The Unknown Masterpiece

by John Brooke

  She promised. Thanked him. Sat frozen. She was not solving this. She was making it worse.

  Poor Beppi. Someone had not been fooled at all by her little ploy. Someone was quite intent on warning her away. And now Inspector Morenz would be looking into it. Bad judgment. Totally bad. She felt like quitting then and there. Going home. Or somewhere. Leave! — get away from this place. This love-foresaken life. It was clearly time. It was all she wanted to do.

  But no. The case. The shoemaker. She had not been raised to walk away half-done.

  Judge Richand was not overly bothered by the news. The Beppis of the world failed to touch his heart. ‘People like him are their own worst enemy.’ He shrugged at her whiny self-recrimination, dismissing her insistence that it had been a bad idea, a stupid decision. ‘Not at all.’ Gérard was grim, righteous. ‘A logical step in the right direction. Sad, but useful.’ It had been his decision too, after all. Picking up his pen, ‘Finis. No more talk of Monsieur la Braguette.’

  ‘His name is Bernard Crerar.’

  ‘Whatever.’ He would not play her miserable game. ‘Bon. The way I see it, now you have to confront the two gentlemen who run this place.’

  ‘Gérard! How can I possibly go back in there?’ Fretting, hating Gérard, morale in the toilet.

  ‘As yourself, of course. A police officer. Full view. An interview regarding a crime.’

  ‘And Boehler’s man?’ The nasty-sounding Morenz. ‘I bet my name’s at every checkpoint.’

  ‘They’re only Swiss, Inspector. You have your mandate. Use it.’

  Thus goaded, she went — she knew she had to. But alone, on the noon bus next day.

  ***

  The door to Zup was open. The place was empty, gloomy in the early afternoon. They were behind the bar, unloading the dishwasher. They stopped their work, watching her limp toward them. Max said, ‘Bonjour, Lise. What happened to your leg?’

  ‘Work. And it’s not Lise, Max. It’s Aliette.’ She showed her ID card, her mandate, and came straight to the point. ‘Forgive the deception. Or don’t forgive. In any case, I suppose you know by now Martin Bettelman was murdered.’ They knew. ‘Now Beppi Crerar has been too.’

  ‘Murdered? When?’

  ‘Probably Friday, after he left here.’ She decided not to mention that Beppi had been there on her direction. The less deceived and invaded they felt, the better. She was following up on a second murder linked to the murder of Martin Bettelman. Her information led her to understand that Beppi Crerar had been partying at Zup on Friday night.

  Max was shocked into silence. Adlehard glared. ‘French aren’t very honest, are they?’

  Aliette met him head on. ‘Honesty is relative, monsieur.’

  ‘Slimy cop.’

  Sure, sure, slimy cop. ‘Are you going to help me?’

  Max slowly rotated a dish towel around the inside of a wine glass. ‘I can see how someone would get mad enough to kill Martin. But why kill that Beppi? I liked him. I mean I think I liked him. What was not to like?’

  Adelhard huffed, ‘Yes, and you liked Martin.’

  She cut in before they could start bickering. ‘Who did Beppi leave with Friday night?’

  The two Swiss looked at each other. ‘Fred,’ Max said.

  ‘Fred… The one in the bow tie? I remember him. Him and Greta Garbo.’

  ‘Just Fred,’ Adelhard sneered, ‘…hoping for something. Disgusting. Unnatural.’

  For all his leering Heidi act, Adelhard would fit right in with the righteous Gérard Richand. Interesting where male insecurities aligned. ‘I gather they’re regulars. Yes?’

  ‘Very,’ Max admitted. ‘Spend a fortune. And add a certain class, I’d have to say.’

  Adelhard did not agree. ‘Anyone who does not like Klaus Nomi is a peasant. Money and evening gowns cannot hide the fact.’

  Aliette waited for an explanation.

  Max slid the glass into the rack, began to polish another. ‘Greta couldn’t handle Addie’s music, so they left. Fred came back later, near closing, when things were quieting down. Your Beppi was far gone by then, and alone. Fred took care of him. They left together.’

  ‘Did he say anything?’

  ‘Said he was going to take him home to Greta.’

  ‘But who are they?’

  Max shrugged. ‘Fred and Greta.’

  ‘I mean during the day.’

