by John Brooke
“And so?”
“They argued, but he says it was impossible so he left her to it and went back down to his office. He sat at his desk...the murder weapon was a keepsake he used to open letters, but he can’t remember if it was sitting there in front of him...can’t remember much of anything till they found him on the floor. Swears he was drugged and set up. Can’t imagine by who of course. All his girls love him, you see. It was getting to me, some of the things he was telling me. All he ever does is have sex with whichever one he wants. It was gross. Like some kind of happy pig. When I suggested that, he was on his feet and would’ve hit me if it weren’t for the bars. A happy pig, prone to violence... Very ugly. He’s finally where he belongs.”
“Don’t be jealous, Claude.” And insulting a suspect never helps.
Claude snorts, sardonic; he’s learned to roll with her comments just as she has learned to roll with his. “Worst part is how he insists he’s got nothing but love for all of them.”
She tells him, “It didn’t happen in that room... I don’t think it even happened in that house.”
He responds with a dubious smile. “So where did it happen, Inspector?”
“Somewhere where someone was burning something I can’t find any trace of at Mari Morgan’s. You can’t get rid of smoke, and the smoke I smelled on her top — ”
“Her top?”
“Her chemise — a camisole, the thing she was wearing...it’s just not there in that house. IJ will back me up.” She hopes.
“They’ll have to, won’t they?” Meaning: if the victim was planted, forensics would know it by now.
The inspector isn’t cowed. “I need to talk to him myself. I need another day.”
Claude’s lips purse momentarily. “Look, my budget is stretched to the limit. She’s a whore, we’ve got a real low-crawler in jug. This kind of thing is only worth so much...” A gesture, palms gently flattening the air in front him: Let’s just go with the flow here, can’t we?
She responds. “It’s only me, Claude... Sir. I don’t cost much. It needs a second look.”
“I’m not stopping you. But I’ve already talked to Gérard and he agrees completely...” Gérard Richand, Chief Judge of Instruction, will assess the police summary report, add his own thoughts and confer with Procureur Michel Souviron, who will lay the formal charge. Claude sips his coffee. “Besides, aren’t you out of here next week?”
“I definitely plan to be on that plane. But a week is a week. Everything else is pretty quiet. Too hot for all my usual idiots, I guess... Claude, I need to know why anyone would ever want to kill a Marilyn Monroe doll. And why anyone would want to be one. Don’t you?”
He blinks. “Yeah, sure.” But he does need to know. “OK, I’ll ask Michel for the extra day before he files his charge. Anything else is between you and Gérard. Oh yes,” gloomy gaze shifting to a certain slip of paper, “the body was released this morning.”
“Who authorized that?”
“Gérard, obviously.”
“Claude! ...why?”
“They asked. Raphaele says they’ve taken everything that needs to be taken. I told Gérard, Gérard said fine. If they’re smart, they’ll get her in the ground straight away, with this heat.”
Ah, merde!
2.
“The chemise is gone! ...With her?”
Raphaele Petrucci stays calm. He tastes his cappuccino. Pronounces it, “Numero uno!”
Calm? More like off-hand, far too casual. It’s starting to make her mad and he can see it.
“Don’t worry, I kept a sample.” His smile says, Please don’t think we’re unprofessional, we who dwell in the basement. “But,” back to his notes, “there’s only her perfume, her sweat, his cigars, secretions from his hands...and green velvet from his coat.”
“Let’s see it...the sample.”
“More of a scraping, actually. Doesn’t look like the thing, just smells like it.” The smile disappears. The pathologist looks away, exasperated. “Inspector, we can only recover a smell if it’s there. There was nothing else. IJ has the machines, the chemicals. They tried.” Pleading slightly here? “...You know that.”
“Charles says he smelled it, too!”
“But Charles couldn’t find it. He’s over there now, going through the place.” Honestly, it’s not as if he’s enjoying disappointing her. “Maybe it’s your nose,” suggests Raphaele, pointing to it, trying to apologise; “...smell is like colour. Everyone experiences it in their own way. It has to be a cigar. Or someone else’s perfume...maybe from the other side of the room?”
