by John Brooke
“Some of them can do that to me. He’s quite something, he really is...” See the judge’s fleshy brow crinkling with incomprehension. Now see some anger mixing, too. “I still don’t see where your cult connects with a drugged-out pimp slicing one of his putes. My guess is she was sick and tired of playing movie star. I gather that’s all she ever did.”
“That could tie to it, definitely. But let me finish.”
“Please...” But it better be good. Finger on desktop picking up the beat...
“There can only be nine of them, so someone had to go.”
“Why only nine?”
“Space is the easy answer; there’s only room for so many beds. But I understand from this woman with the daughter and the burning twigs that nine is another one of their structural things...like twelve apostles, in a way. Part of their ritual. A rule, basically. And — ”
Gérard holds up a hand: stop!...staring hard at the information on his desk, wheels turning as he tries to get a grip on Aliette’s idea. “And you’re suggesting Manon Larivière was killed somewhere else, perhaps by this Colette Namur, but maybe she was helped by the group or some of the group; and that he was drugged and the killers brought her back and set it up?”
“Something like that, yes... The point is, with them moving around, upstairs, downstairs, and Dorise — ”
“Dorise?”
“The cook, Gérard?” Frowning. Monsieur le Juge has not read as closely as he might’ve.
“...Ah yes.”
“...and with Dorise in the back, there was a lot of movement that is not well accounted for by any means.”
“Hmm.”
“Plus easy access through an unsecured kitchen door on a hot night.”
The judge mulls it over... “Why was she helped?”
“She’s not the kind of woman who could do it alone. And she’s an outsider.”
“If she’s an outsider — estranged, you say — why would they help her?”
“That’s what I can’t see — except to get rid of the old one and bring in the new.”
“Marilyn Monroe being the old...”
“Flossie Orain, Gérard. Make her talk to me on my terms. She’s the one in charge now. She’s the one Michel Souviron was talking to before he called in with the 221-3 for Herméné Dupras. Flossie Orain is the one who arranged to take in Colette’s child... She’s the one who more or less took over from Ondine Duguay. She’s in the middle of this thing, I can feel it. Herméné Dupras is like a toy to the likes of her.”
“And Michel Souviron?” Eyeing her, askance — in defence of his colleague; we know our business, Inspector; we’re not kids; we are wise and respected men...
Oops, careful, that fraternal/paternalistic thing pops up at a moment’s notice — a double-barrelled impulse they just can’t seem to contain. “It’s just that to Flossie, men are things to be worked with. Go and meet her. And her friend, Louise.”
“All this from a whiff of a burning twig?”
A shrug: voilà...Gérard Richand sighs and goes into his reading mode. The inspector gets up and goes to the window, stares down at the flowers and trees in the quad. The pattern below is logical and pretty. She knows the one just presented to the J.of I. is far less so. But she cannot work in a vacuum...
“Why this Doctor Cyr? Odd beliefs. I thought it was just for girls.”
“He said something to me, something that connects. They were hovering around him like he’s one of the family...and he never came back from the funeral. And he’s known our suspect for years, since he was a boy.”
“What’d he say?”
“From corruption, sweetness.”
The judge shakes his head; returns to his deliberation. Finally, motioning her back to her chair, he tells her, “You circle, but you don’t touch. There’s a hole in the middle of all this, Inspector — and it leaves your threads quite circumstantial, I’m afraid.”
“But not a very big one!” Don’t whine, Aliette! “...Give me the body back, Gérard. And a decent lab. I’ll swear the smoke I smelled on her top was the same as from those twigs!”
“How close is this Ondine Duguay’s connection?”
“I don’t know. But the goddess thing was her baby... They say they want to protect her.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
“No harm in talking.”
“All the harm is in the talking... They could create such a mess. God knows who’s been in and out of that place. Procureur won’t risk it for a perverse old pimp. Says best to leave the rest of them as quiet as possible...implied someone made it clear pillars of our community could come tumbling down if they feel too threatened.”
“Someone like Flossie Orain.”