  ‘No idea.’ Accurately reading her doubting gaze, he added. ‘Because they don’t want us to know, Inspector.’ He slid the next glass into the rack. ‘And we don’t really need to, do we?’

  Aliette supposed not. She asked for a glass of beer. It was provided. She pressed the issue. Did either Fred or Greta ever mention what business they were in? Where they lived? Any names they happened to drop from time to time? Max and Adelhard told her: Rich. Corporate, for sure — probably from Gellert or the like, an haute bourgeois Basel quarter. The way Fred talked — you could hear it. But Greta too: used to giving orders. Pick a business that fits with that.

  She sipped her beer and scribbled. ‘The art business?’

  Adelhard shrugged, ‘Why not?’

  Max said, ‘I heard Fred say he sometimes dabbles. I mean, he said it to Beppi. Beppi said he and Martin had some kind of deal going. He wanted to find Martin’s client.’

  ‘So do I.’ Aliette studied her notes. ‘Martin never came back here after he broke with Max?’

  ‘One night,’ Adelhard responded. ‘In August. With his new petit ami.’ A new boyfriend.

  ‘Swiss or French?’

  ‘French. Son beau petit Robert. Didn’t stay long. Everyone was pissed at Martin.’

  ‘Young? Bone white?’

  ‘Beautiful,’ Max whispered, sounding slightly spooked by the thought of French beauty.

  Adelhard, past his pique, held his Max’s hand on the counter. ‘We never saw Marty again.’

  Robert. It sounded like the truth. ‘So where does Justin Aebischer fit in?’

  ‘Justin?’ Max paused to place it. ‘Justin was way back last winter… before New Year.’

  ‘After Greta,’ specified Adelhard.

  ‘Greta was with Martin?’

  ‘Greta’s been with everyone,’ sniffed Max, eyes sliding sideways toward his lover.

  Adelhard shrugged. ‘Hearts are tricky things. We provide a room in the back.’

  Aliette finished her beer. ‘Have you seen them this week? Greta…and Fred?’

  ‘Fred Astaire?’ Max prompted.

  ‘Ah.’ Remembering how her mother loved to watch those movies.

  Adelhard thought about it. ‘No, we haven’t… Have we?’

  ‘No,’ Max confirmed.

  Presenting her card, she implored the two proprietors of Zup to call her if Fred or Greta made an appearance. ‘Doesn’t matter what time, I’ll get it.’

  Max took her card, smiled. A real French cop. ‘You never said what happened to your leg.’

  ‘Oh, line of duty.’ She hobbled out, then to the bench, where she waited for the bus.

  ***

  So: Robert. A name. And French. But at what price?

  Bernard Crerar came back to France, minus an ear. Beppi’s mother lived south of the city, in a village in the Sundagau. But Inspector Aliette Nouvelle did not have the guts to go to Beppi’s burial, let alone talk to his maman. Pleading too much to do, she sent Bernadette Milhau.

  Gérard Richand said, ‘Buck up, Inspector. This is not like you at all. What matters is, What now? You know the ground. You choose the best way forward.’ He sat, pen poised, awaiting her call.

  ‘We look for a French boy…man, whatever, called Robert. He is our suspect.’

  He made a note. ‘Very good.’

  27

  Time at the Centre of the Universe

  The job does not care if you’re happy or sad. Senior Inspector Nouvelle had three teams in ongoing operation mode against the gangs. They needed constant legal advice and investigative strategy. After a preliminary investigati
on, Inspector Christophe Tavernier was advising that she recommend a murder charge against the Vietnamese patriarch’s illegitimate son. The beating of a manager at Peugeot, no doubt related to the recent downsizing and restructuring measures, had left the victim in a coma. She assigned Inspector Richard Roig to the preliminary, and went with him to oversee initial interviews at the plant. Every move involved paper work, much conferring with various powers at the Palais de Justice, with City uniforms downstairs, with forensics in the basement. Sure, the job will keep you busy, no problem there. But a conned, then brutalized and summarily discarded Beppi Crerar had tipped the balance in the war for meaning. Aliette limped through the halls at rue des Bons Enfants trying to analyze shame as it relates to love, self-love, moral imperative. The story of myself. She knew she was the centre of the universe.

