Stifling Folds of Love

by John Brooke

  From leaves of autumn flushed with love,

  A pearl of dew shakes free

  And falls to shatter on the earth beneath.

  So too must I, to flee Love’s stifling folds

  Drop from the world.

  20

  Inquisition

  You call it the Courthouse. We call it the Palace of Justice. The term is apt. History doesn’t disappear, it only changes, and the notion of the palace keeps us humble. Downstairs, the courts are in session. The rotunda is the hub, a public place through which busy people revolve, conferring, advising, getting stories straight, awaiting their moment in court, or pondering a losing argument, savoring a win. Despite the activity, all voices seem hushed in pervading deference to the institution. The Law. Upstairs this sense quickens. A secretary’s heels clack, disembodied…till she enters with copies for everyone. Then she sits and prepares to record the proceedings. She looks good, but it’s the last thing you want to think about. These offices and antechambers are called le Parquet. It is here that the procureur and his staff and the instructing magistrates (in a separate suite) examine the pros and cons of bringing another person’s life before the court. The window in this room where you are being interviewed may be open wide on a pleasant spring afternoon, but the sounds of the city don’t quite touch your ears. And it is humbling, to say the least, how the rest of your senses will join with your ears in creating a memory of how free and casual (unexamined?) it all was just out there. It has only been two hours since you walked in that door, yet out there feels like a memory. A wide gulf between the Romantic and the Law. And yet —

  Though Claude Néon tried to be logical and factual, a murky personal element kept seeping through. ‘The first time I saw her? In the paper. My secretary showed me. She was playing tennis.’

  Tennis? The three voices coming at him throughout the ordeal — divisionnaire, procureur, chief magistrate — were, in effect, one implacable Voice of Authority.

  ‘At the club…the Quarter Racquets Club?’

  Was she with one of them? In this picture? One of her now-deceased men?

  ‘She was alone. Practicing alone. That was the thing. Her separateness. It was almost fierce.’

  That made you attracted?

  ‘Not at that point. I mean, not as you imply. We had three dead boyfriends — this strange coincidence with her at the center. I read about her…I looked at the available pictures. I had a hunch, and, well…’ Shrugging: you know how it is?

  They only stared at him. Then asked: You actually met her when?

  ‘After the banker’s funeral. She came walking into the commissariat, out of the blue, to arrange for the other’s transport. Gagnon. The one from the radio.’ Claude told of the letter from the morning man’s mother.

  That was the first time you talked. Your impression?

  ‘I thought…I thought she was difficult.’

  Hiding something?

  ‘Possibly…No, correct that. She wasn’t hiding anything…except herself, perhaps.’

  The divisionnaire said, ‘B’en, what else is there to hide? Especially with murder. Eh?’ A bit cranky — old cops may enjoy philosophy, but usually only their own.

  Claude elaborated. ‘I mean she wanted nothing to do with us. The police, the law…She was only responding to a request from the mother. Being a good citizen. She wrote her name on the form and that was that.’

  ‘But you were, if not suspicious, what?…intrigued?’

  Claude bit a nail and nodded, yes.

  ‘Speak for the record,’ prompted Procureur Michel Souviron.

  ‘I was intrigued. But like you said, there was no tangible link.’

  No modus operandi. No how.

  Earlier, in expressing his regret for the mess which they (all of them) had allowed to develop, Divisionnaire Norbert Fauré had introduced an analogy: ‘Like building with three sides of the foundation filled, leaving the other one floating, for pity’s sake!’

  Chief Magistrate Gérard Richand felt wrongly included in his damning metaphor. ‘This is still an issue,’ remarked Gérard, clearly looking for support from the divisionnaire.

  Claude, humbled and at their mercy, mumbled, ‘Yes, officially speaking, still no MO.’

  Fauré’s professional disgust had already been vented. He just shrugged, effectively overruling Gérard. There was something here requiring their attention, even if it meant one crucial building block — how — would have to be left out of the equation for the time being.

  They moved on, the three of them relentless, picking it apart:

  When did you first decide to tie her directly to it?

  ‘That afternoon, after she left us. I was with one of my inspectors, talking about the case. I realized the only way in was through Pearl.’

  ‘What case?’ asked Michel Souviron, polite, but pointed, lawyerly. The language here must be precise. Officially, because of the still-undetermined status of the matter, the meeting was the public prosecutor’s responsibility. A divisional police chief had seniority, hands-on experience. If an enquiry became necessary, it would belong to the instructing judge. But in this particular legal instance, Maître Souviron le Procureur had the determining power. He did not have to remind anyone. Just the same, Michel was reminding Claude.

  ‘The possible case…’ Thanks for that, Michel.

  ‘Which inspector?’ Gérard Richand again.

  ‘Inspector Nouvelle.’

  ‘Was she assigned to it?’ Another trapdoor, to demonstrate a less-than-capable Néon.

  Claude alertly told him, ‘No one was assigned to it. It didn’t exist. We were just talking.’

  ‘I like her,’ commented Norbert Fauré.

  To this, Claude nodded gravely, mirroring the older man.

  Then back to sequence: In any event, you proceeded?

  ‘The press was starting to gnaw at it. I did some background. I thought it prudent.’ Claude pointed to his file, and to Monique’s, and related his collation of facts surrounding the lives of Pearl Serein’s men: their friends, enemies, business affairs, families…

  Claude had brought this material to his interview in Strasbourg but Fauré had barely given it a glance. Leafing through it now, he officially wondered, ‘Had a budget for all this searching, then?’

  ‘No…’ embarrassed, ‘I…I had to take a first step. I had to start somewhere.’

  ‘But you had no case,’ reminded Souviron, always unpredictable in his support and point of view, siding here, then siding there. One never knew the source of Michel’s position.

  A slippery Souviron was vexing. ‘I had a mystery!’ snapped Claude, challenging him.

  It was met head on. ‘An emotional mystery, perhaps. Certainly not a legal one. It would appear you were working more for yourself than the State. Why?’

  Claude stared straight ahead, thinking, We contemplate, discuss, make educated guesses and informed decisions. How exactly does our kind of ‘work’ take form? But he resisted the urge to give a speech. He answered calmly, ‘Three dead bodies. Then Georges Pugh loses another case and dies that night in the same strange way — which made four. Unexplained.’

  ‘Heart attacks,’ corrected Gérard Richand.

  Norbert Fauré ignored Richand. He asked, ‘Did you suspect her?’

  ‘No…I couldn’t. As you know, I spent the day with her the day Martel…’

  Fauré rolled his eyes. ‘And Martel made five.’ They’d been through that up at Strasbourg.

  Claude bowed his head to acknowledge a mistake, but had to tell him, ‘She’s just a schoolteacher. Everything she owns had already been handed to her, gratis — by them. She had nothing to gain. She cannot and will not believe anyone would kill on her account.’

  ‘Maybe they didn’t.’ The divisionnaire sat back, tapping his belly, an old cop musing.

  ‘Maybe they didn’t,’ agreed Claude.

  ‘When exactly did you and Pearl Serein become — involved? May we use that word?’


  Claude didn’t need the innuendo. It offended him. Why did Fauré…why did all three of his inquisitors look so dry and skeptical? Surely there was more to these men’s collective experience in sorting through the non-technical human beginnings of a crime. Any crime you could think of. There had to be! Technically, his error was obvious and Claude Néon knew the remedy: Any connection of a personal sort — family, business, emotional — with the subject of an investigation and you withdraw. Disqualify yourself. Hand over the file to a neutral and preferably distant colleague, someone at the far end of the hall to whom you’ve never had much to say. That person will do the best job for everyone concerned. (There wasn’t any such person on the PJ brigade at Rue des Bons Enfants.) If you still can’t leave it — the thought of the money, the sight of her body, that nagging need to remain involved — then you ought to retire, if only for the interim (this is allowed), until the case is officially resolved and your relationship has nothing more to do with the laws of the Republic. But they were far beyond that point now. To his boss’s query, he insisted once more, ‘There was no connection between Pearl Serein and myself when I started on this thing.’

  To which the boss rejoined, ‘That is not what I asked.’

  ‘No. Sorry…’ scratching the table with a fingernail. ‘I suppose it was the night of the club.’

