'The Art of Murder,' an excerpt.

Gilles had been reading a little bit more about Leblanc and what he called the ‘sensual restlessness’ of the age. Perhaps that was what he was feeling right now. The song was haunting, full of regrets, and he wondered. If love was such a beautiful thing, why were there so many sad love songs?


She knew they were there, of course, but making any assumptions as to how she might feel about it was tricky. She might hate them, but he thought not. She might resent them, and he could understand that. She might see it as heaping additional trials on her slender yet well-formed shoulders, and yet at the same time she might accept that. He wasn’t even sure why they were there, but seeing her in her own natural environment was informative.

She had beautiful shoulders, and Gilles felt a strange stirring of something deep inside of him. When she turned, the bone structure of her naked back, and of her shoulder blades, was amazing…just amazing.

The lady clearly belonged there. She had found some inner well of fortitude, enough to make her smile a sad, tired smile when she saw the pair of strangers come in and find a small table off to one side and near the door. She had smiled when she recognized them.

She smiled sadly at the inevitability of it all, and that said something. It was an acceptance of all that had to be, an acceptance of life’s tragedies, and the knowledge that they were going to do their job no matter who got hurt. Gilles had never felt less like smiling when he saw that.

She must know a lot of things that he never would. Yvonne would be easy to fall in love with for almost any normal man. He was a very small boy when it came to women like her. Maybe that was what she saw.

She was a mystery, and he was a very small boy.

The song was a lullaby, an old standby, but rather than putting the baby to sleep, she was saying something about the human heart in all its tenderness and all of its potential coldness. On her lips it was a lover’s song, the kind of song you wished you hadn’t heard just then, and you knew it would stick uncomfortably in your mind for a long time afterwards.

Andre had eyes for no one but her. Gilles was a little more objective. It occurred to him that the five piece ensemble might be an indifferent sound without her. On listening further to the soft drums and the cadence of the bass, he realized it was perfect. They highlighted her, and she was the sound, with the drummer playing in shirtsleeves, and the soft slow rasp of the drums, and then the piano, played by a smallish man in evening attire, beads of sweat glistening in the dim lamplight of the overheads, the slash of blue light falling across the face of the man on the saxophone. He didn’t know much about modern music, but he found he quite liked it.

The saxophone had its own song, but only when she went quiet. It was superb.

Gilles watched and listened to the bass for a while, noting again its restraint, and along with another man with a different kind of horn, he thought a bassoon, trying to isolate each sound and feel its place in the composition. As individuals, there were intent upon their own work, and yet they had to play as a group. It was a team, in every sense of the word. He saw them play off of each other, and the way she turned and engaged with them, in some unspoken way from time to time, and marveled at just how many things a man might never comprehend, not even at the most superficial level. It was two entirely different worlds up there under the lights and down here in the shadows, with the clink of a glass or a dull murmur coming to remind him that he was not alone, and would never have to be alone as long as there were places like this in the world.

She had the perfect voice for it, low, and husky, and perfectly controlled in the trills, and in harmonious resonance with the low-ceilinged, intimate club.

The orchestra without her might not be lost—they were the consummate professionals, for surely they understood their art and their medium far better than he ever would. She was beautiful, of course, and yet there was clearly something strong, deep inside her, and not just the superficialities of skin and hair and eyes, and red, red ruby lips almost touching the microphone as she made eye contact and nodded at him and Andre. With a life like hers, she must have a kind of resilience.


A tear falls to the sand

Waves and wind sigh in mourning

Over the sea to a far distant land

Up to the horizon and then a pause

And then he is gone

Heat of the sun never ceases

Gulls plaintive cries without cause

Forlorn hope never stops to sing

Blinking in the glare, she waits

The end is also a beginning

When ships with butterfly wings

Beat into the wind on a quest so fine

Lovers torn apart for a time

No one can say the why of these things

The bonds have been released

Each is free to be their own

This is a seed that must be sown

And no one can say its fate

Sometimes there is no way to win

But only to endure.

