It would be nice to know exactly when he left town. So far we've turned up nothing. Part of the problem is that he was actually fairly well-known. He ditched most of his own ticket stubs—a sensible precaution. Honestly, he would have had a handful, and that's just from his regular job. People are saying that they saw him come and go—can't remember when, but he was a regular customer. Maybe we'll get lucky there."

Tailler tailed off. The truth was, he still had questions.

"So."

"So, ah, sir. The theory is that the look-alike gentleman was blackmailing Didier." He cleared his throat. "That's probably where the idea originally came from—he remarked upon the resemblance. Obviously, he had a real thing for blonde women of a certain height and build."

Hubert spoke.

"The blackmailer may have actually contacted the wife—Monique. That would precipitate events. He didn't have to tell her anything, in fact he probably didn't. But she took the call. The guy got pushy and called there—and she picked up. It's all she had to do. It would put a hell of a lot of pressure on Didier. It would show that the blackmailer meant business—or else."

"Very well."

Maintenon looked at Hubert.

"And that's our motive?"

"Oh, yes, sir. Ah...the guy is demanding money. He might have phoned the house. It's a big threat. Didier arranges to go and have a drink with him. That's what he tells Monique—the real one. It's just a guy from work, Honey. He's changed clothes, he's all set to do his gambit in the park—that shows real inspiration, Gilles. He's got some crazy old stiletto—none of them are going to tell us that, are they? That's because he had it, a souvenir or something, and of course Monique is dead. It was from the house in Paris. She can't tell us anything now. So. Someone reports a body in the park. Off he goes. The suit is dark enough, he can go into a bar if needs be, but I think he met the victim near the river. The guy's waiting for a payoff. One quick stab in the guts and in he goes. Didier dumps the body off the bridge. He could never carry a body there. We might look for car rentals, certainly no taxi would have taken him. Not with a dead body, and remained silent. We could ask around, but dead drunk passengers, ah...maybe. But he could walk to the Pont Tolbiac, or get there by cab fairly quickly. Keep his appointment."

"I see. So he arranged to meet the blackmailer near the point of disposal. What then?"

"Well, sir, he did have a railway locker key in his possession upon his arrest. The locker was empty—he probably had a fresh suit in there. He changed in the rest room, and either ditched the black suit he was wearing, or took it with him on the train for disposal somewhere more suitable." A dark suit wouldn't show the blood.

"At first, he had no idea we would find out about the other wife—taking off, dead scared probably, he simply forgets or can't quite bring himself to call the one in Lyon. When he doesn't turn up as expected, she calls the police. Because honestly, there was nothing about our mystery man in the Lyon papers." That had been checked with a long and involved set of phone calls to several Lyon newspaper offices.

Tailler had more, admittedly much of it speculation.

The beauty lies in the details—the Inspector's own words or so it seemed.

It was night and the light in train stations often pretty garish. He could change in the restroom and sling it out the window, once on the train and out in the countryside between stations.

"That explains why our dead man was wearing a different colour of suit—according to Monique." There were bloodstains on it, but mostly washed out by the cold water. "If the guy showed up in a blue suit, it sure as hell wouldn't make much difference to Didier."

"Ah, yes, Monique." They were doing well. "Tell me more about her."

"Okay. She's the dead one at the Rive Gauche—"

Firmin's left eyebrow, unseen by Tailler and Hubert but definitely in Maintenon's field of vision, was climbing higher and higher.

"Ah."

"Yes, sir. It has to be her. One thing we noticed, but didn't properly remark upon, was how drawn she was the second time we saw her. But by this time it wasn't her at all—it was Lucinde."

Firmin laughed. He shook his head, and picked up a few papers, still listening though.

Emile shrugged, face reddening.

He gave Firmin a look.

"Yeah, but think. Every time we turn around, we're being presented with another beautiful blonde—we're so busy staring at their tits and their asses, we can't see the forest for the trees kind of thing. No wonder we missed it."

"Keep going, gentlemen."

"And here's another thing. Didier was just fucking praying that the body never surfaced. It's his bad luck that it did, or his plan might have worked out fairly well."

It was true enough, that bodies went into the river and were never seen again.

Maintenon had to admit, it was ingenious. And they were right—the blanks could be filled in with some intensive investigation, now that they knew exactly what they were looking for.

