Speak Softly My Love, Chapter Six.

Casting my own imaginary movie. Cary Grant as Hubert.

Part One
Part Two
Part Three
Part Four
Part Five

 Louis Shalako


Speak Softy My Love


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 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 accept it, let go, and let the current take them.

Hubert had 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 little 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.

“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 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 hinted at the age 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.”

She had strong Gypsy features.

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 eleven feet long. Hubert assumed it was real, and he’d read one or two stories where tigers figured prominently.

Hubert looked away and sipped at his glass. 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 all fours and presenting a pretty fine ass in their general direction. The show, of course, 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, and 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, like he’d walked into a candy store and the owner had died of a heart attack—you’re nine years old and you can see all the infinite possibilities inherent in the situation.

“What?”

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

“What about…?” He 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. “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.

That’s not to say he 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. 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. The guy was probably thinking...he would be thinking of his mother and the Monsignor. He would suddenly realize, thought Hubert with a wicked smile; that he would be going straight to hell. If he hadn’t already thought of it. This 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.

"What is that, anyways?"

She changed recordings quickly, 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. The poor girls did it all the time. They drank soda water and hoarded their tips, giving it all to some opium-eater of a poet who wasn’t worth a crock of shit.

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 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.

END

Speak Softly My Love, Chapter Five.

Hubert had a year’s seniority on Tailler. Every so often he belabored the point, usually on procedural matters—Tailler still struggled with writs and applications, being intimidated by senior officers and jurists. The pair of them had become 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 then should have been out of here an hour ago), with anyone, well.

It might as well be someone rational.

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.” It was a gorgeous, warm September day, the leaves were in full colour and Tailler was just in the mood for a lark.

His eye raced down the train schedule. 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 out 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. 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 for one wouldn’t put much past him. Pimping, 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.”

"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.

***

Like Monique Godeffroy, 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 ever 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 and he knew 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 et 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 case 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?”

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, even 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.

“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 had begun with that one, but let the boy go. This was interesting.

“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.”

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.

"He's dead, isn't he?"

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.

“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.

“Did he ever talk about his old girlfriends?”

Nice!

That was sure as hell 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.

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.

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 staying at her sister’s place. 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 Lucinde 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.

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?”

END

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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