When ships with butterfly wings

Beating into the wind

Carry your heart across the ocean

It is all you can do, sometimes

To wait and to pray.

And to mourn…


Gilles would remember those words as long as he lived.


End


https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/250371

Chapter Seven, sc. 1, 'The Art of Murder.'

(Preliminary design. Not finalized.)






Hypnotism had been around since the early 1700s. They had looked it up before coming here. Now the author of The Art and Science of Hypnotism sat before them, expounding on his craft.


“Three forms of hypnotic somnambulism are distinguished clinically. These include classical somnambulism in patients with hysterical neurosis on a juvenile-unstable basis, sensual-lucid somnambulism in patients with hysterical neurosis on a primitive personality basis, and sensual-split somnambulism in patients with pseudo-neurotic schizophrenia with a hysteroid clinical picture. The differential diagnostic importance of such forms of somnambulism is stressed in all the literature.”

Without any idea of what to expect, it was a letdown but also revealing that the office was decorated and furnished like any other professional’s, whether doctor, lawyer, or some other type of consultant.

“And you say that hypnosis really doesn’t involve mental illness, nor cause any lasting chemical or structural changes to the brain? It is a phenomena completely unrelated?” Gilles listened carefully, wondering if he was even competent to ask a proper question. “Well, I can see why you wrote the book on it.”

“Essentially, that is correct.” The Great Swami, an American whose real name, Edward Cole, was all over the passport and professional documents he had provided, was a showman but also a scientist in his own way.

He had to thoroughly understand the medium, which involved heavy audience participation in terms of individual but also group consciousness, and he had to understand his art, which Gilles took to be one of misdirection.

“The trance state is primarily a physiological state, which alters the state of consciousness, rather than a transcendental state, where I sort of impose my will upon yours. In purely psychological terms, most subjects actually do resist the trance, at least at first. It is not a magical spell, not in any sense of the word. The fact that popular ignorance often prefers this view is no concern of mine. It actually makes my job easier. The public performance is a show, after all. The subjects participate by choice, at some conscious level, for the practitioner has made them comfortable, relaxed, and they feel safe enough in letting go. They often believe the audience will keep them safe enough, at least in a public performance.”

“So you’re like a real doctor, then?” Levain stumbled as he tried to make notes, knowing he would never be able to reconstruct all of this later from the squiggles in his notebook.

“Oh, absolutely, I am a doctor, yes. But I am so much more than that.” The Great Swami nodded complacently. “I am also an avatar of Shiva, but that is beside the point.”

Gilles coughed politely, sure it was a joke. He was as stumped as Levain.

“Totally off the record, none of your subjects are plants?”

Cole grinned.

“Never, although that is a common misconception.”

Gilles wondered whether to believe him or not.

“So you liked my book?” Gilles wondered at the insecurity of the vain, or was it just the writers.

“Yes, I couldn’t put it down. I stayed up all Saturday night to read it.”

The Great Swami beamed at the statement.

“I’d be happy to sign it for you.”

“No, that’s quite all right, besides, it’s actually evidence in a homicide. But you may have misunderstood my question.”

“Not at all, Inspector, but there are no easy answers. The classical feeling, the belief among professionals, is that it is impossible to induce a person through a hypnotic trance, to do or perform some act of which they are fundamentally incapable, or which they have no real need to do. They must be predisposed to it, and even then I believe, and many experts believe, that to over-ride a person’s natural sense of caution, or consequence if you will, the basic instinct for self-preservation at all costs, makes the task impossible. The organism would react where the whole was threatened.”

“You mean it is impossible to over-rule the subconscious mind?” This was the meat Gilles was looking for.

“Something like that.” The Swami, who looked like a perfectly ordinary person in the quiet comfort of his office, was trying to be helpful, but unfortunately they could only tell him so much. “There is perhaps one exception, which I deal with in chapter nineteen.”

“Oh…oh, ah...” Gilles thought furiously. “Yes—group consciousness. With a large enough sample you believe anything is possible?”

