Speak Softly My Love

by Louis Shalako

  Gravelet nodded at the materials on the desk.

  “The little ones are the originals. The rest is for you guys.”

  Gilles picked the snapshots up and handed them back.

  “Please thank Inspector David for me.”

  Gravelet was just turning to go when Levain came in.

  “Hey!”

  “Andre. Holy, shit.” He gave a quick look over his shoulder at Maintenon. “I heard you were doing well. Congratulations. It’s really good to see you again.”

  “The old bugger giving you any trouble?”

  Gravelet shook his head carefully, going rigid for a second, his back being turned to an unknown quantity. Levain, grinning from ear to ear as if he knew some dreadful and yet humorous secret about Gravelet, grabbed him by the arm and steered him away from Maintenon’s desk and over in the direction of the coffee pot.

  “Oh, I don’t know, Andre. The Inspector is expecting me back.” Inspector David, like any other officer with nothing pressing, no urgent calls or emergencies on hand, was hoping to escape at five o’clock on the dot and would probably have some last-minute instructions for Gravelet. “Like, five minutes ago, knowing him.”

  Gravelet cleared his throat nervously but got no hints from Maintenon.

  There would be a shit-load of typing and Gravelet would be lucky to get out of there by six-thirty or seven.

  The two went out the door as Gilles looked at the clock, and then picked up the best of their enlargements. In this picture, Didier and Monique were by the seaside, very young. Perhaps a honeymoon or vacation. The two younger males were talking outside the door, the rumble a comforting backdrop and no real distraction.

  He heaved a sigh. Looking at the bland, oval, almost characterless face, no hard lines or marks of suffering or sacrifice there. He supposed it could be so. It wasn’t that the resemblance wasn’t there. Gilles had barely gotten a look. There was also that element of psychological shock. All of his instincts screamed against making any kind of positive statements.

  With nothing else to go on, it would have to do for the time being.

  It wasn’t his case anyways. For whatever reason, he gave in to the impulse.

  “Young man.”

  The door opened and Andre came in, a bright and cheerful look on his face after his little gossip and catch-up session with what was clearly an old friend or acquaintance of some standing.

  “What? Oh, sorry, Gilles. He’s gone.”

  “Merde. What can I say? It was probably him, Andre. It was either that, or it was somebody else.”

  More sober now, Andre gave a short, sharp nod. He understood perfectly.

  Maintenon couldn’t quite leave it alone—and it wasn’t his case.

  Suppressing a knowing smile, Andre reached and took Maintenon’s hat off the rack as Gilles’ eyebrows rose. Gilles looked askance as the hat sailed in his direction. Snatching it out of mid-air, mouth open, he plopped it down in its rightful place.

  “And—”

  “Go home. It’s the weekend. It’s supposed to be nice and sunny. This might be the last of our nice weather. The better half will be all over me and that’s okay too. Take the rest of the day off. For Christ’s sake, Gilles.”

  “Huh.” He was probably right though. “So you’re saying this rain is going to let up someday?”

  It’s not my case and they will handle it just as well as I could.

  “Very well. I can take a hint. So I’m not wanted then—”

  Tailler hooted, turning from his task. The file he had laid out end to end was hopefully not missing any pages, photos, statements or other exhibits. He gave Andre a frankly admiring look.

  “Nailed it.”

  Gilles twitched but his demeanour remained unchanged.

  Face stern and expressionless but all right with it inside, Gilles shoved his chair back. He rose in a determined fashion. Levain tossed his raincoat at his outstretched left arm on the way by and then the Inspector was marching down the hallway and headed for the stairwell.

  Chapter Four

  Dropped off at the front door on Friday evening, Gilles had enjoyed a quiet weekend. Any sense of tedium had been relieved by doing his own shopping. It helped to have something to do, however mundane. He strolled to the nearest outdoor market early Saturday morning. He made his own bed, and hung up his own clothes. He was relatively self-sufficient.

