“Did you ask about a marriage certificate?”
Tailler shook his head, a bit ruefully.
“No. Sorry. We don’t even have that for the Monique woman.”
“Go on.”
The young fellow nodded, Adam’s apple bobbing.
He’d give his left nut for Hubert to show up right about now. There were days when he was barely hanging on, by the skin of his teeth sometimes.
“Okay, sir. He goes out of town on a long road trip. Sometimes it’s only a few days, sometimes a week. Sometimes its ten days. It depends where he’s going. He can spend two weeks in Bordeaux, but according to the lady that’s like two, three times a year max. The company is located in Paris. She’s saying that when the gentleman goes to Paris, it’s only for two, maybe three days at a time. There are sales meetings, there are a lot of shows and exhibitions in Paris. But the guy is a sales rep; he’s just as likely to be knocking on doors in some small town in the Beauce according to her. It’s always sell, sell, sell with them guys.”
“How much time does he spend at home? In Lyon, I mean?”
“She’s saying two, three nights a week, most of the time. Sometimes only one night a week. There was some hesitation. But she understood before she married him, ah. That he was on the road a lot.”
Maintenon nodded
“We need to ask the same questions everywhere—the one in town here.” He sighed. “It’s like we no sooner walk away, and we think of another question.”
Gilles wasn’t trying to be overly critical, but neither one had that much experience.
Tailler nodded.
“Absolutely.” He rapped his pen on the desk. “You know what? She’s just going to say exactly the same thing.”
Gilles thought about it. The schedule was supremely flexible. Two wives—one in Lyon and one in Paris.
“Yes. But we need to hear her say it.”
There were footsteps in the hall and Hubert came in. His eyes came awake when he saw Maintenon and also the cigar, the squint, and the characteristic position.
“This one is like all mixed up, like a dog’s breakfast. Dead body gets up and walks away—one too many wives.” Tailler tried to get his notes in order again.
He had been about halfway through typing them.
“And what about Monique?”
Tailler’s gaze slid around to his partner.
“Yeah—what about Monique?”
Hubert slid smoothly into the breach.
“Well, sir. She wasn’t home yesterday. Where the hell she would go when her husband’s missing is a good question. Just sitting there would be pretty intolerable, I have to admit. We went around there and got no answer. She didn’t answer the phone when we called later. Maybe that’s for the best. We thought we’d consult with you first. But I was thinking of getting a list of names.”
“Names?”
Hubert shrugged.
“Names. Every person we can find who knew him, spoke to him…shit, bought wine from him, sold wine to him…other than that, without a body this really isn’t going too far.”
Tailler nodded.
“Nothing really interesting has come in so far today.” Tailler looked at his desk phone, but nothing happened at that exact moment.
He had a funny feeling that would go on for some time.
At least he had a moment to think.
Bodies turned up every day in the city. The trouble was that none of the other ones really matched the description. One way or another, they had all pretty much been accounted for. Hundreds of people died every day in Paris. For the most part, the doctor signed a perfectly legitimate death certificate. The next of kin called the funeral director, and the priest of their choice, and other than the grieving, other than the fact that a loved one had passed, no one really thought much about it—the process, the implications. A body, even an unclaimed one, had meaning in spite of some nihilistic speculations that were a sign of the times and little more.
A few files were still open.
A boy who had drowned three days before, (as of yet unclaimed), a dead hooker in an alley, beaten about the head and neck and facial areas, a wino who had apparently had heart or liver failure, and that was about it.
Somebody out there knew something. No person existed in a complete vacuum.
If there was a body out there, the odds of it turning up seemed very slim. The whole fact that the perpetrator had dragged it off after Gilles discovered it, spoke of a plan. Their killer probably had a very good plan, for the disposal of said body. He was beginning to think that Gilles had interrupted the transportation of the body—not the killing, not the disposal itself. A public park was chancy at best, and not for any real length of time. You just couldn’t get it deep enough, quick enough, without leaving traces of your work. And then what? Walk home, whistling in the dark, with a shovel in one hand and a rug rolled up over your shoulder. Two perpetrators presented even more problems. Whatever the motive was, it had to be enough to compel two people to act. They had to act in a premeditated manner.
“I’m just sort of thinking out loud here, sir.”
Gilles almost appeared to be sleeping, but his hand flicked the ash from his cigar in the general direction of his ashtray.
His eyes opened and his feet dropped to the floor.
“Hmn. We have, or have had, once upon a time, a dead man. And two missing-person reports. What appears to be a bigamist. It is enough to go forwards on. Right? That is for sure.”
He blinked and took in some air preparatory to rising, and then he was up.
“Very well, gentlemen. Carry on. We’ll see you tomorrow.” Taking the now much lighter briefcase and his hat, leaving the coat behind to dry on company time, Gilles had had enough for one day.
He’d always hated putting on a wet hat.
Chapter Nine
He could hear her talking to the cat in there as he fiddled with the key. The lock was getting old and worn and he really should have that looked at.