“Whoever it was, it’s something he doesn’t need.”
“He’ll still get paid.”
“And so will you and I. Community standards are sometimes ineffable and quite relative to boot. Isn’t it so, Inspector?”
“Absolutely... But the law isn’t.”
“But the balance is a miracle and we should feel privileged to play a part... Look, regardless of Michel’s 221-3, I’m going to use my discretion and send in the shrinks full force. We need more information on what makes this kind of man. They’ll quietly pronounce him insane in a couple of years, and the thing will be forgotten.”
“But he’s not insane. Just a slave to pleasure. Gérard...?”
Gérard folds his arms and looks out the window. “Did he tell you how this Manon Larivière could make him come and laugh at the same moment... Laugh out loud?”
Pardon...? “Come and laugh?”
“Climax? Ejaculation, Inspector?”
“Ah... Well, no. Not in so many words.”
“This just doesn’t happen... Does it?” Gérard can’t smile. Gérard’s embarrassed.
Yes, we used to sleep together and we actually had some fun. But never that much.
“The man has something seriously wrong with him. Plus a violent streak. I saw it.”
When you insulted him because you didn’t like to hear about his life? This is not a question you put to a judge, regardless of your shared history. But she can read him and she hears male spite... Yes, that righteous jealous thing she also sensed in Claude. Are Gérard and Claude really so angry at an old libertine’s silly life? That can’t be their guiding light here... She too folds her arms, affecting a certain look; it’s a challenge, conveyed with a tinge of bitterness that a judge might not appreciate but which a serious cop cannot suppress, telling him in no uncertain terms: To hell with community values. They gave you the big job, now do it right. Be brave! Go to the heart of it!
Gérard can read her too; he knows her impulses...or remembers them (time does go by). He nods: all right. “We’re heading off Friday...” to Collioure, his wife’s hometown on the sea by the Spanish border. “You find something of those twigs in the house and we’ll talk about the exhumation when I — ”
“But I haven’t and I won’t... Of course I won’t.”
“Find the old man then. That shouldn’t be too hard. I’d like to know more about the suspect’s childhood. We’ll go from there, slowly, when I get back from the south...” making a note, then standing and reaching to shake her hand. You always end formally when you meet with Gérard. “What about you, Inspector — aren’t you about due for the coast?”
“Saturday...maybe. I don’t know...I mean, this thing is starting to get to me.”
“Which is an excellent reason to take a break. God knows I need one.”
Oui, oui, oui...Gérard, you’re starting to sound like my mother.
2.
Find the old man, maybe we’ll go from there. The concierge calls back in fifteen minutes: The doctor’s apartment is empty, Madame Inspector... No, haven’t seen the maid since Saturday. Or was it Friday night? ...And there’s no classic car waiting in the garage.
A 1949 Citroën TA, pearl grey, plate number 8244PD68. She sends a memo downstairs to Commi
ssaire Duque of the City Police: please have your people look as they make their rounds. She sends similar notes to the gendarmeries in outlying towns, and to her friends at the Swiss checkpoint fifty kilometres down the road. Bridges into Germany are a different matter. No checkpoint; partners in the EU means free-flowing traffic, the major portion of it local and daily. For information on northbound traffic she’ll have to ask... But wait; wait! slow down...give it another day or so. Dr. Cyr is eighty-seven; he can’t get too far, not if he’s travelling alone.
But what if he’s not?
And where does a non-live-in live when she’s not on the job?...looking through her notes: Léonie Brandeau. Nowhere to be found in the directory. She tries every agency in the city and comes up empty. She rather thought she would.
