“Did Monique ever call here looking for him? Say last week, Thursday or Friday?”
“Oh. I really don’t know.”
“Okay, we’ll check with his secretary.”
“Yes, you’re lucky. He’s our senior buyer and the only one that even has a secretary. She kind of runs the show when he’s not around.”
Hubert nodded thoughtfully.
“It’s nice work if you can get it.” Tailler sounded distinctly humble by this point.
The gentleman laughed aloud.
After another round of hand-shakes, they were shown out the door by a raven-haired young beauty named Prideaux. She looked just as good from in front as she did from behind. She was personal assistant to Monsieur Gaudet himself. After another short wait in the reception area, Violet came out of her space and handed them some hastily-typed sheets.
“This is by no means complete.”
“Thank you.” The list was single-spaced.
There were cities and towns, the names of hotels all over the place.
“When did Monsieur Godeffroy’s train leave, Mademoiselle?”
“He was taking the six-thirty-five for Orleans and Tours. He was leaving Friday morning. He would be making all the stops.”
Back to Friday again. Tailler didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Someone at the station might recognize his photo. One more thing to pile on the workload.
“And how long was he expected to be away?”
“At least ten days, perhaps as long as two weeks. His record is nineteen days on the road.”
Hubert nodded at that. A good time to kill and run—
“Hmn.”
“Did Monique call here looking for him? Last week?”
She gave Tailler a blank look and shook her head.
“You could ask at reception.”
“Thank you.”
At the reception desk, the girl said she hadn’t been on duty last Thursday or Friday. At that point they decided to give it up while they were ahead of the game. With the story getting stranger and with no hard evidence to go on, they could only cause so much disruption without generating friction, and ultimately, complaints from the taxpayers.
There was the sense of let-down as they found the car, unmolested by traffic officers in the short time they’d been away.
“Merde. Now what?” Hubert was tempted, just this once, to let Tailler drive.
After a quick mental review, recalling the rather amateur status of his partner, he reconsidered. More than anything, he just wanted to get back to the office in one piece. Tailler was almost better with the car when they let him go off on his own—it saved a lot of heartaches. A certain amount of screaming and hair-pulling went with the territory otherwise.
“Your guess is as good as mine.”
“When in doubt, let’s do lunch.”
“Sure. Just promise me one thing. No beer this time—and no girls.”
“Boy. You really do have a one-track mind.”
“That’s two tracks. Don’t worry, Hubert. Don’t you ever give up. You’ll corrupt me yet.”
Chapter Twelve
Without a lot of options, they went to the nearest working-class saloon. Hubert didn’t hesitate, as he who hesitates is lost. Tailler took a moment and read the colourfully-chalked menu on the big board by the door out front. For whatever reason a Reuben sandwich sounded pretty good, either that or pastrami on rye. Something exotic like that. He’d never actually had a Reuben. That had something to do with it. Just something from an old pulp magazine, Private Detective.
As a boy, he’d lived for the pulps. Look where it had gotten him, as Mother would say.
His partner didn’t seem to care.
After one last look around, Tailler stumped up the front stairs, to be temporarily blinded by the darkness of the interior. Some hokey music was coming out of the radio-box. Even in France there were hillbillies. It was bolted high up on the wall. It would require a ladder to change the volume or the station. The man knew his customers. There were pool tables at the back, three or four of them that he could see. The place had an agreeable smell of beer, tobacco and fried onions or battered, deep-fried something.
Whatever it was, it smelled pretty good.
Hubert had already settled in. Tailler came in, looking around and not seeing him. He had to seek him out. It was one of those L-shaped spaces, one sometimes wondered how they did it so consistently. They were always knocking down interior walls and then building them up again. The landlord probably owned a whole row or the whole block. A big bank or insurance company or something. The face of the building was narrow. On the other side of the wall to his right was a barbershop, after that a cafe. Bars didn’t need all the windows of a storefront. Bars were supposed to be dim and cool inside. Maybe that was why. The décor was predictable, cheap and generic art nouveau with a lot of wear.