"Okay, sir. Interestingly, because we took the case over from Delorme, those boys never had the chance to show Didier's picture around the hotel. They've never even seen it, although I'm sure they got the bulletin. It's just one of those things. It would appear completely unrelated to them. Nothing but another pain in the ass missing-person report. And we were so excited, so busy, I guess, we never even thought of it."

There was a long silence. Gilles closed his eyes, he appeared to be thinking deeply.

"So who is our mystery man?"

"I'm thinking someone connected to Lucinde. That whole set-up in Lyon stinks to high heaven. Since she is so obviously not his wife, and the other one, Zoe, wasn't claiming to be, I have to wonder if we'll ever know her real name. She had the newspaper clipping. I'll bet that's Monique in the picture—and she knows it, too. Zoe, on the other hand, good question. But think about it. This bozo, our mysterious victim, goes out of the country for a while. Maybe he's in jail or something. He and Lucinde—I don't know what else to call her, they're estranged. But they've never really gotten divorced. Years later, he comes back, and he'd dead broke. Goes back to the old home town, you know. He probably wonders about the ex-wife. He's hungry, he's hurting. He makes inquiries. He sees them around. He learns they're living as husband and wife...and he knows that just can't be."

"He was killed in Paris."

"True—but that just shows he knows who Didier was. It shows that Didier was a good target for blackmail—Didier was a successful man with a good reputation. A guy with a piss-pot full of money. Life must have seemed very unfair to our blackmailer. And poor old Didier had a lot to lose, Inspector."

Gilles looked at Tailler and Hubert.

"And how would you gentlemen like to proceed?"

Tailler looked at Hubert, who sat up straight and glanced down at his briefing notes.

"Let's bring the ladies in on charges and see if we can shake anything loose. Hopefully, if they're innocent, and yet know something, anything, they'll talk. If they're any kind of accessory, we'll have them in custody. Let them feel the pressure for a while. They'll talk."

Levain piped up for the first time.

"Here's what gets me. The ladies. How do you figure that part worked?"

Hubert nodded.

"He's got all that figured out."

Tailler glowed a little.

It shone out of him.

"Ah, yes, Andre. Monsieur Godeffroy could have told the one in Lyon that he and Monique were getting a divorce—he would say that she had gone to live with her mother or something like that. The wife went nuts. I stuck her in the asylum. My uncle Albert left me some money, but he's a strict Catholic. If he hears I'm divorced, he'll cut me off. Whatever. He would have told them whatever they needed to hear. He is nothing if not subtle. He would have ideas, this man. He might have suggested that he had to sell the place in Lyon to pay the ex-wife off. A lady living in Lyon might have been happy to move to Paris. A man like that would have thought of something convincing. She already knew she had a false passport, she was already in that so-called marriage, one she knew to be bogus. He would have been able to pull it off."

"And the one known as Zoe, and now, as you say, claiming to be Lucinde?"

"Pretty much the same deal, Inspector. He would tell her, ah, that his wife had left him and why not come to Lyon? He would give her another big story. See, Inspector, she, she thinks he lives in Lyon. The guy lies like a rug. Seriously. Her employer says she just stopped coming to work one day. This was before, a few days before all of this started to happen. How much she knows, is anybody's guess. The neat thing, Inspector, is that neither one of them really had to know anything." He went on. "Psychologically, they were sort of screwed, sir. They knew what they were doing was somehow not quite right, in the social sense. It was not so much criminal in their eyes, it was merely unconventional, something of a potential embarrassment. This would leave them, especially women of a certain class, a certain mindset, a kind of mental hostage to Didier. I suspect a very controlling influence. As soon as we started sniffing around, they knew something was up. But they had no choice but to keep playing their parts. Soon as we start sniffing around, they would become very protective of Didier—with nothing but their dignity to fall back on. They were also protecting themselves. Soon as they saw the body in the morgue, they must have been shitting bricks and wondering what the hell was going on."

"The fact that they are lying about their names suggests something, otherwise. You still haven't tied up all the threads yet, gentlemen. Although I admit you're doing well. So why did one say the dead male was him, and the other one say it was?"

"Because they knew something was up—but we were telegraphing all our punches. They had no information, and each did the best they could in an unknown situation. It had to be one or the other, Inspector. The two women simply reacted differently, each in their own way." Hubert looked pleased with this supposition.

Tailler wasn't the only one who could speculate, his manner seemed to imply.

