The Art of Murder Read online

  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.

  ***

  “I deeply regret the necessity of troubling you.” They sat behind her on a low and beaten yellow leather couch, as she examined her make-up in the garish lights of the vanity in her dressing room.

  Her evening gown was the kind that leaves the shoulders exposed. He wondered how many men had sat here waiting for her, and a thousand other singers. They all had a story, usually a sad one.

  She regarded him in the mirror. Her long elegant neck reminded him of some Egyptian sculpture. Nefertiti or somebody like that.

  “That’s quite all right, Inspector. You must do your job.” There was something tragic in her, something from a long time ago.

  He wondered if this was what had attracted Duval in the first place. Gilles wondered who would speak next.

  “Theo never tried to pick up women.” Her eyes gazed appraisingly back at them from the mirror.

  “Oh, really?” It was Levain’s question, as Gilles nodded in response, grateful for the easy opening.

  “He didn’t have to.” Gilles got the meaning pretty well.

  “That’s right, Inspector. Theo was a very handsome man, but there was something more. He rarely complained, although he had a normal temper. He was indulgent to the mistakes and weaknesses of others. But Theo knew what he was doing. He knew who he was, and was totally comfortable within his own skin. That sort of confidence is very attractive to a woman. He didn’t even really need money, although it would help with a certain type. Some would go along just for the ride, if a man was rich enough.”

  “I see.” Gilles studied her as she combed her hair carefully.

  It was a glorious pile, one of the healthiest heads of hair he had seen on anyone in quite some time, and it put his own thinning patch in its proper perspective. It didn’t look quite so blonde in this light. She was still young, and he envied her for it. He hoped she wouldn’t be alone for long. Probably not, he decided. He felt a sudden dread at his own prospects.

  “Did you throw yourself at him?” Andre was just doing his job, but it could be a pain in the ass sometimes.

  She smiled tiredly at Gilles in the mirror.

  “You know better than that.”

  “Yes, young lady. I do.” Gilles had a few questions, and for her sake thought they’d better get on with them. “Where did you meet, and who else was there?”

  “We met at another club where I was working at the time.” She mentioned a name.

  It was a club in Montmartre, smaller than this one and not the sort of place where the wealthy congregated. She mentioned one or two others, all of them already on their list.

  He wrote down the names for effect.

  “Was he slumming?” Levain was playing the role of the hard-bitten, cynical cop and Gilles the understanding uncle.

  She seemed hurt by his attitude, but answered reasonably enough, with just the hint of a blush on her cheekbones.

  “No. Theo went where he wanted, and he loved music.”

  “What did he tell you about his brother?” She nodded at Levain’s question.

  “Yes, Alain was married for a while before he told Theo. He could have handled that a little better. They fought, and Theo regretted their strained relationship. But he also thought Alain should learn some responsibility.” This was obviously a safer subject for her, and Gilles intended to ask all of them the same question, for want of anything better to go on.<
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  “I see.” Levain scribbled on his side of the couch.

  “And what did you think about all this?” Gilles watched as she made an elaborate shrug.

  “Perhaps Theo could have unbent a little, or Alain might have apologized. It’s like they were deadlocked in some great moral struggle. But they are…were both very stubborn men.” Her eyes flicked back to them as she put the fine touches on her lip-stick. “You know what I mean.”

  Gilles nodded gravely that he did. There was a sudden scraping in the hallway and she looked up at the clock. There was a tap at the door.

  “Three minutes.” It was a deep male voice.

  Footsteps faded back up the hall. She ignored it and went on.

  “Theo could fit in with any crowd. He was an engaging man, and genuinely loved people, especially if they were interesting.”

  It was something Gilles had in common with the victim. He often felt like that. But he also felt something in common with their killers, a feeling he had accepted long ago.

  “We won’t keep you.” She nodded at Gilles’s words.

  “Stick around if you like, although my sets are at least forty minutes, sometimes a little longer.”

  “The drinks are a little watered-down.” Levain was easing up and giving Maintenon the lead.

  “Ah, why not, Andre? God knows I don’t get out too much anymore.”

  “I must visit the powder-room, and if you gentlemen wouldn’t mind?”

  “Of course, Mademoiselle.”

  “Mmn. I have a former husband out there somewhere, but I appreciate the thought. Can we talk about that some other time?”

  “Of course, and we thank you for helping us.” They rose to go.

  She stood up, as lithe and athletic as a panther.

  “Was Theo murdered?”

  The question took him by surprise, and Gilles hesitated.

  “I wish I knew the answer to that question, Mademoiselle.”

  She smiled, eyes bright with bitter tears. It was enough for her. She brushed past them with a glaze in her eyes, and again he was convinced there was no way to fake that kind of reaction. It still didn’t prove anything, as killers were notorious for weeping as they confessed to their crimes.

  They closed the door firmly but gently behind them and followed the hall back the way they had come.

  Chapter Twelve

  Gilles wanted to go

  Halfway through her second song, Gilles was so distinctly uncomfortable with it that he wanted to go and Andre made no argument. Standing on the steaming pavement outside of the club, Andre looked at his watch. It seemed like it was always raining these days.

  “It’s early yet. Want to grab a sandwich?” He had such a hopeful look on his face, but Gilles didn’t want to keep him from home, and there was nothing about the case that would benefit from being discussed in a public place.

  He was feeling his age. In terms of his personal life, again, there was nothing there that couldn’t wait. A pub crawl had some allure. But he must resist. At one time it might have been a relief, but there was just so much he didn’t want to talk about. He didn’t want to weep in front of Andre, and that’s how he felt just then.

  “No, Andre. You go home.”