  He’d brought the food home, putting it all away, preparing it in the sense of taking the greens off the tops of a bunch of carrots. He’d had a nap Saturday afternoon, feasted, feeling oddly youthful as he dined on a tin of this and a jar of that. Nothing beat a good tin of sardines, slathered in mustard. A few slices of cucumber cleaned the palate. He’d hit the pickles and the coleslaw, one of the few things he made well, pretty hard. There was a sense of accomplishment from that coleslaw.

  The rest of the evening had been taken up with a book, cigars, cognac and the radio.

  With even less to do on Sunday, he hadn’t even gotten out of his pajamas until after noon. Only the fact that the telephone hadn’t rung in the whole time, and that sooner or later, it surely would, finally got him into the bath.

  The phone still didn’t ring, and it occurred to Gilles that he hadn’t heard from any of the family in a while. It didn’t occur to him, not really, that he might have called them.

  Better to leave well enough alone, as Levain would say.

  Sunday evening, unfashionably early, he went to a favoured nearby ristorante for spaghetti and meat-balls. There was a salad, rolls and butter, and refills on the coffee. The wine was fine, and that was about all he could say for it. The place was an old standby, hot food at a good price. No waiting, no line-ups and no reservations.

  Belly full and back at home in his old familiar armchair, Sylvestre, who had been following him around the house all weekend, hopped up into his lap. Gilles set the book aside and scratched the animal behind the ears. A black short-haired cat with a white muzzle, he’d always thought the name very fitting. Madame Lefebvre had initially been opposed. She’d wanted to call it Monsieur Thom. It was one of the few times he’d pulled rank on her, he being the owner and she merely the housekeeper. Even now, he still grinned when he thought of it.

  The cat’s claws began to knead at his red sweater and the thing curled up on its side, seemingly fascinated as it bit and tugged at a bit of loose thread. It being an old sweater, Gilles let it go on.

  The phone rang.

  “All right, Sylvestre. Down you go.”

  “Meow?”

  “Yes.”

  “Mawrr…mawrr.”

  “Uh, huh.”

  Gilles dragged himself out of the chair on the third ring and shuffled over. It was very dark on the other side of that glass. Time just flew when you were on your own and there was nothing much going on.

  The clock on the mantel said seven forty-three p.m.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello. Is this Gilles Maintenon?”

  It reminded him of his mother, and he’d always been tempted to say no, this is not me.

  “Ah, yes, who’s calling?”

  “Sergeant Girard.”

  “Ah.” Maintenon took the thin black cigarillo out of the corner of his mouth.

  He’d had the phone installed with an unusually long base cord. Picking up the heavy lower part of the unit, he went and stood and looked out the window. What he expected to see was a good question. His reflection impressed him as that of a terribly desperate and lonely old man. The fact that it was just the highlights, all the dark tones going transparent, completely disappearing, may have had something to do with it.

  “Okay, sir. As you may recall. We sent out the Belinotypes.” These were wire-photos, a real sign of the times. “All major and regional detachments, n’est pas? And the funny thing is we got a hit, almost right away.”

  “Where?”

  “Lyon.”

  “Go on.”

  “You’re going to like this.”


  “What is it, a body?” Gilles turned again to take another quick look out the window, some odd prickling sensation at the base of the neck.

  It was dark, and windy. With the windows closed tight, he was alone with nothing but the sounds of the old place settling. It was cracking away from the adjoining properties.

  “No, Inspector. They have a missing persons report. Going by the picture they sent…well, we don’t know what to think.”

  “Interesting.”

  “It is.”

  “You know what’s even more interesting, Inspector?”

  Gilles waited.

  “…the gentleman’s name is Didier Godeffroy.”

  “No!”

  “Yes.”

  Gilles stood there.

  “Who made the report?”

  “A woman claiming to be his wife.”

  “What’s the wife’s name?”

