The Art of Murder

by Louis Shalako

  Gilles hunch was right. It was a long way to Geneva. Monsieur Babineaux must have some compelling reason to go there, but that was the only conclusion they could draw. Due to being consulted by police in the past on financial aspects of certain crimes, Roger was not just an expert witness, but also trustworthy with confidential matters. Quick-witted, adaptable, and with a seemingly endless repertoire of pithy and amusing observations, he wasn’t a bad travelling companion.

  In the course of a couple of hours Gilles came to know a great deal about Roger, and his wife and children, and got a brief snap-shot into his life and work. It was interesting to find out that Roger had run away from his village, with its priest and nun-ridden parochial school, and was largely self-educated. He had been thinking that Andre might miss the odd night out and male companionship. But it was he who needed other interests, other friends and experiences outside of work, and what passed for his home life these days. He found he was enjoying the trip perhaps a little more than he should. Every so often one or the other took a little walk to check up on Babineaux. There were plenty of others who found that train rides required stretching the legs from time to time, and it drew no unwarranted attention.

  While Gilles couldn’t go into names and specific incidents, Roger asked the inevitable questions about police work and Gilles was glad enough to oblige him. It was something to talk about and helped to pass the time pleasantly.

  “As for Babineaux, let us hope that this doesn’t result in nothing more than a bizarre anecdote.” Gilles sighed from the tiredness, and Roger was nodding off in sleep as he made the remark.

  Roger brightened up.

  “Yes, maybe he has a mistress, or visits a heroin pusher.” That would make sense, judging by the look on a very sleepy Roger Desjarlais.

  As for Babineaux, he stayed in the first-class carriage where he belonged, and finally it was time to lay back and pretend to sleep.

  With the constant swaying back and forth, the clicking of the wheels over the points and the thoughts racing around in circles inside of his head, and the odd stop where they had to carefully observe whether the subject got off the train, it was an uncomfortable night. He might have dropped off, however briefly, at about four thirty a.m.

  ***

  As the train crept into the station, they had the plan all set, but Roger suddenly had cold feet about his role.

  “Seriously, Gilles.”

  “No. Seriously, Roger. What did you expect to happen when you called me? I have no jurisdiction in Switzerland.” Gilles laid it all out again. “Look. I have some cash. They probably will accept francs, hopefully the cabbies. But I’ll go to the hotel, get some money changed, and you’ll just have to follow him. He knows me too well.”

  Any real evidence they obtained would be tainted by several things, not least of which was the unofficial nature of it, plus the fact that having a civilian doing part of the legwork was pretty much forbidden by all the canons of the trade. Yet he had no choice, and if they actually got anything interesting, there might be another, more properly legalistic way of getting something that would stand up in a court of law. Most likely it was nothing anyway. Gilles could think of a hundred reasons why Babineaux might reasonably go to Switzerland. He didn’t really have to answer to anybody.

  “What if he spots me?” Roger was adamant.

  “Chat him up!” Gilles was equally adamant. “Better you than me. That would be a dead giveaway.”

  “What if he really is a killer?”

  “Look, as soon as he gets to a hotel, go to ground and call me. I’ll be there as quickly as I can. If he goes somewhere else, keep following him.” Gilles pressed a package, a couple of beef sandwiches wrapped up in colourful waxed paper into his hands. “We really don’t have time for this, Roger.”

  It was too early in the morning for this sort of thing, but in the event, all of their carefully-laid plans came to naught. The subject caught a cab right outside the station and all they could do was to tag along in another taxi. It was singularly uninspired. Some time passed in muted suspense, but then the taxi ahead signaled a turn.

  “We’re in the heart of the financial district.” Roger’s quiet announcement confirmed Gilles’ suspicions.

  “Are they open on a Saturday?”

  “Private counsel by appointment, and some of the banks, for sure.”