  It was all unspoken. How could she explain to Claude when she could barely understand it herself? He wasn’t stupid, he did not push, and she knew he wouldn’t unless she forced the issue. Which she had not. They both knew they were on the verge of something and it would be hers to shape. She was polite, neutral, professional. Indeed the limp, a wound suffered in the line of duty — this lent definition to the thing that hung between them. She did not explain. Or apologize.

  Saturday night she sat in the bath and studied the scar on her thigh, touching the stitched-up gash, the now forever less-than-perfect skin, a new element in the mix that was herself. She soaped her breasts and analyzed her remorse — which is not the same as shame. But shame and remorse are definitely cousins, and shame seemed to be the abiding point of reference. How to deal with that? She lay there, soaking. Asking, Why can’t I bring this to a civilized end?

  Or a dead end? Your choice, Inspector. One way or the other, these were long-term questions and her heart could not see clearly. Wrong decisions will bring you there.

  Sunday morning she took the vacuum for a limpy tour through the apartment: cleaning as the catch-all fall-back position, something to do in lieu of sleeping late and having sex, a long and lazy breakfast. Quiet vacuum but noisy bashing, relentless, into door frames, chair legs…

  Smash! Crash! Whirrr…What a crazy bitch I am.

  The people downstairs started yelling. Madame Camus banged on the door.

  OK, all right, she got the message.

  And so Monday, after efficiently getting everyone on the PJ team pointed in the right direction, the inspector hobbled down to the second floor and knocked at the door of J-P Blismes.

  ***

  ‘I have nothing to say to him. If he won’t acknowledge my soul.’

  ‘We live in an indirect world, Inspector. Everything good is metaphorical. Nature operates through oblique tangents. This takes time, you see?’ J-P smiled, his huge teeth an unavoidable trope. He assured his sullen client she was not the first cop to feel trapped in a labyrinth of misplaced pride and relational walls. He refused to let her believe she might be unique.

  ‘No, of course not.’ But she was! The centre of the universe? ‘Oh…merde!’ She wept.

  J-P Blismes sat by, silent behind his perpetual grin till she pulled herself together.

  She wiped her nose. Together they meditated on the reality of love. She confessed to her weekend of irresponsible behaviour in Basel.

  Rudi Bucholtz had fallen in love with her and had been deceived.

  Smiling, Blismes assured her: Rudi had been deceived, but not by her. The FedPol art cop had fallen prey to who he’d thought she was. ‘Projection. Some skewed Swiss thing within himself,’ J-P advised. She argued: No, she had coerced poor Rudi, blatantly tempting him to form this unreal image of a French hero. A few carefully dropped lines, a few careless tears, a chilly pied-à-terre, new Swiss underwear, Swiss beer, it had all been far too simple — and utterly phony. J-P challenged her self pity. ‘But is this your fault? How could he have been so callow?’ Or…the psychologist massaged it: perhaps the better question was, Was she really so naturally skilled at creating such deep-seated illusion?

  ‘That’s not a fair question!’

  Yes, perfectly fair. It played to her disaster in the house in the north end, the root of her problem. J-P Blismes elaborated: ‘It’s not: What did I ever see in Claude? It’s the opposite: What did Claude see in me? You see?’ She was not unique, yet it all came back to herself.

  Aliette Nouvelle sat silent, defiant. Wasted half an hour of the Ministry’s time.

  J-P did not seem worried. She was here to dig deep and confront. ‘Bon…See you next time.’

  Just so. Aliette came back. Told him of her Goldilocks fantasy. Carefree. Untouchable. The messes left. ‘Jung said the foundation of all mental illness is an unwillingness to experience legitimate suffering.’

  J-P Blismes displayed a rare frown. ‘Who was it put Jung inside your head?’

  ‘Him. Hans. My other Swiss cop.’

  ‘The soccer coach? These people live in very cramped little worlds.’

  ‘My life is connected to the case.’ That was the point. No?

  ‘Je m’en fous pas mal de Jung.’ I don’t give a damn about Jung.

  ‘Fine.’

  J-P Blismes said, ‘The point is, you have to live in the place your life has put you. You’ve ended up beyond the pale. This is your life’s new starting point.’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Whether you want to go back inside, or farther out, that’s your choice. Your instinct.’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Just remember: life does not last forever.’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Alors: fine, fine, fine, fine, fine!’ J-P Blismes grinned. ‘I believe we’re making progress.’