  “Her name is Lucinde. They have two children, age five and seven. He’s a couple of years younger than the wife, and she says they’ve been married about eight years. Their anniversary is coming up. The pictures bear an uncanny resemblance. She says he’s a wine representative for Gaston e Cie. That’s all I know. Sir.”

  “Interesting.”

  “So what do you think, Inspector?”

  “Damn it all. Does Inspector David know about this yet?”

  “He’s not around, Inspector Maintenon.” There was a hesitation. “His kid’s in a bad way and he’s a bit distracted lately. We try not to bother him, and sort of let him have his weekends…”

  “Ah. What’s wrong with the child?”

  “Polio. The kid’s about twelve.”

  “Oh. Ah. Not good. And you’re what, on night shift or working late?”

  “Shit. Something like that.” He didn’t even hardly know himself these days, but he’d heard through the grapevine that Gilles and his crew didn’t have anything really interesting going on—just wrapping up some big ones, but mostly routine, easy stuff coming in the front door in recent days.

  A stabbing here, a shooting there, a strangling somewhere else. The criminals were being really dumb these days. It was a phenomenon, it seemed to come and go in waves. It was all too easy sometimes.

  Girard thought he’d do a little fishing. There were times you needed to ask a favour and everyone knew Maintenon was a pretty good guy.

  “Yes. I see the problem. Okay, let me think about it.”

  “The Inspector will be in the office at about nine or so.”

  “Thank you. I will definitely speak to him.”

  The sergeant rang off.

  Gilles wandered back to his armchair. It seemed like a long shot. It was definitely one weird coincidence.

  Considering the pictures he had examined, and they had the exact same pictures in Lyon, it just seemed so unlikely. Unfortunately, by this time the gears in his brain had begun to turn over.

  ***

  First thing Monday morning, Gilles called Inspector David. A mental picture of the fellow’s long sideburns and walrus mustache were a reminder that the old guard still hung on in certain quarters. In the event, David was happy enough to give it up, having heard from Girard already.

  “Yes, Gilles, and thank you.” Inspector David was getting up there in years and Gilles wondered at his health or when his retirement date might roll around.

  Gilles wasn’t looking forward to his own particularly, but other men felt differently. It was true that people got tired after a while.

  “It’s my youngest boy.” The Inspector had been a widower, but he remarried, his wife bearing young Frederic in her forty-fourth year.

  An impressive feat. One had to admit. Gilles was a little preoccupied, or he might have asked more questions.

  “We’ll be more than happy, Inspector David.”

  The Inspector gave him a name in Lyon and Gilles jotted it down.

  Roche. Sergeant. He took down the telephone number.

  “Don’t worry about Girard. He’s a good one, and he’s happy to be working with you on this one. He’s like you, Gilles.” The Inspector’s voice took on a more animated note. “He needs plenty of stimulation.”

  There was a quick and dry little chuckle and then David rang off.

  Gilles hung up the receiver and looked up at an expectant circle of bright and eager faces.

  “Right. I have court and I’d better get going.”

  He stabbed Tailler with a look. He tore off the top sheet from his notebook and handed it to him.

  “What’s your first move?”

  “Call them and get copies of their incident reports. Send them everything we’ve got.”

  “Two.”

  “Ah. I wouldn’t mind talking to the Godeffroy woman. Now that it’s our case. After that—maybe take a quick train ride to Lyon…?”

  Gilles stood. His briefcase had been carefully packed, to the extent of having a sandwich and an apple in there. It could be a long day, but he’d seen plenty of those and it was unavoidable.

  Monsieur Brevard had a right to a speedy trial, among other things. He was also pretty much a goner.

  “Fair enough.” With a nod, he threw his raincoat over his shoulder and then he was gone, leaving a slightly impressed Emile Tailler to brazen it out.

  He’d been there long enough and he really ought to be able to handle it, thought Andre Levain.

  He had one or two rather pressing matters of his own. Levain was hoping to get some news back on a fellow who had run off to Martinique in the hopes of avoiding questioning in a troubling little shooting incident.

  Either the local police could find him or they couldn’t. He had ten or twelve other cases as well.

  It was always the way.

  Chapter Five

  They hadn’t been able to get Monique by telephone. She was either out or not disposed to answer. Perhaps the maid or cook had their day off as well.

  Hubert had a year’s seniority on Tailler. Every so often he belabored the point, usually on procedural matters—Tailler still struggled with the paperwork, being intimidated by senior officers and jurists. The pair of them were becoming a pretty good team. What Tailler lacked in polish and experience he more than made up for in intuitiveness. He was persistent as all hell. He had a streak of independence Hubert had never seen in such a junior man. The fact that they were about the same age and experience probably helped, thought Hubert. They were more friends than senior man and apprentice. That was a good thing and he didn’t mind that at all. If you had to be stuck on a train for half the day (and if they really wanted to get home tonight then they should have been out of here an hour ago), with anyone, well.

  It might as well be someone rational.

  Tailler had very sharp wits, a wicked sense of humour and wasn’t above having a cold beer on duty, as long as they were away from the prying eyes of higher-ups. It couldn’t be all bad.

  Levain was busy as hell. Firmin was eying up stacks of files. His phone in particular was ringing off the hook, and it would seem that they were it.

  “Come on. Let’s grab a couple of sandwiches and get the hell out of here.” Hubert, not exactly an old man himself, ran a quick hand through his fashionably long hair and stuffed everything they had so far into a briefcase.

  “I’m with you.” The leaves were in full colour and Tailler was just in the mood for a lark.

  His eye raced down a faded and yellowing train schedule. Hopefully it was still valid. They had already missed the next one. They just couldn’t do it. If they stopped and had a decent meal, they would miss the one after that. It was all the same to him, although he’d better remember to call his mother—

  A quick stop at the cashier’s office for some expense money, and the two men were clattering down the front steps of the Quai, hats firmly jammed on due to the incessant breeze and their coats over their arms as it really was unusually warm for this time of year.

  ***

  After several delays, and what seemed like days on the train bu
t it was more like six and a half hours, Hubert and Tailler stood in front of their hotel.

  Stricken with the notion that the expensive commercial travelers hotels near the station might send the bean-counters into fits, even more stricken that the expense might not be approved, they had found something a lot less costly.

  It was a little off the beaten path, but it would almost surely be approved. For two young men in a strange town, an expense account was almost too much temptation. What they saved here, they could spend there. Hubert seemed to know what he was talking about. Expenses that were disallowed, they could pay out of their own pockets in a simple payroll deduction. It all sounded pretty reasonable to Tailler.

  A taxi slid into place before them.

  The driver rolled the window down.

  “Messieurs? Monsieur Hubert?”

  “Yes, that’s us.”

  The place was so small, cabs did not sit out in front awaiting fares. The desk clerk, a sallow-faced fellow about their own age, had phoned for one. With a ferret of a face, and with a rather humorous air of conspiracy that Tailler for one did not share, the clerk was nothing if not unprepossessing. Tailler wouldn’t put much past him. Pimping, pandering and procuring, badger game and blackmail, pretty much everything went along with a face like that.

  Having spoken personally with Sergeant Roche at Lyon’s central police station, they had about all the information they were likely to get. They had an appointment with Madame Godeffroy, but first some kind of lunch would appear to be in order.

  Tailler slammed the door and Hubert read off the name of a restaurant, a cheap one as he had insisted, provided by their new ally behind the hotel desk. Impressed as all hell to have a couple of detectives from Paris staying with them, the fellow had nodded in understanding and then provided them with several options.

  “So how do we play this?”

  Tailler wasn’t worried about the driver overhearing. The situation could be managed without naming names. He was referring to the Godeffroy case.

  Misunderstanding his intent, Hubert shrugged in a non-committal manner.

  “I can live with pretty much anything. As long as they have cold beer, that’s all that’s really important.”