  It was hard to say what it all meant. They trundled in between buses and trucks, momentarily losing sight of the other cab. Gilles dug in his pocket as Roger leaned over the seat in front.

  “I think that might be our friend!” He pointed excitedly at a black saloon car with a yellow sign on top. “We’re supposed to be meeting up with him. Our train was late and I think he left in disgust.”

  Gilles proffered a wad of small bills over the man’s shoulder.

  It disappeared quickly into an inner pocket.

  “I’m still leaving the meter on.” The admonition was greeted by thin smiles and hearty nods from the men in the back.

  “No problem.” Roger seemed to have taken charge in terms of travel and local transportation, although Gilles probably could have managed on his own.

  “Nice town.” Gilles was trying to make conversation, while completely familiar with how odd it must or could look.

  Perhaps the man bought into it, but they would never know. A lot of people were bilingual in Geneva.

  “It looks like we’re here, or wherever your friend is going.” The driver looked at them in the mirror. “The Credit Suisse.”

  After a quick and non-verbal consultation, Roger got out. Gilles waited in the car for a moment, and then told the man to drive another block or two after watching Roger’s elegant back and hat disappear into the gleaming front doors of one of the most famous banks in the world.

  Then he asked the fellow to pull over and made sure he had enough for the fare. He walked back on the opposite side of the street. With a little luck, he could find a good vantage point and wait for somebody to come out again. He hoped for luck. He hoped it wouldn’t be too long. His back ached, his head swam with the scenarios, and his belly rumbled in complaint, as this morning they were afraid to take a chance on the dining car. There were a few stops on the way into Geneva, and Babineaux might exit the train at any one of them.

  It might be a long day in a strange town with not much to do but to try and blend in and not draw unwanted attention. In three minutes he was across the street, loitering in a doorway, chain-smoking Roger’s last few cigarettes and wondering just what in the hell he had gotten himself into. One way or another, he had some explaining to do when he got back to Paris. Another thing, sooner or later they might find a telephone and let somebody know where he was and what was going on.

  Checking in a window, Gilles was grateful to see that at least in terms of physical appearance he fit the profile of a half a dozen other men in the area. Not everyone was in the typical banker’s garb of pin-striped suits with a bowler hat and an umbrella. He’d always thought that an English affectation, but it seemed to hold true here as well.

  Trying to watch the doors of the bank while trying to do look like he was doing everything else could wear on a man after a while.

  ***

  Babineaux spent a half an hour in the bank and then came out with Roger not far behind, sporting a full-colour brochure and a confident look. He imperiously waved at the first cab, then in a moment of amiable confusion, offered to share it with Babineaux! But Babineaux must have asked where he was going, and Roger in a moment of decision made something up.

  Babineaux waved over another passing cab as Roger took his time about getting in the one he had engaged. With a look at Gilles, he made a motion with his hand and then seemed to be consulting with the driver. Gilles began sauntering across the street in a moment clear of traffic and watched the cab bearing Babineaux ease into the stream and then zoom off. Gilles thought that neither the driver, nor the occupant, looked back in the mirror, but one can never be sure.

&nbs
p; He opened up the door and dropped in with a sigh. Pedestrians passed on the sidewalk, oblivious to all but their own fates. Gilles wondered how the guilty found life in a city, where you were on display at all times, and everybody ignored you. It probably made them as paranoid as all hell.

  “Driver. Follow our friend in the other car.” Roger nodded at Gilles. “How have you been?”

  It was an attempt at humour, perhaps an attempt at subtlety. Roger’s Swiss wasn’t bad. The driver had ears, after all.

  “Fine.” Gilles eyeballed the cabbie. “So.”

  “So.” Roger was holding something back for later. “Yes.”

  He turned half sideways on the seat.

  “We’re going to another place. It’s right nearby. He didn’t recognize me, or if he did, he’s damned good.” The driver ignored them, but Gilles wondered how good his French might be in this international centre. “I did recognize the name of the firm. He was quite open about it.”