"So. We figure Didier had the germ of an idea, already. He'd probably met with the blackmailer at least once. Probably put him off, told him to go to hell. When the crunch came, he was desperate. The idea happened—I can't put it any better than that, and he initiated a plan that was so crazy, so absurd, that it might have actually worked. More than anything, I think he just decided to kill the guy. And then make it work, somehow. Once Monique—the real Monique, saw the papers, she must have wondered. She must have seen the papers. She never let on to us, which was what killed her. At that point, she became a threat. There are two separate bodies, and we have two separate motives. Didier was just making it up as he went along, sir. Psychologically, there may be a term for it. Whatever it was, he must have had it real bad."

Tailler stared at Gilles, who grinned slightly under the gaze.

"What was the clincher for me, sir. Didier nipped back to Molsheim, did some business—all confirmed by Gaston e Cie. He bought a shit-load of product, and in a very short time, apparently. He bought a ticket to Paris, and with a bit of quick thinking, called ahead and got Monique to meet him downtown for a romantic getaway. We've got the day, the time, the ticket-clerk, and the conductor. He had to get her out of the way first, then get the other ladies to move on short notice."

They were convinced the ladies knew something.

"Well?" Hubert was on pins and needles. "Some of this might be backed up by their dental records. Now that we know what we're looking for—and why we're looking for it."

"Well, what?"

Tailler's beady little eyes were upon him.

"Can we bring them in, sir?"

Maintenon tipped his head on an angle and gave Levain and Firmin a look. There was a kind of unspoken consensus visible in their faces. Firmin shrugged and then shrugged again. Levain chewed on that blasted pencil...

He caught Gilles' eye on him and stopped.

"Sure. Why not." Maybe they could get to the bottom of this thing after all. "Let's see what they have to say for themselves."

A coffin only needed so many nails. As for the guillotine, that only took one little trip of the lever, and the sometimes surprisingly cheerful acquiescence of a jury of one's peers.

"Hopefully you gentlemen can connect a few more of the dots."

"Yes, sir." Hubert grabbed the phone.

His first call would be Lyon. He and Tailler would pick up so-called Lucinde personally.

Gilles sat there watching through lidded eyes, hand clasped across his belly, which was beginning to rumble.

Both of them were very highly-talented detectives. They had a lot of potential. Talent was no substitute for hard work, observing proper procedures and that painstaking attention to detail.

Their case, while coming together, was messy—very messy.

Attention to detail had saved his own ass more than once.

It was a lesson that once learned, would never leave them.

Chapter Twenty-Three

It had suddenly come to Hubert. The solution to all of their problems.

It was just so damned simple.

Tailler was interviewing the one known as Lucinde. He was asking simple, innocuous questions about her hometown. She was putting him off as best she could. Her answers were very general, vague even. They were a little too vague for someone who had allegedly lived there in Lyon for many years.

Their voices were muffled on the other side of a panel of one-way glass.

The girl stood in breathless silence.

"Well?"

Hubert and Maintenon stood beside Ada Bellerose, brought in from Molsheim by Jeannine, back on the case, and LeBref, who barely came up to her shoulder.

She gulped, not really knowing what was going on.

"Can you tell us who that is, Mademoiselle?"

She cleared her throat.

"Yes. That—that is Zoe Godeffroy."

Maintenon took her arm.

"Thank you, Mademoiselle. That will be all."

Hubert tapped on the glass. Two faces turned to look at the mirror on their side. The lady was very pale as Tailler went back to the questioning.

***

"Monsieur Godeffroy."

The gentleman had his lawyer present. Tailler and Hubert sat on one side of the table and the two of them sat on the other.

Hubert was letting Tailler handle this part. Emile had definitely earned it.

"It seems to us, gentlemen, that Monsieur Godeffroy has three options."

Those blue-black eyes stared across the table as the attorney, a Monsieur Pichon, shifted in his chair. It was the face from the pictures, even some of the pictures of the other guy—the dead one.

The lawyer's briefcase was on the table between them, unopened. His jacket, hand-stitched, looked thick and soft in a kind of multi-coloured grey weave of Italian make.

The attorney spoke.

"And what might they be?"

His intelligent glittered behind thin silver glasses. For professional reasons, he was completely composed, although his client bore the signs of nervousness.

"You can take your chances and go to trial."

Tailler waited.

"You can go to trial, plead your innocence, and who knows—you might walk away a free man. Or face the guillotine."

Tailler paused again, looking into those eyes.