Madame Lefebvre had been back for a couple of days and yet events had ensured that they kept missing each other. Gilles had been leaving at some ungodly hour in the mornings and she came in for days only. Her day began at eight-thirty and ended at six.
They’d missed each other in the evenings as well.
The smell coming from the oven as he stepped out of the hallway and into the kitchen was something else.
“Hello, Madame Lefebvre.”
“Hello.” Her bright and bristling countenance turned to greet her employer.
He could never quite figure her out, but he thought she might still be in her late forties. A study in domestic efficiency, and he was grateful to have her.
Thump.
A lumpy, fur-covered body had dropped off a chair and that was the sound of four paws hitting the floor under the table.
“Ah. There it is.”
Madame Lefebvre smiled indulgently, as she puttered by the sink and the counter.
Sylvestre came over and tried to trip him up in the usual fashion. Gilles gave a gentle nudge with the foot but it never did any good. Not with that one. The damned thing kept coming back for more.
“Hello, hello.” He’d always stopped short of using her first name, although he’d come awfully close sometimes.
This was one of those times, for whatever sentimental reason. A solitary man, the fact was that Gilles lived alone and a good housekeeper did a lot to make that bearable. He was only going to get so attached to her.
“What’s for dinner?” Gilles was famished.
He’d had lunch at the usual time when court recessed.
Man did not live on sandwiches and milk alone.
“Ah.” Beaming at her hapless charge, she launched into a full and unabbreviated explanation.
Whatever it was, it sounded good.
Pulling a chair back, he sat at the table. Sylvestre clambered up into his lap.
“Ugh. Such a big heavy thing—”
He watched her
move around the kitchen getting his plate ready for him. Her purse hung in its usual spot, and her coat and hat were on a rack by the door. She habitually wore slippers around the place, her own staid and sensible shoes placed just exactly so, on a rubber mat by the door. Fifteen or twenty minutes and she would be gone for the day. It was enough to half-listen and be appreciative. It was warm and dry and at least he had a roof over his head.
The mail and the newspapers would be in a stack by his armchair. It was a well-ordered existence in a precarious world. Some cynic had described the body as the temple in which the god Stomach was worshipped. Gilles would like to hope that he wasn’t quite that bad, but work was demanding. Life was exhausting and there was little doubt that he would have let himself go without some moderating influences of the feminine variety.
Madame Lefebvre fulfilled a number of important functions, and she did a wonderful job of doing so. As for the expense, he could eat exclusively in restaurants. He did not really need a cat to survive. A simple maid service might have been a little cheaper. This obviously went deeper than that, and yet originally she had been a total stranger.
Home at last. It was strange to think that Gilles Maintenon was the centre of the cat’s little world, and that for him, there was essentially nothing else but this and the job.
It was the job that was important—not the man.
The animal was purring contentedly and of course the claws came out and began to knead his thigh.
“Argh. When I find myself thinking of you, in the middle of the day, that will be the time to hang it up.” The cat looked up with love in his eyes and Gilles felt a moment of guilt.
Madame chuckled softly, doing the pots and the pans and putting them in the rack to dry.
He scratched the wretched thing behind the ears, as if to make up for lost time.
Maintenon supposed he really did love the thing. He probably needed to—to love something.
We all got to have something, as the Yanks would say.
If that thought didn’t humble a person, nothing would.
***
Madame Lefebvre had taken off.
After wrapping his belly around a second helping of pork Provençale with leeks and olives, garlic mashed potatoes, crusty bread thickly spread with somebody’s home-made butter…cheese, a bottle of wine and you my love. His time was now his own.
Speak softly my love, for the heart can never lie.
Speak softly to me, and lover, please don’t cry.
Speak softly my love, speak softly—
Speak softly, my love…for our love shall never die.
The ghost that was Ann hovered in the back of his consciousness. The house was dead quiet. Madame Lefebvre had departed for her own home and what Gilles sort of assumed was a much brighter existence. She had her own brood of adult children and consequently grandchildren, nieces, nephews. They were all good Catholics. She had two sisters living in town here and more in the place of her birth, Limoges. She seemed like a happy person, and that was all he knew.
It was an assumption. After all, he might have been wrong about it.
The chair squeaked under him. He really ought to get a new one someday.
The cat was heavy in his lap and he lifted it off. There was nothing much in the mail, the usual bills and one or two political and religious tracts. Nothing out of the ordinary.
He got up with a grunt. Making old man noises when he was alone was permitted whereas he would never do it at work.
He was in the mood for Vivaldi. The gramophone would comfort him, provide background noise, and cognac would anesthetize him. A good book, some peace and quiet and a good night’s sleep. He would sit, and think, and smoke. He would have a nice, hot bath…
He’d be a new man in the morning.
