by John Brooke
One French citizen, one Swiss-owned painting. It was settled as much as it ever could be. Gérard Richand had held his peace and honoured the parameters of her case. Why not? Gérard had secured his little prize. Or thought he had — which is what mattered. So, good to her word with Agent Bucholtz, the inspector had Chief Magistrate Richand sign the forms releasing the sequestered art to the Swiss and wished him a happy holiday season. Robert Charigot’s art collection began to be processed out in earnest, facilitated by Swiss FedPol agents and the Basel Kunstmuseum. Thanks to Claude’s discretion and Gérard’s forbearance, it was a non-event on the French side, nothing but a few unmarked, unnoticed trucks leaving town. At the other end, Rudi (or someone) made sure Switzerland knew. A victory for FedPol, good PR for law and order. Add in Inspector Morenz going about his duties and the calculated release of information, by Christmas Eve Basel media would be making gleeful hay of the incredible art fraud and series of murders based in the gay community. Inevitably, Zup did not escape. Aliette hoped the lull between Christmas and Saint-Sylvestre would kill it. Failing that, she hoped Max and Adelhard might seize the opportunity to spin their notoriety into pure Swiss gold.
But it had nothing to do with her. She requisitioned the grungy Opal and went up to Strasbourg for a meeting with the Divisionnaire. He never much cared about bad cop judgement so long as it got the desired result and did not implicate his office or the Ministry to which he filed reports. He shrugged in his dry way and said he would see to her request. Although he wished her well, he forgot Joyeux Noël, but that’s the kind of man he was. She returned with a bag full of Christmas gifts — lots of good shopping in the capital.
She dutifully sipped champagne and munched Monique’s cookies at the yearly party. It was not a farewell party, just a Christmas party, and her plans were not announced, so there were no parting tears. Who could bear it if the centre of the universe was disappearing? Commissaire Claude Néon managed to be both pleasant and completely distant. He was going to Paris, to spend the holiday with his mother and brother.
The only delightful spark in an otherwise cheerless week of tying loose ends was a card from Hubert Hunspach. One of those maudlin ones with a photo of the family. He’d circled his own smiling face, more or less obliterating his sister’s. A note said he’d enjoyed working with her.
That touched the inspector’s suspended heart, but she did not reply.
She took a flight to the coast, where she spent the loneliest Christmas ever. She came back before New Year and began to pack her things. Claude, in a civilized gesture, stayed in Paris with his family for an extra week, leaving her stress-free access to the house in the north end.
There was one bit of harrowing news over the holiday. Art restorer Gregory Huet was found in his garden with a bullet through his head. Clearly a professional job, according to Inspector Patrice Lebeau, who’d drawn the short straw and was looking after the otherwise deserted shop on the third floor at rue des Bons Enfants. Something to do with a Watteau.
So, the knock on the door had come. The client of his client Dieter? Or an entirely different tangent — all French? (Watteau is definitely French.) Either way, it was a dangerous business. She thought of Gregory’s whimsy as she’d munched his lovely cake, evoking a shoemaker drifting away from a lover’s quarrel, dreaming of freedom, peace and quiet, before being plowed to bits by an imagined potash barge. A beautiful imagination. But even his whimsy had been a lie.
Which raised the logical question: Did he really bake his own kugelhopf?
For that case she would have certainly assigned someone else, but it was no longer her job. Not that she mentioned as much to Inspector Lebeau — she was only stopping in, en route to a Saint Sylvestre invitation in the south. Lucky her, said Patrice. Not exactly, she was thinking.
Though she only smiled, ‘See you next year.’
Of course she would be back to offer her testimony in court. Because Robert Charigot would be extradited back to Switzerland in the early new year, where he would be tried for and admit to stealing priceless art. And when released from Swiss custody he would be bound to answer similar charges in Germany, Italy and France. And because Robert’s mother would be convicted of murder in the Palais de Justice a twenty-minute walk away, though such was her destroyed condition that she would never suffer the coldness of an actual cell.
But all that was months, if not years, away. She knew that when she returned to testify, she would see Claude again. And Gérard, Raphaele, Jean-Marc and Charles, Monique and Inspector Bernadette Milhau…all the PJ team. Michel Souviron. The smiling J-P Blismes. But they would be different. So would she. In a moment, Inspector Nouvelle would be effectively gone.
She gazed around her office one last time. Ten years. Through her window were the snow-covered Vosges. That same snow covered Piaf, where he slept in an empty garden…
While she had a new life to start, as head of a small brigade.
It would be less than half the size of this small one, but she would be running the show. It would be in a town in wine country an hour from Spain. She’d never been there.
The shoemaker remained where Bernadette had left him, unframed, in a flowery totebag, which may have been useful to some people back in Basel, but it was far too late to worry about that. Aliette had not looked at him since that final, horrible day. Now she did.
Was the shoemaker beautiful? Who made him? Was the shoemaker the work of the man-in-the-moon, that unknowable artist of everything? Was the shoemaker’s daily pause for a pot of tea a symbol of his daily dose of memory? Memory set against a life of intention, all ending in another boot? Large questions in a mundane moment. My life, my boot to fix and shine like new, thought Aliette Nouvelle. Everything changed with hindsight. This case would be no exception.
She put the shoemaker back in the bag. She called a cab. And felt no qualms as she carried an unknown masterpiece out with the last of the sundries that were leaving here forever.
fin
Other Books in this Series
The Voice of Aliette Nouvelle
Jacques Normand, France’s Public Enemy Number One, escaped from prison over ten years ago. But the Commissaire is convinced that the outlaw is alive. Find him, he commands Inspector Aliette Nouvelle.
“This book, by Montreal poet and filmmaker John Brooke, dropped into my lap and I was smitten: interesting premise, fascinating central character and good writing. Poetic images, film stills and literary writing, none out of place.”—The Globe & Mail
All Pure Souls
Inspector Aliette Nouvelle returns to solve the case of the murder of a Marilyn Monroe look-alike in a French brothel.
“All Pure Souls is definitely not a dimestore detective novel. The writing is good and the dialogue is sharp…the point of the book seems to be less about solving the crime than figuring out what motivates the characters.” —Montreal Review of Books
Stifling Folds of Love
When the ex-lovers of a former schoolteacher start dying at an alarming rate, Inspector Aliette Nouvelle is drawn into the investigation, not least because her boss is also in jeopardy.
“The relaxed pace supports the tone set by the dialogue as it exposes the complex layers leading to the murderer in this bucolic, small-town setting. The writing may feel impressionistic but the climax is as threatening as they come. ”—The Hamilton Spectator
About the Author
John Brooke became fascinated by criminality and police work listening to the courtroom stories and observations of his father, a long-serving judge. Although he lives in Montreal, John makes frequent trips to France for both pleasure and research. He earns a living as a freelance writer and translator, has also worked as a film and video editor as well as directed four films on modern dance. His poetry and short stories have been widely published, and in 1998 his story “The Finer Points of Apples” won him the Journey Prize. Brooke’s first Inspector Aliette mystery, The Voice of Aliette Nouvelle, was published in 1999, followed b
y All Pure Souls in 2001. He took a break from Aliette with the publication of his novel Last Days of Montreal in 2004, but returned with her in 2011 with Stifling Folds of Love.