  “Ah.” There wasn’t much to be said, but this was one of the nightmares of working with someone completely untrained.

  Roger was scribbling away at a notebook as they motored along about fifty metres behind the other cab.

  “Here’s the name. Les Societe Anonyme des Marchands.” Roger gave him a look. “One of our more active friends on the Exchange.”

  Gilles pondered the meaning of all this.

  For all he knew, Babineaux was travelling on official company business. That was the trouble when a case went cold—you never knew what was a crucial moment. They simply didn’t have the time or the means to tail every single person involved twenty-four hours a day.

  “Oh, look, Gilles.” The place where Babineaux’s cab stopped was an unremarkable building, with gold lettering on the front windows, up on the second floor overlooking the street.

  Fairly bright interiors with white venetian blinds on every window gave a professional impression of solidity and trust. The lower level was all shops and cafes.

  “Hmn.” Gilles was keeping an open mind.

  This was giving few clues and no inspiration.

  “Pull up a little farther on.” It was Roger’s turn to proffer a thick wad of small bills.

  The driver took one look, noting the French francs and the beaming face of Roger. He gave Gilles a quick look and took the money.

  “All right, gentlemen.” It was all he said as he put it away in a bulging wallet.

  “Can you adjust that mirror a little bit?” Roger had the right idea.

  “But of course, sirs.”

  Perhaps he had seen it all before.

  Chapter Twenty

  When Gilles arrived back at the office

  When Gilles arrived back at his office two and a half days later, he was well-rested and refreshed.

  They had returned to Paris the previous afternoon and he had plenty of time to lie up and finally take care of the persistent stubble on his face. It was strangely deflating to find the office empty, although there was a lingering haze of cigarette smoke, the usual overflowing ashtrays, and still-wet coffee rings on the desks, including his own. He’d have to speak to them about that.

  He was just settling in when Andre sauntered in, gave him a curt nod and sat down to go through a stack of case notes. Then Le Bref came in.

  “Hello.” He took a chair behind another desk, and sat sipping a scalding hot cup of coffee while staring dreamily out the window.

  Gilles was just opening his mouth to speak when Henri entered, bearing a pair of cups. He brought one over and put it on the corner of the desk.

  “Boss.” His good-morning nod was cheerful yet reserved, unusually so for Henri.

  “All right, all right.” Someone must have seen him coming, perhaps looking out the window at the time, and they were having a little bit of fun with him. “So—”

  “So. Where were you? And why didn’t you call home? God, I hope it was a woman.” Andre spoke in resignation and despair, although he wasn’t much of an actor.

  Gilles sighed.

  “No, it wasn’t a woman.” There were snickers from the others. “Look, I’m sorry—”

  But there was to be no appeasing them.

  Henri, at his most insufferable now that he had sufficient justification, sat on the corner of Le Bref’s desk, and put his hands up to his temples. His eyes rolled back and his mouth went slack in some abominable parody of a medium’s trance.

  “Ah…ah, he followed somebody. Babineaux! And he’s only just returned to tell us the gory details. Am I right, Inspector?”

  “Yes, damn you! How did you know that?” He was almost impressed.

  “Easy. We called the plant looking for Babineaux and his secretary said he was sick. When you didn’t show up, we sort of put two and two together, bearing in mind there wasn’t a whole lot of activity at his home. His wife said he went to work as usual, but got tied up late in meetings and had to stay overnight. That was Saturday morning. You weren’t at home, either. We only made a few calls. We, ah, didn’t want to give the game away. We’ve been sitting on pins and needles ever since.” Andre beamed at him from across the way. “So, Gilles. What happened? Where did you go?”

  The three pairs of eyes regarding him were steely in their determination, both to have a good time and get his story without further delay.

  “I see, yes. It would have to be something like that.” Gilles swung his legs up and put his feet on the corner of his own desk. “So Monsieur Babineaux has been lying to his wife as well? Interesting.”