“She wasn’t working!”
“Well he was! And they were together.”
“Only found together, Doctor, that’s all we know for sure!”
“I tell you, she wasn’t moved.”
“Then why did I smell that smell?”
“I don’t know, Inspector.”
“Oh, quel bordel! (What a mess.)... I need that top.”
His eyes don’t bounce around like Claude’s. They ask: Why are you pushing the obvious here?
In answer, hers say, Thanks a lot.
The moment passes. He brightens up as he taps his notes. “Ergot sample lines up perfectly.”
“Not a drug?”
“A large dose might induce something beyond the normal. Still, I can’t tell you or any judge, with any professional certainty, that it affected her mind or body in such a way as to be connected with the murder.”
“So?”
Aliette waits as he reads up and down again, trying too hard to reassure her that he really is a thorough cop. “So the knife entered below the rib cage, ripped the lung and the pericardium and part of the heart. Result: massive internal haemorrhaging; she drowned in her own blood. Death was not instantaneous, but certainly within a few minutes.” Then, shameless, unrepentant — it could have been sometime last year that this very minor professional disagreement had clouded their mutual attraction, he wonders, “You want a cappuccino?”
“No. I want to see that chemise. And smell it — with my nose.” Which she touches. For his benefit. “Where did they take her?”
He checks a slip of paper. “Back to Mari Morgan’s. Funeral’s at half-ten. You’d better run.”
That smile. It’s not easy: being older, being senior, and being attracted.
And he has just messed up on her... Maybe.
3.
She runs but does not get to sniff the victim’s underwear again.
French people aren’t so obsessed with funeral homes, embalming, the whole (rather wasteful) rigmarole. It’s there if you want it but it’s not the law. It’s perfectly OK if the deceased is washed and dressed by the visiting nurse, family members helping, and laid out on her usual bed. You hang a black ribbon or wreath on the front door. The rep from the local Pompes Funèbres (or it could still be the local cabinet maker in a smaller town or village) arrives to measure and offer a choice of boxes, make burial or cremation arrangements, make sure all state-required paperwork is in order. All done from home until you proceed to the church, if you have one.
Manon Larivière has no church. Aliette, bearing flowers and feeling damp from a quick march across the quarter, meets them coming out the door. The helping hands carefully lifting Manon into the hearse are supplied by the women of the house. Apart from Erly the baker, and a priest who will not meet anyone’s eyes as he stands by, there are no men mourning in front of Mari Morgan’s. Charles Léger of IJ is standing, sheepish, unopened kit in hand, at the door to a café just up the street. He’ll go in and test as soon as they leave.
Aliette shares a cab with Erly. They follow the small cortège out of the city, forty kilometres north to a pleasant little cemetery near a hamlet in some foresty flatland by the river. It’s closing in on noon as they roll up. The sun hangs in a cloudless sky over the yellowing green of high summer, the swaying willow tree by the bank, the calming rush and cooling whiff of the dazzling waters...a factory in Germany on the other side.
The inspector steps forward, makes her bow, tosses a handful of dirt. She moves to the outer ring of guests as the last words are said and the box is lowered.
She watches them, faces quiet behind black lace veils. They are the sisters. Manon’s family.
Because there is no weeping mother or empty-eyed father. There is one older woman at the graveside: tall...Aliette can see a grim, hardened face of advancing years behind the veil. She does not look like anyone’s mother. The rest are men, a smattering, who’ve materialized here in the privacy of a remote graveyard, far from the eyes of the city. Dr. Marcel Cyr has made it, frail and bent under that same overly formal, overly warm black Homburg, supporting himself on that burnished brass — or is it gold? — tipped walking stick.