  Next time she confessed that she felt she was a failure.

  J-P Blismes said, ‘Failure is like air. It surrounds us from the first day to the last. As such, it is probably vital for survival. You can try to hold your breath…’ Blismes drew a large breath and smiled at her, eyes gradually bulging till he expired, gasping, ‘But how long?’

  Connecting J-P’s psycho-dots, she told him about her timeless interlude beneath the surface of the inky Rhine. He gasped and breathed. ‘Yes, and you surfaced! You came up prepared to face it, the failure of your operation. Even if it meant a bullet in the face, you came up because you had to breathe and face it. So why not this? Failed operation. Failed relationship. You see?’

  ‘That’s hardly a fair analogy.’

  ‘Stop asking for fair… Life is not fair, Inspector. And failure is to be expected. All couples fail. Love is not ideal. It is a deal you constantly renegotiate and fix. Or walk away from.’

  ‘I feel broken. I feel us is broken. I see no way of fixing our deal. I think he sees that too.’

  ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘I feel it. He knows us — who we are. How we happened. Where we came from. He knows.’

  ‘Where is that you came from?’

  ‘Two cops.’ A pause. ‘Two working cops.’

  ‘A lot of people meet at work. It’s normal. Very normal. Can’t you be normal?’

  ‘No.’ She sounded fourteen, and knew it.

  J-P heard it, smiled. ‘Don’t you want it to work?’

  Aliette Nouvelle did not answer. She didn’t know. J-P Blismes waited, smiling.

  ‘I want him to acknowledge what we are.’

  J-P Blismes reminded her, ‘You just said he knows us.’

  ‘But that’s the problem! He knows — and he’s let it go by. Us. The essence of us. He has left it behind, completely, willfully, like us was just a game. Not real. And I resent that.’

  ‘Fair enough. It’s your job to recreate the environment.’

  ‘Why me?

  ‘B’en, because you’re the centre of the universe?’

  ‘Where’s his responsibility? I want him to show me that he knows us. I insist on that.’

  J-P was smiling, but sadly. ‘Won’t happen. Not him. Not the Néon I know.’ J-P Blismes knew Claude. He’d helped him through his own crisis. It had to
do with trying to work with her.

  But that was in another life. She said, ‘What about the Néon I know?’

  ‘Voila, my point exactly… Your show, Inspector. You call the tune.’

  She wept as he guided her into the hall. He said he would see her next time.

  Thus time passes, flowing through the job’s emotions, some cases advancing, others not.

  28

  Spotted!

  The Toussaint holiday week came and went. One grey November afternoon, around the time Inspector Aliette Nouvelle was gazing out her office window at the first snow on the peaks of the Vosges and thinking if she didn’t leave by Christmas she would die, Hubert Hunspach was inspecting sunglasses arranged on a hallway display rack opposite the Carrefour grocery checkout lanes in the mall at Village-Neuf. Hubert was skipping school again. His best friend René had sucked out. Best friend? Any kind of friend? René was not meeting Hubert’s standards much these days. Hubert had still not told René his big secret — now it looked like it might never happen. He wasn’t worried. Hubert’s play list offered hard but beautiful advice on the inevitability of change and the soul’s need to go it alone — and, if nothing else, Hubert believed in the music. Love was out there somewhere, but the journey could be long.

  Hubert had smoked a bit of decent pot he’d scored at the bus station, then headed for the mall in search of more tunes. He was an expert at securing his music gratis, hadn’t paid for a disc since he was ten. And maybe shoes. Hubert’s orange trainers were getting that old feel. Free shoes were easy if they had his size (both) out on display. And perhaps a new pair of shades?

  The blade on his Swiss knife would cut the wire that kept them attached to the rack with one smart tug — he’d performed the operation more times than he could count; but the guy who ran the notions shop beside the lingerie store owned the glasses display, and he was there at his cash, keeping a steady eye on Hubert. So it was a test of patience. Fine. Wasting an hour assessing each pair in the tiny display rack mirror was not a problem. Hubert manoeuvred in front of it, smiling, frowning, adjusting his hair. He was thinking a pair of blue-tint aviation shades might be just the ticket for a soulful mood when a woman’s voice caught his ear: