Speak Softly My Love, Chapter Four.

Police would very much like to speak with Monsieur Godeffroy.

Previously:

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

Louis Shalako

Speak Softly My Love

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 a little 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. 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, although Madame Lefebvre had initially been opposed. 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.”

"Screw you, Gilles. I was sitting in your lap. Argh."

“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 dark tones disappearing and going transparent may have had something to do with it.

“Okay, sir. 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.

"What? A body? Another freakin' wife?"

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?”

“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. 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, 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 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.

“What’s your first move?”

“Call them and get copies of their new 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…?”

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.

END

Speak Softly My Love, Chapter Three.

Nombre Dix, Booulevard de Palais. (Nitot.)

Part One.
Part Two.




Louis Shalako


Speak Softly My Love


Chapter Three

Days had passed and 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 was that the police were stymied and were seeking the public’s help in the matter which was listed as a probable homicide.

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. 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 sequestered 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.

U.S. Army Africa.

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 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 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 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.

“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.

“These are the pictures of Monsieur Didier Godeffroy.”

“Our missing person?”

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

A competent young man. (MachoCarioca)

“Who called it in?”

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

Gilles snorted gently and the kid 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 the next morning. She’d been stewing all night, 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. The dates and times correspond beautifully.”

“Hmn.” Gilles picked up the small picture.

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 own house and about six blocks from the Parc Montsouris.

“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 some time on Friday. 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.”

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. 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 this 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…seventy-five millimetres, maybe a bit more away from the heart. 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.

“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 one is the original. The rest is for you guys.”

Gilles picked the snapshot up and handed it back.

“Please thank Inspector David for me.”

Gravelet was just turning to go when Levain came in.

"Hey!" (Theo'sLittleBot.)

“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.”

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

There would be a shit-load of typing and he 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 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.

END