Stifling Folds of Love

by John Brooke

  Basic question. ‘So, who wants a picture of Pearl?’

  ‘Someone who loves her,’ Claude replied. ‘Someone who wants her for himself.’

  In describing the frustration of watching a gifted man in the process of tragic, ‘almost wilful’ self-destruction after splitting from ‘that woman,’ the secretary sounded a lot like the filmmaker’s assistant, but ten years older. Matronly. Had she kept a motherly flame alight for Georges?

  The security guard who worked the night shift confirmed Pugh had stayed late and had been alone in the building, according to the log book. He said one reporter tried to follow him in when the Maître had returned earlier in the evening — at exactly 6:17pm. How did you know it was a reporter? Because he was badgering Maître Pugh for an interview. What did the Maître say to this? He threatened to sue the man’s paper, adding: ‘Maître Pugh used to love all those people, they were always in and out for interviews and pictures. But since he’s been losing…’ A rueful shake of his head to acknowledge a tragic turn of fortune. What did he look like, this reporter? A basic description was clearly one of Tommi Bonneau. But he did not come in? No. You never left your post? Yes, I made my rounds, like always, to see who’s in, but the door was locked tight, all alarm systems in place, you can check the computer. Thank you — the security guard was dismissed.

  Aliette leaned out the open window. Below it, a good ten feet, was a ledge only a brave cat could negotiate. This was the only link to the offices on either side of Pugh’s. There were no windows in the wall of the next building, at least forty feet across the gap. There was a dank alley six storeys below. The only ladder long enough would have to have come on a fire truck. Maybe IJ would find a print from a climber’s shoe? Maybe.

  Claude Néon said, ‘We damn well better find an MO or we’re in for a rough ride.’

  They left the uniforms to seal the office.

  Back at the Commissariat, the phone on Monique’s desk kept ringing and the energy kept rising as Claude laid it out for his assembled team. They now had four dead men. If murder, that meant serial. But, ‘barring a breakthrough downstairs, all we have is coincidence and the tiniest B&E. Nothing was broken and we’re not sure how they entered…’ There was one possible tangible link to Georges Pugh’s seized-up heart: The photo that was not there. ‘We’re looking for a basic drugstore printed photo of Pearl Serein sitting on the bow of a boat.’

  ‘Topless,’ added Aliette. It was weird, but it was about this Pearl Serein.

  Claude confirmed. ‘Topless is an incentive. I’m sure Gérard Richand will be more amenable if we let him see the lady’s tits.’ All the more so if the city got to see them too. Which it would — Commisaire Néon was learning how to work these things. But they had to find the picture. ‘Keep it quiet. This picture is just missing property from the scene.’ He began portioning out assignments. ‘Patrice and Jean-Marie will focus on last night. Pugh’s secretary, the security people, his clients — the more obvious ones first. If it means closing down a lab or two, then so be it…’

  ‘Don’t start a war,’ warned Aliette. It was her unwritten privilege to warn, critique and otherwise keep an eye on Claude’s leadership decisions, especially as they pertained to her patch. Fighting the people who controlled the drug trade only worked with negotiation and trade-offs.

  ‘No,’ Claude agreed, ‘no wars, very cool.’ He pressed on. ‘Guy, Jeannot, you’ll make a wider circle. First three victims: any enemies including family. Anyone pissed enough to kill for love and nuts enough to do three more to make it into a game. If you need background, it’s all in my computer: money, taxes, drugs, tics and politics, whatever you need. Under pearlsboys. Monique will send you the file.’ Junior Inspector Bernadette Milhau would reread everything in Monique’s assorted clippings. Claude would approach the woman in question…

  Aliette left them to it — she had her own very busy day ahead, thank you very much.

  The inspector was intrigued but worried. Four lovers down. Heart attacks? There was obviously something occurring here. But she was sensing something wrong in Claude’s reaction. Claude couldn’t help but see it big and was making it bigger by the minute. The guys were lapping it up, bursting to get out there. Pumped-up cops are easy targets. Yes, for bullets, but far more so for those who want to tear a strip. An instinct made her want to back away. It was his obsession, not hers, and it was growing. Aliette hoped Procureur Souviron was truly onside with Claude.