  Dancing. This was hard to fathom. Perhaps Michel understood, but he wouldn’t show it at this table. Gérard’s eyes clouded. Fauré’s old face pinched tight. Again the basic question: What could you possibly have been thinking? Claude absorbed it. The woman recording the meeting glanced at him, professionally vacant, fingers at the ready. Claude had to keep going and make it clear he had acted as a cop, in good faith, with a view to protecting Pearl, and, by extension, the community he had sworn to serve. He had to show them he never swerved in his dedication to duty in upholding what he and they stood for. Truth. Justice… He patiently explained the connections tying it to the club: a filmmaker (before he ran out of money), a banker and lawyer, the noble — ‘who’d been frequently observed in the locker room arguing with Pugh,’ and the sculptor, who used the place on his mother’s membership card and the bizarre Bruno Martel, both of whom were clearly still obsessed with Pearl Serien ‘…and that tennis pro we picked up this morning.’ Given the situation —

  Not the morning man? they wondered.

  ‘We know the morning man had applied to join.’…Given the fact it was where Pearl Serein spent most of her time, it had seemed logical and proactive for himself and Inspector Nouvelle to attend the party at the club. Not as cops, as guests.

  A question from the divisionnaire, to get something straight.

  ‘No, Inspector Nouvelle and I are not involved. We work together. We decided her presence would help deflect from mine.’ Thus Claude lied…for both of them. Staff liaisons are not against the rules — too normal, too frequent — there would be few cops left if such activity were officially banned. But they were frowned upon.

  Gérard Richand said, ‘I thought you said she wasn’t assigned to the investigation.’

  ‘Because there wasn’t one,’ added Souviron.

  Claude smiled. ‘She wasn’t assigned. She was invited. To a party. You see?’

  Norbert Fauré bit into his mid-afternoon Mars Bar. Through sticky teeth, he said, ‘And so?’

  Claude spoke of the band. The Lonely Blue & Sad Times: ‘Have you heard them?’ he asked, going round the table. No? ‘They do this amazing version of “Frou-Frou.”’ And he told of the entrance of Pearl Serein onto the dance floor, alone and suddenly in the middle of it all, at the very height of the party, highly vulnerable, and how he had instinctively moved to shield her. ‘A dance was the best way to stay near.’ Insisting it was lucky he did because Raymond Tuche appeared and caused a scene and Remy Lorentz provoked a fight, and the mounting music and the frantic light had sent a bad situation completely out of control.

  They listened to his every word. They asked, But did she ask for protection?

  ‘Not in so many words. But she’s probably the most vulnerable woman in the city. In terms of visibility, I mean.’

  But she didn’t say, ‘Commissaire, I’m desperate here, I need your protection, your personal protection?’

  ‘No.’

  What did she say?

  ‘She said we could dance.’

  She asked you to dance?

  ‘No.’ Claude blushed. ‘I asked her. In fact I talked her into it.’

  Why?

  ‘Something came over me.’

  A need to protect? They were watching him. They asked, Where was the inspector?

  ‘The inspector had gone to freshen up. By the time she returned, the place had exploded. We were separated.’

  ‘I’d like to hear about it from her,’ said Fauré, sipping coffee.

  Souviron nodded. So did Richand — who made a note. They returned to the sequence:

  So you danced, ended up in the middle of a brawl and then went home with her.

  ‘Naturally, she was upset. I should say distraught. I had to get her out of there. I escorted her home.’

  Straight home? A direct allusion to the death of Tuche, which occurred within that frame.

  Claude winced. He hated that they would even think it. ‘Yes. Straight home.’

  Confirm it?

  ‘Ask her.’

  She’s missing… And did you have relations with her?

  ‘No!’ Why did this matter? ‘I slept on her divan. I was protecting her.’

  You keep insisting on this…

  They knew this game and they would not let up till they got what they wanted. But Claude Néon knew it too and he held steady. All he could do was continue on, recounting the hours between then and now. ‘Yesterday we passed the day, I interrogated her on and off, I directed my people in the search for the noble, we ate together…I went to bed alone. This morning we came down to meet you.’ Not the entire story, but the part that seemed most relevant to Claude.

  Norbert Fauré drained his coffee. ‘But you were holding hands when you came out of the lift. Why is this? I know I’m old, but — ’

  ‘She was afraid! Terrified.’

  And you were protecting her?

  Claude held steady — except for his ears. They were glowing, and he knew it.

  And of course they caught it. They asked, Monsieur Néon, how could you believe you could conduct a love affair and an investigation at the same time?

