Speak Softly My Love

by Louis Shalako

  Other than that, the sergeant and the others knew as much about it as he did.

  ***

  It was the start of a whole new day.

  “That’s it?” Levain wasn’t sure whether to be impressed or not. “You stumbled on a body one minute, and then it’s gone the next?”

  “That’s about the size of it.” Gendarmes had gone from door to door, combing the streets and the sidewalks, trying to find anybody that might have seen something, heard something. “We have a slew of pictures, maybe, just maybe one drop of human blood on a twig ten metres from the scene. And that’s about it.”

  Because the twig was on a shrub between the body and the street Gilles had come in from, they were sort of assuming a direction of travel. The victim might have already been dead. If so, then where did it come from, so warm and fresh that blood from cloth and fabric had indelibly stained Gilles’ coat and shirt-sleeves. Both items of clothing were now evidence, exhibits in a case.

  As for the shirt. He had a clean white one in a bottom desk drawer, a fairly rational precaution in this line of work. As for the jacket, he wouldn’t miss it particularly. He could go home in his old raincoat, which hung on the rack much of the time. He had another, better one at home.

  Without a body, they weren’t even sure if it was a stabbing or a shooting. Only that Gilles had stumbled on a man’s body and that he had come away with blood on his hands.

  He’d been up half the night. The bread was ruined, and when he went to use the milk the next day it was an instant reminder of the new and intriguing mystery.

  Even Tailler, with all of his brash and youthful optimism, didn’t know what to make of it.

  “So we think that the Inspector either just missed the killing, perhaps a stabbing, or he narrowly missed catching the killer trying to dispose of the body?”

  Gilles nodded.

  “That’s how it looks.” Unfortunately, no one in the neighbourhood had heard anything resembling a shot. “The blood was so fresh—and yet I certainly didn’t hear any shots.”

  No one they had been able to talk to reported anything of the kind.

  The store was less than two hundred fifty metres away, around one corner and there on the next.

  A few potential witnesses had seen other people in the vicinity. Until all of them were identified and interviewed, more or less accounted-for, they had some information but nothing compelling. Their two young people had not been located. Hopefully they would come forward on seeing the newspapers.

  No bodies were found in the park. A search of alleys and vacant lots within a six-block radius, which seemed about the ultimate physical and psychological limit, had revealed nothing. Gilles might have heard a car start if it was close by. If so, he recalled nothing of the sort, and with the busy night sounds of the city, anything over a couple of blocks away would be completely subconscious in a manner of speaking.

  The press had already gotten hold of the story. It had all the earmarks of a nine-day wonder, with headlines dragging a huge tale of question marks and showing mostly pictures of him, the empty park in daylight and one or two locals lucky enough to be interviewed. It was the usual bunch, none of them had seen anything. They lived right there and were foolish enough, vain enough or starved for attention enough, to answer the door when the press came pounding.

  Levain made a face.

  “Well, it’s Girard’s case now. Whoever’s in charge over there.” He looked over at Tailler in humour. “They must love you right about now, Gilles.”

  Gilles nodded.

  “Yes. Without a body, and my face all over the front pages, they get all the work and nothing much to show for it. Not even glamour.”

  “Without a body, he doesn’t stand much of a chance.” Tailler was right about that. “Still, you would think. It must turn up somewhere. Sooner or later.”

  Gilles sat down heavily on the front corner of his desk. He still hadn’t taken his hat off yet.

  He looked at Tailler, one of their better acquisitions. The young fellow was learning, and under the steadying hand of Levain and the older men, his natural intuitiveness was being tempered with some solid investigative skills. Anyway, that was the theory. Some men learned by listening, Tailler seemed to learn by doing. He had curious, questioning, even nervous eyes sometimes.

  “Not necessarily.”