There was some grime involved as well.
Hubert wasn’t alone when he finally caught up.
Standing beside Hubert was quite the bruiser, and while his partner’s voice was mild and accommodating, Emile didn’t like the attitude. It was written all over the guy, big arms and long sideburns and a toothpick sticking out of one corner of his mouth. The pointy boots made a certain statement, and it said punk.
The air reeked of sweat and sarcasm.
The bartender was there. Not being stupid, he wasn’t taking sides. The gentlemen would work it out.
They usually did.
“I’m sorry, but I didn’t realize we required a reservation—” Characteristically, Hubert was trying to be polite, easing the situation by making a joke out of it. “Perhaps we do bring the tone down a bit—”
He didn’t see why he should move, though. There were exactly eleven people in the place, all male. It was a prime spot, right on the end of the bar and farthest away from the cash register and entrance. The bar was clean. There were no drinks or ashtrays there. No bowls of peanuts. Playing billiards when he came in, the guy was looking for trouble. The question was, why would a good sort like Hubert ever bother to give it to him?
“Surely we can all get along.” He raised an eyebrow and a glass, smiling confidently.
“Come on, asshole. This is my seat.”
Tailler always wondered, afterwards that is, where it came from. It happened all too quickly for his liking.
“Beat it, punk.” He slammed a shoulder into the guy, knocking him back and then stopped short as the fellow scrambled backwards, barely keeping his feet.
The toothpick went flying. Hubert set the glass down quickly.
“Unless there’s a problem here?”
“You’d better believe there’s a problem.” The man looked carefully around, a sly look under lowered lids.
Tailler looked around to a straggle of shocked faces and then nodded.
“Let’s see what you got. Punk.”
Hubert rose hastily to pull out his police badge, but Tailler put a hand on his arm and stopped him. Hubert subsided, but not entirely.
Not just yet.
“It’s okay. My treat.”
The fellow gathered his wits and recovered his balance, half-crouching there as he decided what to do. The place was definitely quieter now thought Hubert. There was only the scratched and tinny disc going round and round on the turntable downtown at the radio station and coming in over the airways. Tailler already had the fighting stance, right foot forward, slightly turned in. His hands were at his sides, looking like a rank amateur to anyone who knew anything. The unspoken suggestion was that Tailler, wasn’t really ready to start anything. He was just big, he thought he was tough and the other guy must certainly back down.
Hubert was frozen in place.
The guy was definitely strong-looking. Considering the neighbourhood, he might be tough enough to cause a serious problem. Especially if he had friends, which was distinctly possible. A couple of guys in a corner booth were halfway out of their seats, but still undecided. That wouldn’t last
very long. They settled in but only just, eyes intent.
There was a snick and a gleam of light from down low beside the guy’s right leg.
Hubert squawked. He spun and straightened vertically in his seat as the knife appeared and the fellow lunged at Tailler. Hubert scrabbled for his gun, finding the butt and then he felt a whole lot better about things. He sat there with his hand under his coat, muzzle poking at the fabric. He could hit him from here, if only Tailler wasn’t in the way.
Tailler, turning in, had grabbed the wrist of the knife hand and pulled it along. The arm, straight and low, kept going. Tailler spun with it and threw the right shoulder again, right into the guy’s face. Tailler spun, pulling the arm up and over. He locked the knife arm in place with a quick forearm wrap-around that paralyzed the knife hand. With the guy’s head in behind his right armpit, he gave a quick pinch to the nerve endings in the wrist, already spinning the body of his victim into a new position…
“Ah!”
The hand let go and the knife fell to the floor at Hubert’s feet. Tailler turned the guy like a rag doll, big paws up under the armpits. The man’s feet were up and off the ground. He dropped him hard on his heels, the man’s jaws clicking, and then Emile changed the grip.