  “What must she be thinking right now?” Henri shrugged in a kind of mockery.

  Babineaux had taken some personal risks with his wife. Interesting. For a brief moment of time he enjoyed the sight of them all grinding their jaws and looking at each other in consternation.

  “He isn’t going to tell!” Henri approached with hands extended as if he was either going to strangle Gilles, or tickle him to death in an attempt to pry loose the secrets locked up inside of his head.

  “I’m waiting for a call from Roger Desjarlais. In the meantime, someone takes notes while I talk.”

  Henri raced back to his seat to grab a pen and paper, all eyes and ears at this announcement.

  “Roger Desjarlais?” Andre perhaps understood the significance a little better than Henri, while Le Bref just smiled amiably, licking his lips and waiting.

  “You mean Babineaux is dirty? Financially?” Henri caught on fast. “I suspected all along, of course.”

  This remark raised a hoot that could be heard on the next floor, which he seemed to consider suitable reward for his efforts if his subsequent grin was anything to judge by.

  “We have a little surprise for you too, sir.” Le Bref picked up a file and brought it over wordlessly. “When you have a minute.”

  Gilles flipped it open and read the names and the first three paragraphs.

  “Nice.” They had found the funeral home, the one missing a corpse.

  They had simply asked around in a few places, relying on the rumour mill and gossip to take a hand. They only just got the call this morning.

  Andre and Le Bref had signed an application for exhumation, and they confidently expected the coffin to be empty, weighted down with sacks of waste, old clothes, a few bricks, and whatever else the poor bastards doing the job had found to put in there.

  Gilles threw his head back and laughed.

  “Ah, but that’s not the best part.” Andre nodded insistently. “Read the last bit on the next page.”

  Gilles flipped the pages and had a look.

  “Incroyable!” But people were often stupid, and drunks stupider than most, and young men the stupidest of all, or so it seemed sometimes.

  Less than six blocks away from the scene of the crime, a noisy party of young men from a private military academy had been having a wild party, in a rented room at an inn, not exactly unusual for the type, and had drawn some attention to themselves from the local gendarmes.

  “Say it isn’t so!” Gilles
was smiling like the village idiot after three beers.

  “Looks all too true to us.” Andre was patiently waiting to deliver the punch line. “When do you want us to pick them up?”

  Gilles thought it through. Then his mouth closed again. He shrugged expressively.

  “It’s not a big priority.” He shook his head. “Let me think about it for a while. In the meantime, I have work to do. Gentlemen.”

  Henri sat up, pencil poised. With that, Gilles proceeded to tell his own story, in as great a detail and with as much precision as he could scrape up from his own rather sparse notes.

  ***

  Gilles stood behind the mirrored glass and observed the proceedings. It was time to delegate a little authority, and also to see how far Henri had progressed.

  An unhappy young man sat across the desk from Henri, squirming in his seat. The peremptory summons from the police must have come out of the blue and like a fool he had arrived without a lawyer. At his age, calling his father’s solicitors would have brought unwanted complications on the Home Front.

  Henri weaseled it out of him. While he was the cadet son of a very prominent family, his bluff and bluster did him no good today. Now the boy, chairman of the Spider’s Web, a kind of bad-boy association with deep roots and a long history among the ruling classes at his school, sat there ashen-faced. He was in a lot of trouble and he knew it. Gilles assumed that he had consulted with his colleagues and a consensus had been arrived at: to deny everything, and tell the gendarmes to go to hell. Henri had thoroughly disabused him of that notion.

  Laying all the facts before him, pointing out that ‘a gang of youths’ had broken a window on the mortuary and then pelted off up the street, and how several of them had missed classes the next day, ostensibly due to influenza, but more likely in Henri’s opinion due to exhaustion from carrying a body a kilometre and half to the bank of the river…what with the hangovers and all.