  9

  Claude Calls on Pearl

  Stepping into the open-concept mansion in the sky, Claude Néon was nervous, immediately out of his element. He had never been in a lift that opened directly into a home, let alone a home like this one. He looked out at the Vosges, misty in the distance — this was the highest point between here and there. He’d been announced by the uniformed concierge back at ground level and Pearl Serein was waiting for him, composed, wary. Everyone’s wary when the police come calling.

  Claude apologized for intruding.

  Pearl shrugged, ‘It’s all right. Not busy…Just reading.’

  Claude asked, ‘What are you reading?’

  Like any obedient citizen, she handed over her book.

  ‘Three-Cornered Room?’ Some Japanese novel, in translation. He didn’t know it.

  She mumbled something about it being a classic. Her father had recommended it. ‘Years ago. I still pick it up from time to time. Whenever I feel removed from myself like this.’ Pearl said it was the story of a woman with one part missing.

  Claude asked what part that might be.

  She replied, ‘Her compassion.’

  Claude blanched. He was in no way prepared to pursue a literary discussion, much less an existential one. He did know that sociopath killers display a fundamental lack of compassion toward their fellow human beings. He asked, ‘Who’s your father?’

  ‘No one special. He’s dead…He had a bookstore.’

  As gently as he knew how, Claude broke the news of Georges Pugh. She knew, of course — it was all over the radio. Pearl stayed quiet, inside herself: what can a person do? Claude eased toward the inevitable questions. After their less than smooth first meeting, this time Commissaire Néon took extra care to assure Pearl Serein that she was under no obligation to reply.

  She emerged from her quiet to assure him, ‘But Monsieur le Commissaire, I want to reply.’

  Claude smiled, deferential. ‘Of course. Your reputation.’

  ‘No!’ Eyes flashing, not in the mood for deference. ‘That is not about my reputation. What you’re referring to is a fairy tale. A silly fantasy. We have to be clear.’ Pearl Serein turned away and stared at the distance. Her own private distance. She added, ‘Or I won’t reply.’

  ‘Fine. Perfect.’ Claude asked, ‘Where were you yesterday afternoon and evening from two till six or so?’ From the time Georges Pugh left the courthouse under the weight of another high-profile loss till the time he’d signed back in at his building.

  ‘I shopped…I have a new dress and a sales woman to corroborate that…I played tennis at my club. Then I came home. I walked…through the park.’

  ‘You weren’t at the courthouse by any chance?’ To see Georges fail.

  ‘No. Why would I be?’

  ‘Just that you and Monsieur Pugh had a history. I mean, you were there for — ’

  ‘As you probably know, I had a personal involvement with someone directly involved in that case. I find court boring. Only morbid people with nothing to do go to see such sordid things.’

  ‘Did you have any contact with Georges Pugh yesterday?’

  ‘No, not directly. I haven’t talked to Georges since autumn.’ She shrugged. ‘But he was at the club yesterday afternoon when I was there. Does that count?’

  ‘You saw him there?’

  ‘No, I saw his car in the lot. Bright gold. Hard to miss. By design, I should add.’

  Pearl closed her eyes and breathed. Claude understood. Georges Pugh was the worst kind of flashy, a
ttention-seeking, egotistical lawyer. But he had to ask, ‘Why didn’t you see him?’

  ‘I didn’t want to see him. He could never let go. It always gets so stupid and — ’

  ‘Then why did you go to the club?’

  Pearl Serein lifted her Japanese novel out of Claude’s hand, her brown eyes heavy with exasperation. ‘I had a lesson booked. I will not stop my life because of some man.’

  ‘No.’ It was lucky she said that. Claude caught himself going straight back to the mess he’d made during her visit to his office. He eased up. He looked around. ‘This is beautiful.’

  ‘Yes.’ Peremptory. Saying it added nothing useful to the matter at hand. She told him, ‘I had my lesson, I had a shower and dried my hair and went home. Georges’ car was there when I was on my way out. He could’ve been in the bar or eating or God knows where. I know he was supposed to have a lesson. But I did not see the man. I did my best not to see him.’

  ‘How do you know he was going to have a lesson?’

  ‘Remy mentioned it…Remy Lorentz, the tennis pro at the club.’

  Ah. ‘There, you’re helping me already.’ Another cop smile. ‘According to our timeframe, this Remy could be the last person to have spent any meaningful time with Georges.’

