Speak Softly My Love Read online

  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.

  Fuck, it was downright educational.

  The guy was probably thinking…he would be thinking of his mother and the Monsignor. The village priest would loom large in his thoughts. He would suddenly realize, thought Hubert with a wicked smile; that he would be going straight to hell. As soon as God found out about it…

  If he hadn’t already thought of it. This thought alone, 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. As natural as breathing, his eyes followed along. It was all part of the show, in the grand spectacle that was life.

  She changed recordings quickly, setting the needle down with a pop, 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. Everyone drinks alone, when you really think of it…

  That much was true.

  The poor girls did it all the time. He felt sorry for them in so many ways. That’s probably why the average male tipped so large—every stinking one of them trying to outdo the next guy. The girls talked to the customers. They drank soda water, pretending it was a full-price drink, and hoarded their tips. As often as not, they ended up by giving it all away to some opium-eater of a poet who wasn’t worth a crock of shit. Pretty much every damned one of them had a kid or two stashed away with mother or grandmother. It wasn’t like everyone didn’t know that on some intuitive level.

  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 in earnest 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.

  Chapter Seven

  Their dynamic duo came traipsing in after eleven in the morning. Gilles was out of the office, having court again today. Firmin and Levain were the only ones there. The pair hung up coats and hats and busied themselves. Tailler began sorting the contents of his briefcase, laying it all out on the desk, nice and neat. Hubert headed straight for the coffeepot, looking a bit bleary-eyed if anyone had taken a good look.

  His head turned.

  “Hey, Andre.” Firmin was implied in there somewhere.

  Levain was tempted to ignore his ringing telephone.

  “Hey.” He put some thought into it. “How was your train ride.”

  Levain picked up and listened for a moment.

  “Very well. Okay. Thank you.” He set it down again.

  Tailler was ready.

  “Once more from the top. So. How did it go?” Levain leaned back, placing his hands across his stomach.

  He tipped his chair back and put his hands up behind his head.

  “Yeah. Amazing. That Didier really gets around, Andre.” Tailler glanced at his notes, but it was all still fresh in his memory.

  Levain’s eyebrows began to creep upwards in anticipation.

  “Sure.”

  “He’s got a thing for blondes, apparently. Hot ones, very, very hot ones.” He looked at the coffeepot but it was down to the last centimetre. “Who knows, there may be more of them out there.”

  He certainly hoped so, his attitude seemed to indicate. There was this beautiful look on his face.

  Tailler, at least, had no trace of a hangover, and couldn’t help but feeling a bit superior.

  The train ride, the fresh air blasting in the windows and innumerable cups of the always excellent railway coffee, the only thing they did really well, hadn’t made much of a dent in Hubert’s head. Not to hear him tell it. His eyeballs looked red and raw, and he had been oddly subdued all morning.

  “Ha.” Levain was there to listen and guide, but Gilles and Firmin, their two most senior men, were going to let the leash off the two young detectives.

  Maintenon said to let them go as far as they could on their own.

  Levain guessed he didn’t have a problem with it. There were plenty of cases to go around.

  This one looked like a toughie, which was good.

  Sooner or later it had to be done, and this one was definitely challenging. If they solved it, it might help their careers considerably. If they failed it would be a humbling experience they would not soon forget. Someone would make sure of that. It might even be him.

  “She made the identification. We made sure she didn’t get a look at Monique in there, well. The one picture—they’re really young. Hubert wonders why she didn’t ask about the other woman. I’m not sure I agree—they have their pride, or whatever. We couldn’t really ask, but there were no Paris papers lying around—she had the Lyon paper and a few ladies’ magazines right there on the coffee table. She’s real smart, don’t ask me how I know that. We also went through the family album and came up with one or two more photos. I don’t know if they’re all that helpful.”

  Hubert settled into his seat. Let Tailler rattle on for a while.

  Hubert nodded and indicated Levain’s telephone.

  “What’s up?”

  “My prisoner is all set to go. Interview Three.” With that, Andre Levain stabbed out his cigarette. “Another sad story.”

  Smoke curled up from the ashtray as some sort of conflagration was still going on.

  Apparently.

  He put his thumb on the offending butt and squashed it some more. Some of them took on a real life of their own. They were un-killable.

  He took a fresh notebook and a mental list of questions and left without further comment. Tailler’s eyes slid to Firmin, who was immersed in his notes, but then his fingers spurted up and the words began to flow from the battered old ironclad on his desk.

  Firmin smacked the return and kept going in the syncopated hunt-and-peck of the truly self-taught.

  Hubert winced, sipping at the hot coffee. Still on their own, then.