Tailler had his right hand up in the guy’s face, his left knee in between the guy’s legs. The man’s arm was straight up and he hovered on tiptoes. Leaning forward, keeping away from potential kicks, Tailler towered over him as he pushed the unshaven jowls up, up, up…powerful hand clamped on the jaws. The guy’s arm was locked in place. The free arm batted ineffectually at Emile, but he was in too close. Suddenly Tailler chuckled and relaxed, a kind of demonstration. He was taking an awful chance. He gave a playful shove in the chest and the guy half-fell onto a table, fortunately an empty one.
“Argh.” The guy shook his head in disbelief.
He didn’t like that very much.
The man was quick on his feet. Down low and in close, he was a handful. Tailler parried a couple of sweeping side-kicks with contemptuous ease. Hubert abandoned the bar stool and side-stepped, getting out of there as the men rotated. They circled like wrestlers, each seeking to get the first and the best hold.
One good, clean shot would do it. With six bullets, Hubert was safe enough.
He cast a quick eye around. Everyone frozen in place.
The man’s hand clamped on his left wrist. Tailler twisted his arm, almost breaking the lock. He grabbed the other fellow’s wrist now. Tailler laughed, straightening up.
The big detective began to pull the man closer, cocking his right arm up and back. He was just waiting, or so it seemed.
The look on Tailler’s face was priceless. The bruiser decided not to go there. Tailler let go, and with the guy’s arm stiff as he still resisted, he shoved him back. There was one quick backhand from the right hand and the slap echoed through the building.
The man stood there, shocked as shit and humiliated as all hell. But now he knew better.
“More?” Tailler tapped his chin with an index finger. “Come on, you little prick. Let’s have it.”
The poor fucker, with what was a look of forlorn desperation on his face, pulled back and then drove the hardest right-handed punch he could muster. By any objective standard of measurement, it should have landed in the jaw or throat area. Tailler stopped it dead, with a clap of his left paw, snapping up from nowhere in a split second. They stood there for a moment. Tailler leaned in and gazed deep into those troubled eyes. The man tried to get his hand away and he couldn’t even do it.
Tailler let the hand go.
“Want to try that again?”
The man shook his head.
“Go sit where I can keep an eye on you.”
The man looked a little askance.
“When we’re done our lunch, we’ll be out of your hair. No hard feelings. Comprene vous?”
The man nodded.
Unexpectedly, he stuck out a hand.
“I’m Leonard. Incidentally.” He licked his lips, in all humility.
His Adam’s apple bobbed.
“Emile. And this is Hubert.”
“I’m very pleased to meet you gentlemen.”
“Likewise.”
The man Leonard nodded, sweat rapidly cooling. The bartender still stood there, still polishing that glass, still squinting at the smoke of a bad cigarette. The guy stood there for a second.
Eyes slid over.
He noted Hubert’s hand inside the coat.
He backed off, ignoring the knife on the floor, only turning at the last minute. He found a seat by the back wall.
The rear exit was right there and the washrooms. He nodded at Tailler, catching Hubert’s eye for a second as a waitress scurried in that direction. Emile finally looked for a seat beside the rather ashen-faced Hubert. Slowly the room came to life again. They were the centre of attention.
“That was hardly necessary.”
Tailler bent and retrieved the knife. He closed the blade and hit the button. It clicked open with a flash of bright steel. Thoughtfully, he closed the blade and put it in his right-hand jacket pocket.
“Oh, I don’t know. If it wasn’t him, it would be somebody else.” He looked around the room, where more than one interesting and hard-bitten face hastily looked to their own soup as opposed to somebody else’s business.
People had settled down again. It clearly didn’t pay anyways.
“What will you gentlemen have?” The bartender had found the courage.
“Beer, the soup of the day, and a very large steak sandwich for my friend here.”
Hubert looked at Tailler.
“My treat. It’s the least I could do.”
“That’s very true.”
Ha, thought Hubert.