"Or you can plead guilty, get up on the stand, and tell some big sob story. You can blame somebody else, claim self defense, whatever. Talk about the blackmailer threatening you. Hell, it might have happened, right? Even we can see that. Extenuating circumstances, throw yourself on the mercy of the court." The gentleman might plead to manslaughter, or a homicide in the lesser degree. "At the very least, you avoid the death penalty. If you're lucky. You might get parole in about forty years..."

"Or?"

Tailler relaxed.

"One of our concerns is for the ladies. Lucinde has children. They, at least, are real. With a little cooperation from you, sir, we could maybe let them off the hook—we could try and keep the children out of the limelight." Tailler was hoping he would go for it. "They are your children after all."

Didier's face fell into his hands and he sobbed.

"We can recommend to the public prosecutor, twenty-five years, with the possibility of parole after twenty. Time off for good behaviour. Devil's Island, which, on reflection, might be better than a metropolitan prison...n'est pas?"

He would at least get to see the light once in a while. He could have his own garden and grow vegetables, beets and things.

Tailler stopped. He swallowed. He looked down at the notes before him. Didier's eyes had already fallen. The dead weren't the only victims. There were also the living.

"May I speak with my client?"

"Certainly, sir. We need for Didier to be very clear on this."

Without hesitation, Tailler and Hubert pushed their chairs back. Hubert tapped on the door and there came the ringing of keys and the clunk of big tumblers.

It was in the lap of the gods at this point.

***

It was another morning, the start of another brand-new day. Over the course of time, busy as hell they were lately, they all blended into one, or so it seemed.

Tailler came in, with snow on the shoulders of his coat and on the wide brim and peak of his battered grey fedora. The radiators along the front wall steamed with a collection of hats and gloves laid there in the forlorn hope of drying out before they were needed again.

He hung it up, turning and rubbing his hands.

"What's up?"

They were all mostly there, including Archambault, looking a pale and wan shadow of his former self, and even LeBref.

Levain looked up from his desk.

"Have you seen the papers?"

"Ah, yes, I have." Tailler grinned and made a little mock bow.

Didier Godeffroy, having made an agreed-upon statement of the facts, had pleaded guilty before the court and had been convicted of two homicides. His written confession was very detailed, including the real names of Lucinde and her dead husband.

Didier Godeffroy was all over the front pages. Tailler and Hubert were there too, as well as some other important mentions.

Didier was awaiting his official sentencing, but there was little reason to doubt that he'd be on the boat to Devil's Island in pretty short order. It was one for the history books now.

Gilles stood up from behind his desk.

"Congratulations, Emile. You gentlemen did a wonderful job." Picking up a white pasteboard box from his desk, Gilles came over and lifted the lid.

"A baker's dozen. Strawberry-filled, Emile. And they're all for you." There was white icing on top, and those lovely, colourful candy sprinkles.

Emile Tailler's mouth opened as he took the box.

"For me—really?" The look on his face was priceless.

"No, Emile—they're for somebody else." Gilles stepped back, nodding gravely as Levain guffawed.

"It's either the one or the other, Emile." Hubert grinned from behind the desk.

Tailler found words.

"It is just so hard to be accepted around here." He sighed. "And I suppose, there will always be doubts..."

Lifting a beignet and biting into the wrong side, a squirt of red jam flew out and over and spattered down on their black and white tiles.

Merde.

"I have just one more question, Emile."

"Ah, yes, sir?" His mouth was full and he gasped at the sticky mess. "And what's that, sir?"

"What is the moral of the story?"

Tailler broke off his quick search for a rag or a cloth or something. A weird, comical look crossed his homely mug and then he regarded the Inspector.

"Didier Godeffroy loved women." The room broke up and Emile flushed. "It was pathological with that guy. Like the loaves and the fishes, he figured out a way to indulge it in a most spectacular way. You really got to hand it to good old Didier. He loved women, loved them, altogether, just a little too much. Too much for his own good. And too much of a good thing can kill you."

Tailler sighed deeply, almost in a kind of admiration.

"For all of his fascination, it's like he just didn't appreciate them enough."

"Ha!" LeBref had just come in. "He's got you there, Gilles."

Levain snorted. Hubert was wondering when the phone would ring; probably soon enough.

"Hmn. I'll buy that. I guess." Maintenon's hands came up and he led the room in a sustained golf clap that brought a blush to Tailler's face.

It was all over save the actual eating of the aforesaid beignets.

There was still that bit of goop on the floor too.

End

About Louis Shalako

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.

> Louis Shalako <