  Tailler pulled out notes and then carefully went through everything. While pretty much everything they had was a copy, their own notes from Lyon were original and losing anything at all was strictly a no-no.

  He looked up at Hubert.

  “I guess we should go and have another chat with Monique…” There was some hesitation evident in the statement, but it wasn’t like Hubert had any ideas. “I don’t know, we could ask around the neighbourhood. Ask about other women…things like that. We haven’t spoken to his employer yet.”

  He trailed off.

  Hubert nodded.

  “Just give me a minute. Where’s Gilles?” This aside went in the direction of Firmin, who looked up as if becoming aware of their existence for the very first time.

  “Court. Brevard.
Done today, he hopes.” He grunted in speculative fashion. “Maybe tomorrow.”

  There was a moment of silence, and then Firmin’s eyes dropped to the keyboard and he rattled off another thirty-odd words while whatever thought was fresh.

  They weren’t going to get much more out of him. Neither one was a dog-fucker, but a little direction from the other guys might have been welcome.

  Tailler looked at Hubert and shrugged. Tailler had been sorely tempted, over the last few months, to inquire. Surely Firmin had a first name. He must have. The opportunity to ask such a question, after so much time, was long since gone, and now the real question was how to go about asking. They must have been introduced at some point or other.

  Tailler gave a short, sharp nod. He looked happy, like a puppy with a brand-new tail.

  Hubert nodded.

  Tailler had nabbed that mother-stabber a month or so ago, and it would seem the confidence was at an all-time high.

  Detective Hubert, in his role as senior man, set the cup down with a clunk.

  “Anytime you’re ready.”

  “Yeah.” Tailler grimaced, but without direction from above, he was more than prepared to go on with it.

  Bodies don’t just get up and walk away.

  He threw the notebook and a good pen or two into his jacket pocket, standing up quickly and reaching for the hat-rack.

  Holy, crap, he’s right on it, thought Hubert. There were worse people to be stuck with. That much was true.

  ***

  That Monique wasn’t bad, either.

  Tailler had his own perspective on such things. After closely examining any number of naked and sweet young things the night before, he was now something of an expert. Her clothes were conservative, but they fit well enough. The flat-chested look that was currently popular was sort of beyond her, even with the stiff bindings that some women affected. He couldn’t hold that against her, as he preferred something with a little more flesh on it anyways.

  After their extensive pub crawl of the evening before, he had a much better idea of what might be under there. In Tailler’s own neighbourhood, the norm was old women in black babushkas, or slim young women who were eminently flirtatious and yet mystifyingly flighty—it was like he had no idea of what they were talking about sometimes. The fact that some of them only came halfway up his bicep was distinctly unnerving. Some of them were just plain tiny. He’d only had so many chances, and Tailler ruefully reckoned he’d blown all of them. He knew what beauty and attraction were. The trouble had always been putting it into words, in a language that women could understand.

  And then there was Monique—Lucinde was one hell of a woman when he thought of it as well.

  Either one of them would look pretty darned good if you could just get them naked.

  Hell, I’m not picky.

  The thought was enough to send a surge of something cold and exciting through the old inner guts.

  Chapter Eight

  By the time the cross-examination was done with Gilles Maintenon, two whole days spent in the witness-box, he was totally wrung out. The defense was just doing their duty, and being paid very well for it too. There was a lot of tension, the need to be professional and not reactive, not to blow one’s cool under the flurry of blows. There was the psychological hammering, and it took a lot out of a person.

  It was purely on impulse that he went back to the Quai. The day had begun cold, windy and wet, but by the time he got out of the court building, the heat had become oppressive. There wasn’t a breath of air in the streets. The scorching sun on the backs of his hands, especially the side of the neck and the cheekbone was immediately apparent. That was the trouble with September, one never knew how to dress for it. You would freeze your bag off first thing in the morning, and be dragging two coats and a sweater over the shoulder by the time you got home.

  Even with the heavy coat over his arm, and taking his time dismissing the motor pool driver, who looked grateful to be nearing the end of a long and boring day, Gilles was sweating. It was unusually warm for late September. It would give people something to talk about.

  The stairs were always better for Gilles than the elevator for some reason, not so much claustrophobia as the fact that there was some delay. It got the heart pumping and made you suck in a lot of oxygen. He rarely ran into higher authority in the stairwell. Especially the back one, coming up from the extremely limited parking area away from the river. On an island the river was right there outside the windows for much of the building’s frontage.

  The big-shots always got themselves dropped off at the front steps. It was a way of life with them. They got the best offices, plenty of windows, well away from elevators and stairwells. When a new government came along, which was pretty often these days, they got the biggest shake-ups too. Some lived and some died, figuratively.