  ‘Remy?’ Pearl’s eyes went wide. ‘They were going to work on his serve.’ (Le service.)

  ‘We’ll have a word with Remy.’ Claude took out his pad and jotted down the name. Pearl’s mouth moved, tentative, as if she might think a word with Remy would not be useful. But she stayed silent. He asked, ‘What about the others?’

  She flared again. ‘What others?’ She understood the question. She resented the implication.

  Claude stayed calm and explained. If she honestly wanted to help, she had to accept the strong possibility that she’d spent intimate time with a killer. The list of her ex-lovers, who had to be considered both suspects and potential victims, was now down to three: Didier Belfort, Bruno Martel and Raymond Tuche. Claude ran his hand along the back of a creamy leather fauteuil. ‘Monsieur Belfort. He gave you this place?’ That got a silent yes. ‘Is he still involved in any way? I mean, is he the kind of man who might believe he still had a claim?’

  Pearl marched across the room to her writing desk, sat and began sifting through the drawer. Claude began a casual tour of the room, admiring, touching…she was a big reader, four shelves chock full of books. He ended up by her shoulder as she continued to search through her desk. He couldn’t help but notice the open invitation lying there.

  Spring Follies! Saturday, May 1

  Champagne and dancing to celebrate the season

  Members and friends

  RSVP Gaston for group tables

  ‘Going dancing?’

  ‘Is there a law against it, Commissaire?’

  Claude just smiled. They both knew it was none of his business. He backed away.

  Pearl continued rifling through the overflowing drawer, frowning, muttering, ‘I might. I’ve been cooped up here far too long…Ah! Here…’ Bringing Claude a business card. ‘This is my notary. He will show you everything you need to see. The place is free and clear and completely mine.’ That settled, Pearl seemed to retreat inside again. ‘I can’t really explain it. Didi insisted.’ Then, softer, retreating still further — searching for further clarity? ‘Didier Belfort is a very talented, very spoiled, very passive-aggressive overgrown child. He also owns or has access to ten other homes around here and over the river. I had no home. It was a lovely gesture but not the hugest sacrifice. You know?’ Claude mulled this. Pearl added, ‘If you really need to know, Didi also paid my entry fee at the club. We met through tennis.’

  ‘I see,’ said Claude.

  Did he? Pearl appeared to doubt it. ‘Didi’s too wrapped up in himself to kill anyone.’

  Following this thread, Claude asked, ‘And Duteil — he gave you a lot of money?’

  Staring with disbelief into a cop’s intrusive eyes, Pearl murmured, ‘Yes.’

  ‘How much?’

  Now her placid face twisted slightly. ‘Do you really need to know?’

  ‘Not really, not just now… But enough for someone to kill for, do you think?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Pearl pondered it. ‘Depends on how much importance you give to money.’

  So money was a sore point. Pearl’s dour mask was firmly back in place.

  Claude tugged it again. ‘Were you in it for the money?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘No?’

  ‘Monsieur Commissaire, I’m a schoolteacher. I was raised over a bookstore. It is not in my blood to be in anything for the money.’

  ‘Then why did he give you all that money? Were you making plans?’

  ‘We weren’t together long enough for plans.’ But Claude needed to know more — for her sake, for his sense of her. So Pearl said, ‘I asked Jerôme the same thing. He told me, This is all I have to give you, this is what I do. That seemed a bit sad, but it was obvious he needed to do it. So he could feel secure in the way he felt about me. Do you know what I mean, monsieur?’

  Claude did not answer that. He asked, ‘Then you left him for Pugh?’

  ‘No. I just left him. There was no connection.’

  ‘But everyone says — ’

  ‘I don’t care what everyone says,’ she hissed. ‘My heart does not have a sign on it. Merde!’

  Pearl whirled away. Claude waited till the mountains calmed her.

  She approached again. ‘Georges can be very persuasive.’

  ‘Mm. And now he’s dead too.’

  ‘Poor Georges,’ Pearl murmured.

  ‘Poor Georges? Some of the slime I could tell you about that he’s gotten off…’

  Pearl nodded grimly. ‘I know all about them…impossible to live with a man like that.’

  ‘Impossible?’

  ‘The grubby thing behind the brilliant words. It’s there forever.’