The sound of Andre’s pencil overwhelmed the brief silence as The Great Swami gave him a look. They were serious.

“I believe that crowd psychology, and a kind of mass hypnotism, is likely more effective than attempting to suborn a single individual, considering the mass media and its reach and influence in modern society.”

Gilles wondered if the Great Swami had ever been consulted by the government, but he didn’t think so or the man would have mentioned it. Also, he was unlikely to say anything that was too controversial, or likely to be contradicted by any other competent practitioner. That much was self-evident.

“What about quitting tobacco?” Levain’s shrugged at Gilles’ inquiring glance. “Why not, Inspector? We might as well ask, now that we have him.”

A feeble grin escaped Maintenon. He had been expecting a fast-talking charlatan, a real shyster, and the man was nothing like they had expected.

“I might be able to help you quit smoking. It’s a long process, and it is by no means certain. Nicotine is one of the most addictive substances known to man. It’s a hard habit to break, and that’s just the truth. As far as convincing someone to commit a serious crime, let alone murder, again, in my opinion, it cannot be done. It would be harder, or at least take more time, than getting them to quit smoking.”

“And how do you feel about your book being found at a crime scene?” Gilles was floundering and he knew it.

“It sold hundreds of copies world-wide. I suppose I should be pleased, or something.” He settled back in the deeply-padded leather chair and crossed his fingers on his belly. “I’m flattered, really.”

There was an air of resignation in this statement. He must have had high hopes for it.

“Yes, I see your point. Well, thank you for your time.” They all rose for the obligatory round of hand-shaking and back-slapping.

Doctors were all the same in his opinion, although the fact that the Great Swami was a real doctor, with all kinds of degrees hung up on the wall, was of some anecdotal interest. The thing was that now he’d have to put a man on verifying the degrees were real. He probably made more money from all the quackery or perhaps the richer or more foolish people were more willing to pay good money for it. Judging by the house, he seemed to be doing all right, and had never heard of Theo Duval other than maybe reading something about him in the paper.

His game seemed to consist of a lot of listening and a lot of talking, in about equal amounts. Perhaps their jobs had more in common than he realized.

End.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZaPTELylZ1s

Excerpt: The Art of Murder.

(Preliminary cover, 'Art of Murder.')












They were in a straggling neighbourhood of working establishments behind a major thoroughfare. Gilles realized he was completely lost, not just in symbolic fashion but for real. He hadn’t been paying too much attention. He had other thoughts, most of them not good.


The taxi sputtered off up the road, trailing dust from the wheels and throwing up a cloud that hung in the air, yellowing the sunshine and desiccating the nostrils. Maintenon and Levain walked up the gravel drive towards a pair of shirtless workmen who were sweating and grunting as they heaved on the chains of an I-beam lifting device, trying to steady a slab of black granite as it swung back and forth. Their contraption was sturdy if obviously home-made. The thing looked like several hundred kilos in mass. Clearly there was some hazard, some difficulty involved. It was all so prosaic.

“Hey, Charles.” Levain stopped, and they waited for a moment to let them finish the operation.

“Hey, Andre.”

This involved setting the stone down on a ramp, and pushing it up on wooden rollers all of fifty millimetres thick and half a metre long, up into the back of a battered black Citroen C4, which had the rear seat removed for this purpose. Gilles saw buckets lined up beside the car, all ready to go, with smaller tools in them, and some shovels, long steel pinch bars, and more rollers. There was a pile of sand and gravel in a corner of the yard, and the shop was at the back, set well behind the house. There was a painted wooden sign over the large door that was visible from the street in daylight hours, but otherwise unlit. He saw a black dog on the back porch and one floodlight set high on a post in the farthest back corner.

After a bored look, the dog put his head down and blinked at them with a look of resignation.

The smell of cooking came from the vicinity of the back door. Gilles grinned unexpectedly, and shoved his hands into his pockets. There were birds singing from a shade tree that grew in the next door neighbour’s yard. Birds were not his strong suit, but they had a certain pugnacious cheerfulness.