  Their own space was cramped at the best of times. With Archambault absent due to chronic ill-health in recent months, and with no replacement in sight, it was perhaps a little better lately.

  The downside was that they still had to do Archambault’s work.

  Poor old Archambault, and let’s hope he gets better.

  Their office was on the top floor, up under the eaves and the doves which sometimes became quite obtrusive with their cooing and the other mournful sounds they made.

  “Ah.” He stepped into the room, where Tailler patiently tapped out a report and LeBref of all people was quietly hanging on the telephone.

  The fellow, not quite a dwarf, (he had failed even in this, as a cheerful LeBref often said), raised a languid hand in greeting. He twitched his eyebrows and made quick, darting little notes. No one quite knew what he was working on these days.

  Other than that, he was a pretty good guy and not to be underestimated judging by the long list of folks put away.

  “Uh, huh…”

  Firmin’s hat was there on the rack as he took his own off and hung it up. LeBref wore his grey felt chirper cap as usual, and he would rarely take that off for anything. Gilles put the coat on a tine, the rack wobbling gently but it had never actually gone over. The coat was still damp from the morning. Predictably, Tailler had the window sashes pushed all the way out on their obtuse angle or whatever it was called and the pigeons were roosting just a metre or so up above.

  “Tailler. Please shut the window.”

  LeBref put down the phone. He nodded pleasantly.

  “Gilles.” He took a file and went out the door.

  Maintenon had to clear his briefcase, it was why he was ostensibly here after all.

  The young detective got up, and compromised by cranking it furiously inwards. He left it open a couple of fingers width and perhaps Maintenon could live with that.

  Gilles gave his head a shake, loose lips flapping in a conscious attempt to inject some humour into what had been a particularly humourless afternoon. He blew like a winded horse.

  “That bad, eh, Inspector?”

  Gilles grinned.

  “Bad enough, yes. So. How were things in Lyon?” He moved towards the coffeepot, but unfortunately it appeared to be cold and dead in there. “Where’s Firmin? Where’s your partner in crime, Detective Hubert?”

  “Ah, yes, sir. Ah…maybe I should make some fresh coffee.” It was getting on for five-thirty and no one had even the slightest idea that the Boss-man would show up.

  Maintenon waved him off, as he could make it himself. This delay now, that was intriguing.

  “So. That, bad, was it?”

  Tailler heaved a bit of a sigh and then let it drop.

  “Okay. Yeah. Boy, oh boy. We got a weird one for you, Inspector.”

  Gilles settled into his seat. He pulled out a cigar, and struck a match. His feet came up and he put them on the end of the desk.

  “So. Why don’t you tell me all about it.”

  ***

  It was all very romantic.

  Didier and Lucinde had the storybook, whirlwind romance. The sophisticated and yet shy, well-dr
essed and yet hard-working young gentleman, had stepped into a bank one day to cash a cheque. He was in a strange town, but he had impeccable credentials. The cheque was for a substantial amount and her immediate supervisor had run into a family crisis, leaving Lucinde in charge. She had taken a big chance on Didier that day. There was something about him. The paperwork was fine, but she was a junior and simply didn’t have the authority.

  Lucinde had left home to go to Lyon to find work. Her mother was sick. She sent money home every week and lived very simply. She came across in the story as a shy and yet extremely intelligent girl, living a hundred and ten kilometres from her home village. Neither one of them had ever heard of it. She didn’t know anyone, and didn’t get out much due to some relatively rational concerns.

  She knew no one, and yet by coincidence, she had been having her lunch, a sandwich brought from home and green tea from a little shop she knew. Didier needed to eat once in a while and upon leaving the bank, it was shortly before noon. Long story short, they had recognized each other. Neither one having a friend in the world, not in that town at least, it had somehow taken the awkwardness out of it, according to her.

  “Boss, they were married six weeks later.” Tailler consulted his notes, a bit of a laborious process. “A couple of years after that, she gave up the job. Started having kids and such.”

  That’s why he typed them up as quick as he could while they were fresh. Never tear them out of the notebook, and even then number your fucking pages.

  “Oh, yeah. They went for a two-day honeymoon in Brittany, and it was a nice little mom-and-pop maison where they stayed. Ah…” Tailler shuffled through the papers. “They have a little boy, Jean, and a girl, she’s the younger, named Lise.”

  Gilles nodded thoughtfully.

  Tailler went on.

  “Okay. The gentleman has a sort of routine but not exactly a schedule. Oh. We told her we needed to verify that she was sole next of kin in the event we got any information—Hubert emphasized that it was pure routine…”

  Tailler cleared his throat and Gilles nodded. One way or another, they needed everything and sometimes getting it took a little finesse. Hubert had some strengths, while Tailler had skills in other areas.