  Gilles’ eyes slid from one side to the other. He had a full caseload of his own, nothing really interesting but it was there. It was all stacked up neatly along the front of his desk, and if truth be told, on the long shelf behind it as well. Much of it was routine, some of it was cold and dead, and yet there were things he might conceivably work on. Huge chunks of time were blocked out due to court commitments.

  For whatever reason, it was just a busy time.

  Resolutely reaching up and removing his hat, he sent the battered black fedora sailing in the general direction of the hat-rack.

  It missed, bounced off and then slid down the far wall where it came to rest on top of yet more files. Tailler casually picked it up and hung it up for him as Gilles nodded his thanks.

  “Coffee, Inspector?”

  Gilles nodded, with a look at Levain, who shook his head. Tailler grabbed the pot, turned and left the room looking for water.

  Gilles, as might be expected, was lost in thought.

  There were only so many ways to game it out—there were only so many things that could have happened. Things were linked and related. As soon as you had a body, you had a killer or a natural cause, an accident perhaps. If you have blood, a human or other body has been punctured somewhere and somehow. One thing followed logically from another.

  It could only be one or the other. As soon as someone moved the body, you had a plot—and so it went on. There had to be a logical train of events.

  Or something like that.

  As for the canvas of the neighbourhood, word got around and maybe someone with some information would turn up.

  It was just a regular day.

  His phone was ringing already.

  Chapter Three

  Gilles hadn’t really forgotten the incident of the disappearing body. He hadn’t read any of the reports. He had basically skipped over the small news stories, which had completely disappeared from the most recent editions as there was nothing to report.

  It was like he didn’t want to get involved or something.

  The gist of it all was that the police were stymied and were seeking the public’s help in the matter, which was being listed as a probable homicide.

  They had a hundred photos of an empty crime scene. It wasn’t exactly unprecedented.

  Gilles hadn’t been of much help. In the darkness, all he knew was that he had fallen on a body, it appeared to be male, and that he had blood on his hands. Samples had been scraped off, and microscopic analysis had confirmed that it was indeed human blood. Whoever had taken the body must have been quite strong. There might have been more than one person. They had avoided the soft, loose soil of the flowerbeds. Yet there were innumerable and indistinct prints in the flowerbeds, the conclusion drawn that they had been there a while and probably belonged to either gardeners or teenagers and other assorted types. There had been no signs of recent digging.

  Types was a nice word, a bit of slang or shorthand. No one could really define it.

  They had managed to get out of the immediate area quickly while lugging a body that weighed, at minimum, a good sixty or seventy kilos in Gilles’ uncertain estimation. It was the best he could do.

  He was reading his case notes in the Brevard case. He was due in court on the following Monday, one week away. His testimony would be enough to send Monsieur Brevard to the guillotine, which Gilles didn’t have a problem with. He wouldn’t be giving that testimony if he wasn’t convinced of his facts, and Brevard should have known better than to hack up a boarder like that over a stolen jug of rough red and fifty francs in unpaid rent. Monsieur Brevard hardly needed the money or the wine, and had benef
itted from the finest legal defence. The Palais de Justice, nombre dix as some said, (Number Ten Boulevard de Palais) was convenient enough. So much of his precious time would be spent cooling his heels in some bleak and cheerless waiting room. He would be cut off from everything. Winding up cases long-solved was part of the job and a necessary part, one that wouldn’t often be left to subordinates until they had much more experience.

  He’d always sort of hated court.

  The rain was pouring down outside the windows and the place was damp and chilly. There were rumours the heating would be turned on sooner or later.

  The weather was up and down like a whore’s pants on payday these days.

  A small electric fire did little to help, although when various officers were out of the building, those left behind tended to grab it and drag it closer to their desk.

  It was better than nothing. His eyes were tiring and he was just looking at the clock when the phone rang.

  “Hello?”

  “Maintenon. This is Inspector David.”

  ”Yes?”

  “You found that body in Parc Montsouris, right?”

  “Yes, but that’s not my case.” Still, Maintenon’s pulse picked up, and why not?