Commissaire Duque’s City detachment occupies the main and second floors, your typical “police station,” busy with officers behind counters listening to complaints, still more in little rooms ready to help find your stolen purse, stolen car, stolen children, stolen wife, members of the public, both innocent and guilty, coming and going at all hours of the day and night. Most of the community’s crimes, misdemeanours and small mysteries are dealt with here, and they always have an artist on call for composite portraits of the furtive wanted, the sadly found. Aliette rings downstairs, “Might I requisition...?” After lunch, who should walk into her office but the lady who works at one of the window-side easels at Georgette’s group. A Madame Jarnet. Handsome, with the kind of organized and cared-for bearing that suggests the privileged bourgeois life of some sort. But the people at Georgette’s group keep their distance — it’s not a social thing, and Aliette, who’s never done more than nod bonsoir, would never have guessed. They’re both charmed to see each other. “You do this for a living?”
“Pin money, change of scenery, something to do now that the kids are up and gone.” But not really essential, left unsaid.
The inspector doesn’t ask for details; like drawing groups, police work should involve a bit of distance too. She begins to describe her subject. Madame Jarnet, listening...thinking, begins to fashion a face. After a few tries, Aliette suggesting even heavier eyebrows... “Still too young,” she muses, “but getting there. You know her perhaps? Save me a lot of running around.” Ladies of Madame Jarnet’s ilk are always on the look-out for good non-live-ins.
“Can’t say I do. But she really does look for all the world like Arletty in Les Visiteurs du Soir... Ever seen it?”
France, 1942, b&w; an allegory (lots of allegories produced during the war) wherein two of Satan’s minions show up at a castle in time for the wedding feast, Arletty being the one with the regal voice, the magnificent face loved throughout the Republic. And those eyebrows. “Oh for the love of... Come with me!”
Madame Jarnet, enjoying herself, collects her stuff and hustles down the stairs behind the inspector, who is cursing under her breath.
The prisoner is savouring another cigar as he passes the time.
“Do you know this person?” Sternly; showing the drawing.
“Could be Francine...or Arletty. Depends on the context.” Copious chins folding over each other as he stares at the pencilled face.
“Is it Francine?”
“She could look like that. Act like it, too. Big aspirations for the theatre at one point, or so she said. But she missed it...had a habit. She could be a handful — horrible tantrums. Something very loose in there...” Tapping the top of his head.
Aliette hands the drawing back to her artist. “Give me some more years, madame.” A few moments later, there’s Léonie. To the prisoner: “Could that be her now?”
“Definitely where she was headed,” confirms Herméné. To the artist, in his convivial way, he adds, “You’re very good.”
The lady is not sure how one receives a compliment from a man behind bars accused of a vicious murder. Aliette, without thinking, offers, “This is Madame Jarnet.”
“Ah... Husband a banker?”
“Why, yes. You know him?”
Herméné, caught short, demurs.
The lady is thanked and dismissed, worried, perhaps with a whole new view of life...
“Francine’s the one you hit.”
“Because she hit me.”
“Why?”
“Inspector, it was years ago. Who can remember these things?”
“You have to remember these things, monsieur. Some very important people have noted a tendency.” The suspect shrugs: why bother if it’s already noted? She glances at Claude’s notes: MM arrives 1966; a film; replace Francine. “What does this mean: a film, replace Francine?”
Herméné relights his cigar. Takes his sweet time. He has a lawyer now. Has his lawyer got it across to him that there’s no rush now we’re into provisional detention, so pay no mind to edgy inspectors?
“It was Marcel’s idea — he saw Manon in a locally made film he’d put money into and made a profit on, I might add. Quite adventurous, my friend Marcel... At any rate, Francine had been with us since, I don’t know...’57, ‘58...but it was time for Francine to leave. She was our resident Arletty, very popular, but she was getting impossible and Marcel suggested Manon and it seemed like an excellent exchange: Arletty for Monroe. So we offered and she came in. The film business can be brutal on a girl who’s all alone.”
“Your friend Marcel has disappeared.”
“Well, he’s very old.”
“Not enough to disappear. No one is.”
“Then find him, Inspector.”
“I intend to. What happened to Francine?”
“Don’t know...lost touch. Back to Paris, maybe?”
“Marcel never mentioned his maid?”
“Oh, sometimes. Yes, he did mention the latest one reminded him of Francine... He goes through a lot of them... They don’t seem to understand that he means no harm... With his stick?”