“Merde!” It wouldn’t do to get a hand under the slab at the wrong time, but no damage done and the fellow chuckled again just as quickly.

The language was colourful but succinct, and as his apprentice set to lifting the stone with a bar and putting wooden wedges and props under it for security, the sturdy proprietor of the place dusted off his hands and shook first with Levain and then Gilles.

“And, what can I do for you, sir?”

Gilles eyes traveled up and down the lines of stones displayed as they would be set, in that they all sat on a base, although they had no names on them yet. One or two in the front row did have names, and he realized they were all finished and awaiting delivery. His eyes took in the stone laying flat in the back of the Citroen. It had a name on it, an elderly lady going by the dates. She had been predeceased by a husband and an infant. Her child had died. She knew what tragedy was, he thought. She understood loss.

“I want one like that.”

“It’s for his wife.” Levain beckoned Gilles to look at some of the others. “Seriously, Gilles, you might want to look at more than one stone. Come on.”

Maintenon reluctantly followed him along the line of memorials, big, small, simple and ornate. None of them had an actual price marked on them, but that wasn’t any real consideration. He just wanted to get it over with.

“No. I think the first one—and make sure he puts my name on there too, and my birthday. Then when the time comes, it’s a simple matter to chisel in the date of my decease.”

“Sure, boss. But please, come on in and talk to the man.” Levain turned and led the way, relieved to hear Maintenon’s footsteps crunching gravel behind. “I don’t think he uses a chisel. It’s a sand-blaster now.”

The boss had been a little funny lately, but no one else could really do this for him. He had to take charge of things himself.

Gilles found the air inside the workshop cool, a little damp and smelling oddly of something he couldn’t quite place. He counted out the bills as the man pulled out a book and took a pen out of the pocket from a shirt hanging on a peg.

Gilles gave her name, and the fellow gave him a quick look.

“He’ll pay the balance after inspecting the memorial in place.” Levain seemed to know a little bit about it.

“Maintenon?”

“Er, yes.” Levain stepped in.

“This is the fellow I told you about, Charles.” Charles nodded.

“Oh, yes.” He went blank for a moment, but then he seemed to recall the incident. “And you want the black one? With a black base?”

“Yes, and he wants you to deliver it.” Levain seemed to be in charge now, and Gilles let him.

The man named a figure, and Levain shrugged, looking at Gilles. Gilles agreed, and the gentleman started putting figures together in a row on paper. It was a fairly simple sales contract.

Levain told him the name of the cemetery, and that affected the price somehow as well. There were certain fees involved, peculiar to the different establishments around the city. Gilles thought he had paid all of them already, but apparently that wasn’t so. This was different from a funeral, the fellow explained, and some folks went years without a monument while the survivors saved their pennies.

“For you, sir, I’ll let you have the base at half price.” Levain gave an encouraging nod.

“Thank you.” Gilles accepted it at face value.

It was only later, jammed side by side on the Metro when Levain explained that Charles’ wife’s cousin had been strangled by her no-good boyfriend, and that Maintenon was responsible for his apprehension and subsequent execution by guillotine. People had congratulated him before, upon the conviction of a killer. He never knew what to think or to say under those circumstances. There really was nothing valid to say—it sounded like moral condemnation, which he preferred not to do. Most perpetrators were as pathetic as they were dangerous.

“Who says justice is only for the rich, eh, Inspector?” Gilles grinned a little lopsidedly when he heard that one.

He really was feeling better about things, and the ache in his jaw was finally fading.

“We have an interesting errand for Monday.” Gilles’ voice was curiously flat, expressionless.

“Which is?” Levain’s eyebrows rose at the answer.

“We’re going to see a hypnotist.”

Levain thought he was joking.

“At your command, good sir.”

“I’m serious, Andre. Anyway, it’s better than a dentist.”

So he really was serious then.