  David was a thorough-going investigator.

  “I have a missing-person report from just around the corner.”

  “Ah, yes? Go on.”

  “I’ve already been speaking to Sergeant Girard, but if you don’t mind, I’d like to send someone over with a picture.”

  “Absolutely.” It was five to four and Gilles had already reserved a driver, a perk he rarely abused, for the ride home.

  Lately his legs tended to go numb, especially the right one, when walking any distance. Sitting on the Metro could be quite painful when the hips flared up. This was one reason why he made himself go places, to walk for the sake of walking once in a while. The fact that it got him out of a house that still reeked, not a nice word but apt, of his dear departed Ann was also a consideration. Hopefully it would stave off further physical deterioration. Maybe even mental deterioration.

  “The lady of the house says her husband has disappeared. He said he was going out for a drink with someone, she’s not sure who. He did that from time to time. Anyways, he matches your description to a certain extent. What colour of hair did your boy have, did you get a good look?”

  “Blond. I’m relatively sure, but I think grey or white would have showed up better, and black or brown hair wouldn’t have been visible at all…”

  “I see. Okay, I’m sending Gravelet right over.”

  “When?”

  The Inspector laughed.

  “Give him ten or fifteen minutes.” There was the sound of muffled conversation in the background.

  “Thank you.”

  Gilles hung up. Well, they needed a break and it looked as if they might get one. Most homicides were relatively simple affairs, solved in five minutes when you got right down to it. Other than that, he was looking at a thick docket and he’d better read his case notes or the advocate, the defense would trip him up all over the place and that just wouldn’t do.

  Interesting.

  ***

  Gravelet turned out to be a competent-looking young officer. With a quick rap on the door, he opened it up and came in. Dark brown eyes found Maintenon, whom he recognized from pictures in the paper.

  Hell, everybody knew Maintenon.

  “Inspector?”

  “Yes, come in, come in.”

  The fellow was wearing some abominably clunky black leather shoes, and had an air of genteel poverty, underlined, perhaps exaggerated slightly by grey slacks that were a bit too light and a brown jacket that was perhaps rather too dark to be any sort of a complement. Unlike Tailler, who towered above everyone, or Levain, who was twice as wide as the average man across the shoulders, Gravelet was a compact and yet well-built young man with an air of gravitas far beyond his apparent years.

  His voice was low, precise and confident.

  Maintenon had always liked people who stood up straight.

  “These are the pictures of Monsieur Didier Godeffroy.”

  “Our missing person?”

  “Yes.” Gravelet stood there, more or less at ease.

  “Who called it in?”

  “The wife, Monique. She’s a very nice lady, about thirty or thirty-one. Tall and slender. Really, quite beautiful.”

  Gilles snorted gently and the detective flushed a bit and shut up. He eyeballed the envelope.

  “Yes, Inspector.” The fellow pulled the flap, and laid the sheaf of photos, eight by tens plus a couple of small originals from which the enlargements had been made. “The wife called it in on Sunday morning. She’d been stewing for days, but kept thinking he’d walk in the door. Smelling of booze or whatever, but home, you know? She says he’s not really known for it, though. He hasn’t been missing that long, but the Inspector had a hunch—a hunch like a camel, as he always says. The dates and times correspond beautifully.”

  “Hmn.” Gilles picked up the small picture. “A hunch, eh?”

  He looked at an enlargement.

  “Hmn. Very well. Huh.”

  Gravelet stood there patiently. He reached down and fanned the items out on the desk.

  There were a few pages in there as well, copies of the original incident report as well as the notes, which were formally typed up, probably by Gravelet himself.

  The address was right around the corner from Maintenon’s house and about six blocks from the Parc Montsouris. It was barely three blocks from his own place.

  “Very well. What action have you taken?”

  There was a hint of red in the young man’s face.