  ‘I was not conducting a love affair. I was protecting her. The situation called for protection. Neither of us ever said the word love. Or sex, for that matter. In my mind, I was protecting her. I was doing my job.’

  They asked: In your mind?

  ‘Where else?’

  Norbert Fauré beheld Claude Néon. He wondered, ‘Where else indeed?’

  Claude relaxed. They’d got him, he knew. He’d got lots of others in the same manner.

  Gérard Richand said, ‘Did you or did you not become physically intimate with Pearl Serein?’

  ‘Yes… Last night. Just once.’ Twice would’ve been much better.

  There was silence. Claude Néon believed he sensed a general sympathy in the room. He imagined they were seeing him like commissaires and magistrates and procureurs might see an old prisoner: someone who was bad, but a man nonetheless, and one whom they had grown to know over the years of his churning through the system. He imagined it was how they might look upon this type of man after he had lost his final appeal to the State for mercy. No, it was life, it had to be life, but there was still this bond between them all… Sighing long and wistful like said lifer, Claude stood and went over to the window. He stared down at the street.

  They said, Please elaborate. It could take us closer to the heart of this odd matter.

  Claude realized he was number eight on a list of seven men. He felt like he was already dead as he returned to the table and told them all about it. His last words as a commissaire? The bets were not in his favor. �
��Well, she’s an odd woman, not that I’m an expert. No expert at all. I’m a fool.’

  They nodded. They might agree. They asked, Why are you a fool?

  ‘I wish I knew.’ He meant, I wish I could tell you. Tell you about Aliette Nouvelle. Now there’s a woman who wanted me, but I had to get this big idea. ‘Yes,’ mused Claude. ‘Why?’ The court recorder waited. He said, ‘I spent a day with her asking questions. I fought to protect her at the club. I did what I could to make her see the dark potential in this thing. I comforted her when she was feeling desperate. The more I found out, the more I felt like I could give her what those seven other guys could not. She is attractive, no?’ He received nods from Souviron and Richand: yes, attractive. ‘It all kind of rolled together. Desire. Some lucky moves. And something inevitable, something about my life…It made me feel like I was the one. The man for Pearl. I — ’

  Fauré cut in, ‘Damn good reason to kill someone. At least in my experience. More coffee?’

  Michel Souviron, being host, rose and backed toward the door to relay the order. Neither he nor Gérard Richand could take his eyes off Claude.

  Who protested, ‘No! To protect her!’ Glaring at his superior, beyond caring. ‘Who do you think I am?’

  ‘Trying to find out, aren’t we,’ grumbled the divisionnaire.

  Claude breathed deep and continued. ‘I’d questioned her. I heard her talk about the others. She seemed to like them. She refused to say a word against them. But she didn’t love them. There was always something missing.’

  Like what?

  ‘She couldn’t tell me. Or wouldn’t…’

  Was she mad at them?

  ‘More like disappointed. Worn out by their jealousy, their possessiveness…their need?’ Claude shrugged. ‘And I’d seen her react to Bruno Martel. Pathetic. A big man breaking down like that? Made me squirm. Goes against the grain to see it, you know? Pearl didn’t bat an eye.’

  Fauré grunted, ‘She sounds cold-blooded.’

  Claude thought about it for a moment. ‘I was asking questions about her relationships, trying to get her to help me bring out a reason for any of these guys to be done in. Pretty basic: find the reason, find the culprit, even without an established MO. Some of those questions were raw. She was totally removed. She was trying to help, but she refused to believe it. Nothing in her would react to the fact of murder. Death, yes; murder, no. Nor to the pain that might compel a man to act in such a desperate manner. Martel was in agony, crying his eyes out. Pearl just stood there. She said, Oh well, that’s Bruno. Yes, it made me wonder. But I’m still thinking, if it’s not them, it must be me. I couldn’t make that thought go away. Then last evening, after all that’s happened, it was finally sinking in. Murder. We’re up there together and we drink some wine and we’re watching the thing on television. She cried and that was my cue. I tried my move. My big move. That was when I wanted to make love to her. What I mean is, it felt like the time had really come,’ said Claude, looking round the table, meeting the collective eyes of the Law. ‘But no, sorry, monsieur, she didn’t love me, wasn’t interested in sleeping with me. I was stunned, but I backed off. I don’t push it, no…no way, I don’t need that kind of trouble. You know?’