On the other hand, he was kind of useful. Strong as hell and dumb as a stick.
That was a beautiful thing to see. The trouble was that he couldn’t tell anyone or they’d both be in a heap of shit.
***
They made it out into the sunlight again, with dark clouds on the horizon, what they could see of it. They were still in the warehouse district.
“We might as well call this Barrault character.”
Hubert nodded.
It was better than heading back to the office empty-handed and with Gilles most likely not around. Sure as shooting someone with a big salad on their hat would grab them and give them some real work.
“All right. Let’s find a phone. This guy’s another traveler, so the odds of finding him in town would appear to be rather slim.” An elementary deduction, in Emile’s humble opinion.
Beer often brought out the best in him. That’s what he’d always thought.
“There was a phone in the bar back there.”
“Yeah, well—let’s not push our luck.” Hubert was happy enough to be out of there.
He’d just been polishing up some of Tailler’s unwanted patates frites, only to look up and see that their new friend Leonard was no longer there.
This had led to certain thoughts, not the least of which was that only fools stuck around the scene of the crime.
***
Edmond Barrault was at home. Young, professional and a sophisticated man of the world, the fellow was also touchingly overwhelmed by a couple of rambunctious toddlers. There was a strange aroma in the air, one which took a moment to identify.
“Here. Sorry. You see—” Edmond handed off a baby to Hubert, whose mouth opened in dismay, but nevertheless snuggled the thing into his left shoulder.
“Oh, Lordy.” Hubert felt the heat of the thing on his chest and shoulders and marveled anew—he’d held a baby a few times in his life, but they were also pretty God-damned heavy.
Shit.
Edmond bolted for the rear of the house and presumably the kitchen. One man ran in and two small boys almost immediately ran out.
“Oh, Lordy, ain’t the half of it.” Tailler still had a smoke hanging out of his mouth.
He still
wasn’t properly addicted yet. He found you had to be attuned to it, and so far he really wasn’t.
The baby made small sucking noises, looking up at Tailler in friendly wonder.
Cough, cough.
He looked around, but there was no place to put it out. Okay, this is in some small way who I am—
Hubert made soothing noises, looking a bit wide-eyed at Tailler as Edmond ran after the two boys, looking about three and four years old. They scampered in different directions as soon as they made it through the next doorway. A kettle screamed in the kitchen and there were heaps of dishes piled in the sink. It was right there through an open archway. Monsieur Barrault certainly had his hands full.
“Do you want—”
“No way.”
Hubert sighed.
“Dammit!” They could hear the gentleman scolding somewhere way at the back.
He returned shame-faced, palms up and shrugging in apology.
“I locked them in their room—for the moment.” He blew a long lock of fine blond hair out of his right eye. “Now, gentlemen. What can I do for you?”
He looked hopefully from one to the other. At last, some adults to talk to, was the impression Tailler got. He seemed a cheerful-enough sort.
Hubert took the lead.
“Yes. We’re interested in Didier Godeffroy.”
A ray of understanding dawned on the gentleman’s intelligent brow.
“Ah, yes. Didier.”
There was an oddly flat note to it, or was that just Tailler’s imagination.
“So, ah…what’s he done?” Barrault chuckled, it was an obvious line and he wasn’t all that serious.
A sign of nervousness.
“Where is your wife, incidentally?” Damn.
There was just something about the way a baby looked at you—all of your soul was revealed to it. Hubert had always hated any feelings of vulnerability, and there was just no way he wanted kids…ever. They had way too much power. His Emmanuelle was a real sucker for anything in jammies. The trouble was that Hubert couldn’t quite see how to avoid it. In the end he would probably go down without much of a struggle—as poor old Edmond must have done.
“She’s in hospital. Influenza, bronchitis, asthma.” Monsieur had the sniffles as well, and no doubt the kids. “Hopefully I’ll get someone to look after the boys and I can get up there and visit her tonight.”
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