Thanks, Herméné. Merci, Gérard. Find the old man — shouldn’t be too hard. We get an old Arletty fake instead. Yes, for sure it’s one more thread...
That will circle but won’t touch.
Repeat to a walking rhythm; pissed off. Proceed to your fitting at Ondine’s...
3.
“Sein? Nothing much there at all,” mumbles Ondine Duguay through a mouthful of pins.
“Except Mari Morgan.” Shh! Aliette — the mandate, ma belle; you’re here only in your role as private citizen...standing in front of the mirror in Ondine’s work room. Her new camisole is still blocky, ragged along the hem — and already she’s fascinated; the seamstress has found a steely blue silk that can turn silvery grey with the slightest move.
“I don’t have to talk to you.”
“Not yet...but Ondine, you know I can find out.”
“Georgette knows nothing about it. My life, not hers.” Squatting, circling like an awkward duck, pulling and pinning the hem at a level just below her buttocks. “...Keep still, please.”
“I am.”
Ondine tugs again, this time under the inspector’s armpits. “Maybe you need a little more room around the chest...”
“Thank you.”
“You’re the type who’ll grow before she shrinks.”
“I hope so... Do you know Colette Namur?”
“Never heard of her.” Her dulled old eyes remain engrossed in the job. She takes scissors and snips carefully at cross-seams under the corners of the lacy brassiere patches she’s begun to fashion.
“Do you know Marcel Cyr? He was at the funeral.”
“Disgusting man... One of the main reasons I ran from that place.”
“Ondine... Does the goddess have something against men?”
“On the contrary — she loves them. It’s one of her eternal problems.”
“Tell me about it.”
“That’s all I know.”
“Tell me for Manon.”
“I told you, it’s not my world any more.”
Aliette has heard this one too many times before. The old were a
lways excusing themselves from the battle, more often than not without just cause.
“That should do it...” Bony hands tugging one last time to ensure the thing hangs straight. “I can have it for you Friday if you care to pass by.”
Aliette turns away and lifts the camisole up over her head, carefully, feeling pins scratch lightly against her back and breasts. There’s the small service tree, alone in the untended yard. “Do you burn twigs from your tree sometimes, Ondine?”
“Sometimes. A little bit of ritual never hurts to keep your prayers going in the right direction, Inspector.”
Yes, but which direction? And how far?
Walking home on a mellow summer’s eve, I think we’ll definitely go for a run today...and thinking of those Irish monks who’d caused such a fuss with the Latin mass. It was when the Church was “modernizing,” after Vatican II — heady times, jetting priests in blue jeans around the world bearing a renewed Word and precepts of Liberation Theology. The good sisters at Blanche de Castille, her school in Nantes, had found it thrilling. Then those Irish monks on their forgotten island, coming out of hiding, resisting, insisting on the Latin. Some of the older sisters understood, or thought they might, and tried to explain it to earnest girls who needed to know. A lovely memory: old sisters, imparting a different kind of admiration. Because it was a difficult thing: Not simply ritual, but faith in ritual; that was the key to those monks’ fierce stand. For them, that was the eternal and ever-necessary bridge.
4.
Alors, circling but not touching: this is a lot like spinning your wheels.
On the phone. The computer. Missing persons becoming missing pieces becoming abstract information — ”out there” somewhere, hard to feel the relation to murder, much less a goddess.
Time is lost. Focus is diffused. Is she wasting her time believing that it matters?
Creating pressure on herself: should I stay with this or just go home?
The irritating heat is gone but impatience grows.
Professional hazard. Live with it, ma belle...
8
Living by the Book
Flossie tells Vivi, “Your job is to take care of them — but only for the moment and no more. They come here only for a moment. None of them can stay. They come here because they need to get out of their lives, but not for very long. Their cycles are not like yours...they’re not as finely made as you and time can be so long and impossible for them... Marriage, jobs, getting old, it’s all just day after day after day for so many of them. It plays on their souls. They get desperate.”