  “The Inspector has put out the usual bulletins. The gentleman is a wine representative, and his route generally takes him to all of the wine regions. He was supposed to be going to Bordeaux, she says. His firm wholesales in town here and all the major regional cities. For that reason, we’re hoping or at least wondering if he simply took off.”

  “And that’s it?”

  “Ah…so far, yes, sir.”

  He cleared his throat.

  “She says they weren’t fighting or anything, He’s never disappeared before. When he does come home a bit late, or the next day or whatever, she says he’s very good about phoning. He lets her know where he is and what’s up. And the trains aren’t always on time. We have a fair amount of detail, and the odds are he’ll turn up…ah, one way or another.”

  Gilles nodded. There wasn’t much else they could do. He studied the picture.

  “Inspector?”

  Tailler looked up from his work. You just weren’t going to hurry Maintenon.

  Gilles put the magnifying glass down. It almost made things worse, merely emphasizing the fact that the original picture wasn’t very good. It was sometimes better to hold it at arm’s length and squint at it. It wasn’t a professional portrait, it was a snapshot taken with a cheap camera, the subject facing into the sun. There were the usual squinty eyes. In this print, the harsh light took away depths and strong features, leaving them a flat shape with holes for eyes and mouth and little more. The image was perhaps sixty millimetres square, a contact print from a popular camera.

  “Is that the man you saw, Inspector?”

  “That, young man, is a very good question…” He gave a small nod. “There is some resemblance. There is nothing here that says no.” He tilted the thing away from him, changing the perspective.

  He made a loose fist, and peered at it through the hole, isolating it, tilting it and adjusting it, closing one eye and then the other.

  It would almost be helpful to turn the room lights down, close the curtains, and try it with one of the enlargements. They would think it mad, of course.

  It was like you just couldn’t be sure sometimes.

  Gravelet pulled a notebook out of his jacket pocket as Gilles pursed his lips in thought.

  Maintenon’s eyes came up.

  “How
tall is your man?”

  “A hundred seventy-five centimetres.”

  “Eyes?”

  “Brown. Hair, kind of a mousy light brown, she says. No distinguishing marks, weight about seventy-five kilos.”

  “Well. There is nothing in this picture to say it wasn’t him.” Gilles hated assumptions. “For the time being, it seems like too much of a coincidence. What was he wearing.”

  “Ah.” It was in his notes and he rattled it off. “He was wearing a black suit with narrow pinstripes. White shirt, red tie. Pretty conventional. A charcoal grey raincoat and black leather shoes. She says he would have a wedding ring. He had a pocket watch, an old family heirloom and we have a pretty good description of that. He wasn’t the type to forget his wallet and keys, according to her. She says they’re not at home.”

  Gilles quickly skimmed Madame Godeffroy’s statement.

  “Is there anything you can add, Inspector Maintenon? Your impressions from that evening?”

  “Yes.” Gilles had been thinking about it quite a bit. “We don’t know if he was shot or stabbed, or for all I know, it might have been a spear. But I distinctly recall something rough—a very small area. It was soaking wet, too. The fabric was distinctly cut.”

  He put his left hand just below the ribs, off centre, left side…a hundred millimetres, maybe a bit more away from the heart. This depended on the physical size of the victim. One good shove and you’re gone sort of territory.

  “In other words, a knife?”

  Gilles titled his head slightly from side to side and gave an elaborate shrug.

  “Any particular smells, Inspector Maintenon?”

  He should his head quickly.

  No, there weren’t, he realized. Just the night and the park itself.

  “We’ll leave that open, then.” Gravelet’s eyebrows moved up and down and the pen hovered over the note-pad. “It’s too bad, but these are never our highest priority.”

  Missing persons, unless they were children, all too often fell to the bottom of the list.

  “Okay. That seems, ah, sensible enough.”

  “Yes, sir. The Inspector agrees. We are treating the two incidents as related. Until we know otherwise. And yet it is nothing if not open.”