The procession drifts away to cars parked in the shade. Aliette feels she needs another word with the old man, but Louise and Josiane are protective as they escort him toward a well-kept pearl grey 1949 Citroën TA. Better than well-kept; a show-piece! — Aliette knows because Papa used to take delight in grilling herself and her sister Anne as to year and model of France’s finer automotive creations whenever they spotted one. She’ll catch up with Marcel Cyr back in town.
She puts the cab ride on her expense account card, but, respectful of Claude’s budget, pays for two of Erly’s tartes flambées and a dozen religieuses out of her own pocket. She has decided against leaving her flowers at the gravesite; they’ll do more good for the living. Holding baked goods in one arm, flowers in the other, she backs through the door to the brothel.
There’s no one in the lobby. She lays her parcels on the counter, checks Herméné’s office, the rooms upstairs, but it appears Charles Léger has been and gone. Coming back down, the phone on the front desk is ringing and she stands there waiting for someone to appear. The caller gives up. Aliette wanders into the bar. Lingering, her gaze falls again on the motto carved into a panel over the mirror: “I am the hostess of the irreproachable Ferry Tavern, a white-gowned moon welcoming any man who comes to me with silver.” Poetic and apropos; but how?... But Dorise is standing there watching her. The cook has not gone with them to the cemetery; she wears the same white habit she had on the day before. “Dorise...I just... The door was open. Where are they?”
“They were going to have a picnic by the river.”
“Oh... Well, that’s a nice thing to do. But what about you?”
“I don’t need to go out there. I said my goodbyes this morning. I don’t like this heat.”
“It can’t last,” predicts the inspector. She picks up her flowers and food. “I brought these along,” patting the baker’s boxes, “in case you weren’t in the mood for working.”
Dorise accepts her offerings with a nod that is not quite a thank you. “I’m always working.”
“Staying busy is probably the best thing.” Withdrawing, a consoling smile for the unhappy woman, it occurs to her: “Dorise, would you know if that was Mari Morgan at the funeral?”
“What do you mean?” snaps Dorise, almost vicious.
“I’m...” What is her problem? “I’m just asking. There was this one woman, tall...”
“No! It wasn’t her!”
“But Dorise...you weren’t even there.”
The cook stares at her. Stares daggers.
“Well who is Mari Morgan? Is she around? Still alive?”
“I don’t know!...how should I know! I’ve never seen her!” Insistent brittle fury...now dissolving in a flood of tears. Aliette instinctively steps forward, arms out. The cook fends her off. “I have to work,” she whimpers and rushes away, back to her kitchen.
4.
“I won’t be able to pay my respects,” gesturing at the bars confining him; “there’s money, I think, that they took from my pockets along with my belt and my keys before they put me here. Would you take some of it and offer flowers from me?”
“Can’t do it, monsieur.”
“Herméné, please.”
“Herméné. I can’t touch anything that was on your person.”
“Ah. Regulations. Your colleague the Commissaire was telling me all about the regulations last evening. Well...” His moon face droops.
“But I can see about the flowers.” It’s a reasonable request.
He smiles his thanks. Now he’s recovered from the night of the murder, Herméné’s green velvet, immaculately groomed male presence has resurfaced, utterly confident it will be accepted no matter what. A successful pander. What about a murder charge? It seems inevitable, given Claude’s mood this morning and the fact that Gérard Richand has yet to call the prisoner before him. Will the suspect’s bonhomie hold up? “Who’s your lawyer?” Who’ll be allowed to come into it as the legal transition from garde à vue to détention provisoire comes into effect.
He laughs, with telling resignation. “Probably no one, given the circumstances. I have several, but none has come forward. I suppose I don’t blame them — people have reputations.”
“The state will supply one,” assures Aliette.
“I’d prefer a caterer, frankly.”
“And maybe a box of cigars, Herméné?”
“Oh yes!” Black button eyes brightening on reflex.
“Talk to your lawyer. Your lawyer can see to your personal concerns.” Comfort first, murder second. Pleasure-bound. Georgette knew him, all right. “Do you take drugs with your girls?”
“On occasion...depends on the occasion.”
“Opium?”
“Was it opium?”
