Part One
Part Seven
Part Eight
Part Nine
Part Ten
Part Eleven
Part Twelve
Part Thirteen
Part Fouteen
Part Fifteen
Part Sixteen
Part Seventeen
Part Eighteen
Part Nineteen
Louis Shalako
Speak Softly My Love
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?
“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.
But what
the hell.
“Ah,
well…yeah. I’m Detective 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 very 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 we could tell you more.”
“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.
You 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.
“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.
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. But
some of those photos were Monique—and Lucinde. She didn’t catch on, apparently.
There was
more, lots more. At some point, having helped to destroy the young woman in
some way, they had no choice but to make 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, of course. He’s always so beautifully dressed, and of
course they made such a couple…”
“Okay.”
After
getting her phone number they made a quick escape.
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 had decided to 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,
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.
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.”
“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
hotel 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, yes,
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.”
END
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