  Andre looked a little down in the mouth. At first Gilles had the impression that Andre was worried about him, but then the reverse thought came, that maybe Andre would like a little male company once in a while. Gilles wondered if their friends were really his friends, or if they were just the sort of friends that couples had together. After the baby came, Andre wouldn’t be getting out much, if he did at all now.

  “Are you sure? They make a pretty good sandwich over at the Ham Bone.” Andre waited but a moment. “All right, then, it’s your loss.”

  With that, he spun on a heel and headed for the corner, where he turned and disappeared. The pale orb of the moon hung low on the south-eastern horizon. The sounds of Paris at night were all around him on the light breeze. He’d been locking himself in lately, reading old books, listening to music turned down so low he could barely hear it, and smoking like a fiend.

  Gilles looked at his watch. He didn’t live so far away. He wished it was further. It was such a beautiful night. He hadn’t had a positive thought like that in some time. A few blocks in that direction lay life, and light, and people. He turned in the opposite direction and with an air of aimlessness, began to wander in the direction of home. Madame Lefevre would be gone by now of course, and he really didn’t have any idea of whether there would be some sort of a cold meal laid out or not. He shook his head in mild irritation. She might have left something out for him.

  He should have asked where in the hell exactly the Ham Bone was. Loosening his tie, and with some regard to his surroundings, for Paris could be dangerous at night even in the best of neighbourhoods, and this wasn’t one of them, he was quickly lost in his thoughts.

  Gilles took the longest way home he could reasonably think of. The exercise might help him to sleep a little better tonight. Sleep was the last refuge, he’d read that somewhere.

  ***

  His neck felt the squeezing of the block. While he couldn’t see anyone, just an empty bucket in front of him on the cold and moisture-oozing concrete, there were murmurs all around. Their voices mocked him in their indifference, in their mutual, hollow-sounding good cheer.

  “No! No! I am innocent.” Andre cried, and wept, and could not even speak meaningful words. “My wife! She will tell you. I didn’t do it!”

  They murmured all around him, but they ignored him, and then he saw a foot, and a hand came and took the bucket as his tears fell unheeded. All the time, Andre was trying to get his attention, but the man, clad in blue trousers and the sturdy black work shoes they all wore, simply ignored him.

  “Please, please listen.”

  Andre waggled his head back and forth as best he could, clasping and unclasping his hands in the hope of attracting someone’s attention. He was being ignored, and deliberately. He understood that well enough. The feet moved suddenly with a scrape of grit underneath. The bucket, having passed inspection, was replaced. Andre sniffled and gasped, breath ragged in his throat.

  A voice came close beside him, loud in his ears compared to the others in the room, all speaking in hushed tones, waiting, waiting for the blade to fall so they could go back to more pleasant duties, some home to their wife and kids, and some to homes empty and desolate from a lifetime of alcohol, abuse and anger. How he knew all that was one of the great mysteries of life, but cops were human beings too. They were just like anyone else.

  “That’s what they all say, my reluctant friend. But don’t worry, this won’t hurt a bit.” He heard cynical chuckles and a few snide remarks in the background.

  “Nothing to worry about!” There came the remark and a bust of laughter.

  “Keep your shirt on!”

  “Well, if you feel that way about it, maybe you shouldn’t have done it.” There were other voices.

  “I didn’t do it! You’ve got the wrong guy! I swear to God, please don’t, please listen…” He didn’t even know what it was about, and no one cared.

  The voices didn’t come again, not with any clarity.

  No one listened. They had heard it all a thousand times before. They had heard men beg, and weep, and make promises, and cry and whimper for a mercy they had never shown their victims. They had watched them when they pissed themselves and smelled their shit. He saw all that so very clearly, but in his case it was all true and no one would listen.

  “Please…please, please wait…”

  Now came the sound of a crank being turned, and the blade being drawn up, and the terrible gush of adrenalin was almost more than he could bear. His body trembled and shook of his own accord, and his hands writhed and twisted, trying to escape the blocks that held them.

  “Please! Please listen…”

  Andre began to scream when he heard the latch click into place.

  “Oh, God, oh, G
od.” Andre blubbered like a baby, and then the room was silent. “Please.”

  He said it one more time, the word echoing around the room, to be absorbed by tired patient faces that had heard it all one too many times before.

  “Please.” Andre begged for his life, and they wouldn’t listen.

  They couldn’t listen, for it would drive them mad.

  There was a click, an accelerating rumble and the blade was coming down…

  “Andre! Andre!” She was there, cradling a grown man, sweat pouring off of him, and with him weeping like his mother and sisters had when Papa went, and the realization that he was simply having the dream again, washed over him with its cooling jet of hope, and then came another kind of anguish, the question of why this was always happening to him.

  “Oh, God.” Andre wept into his wife’s shoulder. “Oh, God.”

  Her hair glued itself to his face as he wept, and the snot ran out of his nose, and he didn’t care, he was just so grateful that this was real. It was real, and it was her.

  “There, there. It’s over.” It was all she said, holding him and rocking him back and forth, but it was enough.

  ***

  At first, the brilliant white half moon was visible through crystal-clear patches in the sky. They quickly gave way to low-scudding black clouds with silvered edges, throwing a vast dark shadow over the streets. The warm lights at all levels and the wan light of the street illumination was enough to guide him. He had always wondered who was on the other side of those panes.

  One might reveal a man reading a newspaper under a lamp with a radio beside him, and on all other floors the lights were out behind the curtains and anonymous windows. In the next building, three flats above ground were lit up, and while one flat was clearly hosting a party, the others showed more mundane tableaux. For the most part, no one was visible, yet surely someone was home. Virtually all of the storefronts were dark, with only the small lobbies leading upstairs to residential apartments, separate entrances with their locks and double doors, lit up to attest that there was life above.