“Seems so. From the pot on the shelf in your office?”
“I thought as much...badly constipated all day yesterday. No, not much for opium these days. Takes away the desire — especially at my age. Last thing I need. But yes, I keep a supply if anyone wants it. Yes, in the office...don’t like to offer it in the bar. We walk a fine line.”
“But you did smoke some?”
“Oh, a puff or two to be polite. It’s part of the job. But not enough to plug me up like that.”
“And you didn’t have sex.”
“Not with Manon...we were very quiet. In a highly delicate state. Had one of her wretched headaches, her period, the works — right out of commission. She went up for her bath, I went up a bit later with cake and wine to say goodnight, to try to make her feel better, then...” Sad shrug.
“You argued because she said she was going to leave Mari Morgan’s.”
“Highly delicate,” mutters Herméné. “She can turn hysterical at the drop of a pin. It’s so sad. You want to help her but there’s nothing you can do or say... I went back down. All you can do is wait till morning and hope it’s gone away.”
“What is the last thing you can remember?”
“Sitting there at my desk feeling ill and sleepy...sad, mainly. For Manon. It’s a sad sight.”
“No one came in?”
“Not that I can remember...I suppose I was waiting to see if she would. To say goodbye. Very tragic and dramatic about it all... But I didn’t really believe she would. Apparently I drifted off.”
“And she was there, more or less in your arms when you woke up.”
Herméné Dupras stares into space and slams one steel bar with the palm of one huge hand.
Aliette steps back from the force of it. “But she wasn’t exactly dressed to go out. No packed bag...”
“No...” Deflating, bewildered, he returns to his cot and sits. “I did not do this thing, Inspector.”
“The knife...”
“Yes, yes, it’s from my mother’s house. I use it every day to open mail. Anyone who knows me, knows this.”
She asks, “Herméné, did Manon want to leave Mari Morgan’s?”
“No. Of course not. Why would she?... More to the point: where would she go?”
“Did you have sex with anyone earlier? I mean someone more special than her?”
“All my girls are special. Very special. But no, I didn’t. But I might’ve later. Every night’s a new one, Inspector. That’s my motto.”
But not the motto over the bar.
And going over certain other points, certain other observations dovetail. Flossie Orain had touched on something germane:
“Only milk, you say? If that’s all they’re having then they should be having more. They have very busy schedules...” Expression grave, but it’s just for show. He knows nothing of Dorise’s remedy, nor, for that matter, a ceramic milker named Céleste — at least not by name. Doesn’t know about the records the police have on six of his girls and when confronted, shrugs it away. “This is normal in our business.” His grasp of Mari Morgan’s financial situation is better, but is childlike when compared to Flossie Orain’s. His sense of Flossie is jarring. “Like a daughter to me...knows every inch of the place. No way I could manage without her with the way things are these days.” It becomes clear the man has little idea what goes on in the inner workings of his house.
Herméné’s in sync with the rest of them on one thing, though: “No, no, no... You don’t understand. She never took it off, as you say. She was like Marilyn Monroe.”
“She thought she was Marilyn Monroe.”
“She pretended she was Marilyn Monroe. But she was Manon, never any mistake there.”
“But she was like Marilyn Monroe.”
“Yes...more or less.”
“That’s a tricky one, Herméné.”
“You have to love her to know her. We all loved her, we knew exactly who she was.”
“And all your girls love you.”
“Obviously. Everything depends on it. Place wouldn’t last a week if it weren’t for love.”
“And laughter.”
“As often as we can manage it.”
Piggy, clued-out, vainglorious in that weird way presumption will grow on a man without his even knowing; and yes, presumption is first cousin to an obsession with control. And that large anger. Intentionally or not, did Manon push him too far on a night when hellish humidity plus this apparent need for pleasure — mixed with all the pleasure-producing devices at his disposal — would have brought him to the edge? A word, the weather, a milligram too much of this, an ounce too much of that; so many murders happen when two people go over that ever-shifting edge.