A neighbour, barely an acquaintance, had accosted Gilles in the street once. He was like a long-lost friend. He’d dropped a number of vague hints, suggesting that Madame Lefebvre was an attractive woman. He’d suggested that Gilles was no spring chicken and that he had needs. He’d practically suggested that Gilles could do worse. It was none of their damn-fool business, and yet he didn’t take it too personally. It was as much a fishing expedition as anything. He’d seen a few of those in his time. It was a technique he used himself from time to time. He’d just chuckled, and put him off with a joke, one that wasn’t too grotesque. Gilles had wondered for a time, if someone had put him up to it. If so, it would certainly never be Madame Lefebvre herself. She really wasn’t that kind of person. After a while, he’d put it out of his mind.
The thought returned from time to time, not that he was particularly lonely at that exact moment, but.
But.
He had actually considered the thought. He’d even wondered how he would feel if she rejected him. He’d wondered how one would go about courting such a woman. If he had never employed her as a housekeeper, they would never have met. In that sense it was an unnatural match, and what did that say about the human condition? They were, after all, a man and a woman. They also lived in two different worlds. Then there was the whole question of what other people would think, what other people would say. That was the most tiresome part of all, for surely it was none of their business.
The trouble was, as far as he could make out, that there was nothing sexual there—and for him, even at his age, that was still important somehow. It was a kind of romanticism. He wanted to fall in love again or something completely mad like that. If he was going to go to all the trouble of having a marriage, well. He would sure as hell, like to have sex again before he died. Maybe even just once, so why get married at all? Not that he had ever taken any logical steps. Otherwise it just didn’t seem worth it. As he recalled all too clearly, it was work. That was what a marriage was, even the most happy and successful ones. It required effort, and it needed a good match.
He needed something or wanted something, or yearned for something that was never going to come this way again.
Gilles Maintenon would have killed to fall in love again. A faded smile crossed his face at the idea.
To fall in love again is to be young again. To count the cost was to die a little bit inside. Just like in the song…
That`s how he saw it. It would never happen now, of course.
One way or another, it all came down to motivation. He had too many qualms, too many misgivings to overcome. It was like he never left the house any more.
Once home, he generally stayed home. He hadn’t even walked—not since that night.
The trouble was that in real life, things like love never seemed to happen anymore.
There would be no staid and comfortable marriage of convenience for Gilles Maintenon. This sort of implied that he would be alone from now on—it was difficult to see it otherwise.
While Madame Lefebvre was a wonderful woman, and a lady in every sense of the word, even in its most basic, schoolboy-chivalric way, (i.e. she wore a dress and thought womanly thoughts, she being brittle, and fragile, also a member of an alien species), she just didn’t turn his crank as the Yanks would say.
One day he’d called his solicitor. He made a new will, leaving every one of his relations very small legacies. The rest went to feed hungry children in China. On some level, there must have been some element of self-regard. But for the most part, he just didn`t give a shit anymore. His estate wouldn`t be enough to make even one of the family rich, and so why do it?
Why bother?
That pretty much said it all.
Chapter Ten
They had an appointment. They’d finally gotten through to her. So far Monique was fully cooperative.
“We’re just trying to get a handle on where he might have gone.” Hubert, as usual, was solicitous, gentle and considerate. “How much time did he spend at home, anyways?”
“Oh, ah. Hmn.” The rapidity of it startled her.
That much was clear as she hemmed and hawed, leading them into the salon and making sure they were comfortably seated.
>
“Didier spent a considerable time on the road, of course.” Her eyes were calmer when she looked at him again.
Hubert had given her something to chew on.
Tailler wondered how he was going to like his role. There was nothing for it and they must get on.
“Okay. Before he left, how long had he been in town?”
“Ah—three or four days.”
“How long had Didier been away?” It was pressure, gentle at first but Tailler was relentless. “Just before that?”
“He was gone for four days—five nights, kind of.”
He nodded. That was easily understood, he’d taken the night train coming and going.
“Where did he go, exactly? Did he tell you?”
“Mâcon. It’s in the Beaujolais country.” She mentioned the name of a hotel, and he jotted that down, Hôtel du Nord.
“Okay, so the time before that—how long was he home for? And would you be able to sort of write all this down for us? Would you mind doing that for us?” Tailler cleared his throat. “Can you give us his itinerary, as far as you know it, for the last month or so?”
Her hand went up to her mouth and then came down.
“I suppose so. Of course. A few places, maybe.”
“Did you ever drive him to the train station?”
“No. We don’t have a car. He calls a taxi.”
“The same one every time?”
“I think so.” She supplied the name of a firm and Tailler wrote it down.
He would check a phone book for that.
“Did he take a taxi that night? The last time you saw him.”
Fresh tears glistened in her eyes.
“I—I think so.”
“Are you sure?”
She looked at him.
“Yes—Didier wasn’t the sort to take the bus.”
“Very well, Madame.” His pen made motions on the page.
They gave her a moment to compose herself. She was on the verge of tears.
“Did you ever have any reason to believe that Didier might have been cheating on you?” It was like a slap in the face, and Tailler looked away.
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