  ‘Who would kill Georges Pugh?’

  Pearl held steady. ‘Lots of people. Look at the life he lived.’

  Claude returned to his list. ‘So then came Raymond Tuche.’ The sculptor. After the lawyer.

  ‘So?’ Bristling. She really hated all this stuff about her boyfriends.

  ‘These men are dying, madame.’

  Pearl Serein deflated with a weary sigh. She wrapped her arms tight across her breast, stress leaking from her face. ‘Raymond has his problems, but after Georges he was like fresh air.’

  ‘Seen Ray lately?’

  ‘I haven’t seen anyone lately. I mean men. I play tennis with the women. I come home. I read.’ Flashing her book about a woman with a part of her soul gone missing.

  Claude wielded his pen. ‘Which women do you play with?’

  ‘The women on the ladder.’

  ‘Ladder?’

  ‘The tennis ladder!’

  Pearl had a temper. Claude stepped back from it. ‘Please. You said you wanted to help.’

  She relaxed. ‘Sorry…Raymond has been at a sanatorium since December. Le Cure Curé. He checked himself in. If Raymond forgets his medication he’s very capable of de-compensating. Drastically. His emotions are volatile but he’s not dangerous.’

  ‘On a voluntary basis?’ Tuche could walk out of his sanatorium whenever he felt like it.

  Pearl countered, ‘Commissaire, if Raymond ever hurt anyone, it’s likely to be himself.’

  ‘OK.’ Claude felt the truth of her statement. He said, ‘Which leaves Bruno Martel.’

  Pearl asked, ‘How could he kill anyone? He’s not here. He’s been out at his farm since…’ She trailed off. Pale. Full of quiet sighs. It went without saying: Since he’d been dumped by Pearl.

  ‘He was your last…uh, your last involvement. Why did you leave him?’

  She shuddered, flustered. ‘Because I didn’t like him.’

  ‘He wasn’t happy about it.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Jealous?’

  ‘They’re all jealous, mon
sieur Commissaire. But Bruno Martel will never admit to something as low as jealousy…Quel bordel!’ This last whispered into silence. What a god-awful mess.

  Claude gave her space to breathe. Finally asked, ‘You can confirm last night’s whereabouts?’

  ‘I was here.’

  ‘Can you prove it?’

  ‘I have no idea. Do I need to?’

  He didn’t know; she might. Claude gave himself some space to breathe. After a good long gaze at the mountains, he asked, ‘Would you be willing to help in a more active way with this?’

  ‘If I can.’

  ‘Good. Merci.’ Claude pushed the button to call the lift.

  Pearl Serein came near, Japanese novel clutched tightly in her hand. ‘Monsieur Commissaire, my men are…’ She paused. What? The lift arrived. Claude pulled back the door. ‘My men are my mistakes, but they are not murderers. I would know. I would have a feeling. Any woman would.’

  Not every woman, Claude Néon thought. Some women are as blind as bats. But he held his peace. Stepping into the lift, he left Pearl Serein standing with the world spreading out behind her.

  He spoke with the puffy concierge, who confirmed Madame Serein’s comings and goings and final return the previous day. ‘But there is a back stairs, I assume?’

  ‘Oui…but…’ A large shrug. Why would anyone with a private lift bother climbing?

  When Commissaire Claude Néon walked out of Pearl Serein’s building he was fairly sure Pearl did not kill men. He felt it. A cop’s certainty. A man’s instinct. He stood out front, gazing up. He thought she might be looking down. She said she would be willing to help. Help Claude Néon solve this. He checked the time. The proc was not for another hour yet.

  Monsieur le Commissaire strode back into the foyer, and back into the lift.

  The concierge inserted his key in the top button, ‘Voila.’ And stepped out with a servile bow.

  Are you meant to tip? Claude wondered as he rode back up with a special request for Pearl.

  10

  Bruno Weeps

  Inspector Nouvelle was on her way upstairs with a briefcase full of paperwork. She’d been up late preparing for a lunch meeting with Swiss FedPol Agent Franck Woerli, her Swiss counterpart in the recent border operation. He would in turn be eating with their Italian link next week. The political element required a constant and careful coordinating of facts. ‘Salut.’ She met Claude Néon on the second landing. He was bright-eyed with intent. ‘So? Best friends now?’